Stuart Pawson - Chill Factor

Sophie thanked me for the microwave and I mumbled something about having a new one. I offered to buy drinks but they said it was their turn and Frances went to fetch them. While she was gone Shani said: “We’re sorry about what it said in the papers, Charlie. They don’t care what they print, as long as it sells.”

Sophie looked at me, blushing slightly. “I told them what happened,” she began, “when you and Dad…you know.”

“That’s all right, Sophie,” I told her. “They have to print something.”

“But it doesn’t seem fair,” Shani said.

“Fair!” I retorted with mock indignation. “Fair! What’s fair got to do with it? It isn’t fair that you’re all going to university while I have to stay here. It isn’t fair that you have looks and brains, while I have to make do with just looks. And you’re ten years younger than me. What’s fair about that?”

We had a dance and another drink, staying longer than before because it was a special occasion. I politely asked if I was in the way, offering to leave them to it, but they glanced round at the local talent and begged me to stay, hanging on to my arms, making a production of it. We left when they started playing something called garage music, recorded in the panel beating shop by the sound of it.

It was the obligatory hot dogs at the stall outside, smothered in ketchup and mustard. I declined, sitting on the wall upwind of the smell until they’d finished. I watched them as they told stories about their teachers and boyfriends, and threw their heads back in girlish laughter.

We dropped Frances off first. She was a shy, polite girl, and thanked me for the drink and the lift. I wished her well at Keele and told her that if she ever needed anyone sorting out she’d to let me know. She smiled and said she would.

Shani lived less than half a mile from Sophie. Outside her house she gave me a kiss on the cheek and said: “I hope you catch ’em, Charlie, whoever they are.”

“Good luck, Shani,” I replied, “and keep in touch.” I waited until she was safely inside before driving off.

We didn’t speak for the last leg of the journey, both probably engrossed in our thoughts. At the top of Sophie’s street I switched off the engine, doused the lights and coasted like a Stealth bomber towards her home, which was in darkness. I slowed on the brakes, very gently, and came to a silent stop outside her gate. I pulled the handbrake on and turned to face my passenger, my best friend’s daughter, my goddaughter.

I could smell her perfume. It was Mitsouko by Guerlain, as used by Annabelle, my last love. Annabelle was accepted for Oxford when she was Sophie’s age, but went to Africa instead and married a bishop. Sitting there, in the dark, it could have been Annabelle next to me.

“Sophie,” I began. She turned to face me, leaning her head on the back of her seat. I reached out and her hand found mine. I heard myself exhale a big breath, not knowing where to begin. “Cambridge, next week,” I tried.

Sophie nodded. “Mmm,” she mumbled.

“I just want to say that, you know, it’s a whole new world for you. It is for anyone. If you have any, you know, difficulties…”

“If I have any problems,” she interrupted, “if anyone gives me any hassle, let you know and you’ll come down and sort them out.”

“Well, that’s part of it.”

“It’s all right, Charles,” she continued. “Nobody will give me any hassle, and Dad’s said the same thing to me already.”

“It’s not just that,” I told her. “What I really meant was, well, money’s bound to be tight. Impoverished students, and all that. Don’t do without, Sophie. And don’t keep running to your dad. I wanted to buy you something special, but I didn’t know what. There’ll be books you’ll need, and other things. You’re my family, too, you know, all I’ve got, so come to me first, eh?”

She bowed her head and put her other hand on mine. After a few moments she looked up and said: “That’s really lovely of you, Charles. Dad had told me that, too, but…”

“What?” I interjected. “He told you to come to me if you were short of money? Wait ’till I see him…”

She squeezed my fingers, saying: “No, silly, he told me to go to him first, not Mum.”

We sat smiling at each other in the dark, our fingers intertwined. After a while Sophie asked: “Is it true you saved Dad’s life?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“He told Mum you did. She said he won’t talk about it but that’s why you are such good friends.”

“I hope we’re good friends because we get on well together,” I replied. “We’ve had a few adventures, like all policemen, that’s all.”

“She said it was a long time ago, when you were both PCs.”

“Oh, I remember,” I declared. “Yes, it was when we were both PCs. We were at Leeds Town Hall Magistrates’ Court, and your dad had to go in the witness box to give evidence. Someone pinned a note on his back that said: I am a plonker. Everybody would have seen it when he went to the box, so I told him about it. He said: ‘Thanks, Charlie, you saved my life.’ That must be what he means.”

Sophie squeezed my fingers. “I don’t believe you,” she giggled.

“Well it’s true.”

“Charles…”

“Mmm?”

“I…I love you.”

It was a tiny, hesitant voice, but the words were unmistakable, what we all long to hear: I love you. What do you say: “Don’t be silly” or “You’ll get over it”? I never subscribed to the views that babies don’t feel pain, or that the emotions of the young are less valid than those of their parents. Love at eighteen is probably as glorious — or as agonising — as it gets.

“Yes, I know,” I replied, softly, aware that I hadn’t used the words myself for a long time, not sure how they would sound. “And I love you.” There, it was easy, once you took the plunge. The pressure of her fingers increased. “I loved you when you were a baby,” I explained, but it was not what she wanted to hear and her grip loosened. “And when you were a moody teenager.”

“I was never a moody teenager,” she protested.

“No, you weren’t. You’ve never been anything less than delightful. And I love you now, as a beautiful young woman. Love changes, and it’s a different sort of love.” She was squeezing my fingers again.

“But,” I went on, “this is as far as it can go. You realise that, don’t you?”

She looked at me and nodded. We held each other’s gaze for a few moments until, as if by some secret signal, we both moved forward and our lips met.

We pressed them together, held them there, and then parted. I disengaged my fingers from hers and sat back. Her mouth had stayed closed, no tongue sliding out like a viper from under a stone to insinuate its way into my mouth and check out my fillings. She was still her daddy’s little girl. “That was nice,” I whispered.

“Mmm.” She agreed.

“Remember what I said.”

“Yes.” She reached for the door handle, then turned, saying: “I think Annabelle is a fool.” From the pavement she added: “And I hate her,” and reinforced her words by slamming the door so hard that the pressure wave popped both my ears. Why do women do that? I watched her into the house and drove home. I don’t know why, but there was more joy in my heart than I’d felt in a long time.

Somerset Bob rang me Friday morning and I told him what I wanted. He was pleased and eager to be on the case and suggested I come down the A420, M4, and A350, but not the A361. I began to worry that we’d spend most of Saturday discussing the merits of the motorway versus those of A-roads, in which case I’d have to remind him of why I was there, but he was just being helpful and I needn’t have worried. He invited me to stay the night with himself and his wife if we had a long day and I couldn’t face the journey home, which was thoughtful of him.