CHAPTER 11
A shaft of sunlight streamed through a gap in the living room curtains and onto the sofa where she lay, fully clothed, under a blanket.
The kindly cab driver had brought her home, free of charge, the return journey conducted in complete silence; out of respect, she assumed. She had been moved by his kindness even though in her case it was misplaced, and the irony was not lost on her. An Asian cab driver, who looked and sounded like many of the others she had had the misfortune to encounter, yet worlds apart, a true gentleman, one of life’s givers.
Mo had been like that in the early days, but Mo had wanted something in return, and soon his true character and motives had become terribly apparent. The driver didn’t want anything other than to help her in any way he could. Lesson learnt. Don’t judge people for who or what they seem to be, or say, but for what they do.
Once home, she had neither the energy nor the will to climb back into bed and at 4.30 a.m. had simply crashed out on the sofa and, for once, slept soundly.
Jess stirred and squinted as the beam of light caught her eyes and she manoeuvred herself into a sitting position, the blanket still wrapped round her waist and knees. She thought about last night and wondered why, after she had got the call from St James, she had even made the effort. They weren’t to know, of course, and would have thought it very strange if Joe’s only relative had refused to go and pay her last respects, even at the dead of night. But that wasn’t the reason. She had to go and see for herself. She had to be certain that this was not just another bizarre trick, a cruel joke played by her father to punish her for her apparent lack of concern. Or perhaps the staff at St James had made a terrible mistake and she would turn up and find that, against the odds, either they had managed to revive him or he had miraculously recovered. No, she had to see him, to be sure, because from that moment on there would be no going back.
She reached for her phone, which was still on, and to her astonishment she saw that the time read 10.10. She had been asleep for almost six hours. The phone had been on mute all night, and she noticed that someone had left a message. She pressed the button, put it on speaker and got to her feet to pull back the curtains and let in the sunlight.
“One new message,” came the automatic announcement, “seven twenty-seven a.m.”
“Jess!”
A disembodied voice bellowed at her, violating the silence in her small sitting room. Jess bristled and put her head back to listen to the tirade. Clive was not happy.
“Where the bloody hell were you this mornin’? You was supposed to be on the three till seven at Walkers! I had to go in there meself and sort it out. Client was well pissed! Yeah, well … I ain’t happy. So consider yourself sacked!”
She put both hands to her head as the phone clicked off abruptly and the message ended. She had forgotten, of course. The phone call at 2.15 a.m. from St James – a mere fifteen minutes before her normal alarm had been due to go off – had changed everything, emptied her mind of all other matters. Her dawn shift at Walkers, the only paying employment she still had, should have been of paramount importance to her.
Had she rung Clive, even at the last minute, to tell him of her circumstances, she would surely still have a job. But the more she thought about it, the more she realised it would have made no difference. Clive would not have believed her and, even if he had, he would have used it as an excuse to get rid of her.
She had once made the mistake of suggesting to him his pay rates were below minimum wage, which immediately marked her out as a troublemaker. So she had not made herself popular and there were plenty more slaves out there who would do the job without complaint. In fact, she was one of them. Another reason. However many did she need?
She climbed the stairs, got into the shower and stood there for a while under the cascade, eyes closed, wishing the warm soapy water would wash away the last vestiges of her miserable existence. Not much left now. Soon things would be different. They already were.
With no work to go to, she dressed in jeans and a light sweater. Clean hair tied back in a band, she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea and a slice of toast. There were only three slices left in a loaf that had lain in the fridge for three weeks now, so she had certainly made that last. Good timing, perhaps. No waste. When they came to turf all her belongings out onto the street, it would be better if the fridge was completely empty, rather than just almost.
She had the entire day to herself, she realised. No cleaning. No office. No bosses. No men in black coats. No husband. Her eyes settled on the framed picture of three-year-old Leila. No school. She felt herself swallow and fought back the tears.
She sat back in the chair with her mug in her hand. No way, dammit. No way. Jess had never asked for help in her life and was not about to start now. However many tiny insignificant steps, turns, decisions, errors or omissions it had taken to bring her to this precise moment sitting at the kitchen table, looking at a picture of her lost daughter, she could not say. But here she was, and there were thousands more tiny steps to take before she would give up.
She picked up the three threatening letters on the table and flicked through them again, wondering whether there was any scope for appeal, any ambiguity in their meaning, or whether she had simply understood them correctly.
There was no ambiguity. Derek had taken the last of her pay and settled the council tax bill. She felt a perverse comfort in the fact that one of her long-standing debts had been expunged, but he had just paid Paul and robbed Peter. The men in black coats. That was their money and they were coming on Friday to get it.
The men from Northern & Midland Energy would arrive at any moment with their pliers and cut off her power, and there was nothing she could do about it except plead with them to give her more time. But she had already done that, giving them £10 now and then to keep them at bay, but word had spread, data exchanged, and the vultures were descending to get the pick of the carcass. What would it be like with no power? No kettle, no fridge, no light, no hot water. No water at all when Midland Water got in on the act. But power or no power, water or no water, she still had a roof over her head. Until such time as the bailiffs came to move her out, take the keys off her and kick her out onto the street. In eighteen days’ time.
But long before then, the men in black coats, expecting, on Friday, the latest instalment of a debt that could never be repaid. Armed and dangerous and unassailable, the complete antithesis of her. She didn’t have a penny to give them; and even if she did, it would only keep them satisfied for seven days, then they would be back for more. Cash or payment in kind.
And when she was out on the street, homeless, bankrupt, on benefits, they would still find her, hound her until she had been bled dry, and then some more. She could never escape them. Yesterday she had two jobs and even that wasn’t enough to keep her head above water. Today she had no jobs and now, no income, and even if she started looking immediately for another job, it would take time and her debts would spiral further out of control.
She spread her arms out in front of her on the kitchen table and rested her forehead, seeking inspiration, redemption, help, knowing at the same time there was none.
She sat still for a moment and emptied her mind, shutting out everyone and everything, and then, without warning, it came to her. Of course, she thought ruefully. The answer was obvious, had been staring her in the face for months, and if the events of the last forty-eight hours had not all come together, there would have been no catalyst. No fuel. No spark of ignition. No energy.
She was not religious, and for a moment something made her think there were forces at work here and that this had been predetermined for her. But then she remembered school and her English teacher once philosophising to class, and the words had stuck in her mind ever since because they rang true.
“… there’s no such thing as fate. Wherever we end up is simply a combination of actions and events, planned, contrived or random, controlled or otherwise, lucky or not. Don’t seek an explanation or reason for everything. Just accept it happens and move on.”
She sat up, taut, bristling with energy, adrenalin coursing through her veins. There was no one but her. She had her brain and her arms and her legs and her spirit, and she would not let anyone take them away. She knew at once what she needed to do, and no one could stop her. She was in control now and she felt liberated, invigorated, exhilarated. She swept the letters off the table and marched up the stairs.
In the bedroom, she foraged around in the back of one the drawers and found a battered leather-covered ring box where it had lain since her mother died. She sat on the bed and looked down at it for a moment, hesitant, guilty, nervous and confused. But her mother would have approved. Given her blessing. She opened the box. In the lid sat a small card with an inscription in Joe’s shaky hand.
“To Madge from Joe, with all my love.”
Her mother’s sapphire and diamond engagement ring and her nine-carat wedding band nestled in the slot in the base. They were modest pieces, bought with love and little money, but all the money he had at the time. Childhood sweethearts fulfilling a destiny they had been planning for over ten years. Priceless yet probably worthless. Jess had no idea what they might be worth, but they would be worth something. There was a jeweller in the town and a pawnshop and any number of cheque/cash/gold converter shops too. One of them would give her cash for these, surely?
Before the pangs of guilt had time to take hold and give her cause to change her mind, she rushed back downstairs, grabbed her scruffy black coat and let herself out the front door.
Outside, her elderly neighbour Joan was sweeping her front porch as Jess slammed the door shut and set off up the path without stopping. Joan always liked a chat, but the old girl had been slow on the uptake and Jess was well past her before she had a chance to speak. “Oh hello, dear,” she said to Jess’s back. “How’s your dad doing?”
Jess pretended she hadn’t heard and kept going, out the gate and up the street. Joan was well meaning but an incorrigible gossip, and she had no intention of engaging in conversation with her or anyone else. Jess took neither questions nor orders nor gave answers to anyone now. She was in control; although control of what, she didn’t quite know.