Page 63 of Breaking the Dark

“Girl?” He grimaces and shakes his head. “I’ve never seen a girl there.”

“Yeah, apparently she’s agoraphobic.” Jessica sighs. “You don’t happen to know Debra’s surname, do you?”

“No. ’Fraid not. But it’s probably online, you know, land registry or something?”

“Sure.” She taps the counter a couple of times with her fist, throws him a tense smile, and then turns and leaves.

Twelve years ago

Portsmouth, Hampshire, UK

Polly has finally persuaded Arthur to arrange a meeting with his parents. It didn’t take much in the end, not once she’d done a light internet search for “John Warshaw” and discovered that Arthur’s father was wanted for the torture and murder of three homeless men in Harlem in the 1980s.

They meet on a Saturday morning outside a seafront café. The cold air is biting, filled with sharp pins of rain. Polly sees a flash of recognition pass through Ophelia’s gaze as Arthur introduces them. Arthur’s father seems distracted, looking out at the ocean.

“I think we’ve met,” says Ophelia.

“We have,” Polly replies. “You work on the pier.”

“That’s right.”

“I came to see you, a couple of months ago. I was asking you about your beautiful skin.”

“I remember. You were talking about your…ambitions.”

“You have an excellent memory.”

“I certainly do.”

Ophelia fixes Polly with a gimlet gaze. Polly can tell that she thinks she can freeze this unwanted interloper out of her life, but she has no idea, thinks Polly, no idea who she is dealing with.

Polly holds the café door open for her. “After you,” she says.

Age before beauty, says her internal monologue.

The café is loud and clattering. The windows are steamed up with condensation from overloud conversations. A waitress brings them plastic-covered menus, which they peruse in awkward silence. Polly glances up at Arthur’s father, who sits opposite her. He looks benign. Looks so like a man who potters around an allotment and feeds kibble to a cat, not a man who tortures people and drinks blood out of bottles.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Simms.”

“Not Simms,” he says bluntly. “That’s my wife’s name. And my son’s. My name is John Jackson. You can call me John.”

Polly dampens down her thrill at catching his blatant lie. “Well, nice to meet you, John.”

“Likewise,” he says, eyeing her intensely. “Likewise.”

Once they’ve ordered and their menus have been collected, Polly smiles at Ophelia. “I’m really grateful to you for agreeing to meet up,” she begins carefully. “I know you don’t really want Arthur to have a girlfriend—”

Ophelia cuts in. “Of course we want Arthur to have a girlfriend.”

“Well, you’ve definitely given him the impression that you’d prefer it if he didn’t.”

Ophelia bridles. “Arthur can do what he wants. He’s a grown man.”

Polly smiles and squeezes Arthur’s hand atop the table. “I keep telling him that. Don’t I, Arthur?”

Arthur shrugs.

Polly sighs. “Man of few words.”