They were in a park, all wrapped up in hats and coats, looking like something out of a fucking Ralph Lauren advert and he guessed she’d taken it earlier that day, cheerfully directing them to put their arms around each other, choreographing the perfect shot. He made a note of the location, Alexandra Park, in case it came in useful.

Paul was hungry, but he couldn’t be bothered to make a meal, so instead grabbed a bread roll from the kitchen, slathered it with butter and lay down on his bed. He was tired. After work, he’d had to supply a couple of customers. As a dealer, he had about twenty regulars. He’d kept it deliberately small, as he didn’t need the hassle.

Over the years, he’d accumulated and saved a fair amount of money, mainly because he never spent it on anything. He had a feeling that he should keep it safe knowing he might need it for something important one day. He’d always been careful not to get involved with any of the drug gangs or impose on anyone else’s turf. Most of his customers were his old neighbours from Fairfield but he also supplied a professional footballer, a TV executive, and a couple of D-list celebrities. Not that he’d ever met them in person of course, and he knew all his clients appreciated his discretion.

As he ate, he thought back to a post he’d seen during his earlier social media search. One of his old classmates, Phil Newsom, had recently won some bullshit award at his boring job. He couldn’t remember what the job was, or the award, but he remembered reading a comment underneath.

So proud of you, Love Dad.

He didn’t ever remember his dad saying he was proud of him and though Phil clearly had nothing better to do if he was posting such things on Facebook, he’d certainly got lucky in the parent stakes. He remembered how Maureen had looked at him when he’d come home from school after being expelled. It was clear from her expression the headmaster had already called her and explained what had happened. He’d seen it in her eyes; the horror and dismay. She hadn’t even bothered to ask him. Just assumed. He’d stormed upstairs to his bedroom, slamming the door, gulping down hot tears of rage.

It had all been Claire’s fault. If she’d just…

But she hadn’t. He would get her though. If it took a lifetime, he would get her and this time he would be in control. He would watch the fear flourish in her eyes and relish every moment.

January 2018

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