‘Give it time,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t always happen right away.’
‘What do you know about it?’ she snapped back. ‘The look of that girl, she’s ready for a baby. You do your job, put one in her tummy.’
‘They’re looking for her,’ he said.
‘Good luck finding her when she’s six feet under.’
‘It needs more time,’ he said.
‘And I’m telling you. I’m sick of waiting. If her tummy doesn’t start growing, she’s going in the ground with the rest of them.’
82
Frankie sat at the kitchen table looking at the postcard. He’d never got post before, but here it was, delivered by Mr Smith, on his bicycle.
Cook’s mum was watching him. She’d been tip-toeing around him since the funeral, but Frankie didn’t mind. She was a nice lady. Uncle Nob was in his armchair, same as ever. It had taken Frankie a long time to get used to the old man, with his shaking hands. He’d thought the not talking was a trick, some kind of test, but in the end he’d got used to it. Nob was nice too. Even Cook was, in the end.
‘It’s from Ruby,’ Frankie said. His head was spinning. One minute he’d been thinking about Ruby being blown up, the next minute all that was changed.
‘She’s met a fella,’ he said. ‘Gone to the seaside.’
He knew Cook’s mum must have read the card too, but she’d let him find out for himself. She was good like that.
There wasn’t much else on the card, but Frankie pored over it. The postmark was blurry, but he could see the date. Two days ago. Would have got here yesterday, Cook’s mum had said, but they hadn’t got the address perfect. It had been made out to Frankie Reynolds, Mr Cook’s farm, Uckfield, Sussex. Other than that there was the message, and a picture she’d drawn. A little joke. A couple of birds and a tree. Frankie had sent a card to Ruby once, and he’d drawn the same picture. The only other time he’d beenoutside London, before all of this. All the children had been driven out to the countryside, stayed in an old barn. They’d played games in the long grass and got sunburnt, and all of them were given a postcard to write and send home, even though they’d be home themselves before the cards arrived.
Frankie hadn’t liked the place. It was all sky and trees and those awful squawking birds. He’d missed the gloomy canyon of the high street, and the smell of the river. When he’d written his card, he’d written it to Ruby. ‘Come and get me,’ he’d written, and drawn the picture, hoping it would help her find the place. He’d only been small, of course, so the picture wasn’t much good. Now he was a year older. Now he’d draw a map, or at least a better picture.
83
The world was spinning and rocking at the same time. Cook had never felt so dizzy. He held his eyes tightly shut, the only thing in his power, but it didn’t do any good. His internal sense of equilibrium told him he was in some kind of spinning top.
His hands were tied behind his back. Rough rope, digging into his wrists.
The left side of his face was numb. It was pressed against something cold. Metal but liquid. He smelt petrol, and something rotting.
He was going to be sick. He felt it coming, and reared his head up, opening his eyes.
‘Watch out, mate,’ someone said. ‘He’s doing it again.’
‘Not on my fucking shoes he’s not,’ another voice.
Cook felt someone manhandling him, tilting him over an edge that dug into his ribs. He felt the spray of water on his face, and his stomach heaved.
‘We should drop him in now,’ the first voice said. ‘No one’ll be any the wiser.’
‘Til the tide brings him back up,’ this from the second voice, ‘and the old man finds out. The old man wants a trip to the outflow, he gets a trip to the outflow. You fuck around with the old man you’ll be the next in the river.’
‘He got it on my shoe.’
‘Shoes can be cleaned. You fuck about with the old man you’ll wish you only had to worry about a dirty shoe.’
Cook opened his eyes as he was pulled back over the edge. He was in a small motorboat. The giant sat behind him, wads of toilet paper stuffed in his broken nose, one hand on the tiller, an outboard motor throbbing and sending up a thin whisp of exhaust. The other voice was the medium-sized brother from the hotel. Keeping it in the family, Cook thought.
He’d let himself get distracted by the dancer. Stupid. A pretty woman, looking at him with her big eyes. Smiling at him, making a connection. But she’d said something important. He tried to remember. Something about Ruby trying to get out of her situation. Getting in trouble with the person who was running her.
Reynolds.
Would Reynolds hurt his own daughter? Cook didn’t know very much about the man. He knew Gracie had thrown him out. He knew Frankie was scared of him.
