When I Wasn't Watching. Michelle KellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
enough for you, then I’m sorry.’ He realised that he was sorry. For all her faults Carla was a good woman, and certainly did deserve better than a short-on-time, commitment-shy cop. Even so, her next words weren’t what he was expecting.
‘Well, it’s not enough. So I’ve found someone who is.’
Matt gaped at her. In two days? Even by Carla’s standards, that was pretty quick. It dawned on him that the display of cleavage and shiny hair weren’t meant for him after all.
‘Okay,’ he nodded, determined to be grown up about this. ‘Well, I hope we can be friends.’ Did anyone even say that any more? The phrase sounded false even to him.
He didn’t ask the question Carla obviously expected – or wanted – him to ask, but she answered it for him anyway.
‘It’s Jacob. The new editor from work. You’ve met him before.’
Matt remembered him, a stuck-up, pretentious public schoolboy type who looked vaguely like Brad Pitt and was all too aware of that fact. Perfect for Carla.
Carla stepped away, her arms folded again but an anxious expression on her face. She expected him to be angry. It dawned on him that Carla had probably lined Jacob up as his replacement long before their current clash. Had maybe been sleeping with him all along. Matt waited for a rage of jealousy or sadness to overtake him, but it didn’t come. In fact, the only emotion slowly creeping up inside him was relief.
‘I’m happy for you,’ he offered, realising he meant it. It wasn’t the reaction Carla expected – or perhaps wanted – as she glared at him with her eyes narrowed.
‘You mean that don’t you? You really don’t care.’
Matt took the raising of her pitch to be his cue to leave. He walked over and kissed her on the cheek before she had time to react then turned to leave. Carla darted in front of him.
‘That’s it? You don’t have anything to say?’
He looked down at her, seeing how sharp her features were, how in the overhead light her thick make-up looked like a mask across her face, and thought that no, he had nothing to say to her. In fact, he felt strangely empty of either feeling or words.
‘What do you want from me, Carla?’
She looked genuinely puzzled.
‘A reaction at least would be nice. We’ve been seeing each other for three years, you could show some emotion. Or do you just save that for missing kids?’
Her barb hit home, evoking in him the reaction that her dismissal of their relationship had not. Angry and hurt, Matt went to step past her but she stepped in front of him, spoiling for a fight he didn’t want to have. She reached up as if she were about to slap him, or perhaps she meant to caress his cheek, but Matt caught her slender wrist in his hand. Anger radiated off him now, causing Carla to cower a little under his gaze.
‘Do you know why I didn’t want kids with you?’ he said, his words measured yet throbbing with a quiet rage. ‘Because children aren’t a fashion statement or something you have because you’re the right age and all your friends are doing it. Because once you have a child they should become your whole world. And you have to keep them safe. I wouldn’t leave you in charge of a fucking hamster.’
He dropped her wrist and pushed past her. This time Carla let him go. Matt drove off in a blind fury which the congested traffic did nothing to ease. He realised he was heading not for home but for the station, naturally gravitating towards it even on his day off. Perhaps it was taking over his life, but Matt had to concede, with a desolate misery that dampened his anger, that he didn’t really have anything else in his life. Carla had been a foil, the prerequisite trophy girlfriend that showed he was successful without being married to his career. That even a hard-bitten murder detective could hold down a normal relationship, and with a beautiful woman no less.
It was all bollocks, he thought as he swung the car away from the station and headed who-knew-where. His whole life was becoming a bad joke; give him a few years and he would have a drink problem and a mangy cat. He drove without any particular destination for a while, reaching a suburb of town that felt familiar before pulling up outside a newsagents. He was thirsty and tired. A can of energy drink should do it; he might be headed for clichéville, but he wasn’t going to succumb just yet.
Ricky looked into the smug features of his friend and shrugged.
‘There’s cameras,’ he said by way of explanation, cutting his eyes towards the corner of the shop. The shopkeeper could be heard humming away to herself in the back. There were two types of shopkeepers, Ricky had found: those who instinctively distrusted teenagers and who followed them through the aisles like a hawk, with their eyes if not their actual bodies; and then those who trusted everyone in their local community. Who would steal from their friendly local newsagent, who always gave credit and slipped extra sweets in for the little ones?
Which of course was exactly why Tyler had dared him to steal something right now, right here. Ricky was becoming adept at pinching things; he was naturally quick and nimble-fingered, a talent he had previously employed in sports and craft classes but had now found a much more interesting use for. Just not here. This wasn’t the local supermarket or even the Asian shop, whose owners were definitely of the former variety of shopkeeper. This was Mrs McKellar. She knew his mum. The last thing Ricky needed, right now was his mum turning those worried and always slightly disappointed eyes on him and making him feel guilty.
He always felt guilty around her, although he was never sure quite what for. Being born maybe. Or just not being Jack. He wondered if Jack would have had nimble fingers too. No one would notice a sweet little kid pinching stuff, not with two surly-looking teenagers looking naturally suspicious in the next aisle.
Tyler gave him a none-too-gentle push in the arm, bringing him sharply back to reality.
‘Told you you wouldn’t do it,’ he sneered, sounding a lot younger than his fourteen years.
‘It’s not even worth it,’ Ricky said under his breath as Mrs McKellar’s humming got closer.
The door tinkled and a well-built man walked in, his eyes sweeping over them without interest as he headed to the fridge which held the soft drinks. Tyler raised his eyebrows at him. The guy was standing in the direct view of the aforementioned cameras. Not that they were even real; they were empty, put there by Mr McKellar as a deterrent, which his wife had pooh-poohed but then left up to keep him happy. Of course, Tyler didn’t know that.
He thrust the bottle of Budweiser towards him and Ricky took it, tucking it into the inner pockets of his hooded jacket with impressive speed. Maybe he could be a magician when he was older, one of those sleight-of hand-ones.
They left the shop, swaggering with an affected casualness, as Mrs McKellar emerged to serve the man. She waved at Ricky as he left and he nodded at her, his face flaming. Tyler sneered at him again as soon as they were outside.
‘Likes you doesn’t she? Maybe her husband ain’t giving her any.’
Ricky dug him half-heartedly in the arm. Tyler was a nuisance, but as he was the new kid in the area and going to a different school, Ricky had taken to hanging around with him more over the past few days. Ever since the story on Terry Prince’s release had broken. As of yet, Tyler didn’t know who Ricky was, though it wouldn’t be long before someone realised – especially with his mum in the papers – and brought it up and then it would be questions, questions, questions. Perhaps even taunts, though Ricky was confident he wasn’t the type of kid that got bullied. His quick, bony little hands were pretty useful for self-defence too.
They flashed out instinctively, balled into fists, when a heavy hand descended on his shoulder. He landed a punch into the stranger’s gut, which was firm and tensed as though the man was expecting it, and then found himself with his arm twisted up his back. Not really enough to hurt, but enough to render him helpless. The bottle of Bud rolled out from his jacket and smashed on the ground.
‘Forgot to pay for that, did we?’