Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Thank you.’ I follow Megan into an oddly shaped room with cupboards shoe-horned into the corners. At the far end is a kitchen counter and a small stainless steel sink, at which a man is washing his hands with lurid green soap that foams up his forearms.

‘Hello, I’m Patrick. The vet,’ he adds, then laughs. ‘But you probably guessed that.’ He is a tall man – taller than me, which is unusual – with dirty blond hair in no discernible style. Under his blue scrubs he wears jeans and a checked shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a smile that shows even white teeth. I guess him to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps a little older.

‘My name’s Jenna.’ I open my coat to take out the black-and-white puppy, who has fallen asleep and is making quiet snuffling noises, apparently unaffected by the traumatic demise of his brother.

‘And who do we have here?’ says the vet, taking the puppy gently from me. The action wakes up the dog, who flinches, cowering away from him. Patrick hands him back to me. ‘Would you hold him on the table for me?’ he says. ‘I don’t want to unsettle him even more. If it was a man who put the dogs in the bag, you might find it takes a while for him to trust them again.’ He runs his hands over the puppy, and I crouch down and whisper soothing chatter into his ear, not caring what Patrick thinks of my nonsense.

‘What sort of dog is he?’ I ask.

‘A bitza.’

‘A Bitza?’ I stand up, keeping a careful hand on the puppy, who has relaxed now under Patrick’s gentle examination.

Patrick grins. ‘You know: bitza this, bitza that. Mostly spaniel, I’d say, judging from these ears, but heaven knows what the rest is. Collie, maybe, or even a bit of terrier. They wouldn’t have been dumped if they’d been pure-breds, that’s for sure.’ He picks up the puppy and hands him to me to cuddle.

‘How awful,’ I say, breathing in the warmth of the little dog. He pushes his nose into my neck. ‘Who would do something like that?’

‘We’ll let the police know, but the chances of them finding out anything are pretty slim. They’re a silent lot, the folk round here.’

‘What will happen to this one?’ I ask.

Patrick shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his scrubs, and leans against the sink.

‘Are you able to keep him?’

He has tiny white lines at the corners of his eyes, as though he’s been squinting into the sun. He must spend a lot of time outdoors.

‘Given the way he was found, it’s not likely anyone will come forward to claim him,’ Patrick says, ‘and we’re struggling for space in the kennels. It would be a great help if you could give him a home. He’s a nice dog, by the looks of things.’

‘Oh goodness, I couldn’t look after a dog!’ I exclaim. I can’t shake the feeling that this has only happened because I came to Port Ellis today.

‘Why not?’

I hesitate. How can I explain that bad things happen around me? I would love to have something to look after again, but at the same time it terrifies me. What if I couldn’t look after him? What if he got sick?

‘I don’t even know if my landlord would let me,’ I say, finally.

‘Where are you living? Are you in Port Ellis?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m over in Penfach. In a cottage not far from the caravan park.’

There is a flash of recognition in Patrick’s eyes. ‘Are you renting Iestyn’s place?’

I nod. It no longer surprises me to discover that everyone knows Iestyn.

‘You leave him to me,’ Patrick says. ‘Iestyn Jones was at school with my dad, and I’ve got enough dirt on him to let you keep a herd of elephants, if you wanted them.’

I smile. It’s hard not to.

‘I think I’d draw the line at elephants.’ I say, and immediately feel myself redden.

‘Spaniels are great with kids,’ he says. ‘Do you have any?’

The pause seems to go on for ever.

‘No,’ I say eventually. ‘I don’t have any children.’

The dog wriggles free from my hand and begins licking my chin furiously. I feel his heart beating against mine.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll take him.’

11

Ray eased himself out of bed, trying not to disturb Mags. He had promised her a work-free weekend, but if he got up now he could have an hour’s worth of emails done before she surfaced, and get a head-start on the Operation Break file. They would execute two simultaneous warrants on the clubs, and if their sources were to be believed, would find large quantities of cocaine in both, as well as documentation that would show the flow of money in and out of the supposedly legitimate businesses.

He pulled on his trousers and went in search of coffee. As the kettle was boiling he heard footsteps padding into the kitchen behind him, and he turned.

‘Daddy!’ Lucy flung her arms around his waist. ‘I didn’t know you were awake!’

‘How long have you been up?’ he said, unpeeling her arms and bending down to give her a kiss. ‘Sorry I didn’t see you before you went to bed yesterday. How was school?’

‘Okay, I guess. How was work?’

‘Okay, I guess.’

They grinned at each other.

‘Can I watch telly?’ Lucy held her breath and looked up at him with beseeching eyes. Mags had strict rules about television in the morning, but it was the weekend, and it would leave Ray free to work for a while.

‘Oh, go on, then.’

She scuttled into the sitting room before Ray could change his mind, and he heard the pop of the television warming up, before the high-pitched tones of some cartoon or other. Ray sat at the kitchen table and switched on his BlackBerry.

By eight o’clock he had dealt with most of his emails, and he was making himself a second cup of coffee when Lucy came into the kitchen to complain that she was starving and where was breakfast?

‘Is Tom still asleep?’ Ray asked.

‘Yes. Lazybones.’

‘I am not lazy!’ came an indignant voice from up the stairs.

‘You are!’ shouted Lucy.

Footsteps stomped across the landing and Tom hurtled down the stairs, his face screwed up and cross beneath messy hair. An angry outbreak of spots ran across his forehead. ‘I am NOT!’ he shouted, shoving his sister with an outstretched hand.

‘Ow!’ screamed Lucy, tears springing instantly to her eyes. Her bottom lip wobbled.

‘That wasn’t hard!’

‘Yes it was!’

Ray groaned and wondered if all siblings fought as much as these two. Just as he was about to forcibly separate his children, Mags came downstairs.

‘Eight o’clock is hardly lazy, Lucy,’ she said mildly. ‘Tom, don’t hit your sister.’ She picked up Ray’s coffee. ‘Is that for me?’

‘Yes.’ Ray put the kettle on again. He looked at the kids, who were now sitting at the table planning what they were going to do over the summer holidays, their quarrel forgotten – for the time being, at any rate. Mags always managed to defuse rows in a way he had never mastered. ‘How do you do that?’

‘It’s called parenting,’ Mags said, ‘You should try it sometime.’

Ray didn’t bite. Lately all they seemed to be doing was sniping at each other, and he wasn’t in the mood for another debate about full-time working versus full-time parenting.

Mags moved around the kitchen, putting breakfast things out on the table; deftly making toast and pouring juice between sips of coffee. ‘What time did you get in last night? I didn’t hear you come home.’ She slipped an apron on over her pyjamas and began scrambling eggs. The apron was one Ray had given her for Christmas years ago. He had meant it as a joke – like those awful husbands who buy their wives saucepans or ironing boards – but Mags had worn it ever since. It had a picture of a 1950s housewife on it, and the slogan read, ‘I love cooking with wine – sometimes I even put some in the food.’ Ray remembered coming home from work and slipping his arms around his wife as she stood at the stove, feeling the apron crease beneath his hands. He hadn’t done that for a while.