EPISODE FIVE

As soon as Mike arrived home, Claire knew he’d had more than a ‘swift half’.
‘Had a good evening?’ she asked pointedly.
He shrugged and tried to sound normal. ‘Not too bad. I’ve done quite well. Financially.’
He hoped the reference to his earnings might allay criticism of his drinking. But he could see by the pursed lips and resentful look in her eyes that he was onto a loser.
‘You reek of cigarette smoke. Don’t try to kid me that you haven’t spent some time in the pub.’
‘One of my last two clients cancelled and I had an hour to kill.’
‘That was convenient. So you’ve driven all the way from Uckfield in that state. You’re going to lose your license one of these days, then bang goes your livelihood.’
‘I’ve only had a couple of pints,’ he lied.  He’d had five, but he’d only driven back from Rusthall, taking the scenic route down Teagarden Lane The lie about Uckfield had been to give himself valuable drinking time.
‘I don’t want to nag you,’ she said, her tone softening slightly, ‘but it’s just that I worry about you drinking and driving...’
‘It slops all over the steering wheel,’ he quipped.
‘Seriously.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking suitably contrite. ‘I’ll be very careful. I promise.’
Relieved that the subject was closed, he watched her sinking into the armchair and pick up the remote control. From force of habit she always watched the ten o’clock news on BBC 1, although she invariably talked throughout it.
‘What about Andy?’ he asked. ‘I don’t hear pounding music.’
It stopped about ten minutes before you came in.  I think he must have got bored with it.’
She switched the TV on, with the sound turned off, and they watched in awkward silence scenes of bloodshed in Iraq. The camera zoomed in close on the devastation of a car bombing, and this seemed to trigger an explosion in Claire.
‘I keep asking myself why. Is it my fault Chloe’s a high achiever? What were we supposed to do?  Hold her back because Andrew felt threatened. What’s he going to do with the rest of his life? He can’t go on doing night work at Sainsbury’s, stocking shelves. He’s just so...so negative about everything. That’s what I can’t take. You should have heard him this morning. He sounded as if he really hated me.I had my article to write for the wedding dress supplement but I couldn’t concentrate. It was useless.’
Her voice petered out and Mike could see she was on the verge of tears. He placed an arm round her shoulders.
‘D’you want me to have a word with him?’
‘If you think it’ll do any good.’
‘I can but try. How certain are you he’s nicking your cash?’
‘I’m positive.’
He started towards the door. ‘In that case, I’ll talk to him.’
‘Mike.’
He stopped, and he could see that she was crying now.
‘Try not to lose your temper. It won’t do any good.’

*


Dave Whitby turned to the classified section of the local paper, found the advertisement he was looking for, and dialled the number. While it rang he looked at his watch. It was a bit late to be phoning, but what the hell.  The bloke selling this heap of junk should consider himself lucky.
‘Hello?’
It was a gruff voice, more defensive than annoyed. ‘I’m ringing about your advert for the MOT-failed Nova. If it’s still available I’d like to come and see it.’
‘What? Now? Me an the missus was just about to...
Dave interrupted hurriedly, and grinned as he imagined what the rest of the bloke’s statement was about to reveal. ‘No, tomorrow’s soon enough. Tell me, is there much rust on the car.’
A slight pause. The man cleared his throat before speaking in an overly defensive tone.  ‘It says in the advert I’m selling it for spares. You can’t expect much for thirty notes, you know.’
‘Excellent,’ Dave stressed delightedly. ‘It’s got heaps of lovely rust. Just what I’m after.’
Another pause. He hurriedly assured the man it wasn’t a wind-up, took down his address, then hung up. He could imagine the bloke telling his wife about this nutter who wanted to buy his car because of the rust. Well, pretty soon he’d know the reason. If all went according to plan, Dave would be the owner of the most famous clapped out bit of junk in Britain.

*

Andrew was hunched over the computer keyboard, fiercely concentrating on a futuristic war game.
‘Can you switch it off? I want to talk to you.’
He ignored his father and carried on staring at the screen as if his life depended on it. Mike knelt down and switched off the computer at the socket.
‘Hey! What d’you do that for?’
‘Because I want a word with you.’
Mike sat on the edge of the bed and fixed his son with a steady look. ‘What’s the problem, Andy? Why don’t you tell me and I’ll see if I can help?’
Avoiding his father’s stare, he shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Something’s wrong. You act as if you hate us.’
Andrew made a show of sighing deeply. ‘I told you: nothing’s wrong.’
‘You do two all-nighters at the Sainsbury’s; I know it’s not much of a job but for someone of your age the money’s not bad.  And it’s not as if you’re asked to contribute to any household bills. Not that we want you to. It’s just that you always seem to be so broke.’
Mike’s mouth suddenly felt dry and there was a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed noisily before continuing.
‘And Mum’s had money taken from her purse.’
Andrew looked his father straight in the eye.  ‘You’re not blaming me for that, are you?’
Mike realized his son’s answer was just a little too ready, almost as if he’d been expecting a scene about the money.
‘No,’ Mike said. ‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’
He stood up and started to leave the room. He needed time to think. He could tell Andrew was lying, and hoped that by leaving it in the air like this his son might eventually feel troubled enough to come and talk about it. But, as he looked back, he saw that Andrew was kneeling by the socket, switching the computer back on.

IN EPISODE SIX ON TUESDAY

Craig Thomas, underpaid and fed-up with working in his brother-in-law’s chippie, meets a fellow ex convict, and Maggie Branston is suspicious about her husband’s late night assignation.


Episode Six  Homepage