Maggie pointed to her handbag on the kitchen table, grateful that Laura must have picked it up on her way in. ‘Can you pass me that?’
Sally handed her the bag. ‘Now you’re really worrying me.’
Maggie rummaged through her things until she pulled out the white envelope, not so pristine anymore. ‘Here, read this. It was in this morning’s post. I opened it in the café, after Mike and Chloe left.’
‘A letter? That’s it?’
‘Read it.’
Sally took it, turning it over in her hands. ‘Good quality paper, neat handwriting… almost too neat, I’d say. Could be some kind of font.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Some are near perfect, it’s hard to tell them from real handwriting.’
‘Open it.’
Sally took out the letter and read it, twisting a strand of hair that had escaped from the bun around her finger, then put it down, visibly shaken. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so. I ran home from the café, then realised it had been sent here, which means they know my address, and had a panic attack. That’s when Laura found me.’ Maggie realised her voice was trembling, and took a deep breath. ‘She made the most disgusting cup of sweet tea, but it helped me get over the shock. I only meant to have a rest before phoning you, but my body had other ideas.’
‘I wish you’d phoned me right away.’ Sally leaned over and held her hand. ‘It’s all right. I’ll take it into the station on Monday, get it analysed. Maybe they can lift some prints off it.’
‘I’ve been holding it, I’ve probably destroyed any evidence. And Laura touched it too when she gave it to me.’
‘Maybe they can find a partial, anything that could help. And I’ll ask them if they can trace where it was sent from, although the postmark is pretty smudged. In the meantime, you’re safe now. I’m off for the rest of the weekend, so we can go over to mine and watch films in bed, if you like.’
Maggie raised her eyebrows. ‘I’d prefer something else,’ she said, then groaned as her body protested at every movement she made. ‘On the other hand, a film is about all I can manage right now.’
‘Great. I’ll pack you an overnight bag and we’ll get going. Oh, and Mags.’
Maggie looked at her expectantly.
‘Don’t worry too much about this letter. It’s probably just some nutcase who likes scaring women. It’ll blow over.’
A shiver ran down Maggie’s spine, as though a goose had walked over her grave. She crossed her fingers and hoped it wasn’t a premonition.
3
I looked at the empty shell of a man sat before me in the wheelchair. Where once there had been a vibrant, brash, confident person, there was now a drooling carcass with vacant eyes. Mum and I took it in turns to look after Pete, carefully spooning pureed food into his mouth, moving him from his bed to the wheelchair and back again. Day in, day out, without respite. This was what our lives had become now.
When Pete came out of prison just over a year ago, he’d been determined to get his life on track. I went to meet him, eager to see the brother who’d become a hero the day he was arrested.
‘Ten seconds.’
I glanced over at him. ‘What?’
‘Those first ten seconds when you walk through the prison gates towards freedom. You take a few deep breaths, some mouthfuls of cool, refreshing, pure air that makes you feel like you can do anything.’ He breathed in, his chest rising, then let it out again. ‘Ten seconds of hope, of freedom. Then it passes, and you’re back to breathing the same old smoggy, polluted air you always have. And you know that you’ll be going back to the same old shitty life you’ve always had. But for those ten seconds…’ His voice trailed off and he shrugged.
‘Ten seconds?’ I repeated.
‘Yeah. Don’t make my mistakes. Keep your nose clean, stay away from the gang, don’t get messed up in all that. I’m not going back, even if they kill me. I’ve done my time, I don’t never want to go back there again.’ He shuddered. ‘There’s worse things in prison than anything the gang can do.’
I touched his arm. ‘You were in there longer than the rest of them, it wasn’t fair.’
‘Twelve years. Twelve fucking years of my life inside. They used me as the scapegoat, got themselves lighter sentences. All because of that fucking stupid hack.’ He coughed and spat a gob of phlegm on the ground.
‘What was her name again?’ I asked, sensing the scent of revenge.
‘Never you mind. Don’t even think about it, it’s not worth it. You’ll only end up worse off. Leave it. Now’s the time for a clean slate, put everything behind us.’ He ruffled my hair and grinned. ‘What do you think? It’s time for a new job, start all over again. Back to Bridgemary, and back to normality.’
Pete’s voice was light, but I caught the tone of hate underlying his words, and made a mental note for the future. That journo was going to get what was coming to her, I’d make sure of it. No matter what Pete said.
Those first days he was out were heaven. I started to hope, started to believe that we would get away and make something of ourselves.
But the future had had other things in store for us.
The gang took us by surprise three nights later. As we left the pub, we found ourselves surrounded and dragged down a nearby alley. One of them grabbed me by the arms and laughed, while the gang began kicking and punching Pete, arms thrashing and feet landing with dull thuds on his head and body as he lay on the ground. They disappeared as quickly as they arrived, leaving me hunched over the bloody mess, Pete’s face so disfigured it was unrecognisable.
Irreversible brain damage, the doctors said. After months in hospital, he returned home in this state, and we’d been left to get on with things. I’d let my anger simmer quietly, biding my time until the right moment, which never seemed to arrive.
But recently I had seen a spark in those empty eyes, as if something was switching on inside. I had hope once more, something that had been missing for a long while. And with hope, my desire for revenge returned.
I bent over and kissed Pete on his forehead. His hand reached out, nails digging into my flesh. A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips and he tried to speak, but failed.
I nodded. ‘I know you want revenge, brother. I’m already on it.’
4
Sally’s house was a spacious two-up two-down, part of a row of terraces in Portsmouth. Maggie preferred staying there rather than her place. Especially in the mornings, when they’d sit in the kitchen while eating breakfast, looking out at the small garden which Sally lovingly tended whenever she had the chance. She said it was a great way to wind down after a stressful week at work; Maggie took her word for it, not having one of her own or any desire to do some gardening.
Steam rose from the two mugs of coffee on the table, entwining like lovers in the air, slowly fading into barely visible wisps before disappearing entirely. Maggie couldn’t help thinking how fragile life was, like those wisps, fading into nothingness in a single moment.