After flicking on the kettle, she added Larry’s travel mug to her large pink cup on the counter. By the time he came downstairs, her coffee was made, and she was pouring boiling water into the cup that he took in his car every morning.

  ‘Bloody imbeciles down at that taxi office. Couldn’t run a raffle. They’re short this morning, so they need me to go in early to help. What the hell would they do without me?’

  Alice knew that most people would say that as a joke, but she was depressingly aware that Larry McLenn absolutely meant every word. Neither self-confidence nor arrogance had ever been in short supply when it came to her husband. Although there had been a long-term drought on love, affection, decency and kind words. There was no point answering his question because they both knew he didn’t care to hear anything she had to say.

  He grabbed his coffee from the counter and put the lid on it before taking a sip. ‘Urgh, you forgot the bloody sugar. Understandable. It’s not like I haven’t taken it the same way for thirty-odd bloody years. How hard can it be?’

  Actually, she hadn’t forgotten the sugar, but he’d snatched it up before she could stir it, so that’s probably why he couldn’t taste it yet. She watched as he opened the cup back up again, added three more sugars, then replaced the lid and made for the door, throwing out a snarky, ‘I’ll be back by five-ish. You go and lie on the couch and watch all that daytime TV shite while I’m out earning a living,’ as he left.

  She closed her mind to unkind thoughts about the sugar rotting every tooth in his head, and instead, simply lifted her mug, then slipped her notebook out of her bag, grabbed a pen and took it over to the French doors that led out into the tiny garden. Once upon a time, she would silently seethe when he treated her like that. Now she just fantasised about him walking out of that door and never coming back.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t understand his rage – after his downfall over the last few years, it was only natural that he was angry. Dissatisfied. Frustrated. But, of course, he wouldn’t blame the person responsible for destroying his life, because it was all down to himself.

  As a city councillor and then a Member of Parliament, Larry McLenn had tasted power, adulation and success and he’d loved every second of it. But that was in a previous life. That was when he was someone, a politician who was feted by the great, the good, the wealthy, the dodgy and anyone who wanted something from him. That was when he used his position to enrich himself. To bully. To exploit. To extort. That was when he took bribes and drugs. Until just over two years ago, when a national newspaper broke a story both online and in print, with a video and photographs showing Larry McLenn, MP, clearly high as a proverbial corrupt kite, agreeing to accept a hundred grand bribe to use his influence in awarding a government contract worth millions to one of his cronies. The scandal had cost them everything.

  Months of legalities, of clawing on to power, of denials and claims of political persecution had followed, but ultimately they’d lost it all: their beautiful home in the West End of the city, their jobs, their reputations, their dignity, their friends and, most crushing of all, their son, Rory. That was the only loss Alice cared about, yet it was the one that Larry cared about least. So, yes, she saw what Larry’s own actions had done to him, but he deserved it. And Alice refused to let his denial of accountability and consequential fury with life have an effect on her, because the grief over losing the only family she had was like a shell of protection against his bile. None of his rants or rages mattered in the least so she just inhaled, exhaled, let it go and tried to stay… numb. Yes, that was the best word to describe it. Numb to him. It was easier that way. At least for now, until she was the one who could walk out of that door and never see his twisted, miserable face again.

  Meanwhile, she filled her day with as many lovely moments as possible. Having her morning coffee in the garden, overlooking the roses she’d planted herself when they’d moved in here a little over a year ago, while jotting her memories, thoughts and observations in her notebook was one of them.

  Closing her eyes, she turned her head up to the early-morning sun and focused on the wonderful feeling of the heat on her face. Another life-affirming moment. So many people took small things like this for granted, but when it was all she had, she’d learned to appreciate it. This was the tiny sliver of joy that had replaced the days when she had friends. And a hectic schedule. And places to go, obligations to meet, a son to take care of. Her life had been full and chaotic and some parts of it had been wonderful, but not now. Now, all she had was the sun on her face in the morning. And today, like yesterday and tomorrow, it would have to be enough. For now.

  Coffee finished, Alice picked up her mobile phone and texted.

  I love you son. Have a good day.

  She’d done that every single morning since she last saw Rory, then waited for the inevitable reply and it soon pinged in.

  Your text could not be sent.

  Of course it couldn’t. His number was no longer in service, but somehow, it made her feel better just to put that out there into the world. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, she had to keep believing that he knew she loved him.

  She wrote in her journal for an hour or so, before deciding she was ready to face the rest of the day. Ritual over, she went back inside, rinsed her cup, lifted her handbag and went upstairs.

  Their bedroom was overcrowded with furniture, because Larry had refused to throw out the wardrobes and dressers from their previous house when they’d moved. They’d spent over twenty years in that four-bedroom, architecturally stunning, A-listed Victorian townhouse in the city’s West End, and the one-bedroom, terraced ex-council house that they now rented could have fitted in the lounge of their previous home. The rent for these mouldy walls, the damp patches on the ceilings, the draughty windows and the seventies décor had been all they could afford after Larry’s career was gone, the lawyers were paid, their savings cleaned out. Add on the debt he’d run up on their credit cards, and their two current jobs – his taxi driving and her cleaning – barely covered their outgoings.

  She’d thought about leaving him back then, when he’d cost them everything, but she was in too deep, their lives, their debts, their reputations too entwined. The truth was, she had nothing left, nowhere to go, no family, no remaining friends, and he’d threatened to destroy the only thing she cared about if she left – their son. So she’d made a choice. She’d cut Rory out of her life to protect him, and she’d stayed. And on every day since then, she’d listened to Larry’s grandiose, arrogant delusions of power and importance while plotting her escape.

  ‘It’s only temporary,’ he’d spat, the day they’d moved in here. ‘I’ll show those bastards. I’ll get it all back.’

  Alice had said nothing, for fear of lighting a spark on another tirade. His fire and fury had been trademarks of his time as an MP and they hadn’t subsided now that he had an unwilling audience of one. Better to keep quiet.

  Hadn’t that been the story of her life? For all of her fifty-four years, she’d been doing what she was supposed to do, with very few exceptions. Actually, marrying Larry had been one of them. Her parents hadn’t approved of her choice at all, disliking his manner, his attitude and his politics, and she’d realised too late that they’d been right. Not that she’d ever have admitted it. Her father was the type of man who believed that you stood by your choices in life, and she’d done just that for over three decades now, long after both her parents had passed away.

  Routine. That helped to stop her mind wandering to every what if, every mistake and regret. Just like every morning, she put her handbag on the bed, took off her cleaning uniform and dropped it in the white plastic washing basket in the corner of the overcrowded room, then took her robe from the back of the door and slipped it on. After brushing out her hair, she twisted it up under the shower cap that had been dangling from the same hook as her robe. The final step in the pre-shower routine was the same every day. She opened her wardrobe and ran her fingers along the suitcase that sat upright at the back, partially hidden by her winter coats. She always thought of it as her parachute. It was there, fully packed with everything she would need when the time was right to jump.

  Larry had once asked her what was in it and she’d told him that it was the clothes that were out of season – her winter clothes in summer, and her light dresses and sandals in the cold months. She wasn’t sure he’d even listened to her answer and that was fine, because it meant that he was entirely disinterested and that was the best possible scenario. The truth was that the case contained many things: some clothes and shoes, the few pieces of jewellery that Larry hadn’t sold, her photo albums from when their son was a child, her insurance policies, cash. This was her escape capsule. Ready when she was.

  She pulled the case out, opened it, took twenty pounds from her handbag and slipped it into the envelope that was nestled between two bras and a packet of tights. She had no idea how much was there, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. Larry didn’t know she’d been given a wage rise months ago, so every week when she got her pay packet, another twenty quid went straight into the escape fund.

  Money secure, she took out one of the large white bottles with the gold trim and the black top, that were squeezed between her shoes, then closed the case, locked it, and slid it back into the wardrobe. As long as the case was safe in there, that was the courage and security she needed to get through another day here.

  Patience. If being married to Larry McLenn for more than half her lifetime had taught her anything, it was patience. One day, she would pick that case up, and she would walk out of the door without looking back. But it wouldn’t be today because she didn’t have enough saved up to support herself yet. Patience.

  In the bathroom, with its ancient green wall tiles, and burgundy toilet and bath, Alice caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink as she placed the white and black bottle there. Gone were the days of expensive facials and meticulously applied make-up, and now, all she saw was fifty-four.

  She averted her eyes quickly, switched on the shower taps, then dropped her robe and climbed into the bath, just as soon as the water from the stained white hose above it was warm enough to be bearable. They didn’t switch on the heating unless temperatures dropped to freezing, and the boiler was only on for ten minutes a day to give them a tiny drop of hot water, so she didn’t want to waste it first thing in the morning. She soaped, rinsed, then switched it off as quickly as possible, before pulling the rough grey towel from the bar next to the shower, wrapping it around herself, and then lifting the white and black bottle she’d brought from the case. Chanel No. 5 body cream.

  In their wealthier days, Larry had his assistant buy it for her for every birthday and Christmas, because he didn’t have the inclination or the imagination to look for anything different. When their worlds had come crashing down, and they’d moved in here, she’d had four bottles in that suitcase. Now, two years after the scandal broke, and just over a year since this became her home, she was down to her last one.

  As she did every morning, she squeezed out the tiniest drop, then rubbed it on her arms and face, letting the expensive aroma fire up her senses, remind her of who she was and give her the kind of high that some people only ever got from a different type of chemical substance.

  Back in her room, she pulled the suitcase out again, replaced the bottle, and put the case back in its place. She used to leave it out while she was in the shower, but one morning, when it was lying open on the bed, Larry had come home unexpectedly and if he’d come upstairs, he’d have found it. Lesson learned.

  Dressing quickly, she pulled on a lilac linen shift dress, added a pale pink cardigan, white sandals, a slick of lipstick from a tube that was almost done, and transferred her purse and phone into a little pink bag. All these clothes were from her previous life, so she took meticulous care of them and only wore them when she left the house. For the next couple of hours, she was going to feel normal and that was going to get her through another day.

  Dressed and organised, she went downstairs, checking her watch as she reached the hall. It was after eleven. Larry usually came home around five o’clock, later if there were extra bills to pay, so she still had plenty of time before she had to get back, change into her house clothes and pretend that she’d been here the whole time. Or before it was time to pull on her cleaning clothes and head back to work.

  She’d just opened the front door, when the landline rang. She thought about ignoring it, but changed her mind. She’d only worry that it was important.

  Taking a few steps back to the hall table, slowly, hesitantly, she picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Alice? It’s Sandra here.’

  Sandra worked at Larry’s office. Or, rather, his control room. That’s what they called the office at the taxi company. Except Larry who sneeringly referred to it as, Imbecile Central. Alice had spoken to the office secretary a couple of times when Sandra couldn’t get hold of Larry on his mobile phone and called him on the landline instead. Usually it was to ask him to do an extra shift if they were busy, but he was already there. Wasn’t he? He’d bolted out of the house and she’d watched his red Skoda go off down the street.

  ‘Hello, Sandra. I’m afraid Larry isn’t here. Someone at the office called him in earlier, so he should be out working.’ Alice was puzzled – surely Sandra would know that already?

  There was a pause, then what sounded like a choking sob.

  ‘That’s what I’m calling about. Oh, Alice, I don’t know how to say this. The police have just called us. I’m afraid there’s been an accident. Somewhere on the M8 around Govan, I think, because one of the other drivers called in to say he was stuck because of a crash there. The police notified us that Larry has been taken to Glasgow Central Hospital.’

  ‘Is he… is he okay?’

  ‘I don’t know, Alice.’ Sandra sounded so upset. Much as it was difficult to believe, maybe they thought highly of him at the taxi company. ‘But I’m sure they would have told me if it was really bad or…’ Definitely a sob this time. ‘Worst-case scenario.’

  Alice wasn’t quite sure how to react to this weeping woman, but she understood what Sandra was saying: she didn’t know for sure if Larry was alive or dead.

  Before Alice had time to process any of this, Sandra went on, ‘I’m sending a taxi to take you to the hospital and it will be there any minute. Please let us know how he is.’

  ‘I will,’ Alice agreed, as the strangest feeling of calm came over her. She should be panicking. Frantic. Upset.

  Yet all she felt was that maybe today, her life was going to change after all.

  Perhaps all her patience was finally going to pay off.

  4

  RORY BROOKES MCLENN

  Rory had barely slept a wink and it showed on his face as he leaned towards the mirror to get a closer view of what he was doing while he was shaving. Pitching up this morning with a blood-spattered chin wasn’t going to be the best look given the circumstances.

  Behind him, his mate, Albie, popped his head in the open doorway. He was naked from the waist up, and from the waist down there appeared to be some kind of pyjama trousers that were covered in Batman logos. Rory wasn’t even going to ask why, how or where he got them. Albie was the same guy who’d turned up to their university graduation wearing a silver suit that looked like something they’d wrap around runners at the end of a marathon. Now he was approaching thirty, but his fashion sense was still stuck somewhere around his ‘Marvel / DC Comics, teenage comfy’ years.

  Albie spoke first. ‘My offer to be your bodyguard still stands. I’ve worked out twice this year and I’m fairly sure I could crack nuts with these biceps.’ To demonstrate that fact, Albie held up his arm and flexed, then immediately yelped. ‘Fuck, I think I pulled something.’

  ‘I might go for a hard pass on the bodyguard offer,’ Rory said, laughing, even though inside, all hilarity had been beaten to death by the prospect of what could be ahead of him today.

  Albie was still rubbing his arm. ‘Fine. But call me if you need a getaway driver. The Beetle is souped up and ready to go. It’ll be like a cross between The Italian Job and Herbie Rides Again.’

  This was the kind of conversation that took place when you were crashing in your best mate’s tiny spare room, the same pal who was convinced he was going to be the next stand-up comic to come out of Glasgow. Billy Connolly. Kevin Bridges. Albie Pratt. The name wrote its own jokes.

  Albie still lived in this same city-centre flat they’d shared in their student days, although there had been a succession of flatmates and girlfriends since Rory had left six years ago to move in with his then-girlfriend, Julia. Rory would never have believed that he’d ever be back in this bedroom, let alone sharing it with two broken bikes, a skateboard, a wet suit and a snorkel set, but three months ago, five years after they’d married, he’d moved out of the home he’d shared with Julia to give her the space she’d requested. He’d thought it would only be for a couple of weeks. Somehow, that had stretched into months, and he was still here, but hopefully that was about to change today.

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Rory replied. ‘You’re definitely my second-best option. Number one being that my wife agrees to give things another shot, and we leave the hotel together in her Mercedes.’

  Albie shrugged. ‘I can see why that would be preferential. Shallow, but more conventional.’

  Albie wandered off down the hallway, humming ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’, and Rory got back to the serious business of trying not to cause a shaving injury with his trembling hands. He wasn’t prone to nerves, his job as a forensic corporate accountant frequently called for a cool head and the ability to work under pressure, but the jitters had come out of nowhere this morning. The only other time he’d ever felt this anxious about seeing Julia was on his wedding day, five years ago.