A lorry went roaring past, shaking the sides of his car. Tom turned the rearview mirror to face him and stared at his reflection.
“You need to stay calm. Don’t lose your shit,” he said to his reflection in the mirror. He sounded weak and pathetic. “Peter Sutcliffe . . . They only caught the Yorkshire Ripper by a fluke, when the police stopped him for a traffic violation. Ted Bundy, the same. The police have fuck all. They know nothing. And anyway . . . you’re not like them, you’re not . . . like them.”
He reached up and stroked his face, feeling the contours of his nose and mouth, his lips, and tracing the line of his forehead as it rose to his hairline.
“You’re the innocent one. You should know that . . . Those young men, they might look like something on the outside, but they have problems, serious mental problems. They used their looks to manipulate and hurt other people. You stopped them from hurting others. Like you were hurt. But you survived the bullies, and you have a purpose.”
Tom closed his eyes against the blazing sun, and for a moment, he was thirteen and back in that hospital bed again. The attack in the school showers had left him with a broken jaw, a fractured eye socket, and broken ribs. He’d been trampled on so viciously that he had internal bleeding on his kidney, which meant the bag connected to the catheter at the end of his bed had filled up with pink urine for two weeks.
Three of the boys involved were expelled from school, but none of the other boys there that day had given evidence to support him. They had all joined together and said they saw nothing. Even the teacher, Mr. Pike, told the police that he’d found Tom afterward, lying in the showers, bleeding.
He’d made a full recovery, but never having the answer to the question why had driven his anger and fear ever since. He’d also had bad experiences in his early twenties. The men he’d slept with, or tried to sleep with, had been cruel, and he’d been used, abused, and beaten up. It was only by paying for sex that he was able to find acceptance. If you were paying, they didn’t have the right to complain. And then he decided to be someone different. He decided he needed to be the one in control. That was when Tom’s paying for sex took on a darker tone.
Movement outside the car window brought him back to the present. There was now a large lorry pulled up on the hard shoulder behind, and cars were whipping past. He looked down and saw that he was hitting the steering wheel over and over with the palm of his hand. The man outside the car was short and portly, with sweat glistening off the top of his bald head. Tom stopped and had to catch his breath.
“Are you okay there, mate?” asked the man. He looked concerned—a little frightened, even.
Tom wound up his window and started the engine. He pulled out of the lay-by with a squeal of rubber and glanced back as the bewildered-looking man receded in the mirror, hoping he wouldn’t remember his face.
36
Sarah rang Tristan’s phone as he was driving along Ashdean seafront.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. Her tone of voice was sharp, and he immediately thought he’d done something wrong.
“You make me nervous when you sound like that,” he said, seeing a parking spot up ahead outside his flat and guiding the car into it.
“It’s quite serious,” she said. “Your application for a mortgage hasn’t been accepted.”
Tristan switched off the engine and immediately began to sweat.
“You told me it was approved.”
“Gary thought that, as the bank manager, he was able to override the system . . . Someone at head office then reviewed the approved mortgage application, and you don’t earn enough—on paper, that is,” said Sarah.
“What do you mean? I earn money.”
“They can’t count the agency because it’s a new business. They need to see a year’s tax returns before they can count it as income.”
“Okay, so what do I do?”
“Now don’t panic. It means that this month your mortgage will revert to the general APR, which luckily isn’t a great deal more.”
“How much more?”
“A hundred and fifty pounds.”
“That’s a lot,” said Tristan, running through the amounts in his head. Money was already tight, and if the police reopened the Joanna Duncan case, then Bev might not need them anymore.
“We’ve got a month to get this sorted out, and we will sort it. Do you need any help with money?” asked Sarah.
“No. Thank you.”
“It just makes me wish that you didn’t have to invite some stranger to live with you . . .” There was a muffled noise as she put the phone down, and he heard her throwing up.
“Sarah?”
“Oh. Sorry about that,” she said.
“Are you still ill?”
Sarah let out a long breath.
“Tris, I have something to tell you . . . I’m pregnant.”
“Wow. That’s brilliant news,” said Tristan, feeling genuinely excited for his sister. “I thought you wanted to be married for a bit before . . .”
“Yes. This has come as a big shock. I literally just found out. Just now did the test,” said Sarah.
“Where’s Gary?”
“He’s at work. You’re the first person I’m telling . . .” Her voice sounded melancholy and far away.
“This is great news. You’re married to someone you love. You have jobs, a home. You’ve got that spare room,” said Tristan.
“I know. I am happy. I will be happy. I’m just worried; it all seems so grown up. Do I know enough about my own life to be responsible for another one?”
“Sarah. You’ve been just as much a mum to me as a sister. You’re going to be the best mother. The best. That’s one lucky kid.”
He could hear Sarah was beginning to cry.
“And you’re going to be the most fun and wonderful uncle.”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Tristan, feeling the tears in his eyes. “You bet. Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”
Sarah laughed. “It’s just a blue line on a pregnancy-testing kit. I can’t be more than a couple of weeks gone.”
There was a pause. They were both sobbing.
“This is good news! You have to tell Gary, right now. Phone him now,” said Tristan.
He heard her sniff and blow her nose.
“Okay. I will. I love you. And we’re going to sort out your mortgage, you hear?”
“Okay. Love you too.”