Page 17 of Indie

She looked shattered. Eyelids drooping over the sea green of her eyes. I glanced around once more, content that everything looked as it should. No abnormal drafts. Nothing out of place. The dog barked from behind the door again.

“I need to let Daisy out.” Her words stolen by a yawn she covered with her hand.

“I’ll sort her out. Back door through there?” I pointed towards the sound of the dog.

“Uh-huh.” She plonked herself at a seat at the table, her eyes closing a little more.

“Ok, be right back.”

I pushed through the door at the far side of the kitchen, quickly snapping on the light and holding my hand out towards the snout and big jaws of the brindle Staffordshire Bull Terrier that raced towards me, to greet me or savage me, I wasn’t sure. Her tail stilled, held out behind her as she carefully sniffed the back of my hand.

“That’s it, girl.” I lowered my voice, drawing out the words slowly.

Her tail bobbed left and right slightly, the cold damp nose exploring my skin. Then she gave my hand a nudge, droppingher head underneath it, and I rubbed my thumb gently between her eyes, my fingers scrubbing behind her ears. The dog held my gaze, the eyes that had challenged initially now relaxing.

“You ready for wee wees, girl?”

She turned, her claws pattering away from me on the worn laminate floor under our feet. A key sat in the lock. Really secure, Emmie, really secure. I turned it anyway, tugging the door from its swollen frame and watching as the black and brown dog ran out into the shadows. Somewhere in the dark there was a rustle, a movement of grass and leaves. The dog, probably, but I still stared into the darkness, straining my ears in the silence. Watching and listening. And it was the dog who bounded out into the light. No one else. I closed the door behind her, turning the key and locking out the morning approaching from the east.

The little house was quiet. Peaceful. But not as peaceful as the little sparrow with the apricot hair asleep at the kitchen table. Her head rested on her hand, her eyes closed, her lips pinched together. The bottom lip was fleshy, spoilt by the angry red cut, and her top lip didn’t quite match. Thinner, it had a tiny scar over the left part of her cupid’s bow, and my stomach knotted as I imagined how she could have got it.

Emmie sat propped against her hand, her chest rising and falling gently, the soft gasps of breath just whooshing from a little parting between her lips. I padded across, sliding my arm between her back and the chair. She murmured, so tired she could barely communicate and for a second her eyes flittered open, her head rolling sideways against my shoulder. I scooped another arm under her knees, lifting her effortlessly from the hard wooden chair, pulling her into my chest. She was so light. So tiny in my arms. She muttered again, something unintelligible, against my chest.

Following the corridor, I clutched her sleepy body against me to the foot of the stairs. The first step creaked loudly, and her head rocked against me, her words coming out on a breath.

“Indie,” she murmured.

“It’s ok. I won’t drop you.”

“Hmmm.”

Each stair creaked as I climbed the narrow staircase, carefully climbing to the floor above and nudging each door with my foot. I didn’t have to go far to the second door, which opened inwards to a double bed, almost lost under a hundred scatter cushions. Propping Emmie onto her feet, I swiped the cushions to one side, pulling the duvet back and then helping her under the covers. For a while I stood over the top of her, watching the wisps of the lightest ginger hair spill from her bun over the white pillowcase. I wanted to touch her face and wipe the strands away, to slide my thumb across those prominent cheekbones, down to those feminine scarred lips. But instead, I pulled the duvet back over her, tucking it snugly around her body.

“Goodnight, little Spuggy,” I whispered, closing the door softly into place.

*****

The early morning had been quiet. Hardly a stitch of movement from the rows of council houses that lined the street. I’d gazed up and down the long lines of mismatched wooden fencing, slats missing and gates hanging off. Gardens overgrown or crammed full of kid’s toys and trampolines so that there was barely space to turn around. Emmie’s garden was bare of furniture, the grass screaming to be cut and the weeds raiding the gaps between the broken flagstones of the path.

Inside had been clean and ordered, with almost military style discipline. But her furniture was a mix of styles, and the sofa worn with age and arses. I’d bet if I’d opened that fridge or her cupboards, they would be sparse. She lived hand to mouth, more days missing hers than her kids. I knew her enough to realise that. And that thought made my stomach heavy with irrational worry for a woman I’d barely met. And that fucker of an ex, or whatever he was, wasn’t coming anywhere near her again.

I untangled my phone from my pocket, pressing a number and waiting as the phone purred rhythmically.

“This better be fucking good, mate,” a voice growled, just a moment before I was going to end the incessant ringing in my ear.

“Fury. Good morning to you, too.”

“If it’s morning, it’s never fucking good.”

“Still asleep, huh?”

“Indie, it’s 6.30 fucking am. But for your information, I’m balls deep in a stunner right now, so this better be quick!”

“Really? You stopped rutting just to answer my call? I’m honoured.”

“It was the only way you would stop.”

“Anyway, balls deep? Couple of inches ain’t that deep, mate,” I taunted.