Page 5 of Indie
“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I’ll just go put those back.”
“No, you won’t.”
I pushed past the people in front of me.
“Put this on my bill, please? I’ll take a latte and a bacon butty, too.”
The people behind me muttered again, but no one complained, and no one else offered to help the nurse with her lunch. She smiled at me weakly, embarrassment colouring her cheeks. And then she ducked her head and rushed off to a corner of the café, setting down and opening the sandwich.
I watched her from my table, pulling at the bread, nibbling round the crusts, pecking at it like a little sparrow, her eyes never lingering on her lunch too long as she scanned the room, ready to take flight at any second. Then she glanced at me, sheepishly, dropping her eyes to the pulled apart sandwich as quickly as they caught mine.
I should have stopped staring at her. Left her alone to eat. To peck at her food. But every few moments she would glance across, see me watching and divert her eyes, pretending to look across me, or around the room. I picked at the sandwich in front of me too, grateful for the little strawberry blonde distraction,letting myself indulge in thoughts that were misplaced. Because the others in the back of my mind were far darker.
Chapter Three
“Really, Emmie? You’re expecting me to have them all night and then take them to school in the morning?”
“Please, mam. I can pick up a shift at the garage tonight.”
She scowled at me, and then her eyes scanned across the kids who stood on the doorstep cradling their backpacks. Sighing, she pushed the front door open wide, and Luke and Lily disappeared inside.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and she frowned in response.
The nights were drawing in fast now, each day becoming shorter and shorter, winter nipping at the heels of autumn. Andwith the shorter days came a chill in the air once darkness fell. The clock struck 10pm, and I locked the doors, the only service to customers now through the little window that overlooked the forecourt.
“You good if I go, kid?”
Ernie glanced around, checking we were locked safely inside the garage shop.
“Yeah ‘course. Thanks for the shift tonight,” I added, forcing a weak smile at the owner.
“No problem, Emmie. Just pleased I could help.”
He handed me a white envelope. Cash in hand. Better for the books and enough for me to get by for a week, if I ate carefully. Then, slipping out through the back of the shop, he left me to take care of the place till the next shift arrived at 5am the next morning.
It would be a long night.
There’d been a smattering of customers, the odd car filling up late, someone calling in for bread and milk, and cigarettes. From the outside we looked closed, shadows filling the space between the shelves inside the shop, a low glow from the fuel pumps. The night outside was still. No wind. No rain. Just a quietness. I glanced behind me at the clock, the minutes ticking by slowly. It would be a long, boring night. But I was being paid for the boredom, paid enough that my kids could eat for a week, and the dog, and maybe even me if I was frugal enough.
Outside, an engine rumbled. Low vibrations growing louder. And louder. And in the darkness a prick of white light grew to and huge round orb, passing in front of the forecourt andmoving away again, the low grumbles of the engine transforming to a purr.
It was 12.45am. Most people would be asleep. Most cuddled up to someone, not perched behind a lonely counter, worrying about where the next week’s money was going to come from. A car sped past, breaking the speed limit on the road outside, and then some. And then another, either in pursuit or racing with them. And behind them a motorbike. It whined shrilly; a high-pitched, desperate scream, the engine sounding rough even to my ears. Then the road quieted again, descending to the eery calmness of before and I stayed safely behind my glass, watching the vehicles engulfed in the heavy dark of night.
But less than five minutes later a rumble came again, growing louder by the second, deep and rhythmical. Not like the shriek of the bike just gone, but rich and powerful. The headlight lit up the road, swamping it in bright light, but instead of driving past, it slowed, the engine slowing with it; the sound deepening to a lazy growl.
The bike rolled into the forecourt, coming to a stop at a pump, the yellow glow of the overhead lights illuminating the polished chrome. And under the lights, a man moved. A real-life shadow. Dressed entirely in black, he stalked the darkness. I watched as he fuelled the bike, the pounds on my screen ticking upwards as the tank filled. Then the gauge stopped, the motorbike full.
He moved closer, crossing the forecourt in long steps. But when he got to the window, he didn’t remove his helmet, just pushed the visor up. I smiled tentatively.
“Thirty pound forty-five pence, please.”
His head cocked sideways, his gaze shifting, fixing on me.
“Emmie?”
His voice was familiar, and now that he’d got my attention, his eyes were too. Rich. Brown. But I still couldn’t place him. There was a memory, tucked away somewhere. His eyebrows moved, the sides of his eyes crinkling, and he reached up and pulled the helmet off. Underneath, his greying hair was mussed up, some parts flat, other parts sticking out.
“Oh,” I said, realisation flooding me. “You’re Ste’s son.”