‘Mitchell, you owe her. There’s plenty of room in the summerhouse. You won’t even know she’s here. She’s our friend.’
‘No, she’syourfriend. Derek is my friend.’
‘So if it was the other way around and I refused to let him stay, what would you say?’
‘I wouldn’t ask because I wouldn’t want him here either. Positivity breeds positivity and vice versa. And I don’t have room in my life or my business for anything that drains it.’
Meanwhile, Maisy’s distress at the break-up of her relationship swiftly shifted to anger and determination. She was going to defeat the disease and prove to Derek what a huge mistake he’d made. But her bitterness also extended to many of their mutual friends who, fearing divorce was contagious, abandoned her. Her messages went unanswered, her social media unfollowed. Corrine was the exception, meeting with Maisy regularly despite Mitchell’s reservations. But, gradually, Maisy’s increasing dependence on alcohol to numb her emotional pain made her cutting and mean-spirited. Even after her successful cancer battle, she was in no mood to celebrate.
Almost two years had passed since a drunken Maisy had last hurled abuse at Corrine and demanded that she be left alone. Corrine had initially respected her wishes before she could stand it no longer and turned up unannounced on Maisy’s doorstep. She’d found the one-bedroom Old Town apartment empty, an eviction notice pinned to the door. Soon after, Maisy’s phone was out of service and Corrine’s emails had bounced back undelivered. Corrine had found herself blaming Derek and the Marriage Act in equal measure.
Her friend wasn’t the only person with a grudge against the world. Corrine was becoming increasingly frustrated at an unjust system that failed people like Maisy. When Corrine looked beyond the Government propaganda, she discovered thousands of others had also been forced to abandon their old lives because they either enjoyed being single or didn’t want to upgrade to a Smart Marriage. Corrine could no longer, in good conscience, stand idly by without trying to help.
She donated money from her own bank account to charities dedicated to single-parent families. She ordered extra products on her shopping lists to donate to food banks and she joined a group of volunteers cleaning up litter and removing graffiti from areas in Old Northampton. And she kept it all far from the prying eyes of her increasingly estranged husband. Trying to explain to him her desire to help others would be as pointless as trying to teach a pig trigonometry.
But none of that ever quite felt like enough until she read about Freedom for All. It began as a faction opposed to the injustice of a divided society and aimed to capitalize on a growing swell of those negatively affected by the Act. In a few short years it had spiralled to become the Government’s biggest opposition party and threat to their tenure. So, as Corrine’s family were preoccupied with their own lives, she volunteered as a fundraiser. It was after befriending Yan, a woman of a similar age and social standing to Corrine, that she first learned of under-the-radar FFA splinter groups. They took direct action against their targets and, if Corrine was going to make a real difference, she understood that she’d need to dirty her hands. Which was how she had ended up with an unconscious boy in the back of her car and the blood of an injured MP on her hands.
The alarm on her watch sounded again. She zipped up her hoodie, climbed into her car and drove to an area of greenery on the other side of town. From there, she walked quickly along the paths, turning back on herself to ensure she wasn’t being followed. Then she made her way across the border into Old Northampton, this disparity between rich and poor immediate.
She’d typically be brimming with nervous excitement for where she was headed. But this would be her first appearance since the Eleanor Harrison affair and she was consumed by anxiety. Eventually, she reached the most derelict part of the estate and the purpose of her journey. The Charles Bradlaugh was a former pub and restaurant but its walls were now daubed in anti-Act graffiti, its signage scattered in broken pieces across a car park overgrown with weeds. Shattered glass crunched under the heels of her trainers as she made her way along an alleyway until she found an entrance to the cellar.
She carefully typed in a code to a digital lock and, when it unclicked, she lifted the doors, entered and stepped carefully down a dark, steep staircase. Corrine used the torch on her phone to lead the way through pitch black until she reached a door. She nervously opened it.
As Corrine entered a second darkened room, she felt a draught behind her and heard the rustling of material. She didn’t have time to process what it was before a pair of hands grabbed her by the shoulders and swung her around.
16
Arthur
Arthur spent ten minutes hiding behind a crack in thelounge curtains, taking his time until he had given the entire street the once-over.
He only unlocked and opened the front door when he was convinced that the Shrewsbury woman harassing June and him was not lurking outside and waiting to jump out and strike. He was short on disguises so wore a beanie hat to cover his thinning grey hair and reading glasses that distorted his vision as he walked. It was a weak look but it was better than nothing.
Arthur carried with him a reusable shopping bag and mobile phone. On the rare occasions he left the safety of their home, he was always sure to take his phone in the event June awoke disorientated. He would leave a landline handset on his pillow next to his mobile number written on a piece of paper. It hadn’t changed in almost a quarter of a century but there was no guarantee that June would remember it.
It was a constant battle to maintain her interest in food. Chicken soup with rustic bread was a simple dish but her favourite, and in need of fresh air after hiding indoors for days after Shrewsbury’s last uninvited appearance, he walked the mile or so to the nearest supermarket to refill the cupboard.
For most of their marriage, June had organized the household, he suspected the last generation of wives to do so. She’d also organized their online food shops and scheduled their deliveries. When she’d ordered three deliveries from one shopping list in the same day, it had been another indication that all was not well. She’d appeared relieved when he’d suggested that he took over the chore; it was one less thing for her to worry about.
Now, once inside the supermarket, Arthur made a beeline for the correct aisle but found only vegetable and minestrone soup left. And there was also no bread left in the baskets. He hated how shops in Old Northampton only seemed to get what New Northampton couldn’t fit onto its shelves. But he was adamant he wouldn’t be moving house. Despite the gradual eroding of his area, it was still his home.
‘Mr Foley,’ a voice began from behind. He turned to find a woman many decades younger than him with dark hair, pinched features and her hands on her hips. A small, stocky woman accompanied her. ‘I’m Lorraine Shrewsbury,’ she said, and his heart sank. ‘I’m your court-appointed Relationship Responder. I’ve been trying to make contact with you for some time now.’
‘I’m sorry but you have the wrong person,’ Arthur replied and tried to shuffle away. He cursed a sharp, shooting pain in his knee, an injury dating back to fighting a fire in an office tower block. It was a constant reminder that he wasn’t as nimble as he once was.
‘Mr Foley, I know it’s you,’ she continued. ‘But if you want me to prove it, then I can.’
She held up her phone and used an App to identify his face biometrically. It was a positive match with the image on his National Identity card. He shook his head but the game was up.
‘I don’t want to cause you any trouble, Mr Foley, but it is my job to spend time with you and Mrs Foley to ensure your marriage is in the healthiest possible shape.’
‘We’ve been together for fifty-three years, forty-nine of them married!’ Arthur snapped. ‘Of course we’re in good shape.’
‘And I’m sure you’re right and that everything is perfectly explicable. But under the terms of the Act, random monitoring indicates you have potential problems, which were only emphasized by further, longer recordings. And that brings me here. So allow me to spend some time talking to you and your wife and I’m sure that we can sort this out quickly and take you off the At Risk list.’
‘I keep telling you that we are not at risk! My wife has been poorly. She repeats a lot of what she says.’
‘I am aware of her medical circumstances. It’s the only, as yet, incurable form of dementia, I believe?’
