Friday 20th October
Tom wasn’t having the best of days. He’d spent most of the morning enduring a wet and miserable four-hour drive to Lincoln to take part in a prison adjudication, where he’d had to undergo a full body search, including an x-ray and a springer spaniel sniffing around his crotch. He’d then been escorted across the miserable yard area in the pouring rain and through several locked gates before arriving at C wing, where he’d met his client who’d got into a fight with another prisoner in the canteen. Tom was required to defend him in front of a district judge. If found guilty, he’d receive an extra forty-five days in prison.
It wasn’t the most exciting way to spend a day, and for very little financial reward. It didn’t help that he was still preoccupied with the events of yesterday.
Izzy couldn’t seem to grasp that she was no longer the legal owner of their apartment and was required by law to move out. When he’d arrived at the flat, he’d found her still asleep with no removal van booked and showing no signs of leaving. She was smart enough to realise he was there to ‘kick her out’ and had resorted to trying to seduce him, inviting him to join her in bed. When that failed, she’d switched to crying, reminding him she had nowhere else to go.
He’d resisted caving in and continued packing up her things. This had resulted in her yelling abuse while he’d loaded her belongings into his car, and continuing to yell as he’d deposited her at a Travelodge. He’d tried to assuage his guilt by paying for a week’s stay – which had cost him more than he’d earnt today in representation fees. Such was life.
His day had deteriorated further when he’d received a call from an unknown number. Assuming it was Izzy calling from the Travelodge, his resignation had been replaced by annoyance when his father’s voice had come on the line. His mother had given Harvey his number. Thanks, Mum.
The conversation started out in its usual stilted fashion. His father reiterated his desire to be in his son’s life, and Tom refused to forgive and forget. The subject had then switched to his mother and her stint in rehab.
Tom’s annoyance had increased when his father had ‘expressed concern’ over Tom’s involvement in the running of the playhouse and whether this ‘distraction’ would be detrimental to his son’s career. Tom wasn’t sure what had angered him most. His father’s interference, or the man’s willingness to see his ex-wife’s business fail while she sought help for her addiction. His father’s counter-argument had been to point out that Carolyn had appointed two deputies to run the playhouse in her absence and Tom’s presence had never been requested or needed. Like his dad had ever cared about his mum! Flaming hypocrite.
Tom was just glad his father had no idea who the deputies were. Otherwise, all hell would break loose. He’d ended the call at that point. He’d been in danger of crashing his car and it was already damaged where he’d run into a recycling bin thanks to Becca chucking paint at him.
An image of Becca covered in paint briefly eased the tightness in his chest as he endured an equally miserable four-hour journey back to Brighton. He’d forgotten to pick up his inhaler this morning and the need for relief had been building all day. There used to be a time in his life when he would have been okay surviving for a day without drugs. Now it seemed he couldn’t go twenty minutes without artificial stimulants.
Why he kept thinking about Becca, he had no idea. He supposed it was the realisation that her intentions regarding the playhouse came from a genuine desire to save the place. He’d been too hard on her.
But she’d inflicted her revenge, refusing to help him when he’d got stuck between two travel trunks on Wednesday night. It should have annoyed him. Instead, it had demonstrated her determination not to let his mother down. And that had endeared her to him – much as he hated to admit it. Over the past two weeks, he’d been reminded of the girl he’d fallen in love with. Becca Roberts was funny, energetic, clumsy and cute. Her endless playfulness was both an irritation and strangely infectious.
He’d agreed to the showcase, not only because it was a great idea, but he was also confident that along with Jodi, she could make it work. What he hadn’t vocalised was his concern about his mother’s ability to cope. If the playhouse became more successful with more hirers and users, would that put extra pressure on her? She’d be fragile when she left rehab and she’d need a stress-free environment, not additional responsibility.
But he hadn’t felt ready to share his concerns with Becca. He might have moved past wanting to throttle her, but trusting her with his worries and insecurities wasn’t something he was ready to risk. Being betrayed once was enough.
He pulled into the playhouse car park, relieved to be home. The tickling sensation in his chest was a warning sign. He planned to shower, drink beer and eat curry. But first, he needed his inhaler.
His plan to head upstairs and change out of his damp suit was scuppered when he heard raised voices coming from the office. Would his conscience allow him to ignore it? Probably not. Sighing, he marched across the foyer.
On reaching the office, his hand stilled on the handle. He could hear Vivienne shouting. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she didn’t sound happy. Taking a ragged breath, he opened the door and discovered Vivienne almost levitating over Jodi.
Under such an onslaught, Jodi might have appeared the underdog, but anyone who thought Jodi would be intimidated by the older woman’s ferocity would soon learn otherwise. She had her hands on her hips, refusing to back down.
He cleared his throat. ‘Is there a problem…?’
The sound of his voice momentarily broke the locking of horns. A beat followed before they advanced on him, both screaming words of accusation, both intent on relaying their version of events first.
He raised his hand, a feeble attempt to still them. When it didn’t work, he took an involuntary step back. ‘Will you both quit shouting?’ They paused, not quite content to shut up, but enough so he could intervene. ‘One at a time.’ He looked at Vivienne. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘She is the problem. I caught her stealing.’
‘You did no such thing!’ Jodi looked close to tears.
‘Quiet. Both of you.’ God, his chest hurt. ‘Accusing someone of stealing is a serious matter.’
Vivienne recoiled. ‘Are you accusing me of lying, Master Thomas?’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘But you immediately doubt my word.’ Vivienne looked affronted. ‘Of all the hurtful, insulting—’
‘Just tell me what happened, Vivienne.’ Christ, she could be dramatic.
‘I walked into the office to find that woman…’ Jodi was subjected to one of Vivienne’s glares ‘…with her hands in the safe.’ She folded her arms, no doubt for dramatic effect. ‘And now the money has disappeared. It doesn’t take a genius to work out who took it.’
A rush of cold hit Tom in the chest. His breathing tightened even further. ‘The money for the showcase?’
‘All five thousand pounds. I came in here and there she was, her grubby little hands in the safe. She can’t deny it. Jumped away like a scalded cat. Guilt written all over her thieving face. She knew she’d been caught—’
‘Enough!’ Tom turned to Jodi. He didn’t think for a second she’d stolen the money. Why, he wasn’t sure. She had a history of lying and theft. But Becca was right: Jodi had changed. She also wasn’t stupid. He’d only withdrawn the money yesterday. Only a real idiot would take it so soon. ‘I’m assuming there’s an explanation?’ She’d probably moved the money, like with the bank accounts. ‘Where’s the money?’
Her face radiated hurt. ‘You think I took it?’
He felt himself frown. ‘You mean, you didn’t?’
‘No, of course I bloody well didn’t.’
‘Then where is it?’ Air seemed to be stuck in his chest. He was struggling to exhale.
‘I don’t know. When I came into the office and went to put the cheque book back in the safe, I realised the bank bag was missing. That’s when Vivienne came in.’
Vivienne pointed a finger at Jodi. ‘I caught you red-handed.’
‘Then where’s the money?’ Jodi opened her arms. ‘I haven’t left the office, so if I took it I’d have it, wouldn’t I? Search me. Look in my bag. You won’t find anything.’
‘Who’s to say you didn’t take it earlier? Maybe you were covering your tracks. You’ve probably stashed it somewhere.’ The black of Vivienne’s floaty dress blurred Tom’s vision. ‘Shall I call the police, Master Thomas?’
Jodi looked stricken. ‘Please don’t do that.’
‘You see? Guilty.’ Vivienne was judge, jury and accuser all rolled into one. He was surprised she didn’t fist-bump the air.
Jodi started to cry. ‘I didn’t take the money, I swear.’
Tom sagged against the door. He needed to lean on something.
‘Then why shouldn’t we call the police? Surely you want the culprit caught?’ Vivienne’s tone had switched to sarcastic. ‘If you’ve nothing to hide, you needn’t be worried.’
Tom knew exactly why Jodi didn’t want the police involved. She had a criminal record. She’d been jailed for theft. They were hardly going to believe her word over Vivienne’s.
Jodi shook her head. ‘Please, Tom. I didn’t take the money. I need you to believe me.’
And he needed his inhaler.
‘Go home, the pair of you.’ He turned to leave. ‘I’ll deal with this tomorrow.’
‘But Master Thomas…?’
‘Go home, Vivienne.’
He hadn’t meant to snap, but walking had become difficult. Hell, breathing had become difficult. His vision had blurred. His chest felt tighter with every step.
How he made it up the staircase, he didn’t know. He gripped the banister, using all his strength to pull himself up. He was wheezing badly. His whole chest rattled. It was so loud it felt like it was coming from outside his body.
The faces of his ancestors on the walls seemed to be scolding him. Their stern expressions loomed down on him as he climbed the stairs. He barely made it to the top before the coughing began. It was official – he was having an asthma attack. Drugs awaited. Relief in the form of Ventolin. He just needed to get upstairs.
The galley corridor felt longer than usual. He staggered diagonally, pushing himself from one wall to another, unable to support his own body weight. He knocked over a chair, dislodging a painting on the wall. He could barely breathe. He was sweating. Shivering. Drowning.
He reached the stairwell for the east tower. One last push.
Every step slowed. Every step required more effort. Was he going to make it? He was near the top. The coughing became worse, rendering him unable to move. He was within a few feet of the table. His inhaler was just out of arm’s reach.
Black spots appeared before his eyes. He slumped to the ground. Pain stabbed at his chest. The pressure building in his lungs pinned him to the floor.
He hadn’t made it.
And then a cool hand touched his forehead. ‘Tom…? Can you hear me?’
Was he hallucinating?
‘Sit up,’ the voice instructed. ‘Use your inhaler.’ Fingers helped him insert the inhaler into his mouth. ‘Breathe,’ the voice said. ‘And again.’ Another shot of Ventolin hit the back of his throat.
The pain gripping his chest eased.
‘Relax,’ the voice said. ‘Lower your shoulders.’ Hands rubbed his arms. Fingers kneaded the tight muscles along his shoulders, soothing and gentle.
Gradually the fog cleared. Light returned and the room drifted into focus.
Becca was in front of him on her knees. She checked her watch and then put his inhaler in his mouth. ‘Again,’ she said, pressing the button. ‘Breathe in.’ She was timing the gaps between puffs. How had she remembered that?
Trying to relax when you couldn’t breathe wasn’t easy. A lack of air induced panic. And panicking wasn’t conducive to overcoming an attack. Tensing up exacerbated the difficulties of trying to draw in air or to exhale.
She checked her watch and gave him another puff of Ventolin. ‘Slow deep breaths,’ she said. ‘That’s it. You’re doing really well.’ Her smile was reassuring. ‘Squeeze my hand if you can hear me?’
Her fingers closed around his and he gently squeezed them. She was crouched next to him, holding him steady. She smelt of strawberries. Her top was blue. Her lips were painted red.
As his focus returned, he realised he was in his bedroom, slumped against the wall by the stairwell. He wondered how she felt about being up here? The room hadn’t changed since she’d last been here. Stacks of vinyl records sat on the floor. A single bed was pushed against the wall under the slanted ceiling. A poster of The Clash still clung to the wall, curled at the edges, faded and torn.
She placed the inhaler in his mouth. ‘And again.’
He sucked in another shot of Ventolin. His heart was racing, accelerated by the drug, but the pain in his chest was easing.
‘Lean forward,’ she said, easing him out of his suit jacket. She removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. She got up and walked across the room, pausing as if getting her bearings. Her hair was in a messy braid, the ends blue. Her tights were brightly patterned. She looked the same as she always had. Quirky, youthful, beautiful. She headed over to the chest of drawers and removed a hoodie. Bringing it over, she guided it over his arms and zipped it up. He hadn’t realised he’d been shaking.
Another voice called up the stairs. ‘Becca?’
He recognised Jodi’s voice.
Becca went over to the stairwell.
‘How’s he doing?’ he heard Jodi say.
‘He’s over the worst. Did you get hold of the doctor?’
‘He’s on his way. He said we should call for the paramedics if his inhaler doesn’t work.’
‘It seems to be easing things,’ Becca said. ‘But I’ll keep an eye on it.’
‘The doctor said a warm drink might help relax his airways. I made tea. I’ll wait downstairs and bring the doctor up when he arrives.’
‘Thanks, Jodi… You okay?’
Tom didn’t hear her reply. They’d both lowered their voices. He might not be able to hear what they were saying…but he could guess. Vivienne had accused Jodi of stealing. The money he’d withdrawn from the bank for the showcase had disappeared. It was a catastrophe.
Vivienne had wanted to call the police. But if the safe door had been left open, it could have been anyone. A chancer. A burglar who’d cased the joint. But if the door was closed, then it could only be one of four people. Him. His mother. Vivienne or Jodi. The only people with the combination. And that’s why he hadn’t reacted. He needed to get his head around the situation. Ask a few more questions before making any accusations. But first, he needed to breathe.
Becca reappeared holding a mug. She sat down next to him and handed him his inhaler. He administered it himself this time. Progress.
She rubbed his shoulder. ‘You’re still too tense. Drop your shoulders.’
He followed her instructions, amazed that she’d remembered how to handle an asthma attack. It’d happened a few times when they’d been together. Usually after a night dealing with his mother. She’d been the same then, caring and in control, even if she’d later admitted she’d been scared. Thank God she was here.
‘Drink some tea,’ she said, lifting the mug to his lips. ‘The doctor’s on his way.’
The warm liquid was soothing and welcome.
His chest felt like an elephant was standing on it, but his airways were loosening. He drank another few mouthfuls. ‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice croaky.
‘It’s Jodi you need to thank.’ She lowered the mug. ‘She’s the one who came and got me and said you needed help.’
‘That was good of her.’
‘I think so.’
Especially as you’d just accused her of stealing.
She didn’t say the words. She didn’t have to.
The accusation hung in the air…right next to his guilt.