Page 64 of Vengeance is Mine

‘Yes. You know, a holiday.’

‘We are going. Cornwall in June, like always.’

She resisted the strong urge to roll her eyes. ‘I don’t mean in the summer, I mean now.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s January. Nothing’ll be open.’

‘I’m not talking about bloody Cornwall, Harry. I’m thinking about going for some winter sun. Imagine it, Harry – sat by a pool with a cloudless blue sky above us, sun beating down, a glass of cold beer in one hand and a good thriller in the other. Meals on the terrace of some Jamaican hotel overlooking the sea, watching the sun go down on the horizon.’

‘Jamaica?’ He wrinkled his nose.

‘It doesn’t have to be Jamaica. Spain. Greece. Turkey. Florida. Anywhere the sun is shining at this time of year.’

‘I don’t think so, Barb. You know I don’t like flying.’

‘Well, forget America then. We could have a driving holiday. Go through the Tunnel then down to southern Spain for a week or so and drive back. We could stop off at a few hotels on the journey for a few nights. A real road trip.’ She gripped his hands harder and looked at him with a smile on her face, her twinkling eyes wide open.

‘A driving holiday? All that time in the car? I’d seize up, Barbara. You know I’m not good on long journeys.’

She released his hands and closed her eyes tight in exasperation. She bit her bottom lip hard, to stop her from saying what she was thinking.

‘Fine,’ she said calmly, even though she was seething beneath the surface. ‘Fine. We’ll just stay here, shall we? Winter in Newcastle. Cold nights. Cold days. Frost. Ice. Snow. Wind. Rain. Bliss. I think I’ll mix myself an Ovaltine cocktail and sit outside with a good book wearing five layers of woollen clothing.’ She jumped up from the table and stormed out of the kitchen.

‘Barbara, what the devil’s got into you lately?’ he asked, going after her.

At the bottom of the stairs, Barbara paused, her hand on the banister. She took a deep breath. ‘You don’t get it, do you, Harry?’

‘Get what?’

She bit her tongue. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, a heavy sadness to her voice. She made her way slowly up the stairs.

‘Is this about Dominic Griffiths?’ Harry asked, from the bottom of the stairs.

She stopped, halfway up, and lowered her head.

‘Barbara, we’ve been over this so many times.’ He tried to placate her with a soothing tone.

She turned to face her husband. ‘You can justify that man being released from prison as much as you want. I’m aware what the law says. He was sentenced by a jury of his peers. He served his time and is now free to go about his life?—’

‘He’s not free,’ he interrupted. ‘He’s out on licence. He has to…’ He sighed. ‘I’m not getting into this with you again. He’s paid his debt to society, and that’s that.’ He headed back to the living room.

‘For fuck’s sake, Harry,’ Barbara screamed, running back downstairs. She rarely swore. She hated swearing, but sometimes the situation called for it. ‘Stop talking like a detective. You haven’t been one for years. Talk like a father for once.’

‘I haven’t been one of those for years either.’

Barbara recoiled. ‘You bastard,’ she said. ‘Stephanie may be dead now, but she was alive for thirteen years. We had her for thirteen years, and she will always be in here.’ She tapped her head. ‘And in here.’ She tapped her heart. ‘She is still our daughter. I am still her mother. And you are still her father. I can’t even look at you right now.’

She went back up the stairs slowly. She felt sick and numb. Her legs were heavy, and a tension headache had taken hold of her brain, squeezing it hard like it was in a vice.

At the top of the stairs, she looked at the door next to her bedroom. Stephanie’s room. She had last gone in there on Christmas morning to wish her a Happy Christmas. She wanted to go in there now, pull back the Newcastle United duvet, dive underneath, pull it over her head, go to sleep and never wake up again. She had nothing to live for anymore.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dawn was in the back of a police car, sitting next to a female uniformed officer who had sprayed far too much fragrance on that morning. It was an assault on the senses.