Jane Renshaw - Watch Over Me

Pippa answered groggily. ‘You do know what time it is here?’

‘Sorry,’ said Neil. ‘We’ve, um… We’ve got something to ask you, Pip.’

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, well, more or less…’ He sighed. ‘You know what’s been going on with the Johnsons… But no, we’re fine. It’s just that… Flora… We’re thinking we need to appoint someone as Beckie’s legal guardian – not that we’re thinking anything’s going to happen to us or anything, but all this has concentrated our minds and, well – Would you be okay with being next in line to look after Beckie?’

Several hundred miles of static.

In that second’s, two seconds’ pause, Flora knew that it was the wrong thing. She knew it before Pippa’s ‘Sure, of course’; the false note in her voice.

‘No, Pippa, actually it’s fine,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not fair to ask you. You don’t want a child in tow – what were we thinking? I mean, I hope you’d still be part of Beckie’s life, just not – in a parenting role.’

‘It’s all hypothetical anyway,’ said Pippa sleepily. ‘Come on. Okay so these people are bad news, but they’re not going to murder you. Come on .’

‘Yeah, I know, sorry… Sorry to wake you,’ said Neil, giving Flora a What the hell? look. And as soon as he’d ended the call: ‘For Christ’s sake, Flora!’

‘Pippa would be a terrible guardian for Beckie. Last time she saw her, she got Beckie drunk.’

‘It was a few sips of wine.’

‘Beckie was staggering around giggling, and Pippa thought it was hilarious. She couldn’t understand why I was so angry.’

‘Mm.’ Neil grimaced. ‘But Beckie does love her.’

‘She hasn’t seen her for three years.’

‘But still.’

‘Beckie loves her because Pippa lets her do whatever she wants. I know she’s your sister, and I’m really fond of her, but…’

Neil stood abruptly. ‘This was your idea, remember? But somehow it’s been turned back on me, as usual.’

‘Pippa’s not the right person.’

‘Okay. So who else do you want to phone up and badger with a bizarre and frankly really disconcerting request in the middle of the night, before changing your mind and insulting them by pretty much coming out and saying they’re not parenting material? Who else is there, Flora? Because let’s face it, we don’t really have any friends any more, do we?’

‘There’s Pam and James. Now the Johnsons know where we are, there’s no reason not to contact them. We could ask them…’

‘After disappearing on them like we did?’

‘They’ll understand if we explain it to them.’

‘Right. “Hi, Pam, remember us? Yeah, sorry about that, sorry about dropping you like hot potatoes, but we had to disappear because Beckie’s psychotic biological family were after us. If they murder us, you’ll take her on, won’t you? Okay so you might have to move to Alaska to avoid the same thing happening to you…” Look – Pippa’s family. I know she’s not ideal, but if you’re intent on appointing a legal guardian for Beckie, we can’t ask anyone else to do it.’

‘I’m phoning Pam in the morning.’

‘Oh, okay, fine. Do whatever the hell you like, Flora, and as usual I’ll grin and bear the consequences.’

She blinked at him. ‘What?’

‘It’s always about what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Alec, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place if you hadn’t been conned by Lorraine Johnson into giving her your name and address back in Arden. They probably found us this time because of something you did too, some absent-minded professor stunt –’

‘Yep, let’s play the blame game. That’s really helping. That’s really constructive. I’m trying to do what’s right for Beckie, but you keep coming up with these mad schemes, like we just up sticks and move again –’

‘It’s mad to want to do everything possible to keep our daughter safe?’

‘We should never have moved from Arden in the first place! We had a good life there, Beckie was happy – We should have dealt with this then, instead of running away.’

‘And you’re “dealing with it” now how, exactly? What do you think would have happened if we’d stayed in Arden? We’d probably be dead and Beckie –’

‘Oh Christ , Ruth! We wouldn’t be dead ! I’m “dealing with it” – with the hypothetical “it” – by consulting a solicitor and going to the police and putting up cameras to catch them if they try anything. Excuse me for being halfway rational about it!’

And he banged out of the room like a four-year-old.

‘Right son,’ I goes to Connor, parking up outside the newspaper office. ‘Let me do the talking, aye? Keep it zipped.’

Connor goes, ‘Can I no do the bit about the lawyers? It’s wrote down here.’ He taps the documents on his clipboard.

‘No you cannae. Maybe you can say it’s a nice fucking day but that’s it. This bastard’s an old pro and he’s gonnae be scrutinising every fucking word comes out our mouths. Nice day, nice wee town, nice wee paper. That’s it. Right?’

Connor gives me evils.

He’s smart in his funeral suit. He’s getting to be no a bad-looking laddie apart from they fucking Johnson ears. I’m in a wee sleeveless green and white silk blouse and a navy pencil skirt and heels. We get out the motor and in that fucking office.

There’s no a receptionist or nothing, just a poky wee room with copies of the paper spread out on a table and posters on the wall for jumble sales and rabbit shows and shite. There’s a door with a keypad and a bell. I get my thumb on it.

In a bit, this long streak of piss comes through the door and gives it, ‘Good morning, how can I help?’ He’s no much older than Connor. This cannae be the man.

‘Good morning,’ I goes. ‘Jessica Stuart and Kieran McKay from Making Waves. We’ve an appointment to see Mr Roberts at 11:30?’

‘Ah, yes, hello. Please come up. I’m Chris.’ He huds the door open.

‘Nice day, eh?’ goes Connor. ‘Sweating like a pig’s knackers so I am in this fucking suit.’

I goes, ‘Kieran, too much information,’ with a chuckle. ‘So you’re Chris Mason? I read your piece on the controversy about local authority spending in the area. Great piece of journalism.’

He looks back down the stair at me. ‘Oh, thanks!’

Oh aye, I’ve done my research.

He takes us up to a dark wee lobby with glass doors off of it. Old bugger comes through one giving it ‘Ms Stuart?’ and hudding out his hand.

I smile. ‘Mr Roberts. Thank you so much for taking the time to see us. We do appreciate you must be busy.’

The wee blouse shows a fair bit cleavage and he’s on it.

‘Pleasure’s all mine.’

‘This’s Kieran MacKay, one of our trainees.’

He shows us into his office. My God, there’s no an inch of wall space left without a framed photy on it of yokels on the bevvy, or a charity bint meeting Camilla, or a dug that’s pulled some fuckwit wean out a river. Roberts shuffles across the room. He’s eighty if he’s a day, more hair growing out his neb and his lugs than on his head.

I wave a hand at the walls. ‘All of life is here, eh?’

He shrugs, pulling out chairs for us. ‘All of life in Tweeddale, anyway – which amounts to the same thing.’

I cross my legs. ‘Can I just say before we start – reading The Borderer for background has been a joy. In my work I have to plough through a lot of column inches, and really, most of it these days, you’re thinking to yourself, a ten-year-old could do better. It’s genuinely been a joy to immerse myself in good writing.’