Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (good beach reads .txt) 📕

‘My idea to make Mum happy. Just answer your bloody phone next time. You know how much it winds me up when you ignore my calls and texts.’

‘This is a retreat, for fuck’s sake. I can’t answer my phone. Why were you ringing?’

‘Don’t get back before seven. Some of Mum’s friends can’t get here until then.’

‘Our booking finishes at six and it’s only a thirty-minute drive. What am I supposed to do for the other thirty minutes? To be honest I don’t even know if I can drag this out until six. Mum’s barely eaten anything and she doesn’t seem to be enjoying herself.’

‘Book her a treatment or something.’

‘Have you seen these prices?’ I hear her sigh and my irritation mounts. ‘I really don’t think Mum wants to be here. She doesn’t look well.’

‘Maybe you’re not trying hard enough to keep her entertained.’

‘I should bring her home. The party will still be a surprise and she’ll at least have time to get herself prepared for it.’ Both physically and mentally.

‘No way! I haven’t done all this preparation for you to blow the secret now.’

‘This isn’t about you. Lucy. I’m putting Mum first.’

‘Are you saying I don’t care about her as much as you do?’

I don’t answer, and suddenly the line goes dead. I stare at the screen in surprise. We’ve argued in the past but she’s never hung up on me before. A few seconds later a text appears.

Don’t be back before seven.

She always has to have the last word. I slip my phone into the pocket of my dressing gown and go back to the restaurant.

‘Shall we go to the treatment area before we go for a walk, Mum, and see if there are any appointments left? How about a head massage or a facial?’

Mum frowns. ‘Isn’t it a bit pricey?’

‘My treat,’ I say, thinking of my dwindling savings.

Chapter 12

The Previous February | Sarah

I push open the heavy door of the local kebab shop and wrinkle my nose at the smell of grease. I’ll stink if I work here. Still, I can’t afford to be choosy. I’m struggling to find anything that pays weekly.

‘Can I speak to the owner or manager?’

‘That’s me.’ An overweight man whose hair has migrated from his head to his chest and arms is half-heartedly wiping the counter.

‘I’ve come about the job,’ I nod back at the card in the window.

He bends to drag the unrinsed cloth around the inside of the display unit, flicking away a dead fly as he does so. I smother a grimace. He looks me up and down, sees my expression, then says, ‘It’s taken.’

‘Can I work a few hours as well? I could clean that for you right now – and the rest of the place.’ I look around at the dusty floor, filthy grill and greasy tiles to emphasise my point. ‘I can cook too.’

‘I don’t need two people,’ he says.

‘I’ll work for cash. You won’t even have to put me through the books.’

He stops cleaning and straightens for a moment, then bends forward and carries on. ‘The new girl starts next Monday. I forgot to take the advert down.’

‘I’ll accept less than the minimum wage and I’ll work hard.’

‘Okay, okay.’ He stands upright and lifts his hands in the air, but now he’s smiling as though he won the negotiation. ‘You win. I need some time off. Come back tomorrow at two. I’ll show you what to do. It may only be for a few days, though.’

My step is lighter as I enter the library and breathe in the smell of books. I’ve offered to volunteer for a couple of hours two afternoons a week and today’s my first day. I’m looking forward to an oasis of peace and calm, away from Mum’s television blaring daytime rubbish and the neighbour’s dog barking, and I’m keen to indulge my love of books.

The first task the librarian sets me is to put away all the returns, a job I enjoy as it’s fascinating to see what people have chosen to read. I wheel the trolley to the next aisle and stop abruptly. The man with dark, curly hair and large nose is staring at me. It’s too awkward to turn the trolley and avoid him, so I give him a brief smile then bend to check the book numbers.

‘Sarah, isn’t it?’

‘I… Er, yes.’ My stomach tenses. Who the hell is he? He can’t be a policeman because they’d use my surname if they’d tracked me down.

‘I’m Mark Hudson. Remember?’

I stare at him blankly.

‘We were at school together. I was in the year above you, so you probably don’t recognise me.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t take much notice of the other year groups.’

‘You always stood out for me. How are you?’

‘Stood out?’ I know I’m fishing for a compliment, and I should avoid anyone who knows me, but I’m curious. I wouldn’t consider myself striking and my fragile ego needs a boost.

‘You always looked… I don’t know – delicate, like you needed someone to look out for you.’ He gives me a small, almost apologetic smile. ‘I heard you’d moved to Manchester.’

I feel a prickle of unease. ‘Who told you that?’ I was right to change my name when I went there. I’ve only been back here a couple of days and already my past is haunting me.

‘I read it on Facebook. Someone had seen a discussion about your dad on a crime forum recently.’ He shrugs and grimaces. ‘Sorry, that was tactless.’

Bloody Facebook. Full of bitchy girls mouthing off about my dad and how he should be banged up for the rest of his life. I’d secretly agreed with them at the time, but I’m mortified that my family’s sordid past has been unearthed via a crime forum eight years after the event. When the story flared up again two years ago following a television documentary, I’d closed my Facebook account, left the area and changed my name as it was the only way to escape