Well, that’s that, then. I don’t know if I feel relieved or frustrated. If it’s not a Royal Mail cock up, then how are the letters being delivered?
I lean back in my chair, swinging from side to side.
Moving on, I have a surname, a place… I should be able to find his birth certificate. I open another tab, log into the General Registry Office. My fingers mistype – not enough sleep and too much caffeine – but finally I get the words into the search bar. Michael Jones. District? I search for Stonewell and it comes up with Stonewell and Millbank which I double-click. Born… 1955… ish?
OK. Deep breath. I move the cursor and click enter. I tap my fingers against the desk, receiving another sharp look. She’smoved on to Barbara Taylor Bradford now. I mouth ‘sorry’ and link my fingers together. Come on. It’s like the connection is deliberately trying to fray my nerves. The screen starts to load and I lean forwards, holding my breath tight. One result. Then another. Just two, great, that won’t take me… Oh. The connection seems to catch up, firing results like a scattergun. I do a quick tally: thirteen, that’s not too… Shit. I notice this is just page one. Of seventeen. Right. There are a lot of Michael Jones’s born in Yorkshire in 1955 it seems. I let out a breath…That’s going to take some time.
I re-open the land registry now that the connection has picked up. Annnnd… no record for that year. I look up at Michael smiling. ‘Not making this easy for me, are you?’ I say, daring a whisper. I flick back through my notes. Thatcher’s ‘Right to Buy’ council houses came into effect in 1980. I tap my fingers against my bottom lip. So, any time after that would be plausible. I start the search a year earlier because maybe?—
My phone buzzes; a message from Spence. The last few hours have gone by in a blur:
Hey. Had to pick up George early. Can’t make dinner.
That old surge of fierce protectiveness floods through me in the same way as it would when she was a four-year-old being shoved aside by bigger kids in the soft play area. There’s something going on, and whatever these ‘things’ are that she’s not handling well, they are way more than just ‘complicated’.
Everything OK?
The dots that show he’s typing appear but then disappear. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I prompt:
Want me to come over?
He gives me a thumbs up. Spence never uses the thumbs up.
Be there in an hour?
A giant thumbs up this time.
I’ll bring wine.
The dots appear then stop again and unease settles in my stomach.
I grab my things, tucking Mike inside my notebook carefully, and dash out of the library.
20
ALICE
By the time I pull up outside Spence’s house, it’s almost five. I glance up. Georgia’s bedroom curtains are drawn, and the flicker of light from the TV screen is edging the window. I knock but there is no reply. I knock again; this time Spence opens the door. His tie already discarded, sleeves rolled up, like he’s ready for a fight.
‘Hey,’ I say, lifting a plastic bag and letting it swing. ‘Delivery!’ I add overly brightly. He smiles but his usual spark is dimmed.
‘Hi.’ He turns his back. ‘I’m just through here!’ He points to the kitchen over dramatically.
‘Traffic was a nightmare,’ I continue, closing the door behind me and following him through to the kitchen with a frown. On the table are the remains of breakfast, and next to the cereal box and toast-crumbed plates is a bottle of wine, already almost finished. He picks up the dirty dishes and loads them into the dishwasher.
‘You OK?’
He turns the dial and leans against the dishwasher, dragging his hands through his hair. I put the bag down on the counter,my earlier excitement, the census, the initials on the mural, all of it falls away.
‘You brought more wine, right?’ he asks, reaching into a cupboard and getting out a glass.
‘That bad?’ I nod to the bottle. ‘Here, let me…’ I go to take the glass from his hand but we both lose our grip and it smashes against the floor.
‘Fuck!’ he says, crouching down.
‘I can do it.’
‘No, I…’
