*

The morning it had happened was a Friday, round about the time that Charlie would’ve just been setting out for school. She’d been up early, heating porridge with sultanas in a pan. The phone – which hadn’t stirred at all for weeks – had started chiming on the kitchen wall. And that had done it. She’d allowed the trouble in like she was lifting up a sash to get the breeze.

Mal had spoken in that callous, grumbling tone he had: ‘There’s something that needs doing. Sunday night.’

‘I’ve got Charlie then. I can’t.’

‘You really think I care what time you’re babysitting? If a job needs doing, then it bloody well needs doing. Understand me?’

‘But you promised me no weekends. I don’t want him catching wind of this.’

‘Well, things change. Oz wants it there by Sunday night, or else we miss our chance. It’s going on a boat or something, I dunno.’ There’d been noises in the background then she couldn’t quite make out. Voices. Clattering. ‘I’ll bring the keys round Sunday.’

‘No,’ she’d told him. ‘No. You can’t be here when Charlie is. He thinks we’re finished.’

‘I’m not asking, Joy, I’m telling. Borough Green is on the way, last time I checked.’

‘Take it there yourself, then.’

‘You know bloody well I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Certain people, that’s why. Folk who’ve had enough of me.’

‘Big club, that. I’ve paid my dues already.’

‘All right, don’t get clever. I’ll be round on Sunday with the keys.’

‘No, hang on.’ She’d breathed in deeply. Her aunt’s house was on the way to Sevenoaks. It wouldn’t be impossible, but it’d have to be done properly, on terms of her own choosing. ‘I’ll need to get my brother out the flat first. I’m not having you around him any more. Just leave them on the table for me while we’re gone. I’ll keep him out till seven.’

‘OK. If that’s how you want it.’

‘It’s not, but I’ll have to make it work. You said no weekends, Mal.’

‘And you said you were short of money. Make your mind up.’

Treasure Island. That’s how she’d got Charlie out that day. They’d seen it once before and she’d thought Robert Newton was ridiculous and over-egged it as the pirate, but her brother had been taken with the scenery, the Technicolor; he’d even called her Billy Bones a few times after, on account of all the rum he swigged below deck. So she’d passed the local paper after breakfast and said, ‘Treasure Island must be playing still. Maybe I should give it one more try.’

‘It’s on at the Granada,’ he’d said. ‘Half past four. I thought you didn’t like it, though.’

‘Well, no, but I’m not always right the first time.’

‘Or the second, or the third –’

‘D’you want to go or not?’

‘Yeah. As long as we don’t have to queue for it.’

In fact, there’d been a short line at the kiosk. She’d bought him popcorn to make up for it, some humbugs for herself to suck on as a way of keeping her attention on the film. But there’d only been one picture rolling in her head that day and she was no more interested in Treasure Island by the time it finished. At home, she’d found her favourite tea mug had been left out on the hallway table with the keys inside. A torn-off slip of newsprint underneath it, saying: