‘I bloody well hope not. Don’t be long. And bring us twenty Players, will you? Here, take a tenner.’
She went into the living room, looking guiltily away from her father, not wanting him to comment on her changed attire.
‘What you wearing all that old crap for, Kay?’ he said, surprised, rummaging in his pocket for the banknote. ‘Thought you were past all that, getting a decent wage from Her Ladyship up there.’
‘Yeah, I am. Just don’t want to be recognised, like.’
‘Oh, aye. Well, that makes sense, I suppose.’ He sighed and handed her the money. ‘Like I said. Don’t be long. You know I worry about you, duck.’
‘I know, Dad. I’ll be fine. Just need a bit of air, that’s all.’
‘Well, if you find some, bring it back.’ He laughed wheezily.
Kayley hated the wheezing. He was only fifty, for Christ’s sake. But she took the money and smiled. ‘Twenty Players, yeah?’
‘Get some for yourself, love.’
‘You know I’ve given up.’
‘Oh, right. I forgot.’
And with that, she was released. She walked the bright, unfinished-looking pavements of the new estate, hurrying past people washing cars and children scootering up and down the burning-hot asphalt roads. People took pride in their houses and gardens here, the way she remembered them doing when she was a little girl.
When had that changed, down on the old estate? When had the smart flowerbeds begun to turn into waist-high weed-fests? When had the gleaming windows dulled into plywood boards with gang tags sprayed on them?
About the same time the mine had closed.
Obvious answer, div-brain.
Turning out of the little warren of cul-de-sacs on to the high road above Bledburn, she pulled her hood further over her face, conscious of each car that passed. Harville or one of his people could spot her at any time. She adopted a deliberately slouchy posture, shoulders hunched, eyes to the floor. Did it make her look more or less noticeable? She couldn’t decide.
Perhaps it really wasn’t a good idea to come out today. She was on the point of turning back when she rounded the bend that brought the old estate into view, shimmering in a heat haze down in its basin. The red rows of old 1930s houses curved and clustered, while in the very centre, beached in sparse greenery, lay the 1960s precinct with its outbuildings and blocks of flats.
Out of habit, her eye was inevitably drawn to the youth club, her former place of employment. She stopped and squinted harder. Something was going on down there. Little specks of people were thronging into clusters by the chain link fence. There were vans parked up everywhere, and stuff being moved around on trolleys.
‘What the …?’
Curiosity impelled her. She stepped off the pavement and began to descend the steep grassy slope that led down to the rear of the estate. If she stayed high enough, nobody would notice her, as long as she kept away from the back gardens and streets.
She moved through the high grass, the prickly darts brushing at her hands. As a kid, she would have plucked them off and thrown them at other children, hoping the prickly end would stick into their clothes. Flea darts, they called them, for some reason. Struck by nostalgia, she broke off one of the heads and threw it aimlessly into the dried long grass.
The miniature people were growing and gaining defin-ition now. She could make out some of the lettering on the vans. Christ! BBC! What the hell was going on?
Forgetting the need for discretion in her sudden panic, she ran the rest of the way down the slope, through the alleyways between blocks of houses, until she was at the rear of the complex that housed the youth club, community centre and the old library (now a credit union). She was at the back of a large, heaving crowd. Kids jumped up to try and see over the shoulders of taller people. There was a lot of jostling.
She moved quietly around the perimeter of the mob until she was closer to the front of the building. Before she knew it, she was caught up and moving forward in a surge of people, having to fight to keep on her feet. Now she could hear shouts that made what was going on a bit clearer.
‘Deano!’
‘Over here, mate!’
‘Fuck off back to America!’
The last one came from a teenage boy in a group, all of them looking mightily pleased with their little act of rebellion. They held up single fingers, but they were a lone hostile island amid a sea of fans.
She was plunged this way and that, elbows everywhere, when somebody turned to her.
‘Oi, that’s my foot … Kayley?’