One Lucky Summer Page 8

  ‘OK,’ he said, keeping his distance from traffic that she knew he would usually weave between.

  ‘You can go a bit faster if you want,’ she said, more because she felt guilty that he was taking it slow for her rather than through any desire to speed up.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, shaking his head.

  She didn’t push it. Just looked to the side at the passengers in the cars they passed. He was too big to look over his shoulder. She could rest her head on the huge expanse of his back if she’d wanted, but she didn’t. Instead, she held on with one hand and cushioned her dislocated arm in a cocoon against him. It was weird to be so close against a man that she had no intention of having sex with, especially a big man like Fox. Dolly went for tall, sinewy types. In fact, she could barely remember when she’d been so close to anyone. Anyone she wasn’t arresting or defeating or being defeated by in the boxing ring. She hadn’t seen her friends for months because of work. She hadn’t seen her family. Not that Aunt Marge – nor Olive for that matter – were massive huggers. Her mum had been a hugger – squishing her in tight, her hair falling round Dolly’s face, the pause as she smelt Dolly’s skin. Always that slight squeeze at the end that made you feel like you were breaking out of her arms too early.

  As she stared at the traffic, Dolly wondered what Olive and Ruben were doing right now. She could imagine them reminiscing. Rolling over old times. Would they be laughing at her, Dolly wondered, cringing suddenly at the memory of herself – hair in wild frizzy corkscrews, gappy teeth in braces, a million freckles and a nose too big for her face. And those effing dungarees. How had her mother allowed her to wear them? Or worse, perhaps they weren’t thinking about her at all. So easily forgettable. There was a family joke about a hide-and-seek spot that Dolly had found in an old tree hollow, so good that no one found her for an hour. Initially Dolly luxuriated in the praise, it only occurred to her later that Olive and Ruben had simply stopped looking for her.

  ‘So what’s the deal with this Ruben de Lacy guy?’ Fox asked.

  Dolly frowned. Could he somehow tell what she was thinking? ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, defensive.

  ‘Your aunt. She said he was going to sell the place.’

  ‘Oh,’ Dolly breathed a sigh of relief. Then she added a dismissive, ‘Nothing. He was just our neighbour. His family owned the land. He’s nobody,’ she added and realised in that one word she’d said too much.

  ‘Really?’ said Fox, suddenly interested. She could detect his disbelief at her dismissiveness.

  ‘Yes, really,’ she replied curtly, her body tensing again, pulling away from where she rested against his back.

  The sound of Fox’s laugh reverberated round her helmet. ‘Dolly, man, you are so easy to wind up.’

  She seethed at his amusement. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘It was only a question, don’t get so defensive.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she snapped.

  ‘You were!’

  She didn’t reply. She could feel him clocking up information on her. Noting it all down in his internal filing cabinet. A child in the car next to them was having a screaming tantrum. Dolly could happily pound her fists in irritation.

  She remembered the day Fox had walked into the station. Brogden practically bouncing off the walls with pride that they had been the team selected for his transfer. The great Fox Mason. Ex-Marine. Holder of the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross medal for bravery. Spent time in the Gulf. Renowned hostage negotiator. Then, when he joined the force, he policed the meanest streets of London, was down with all the gang leaders, infamously kept the respect of those he’d banged up. Dolly had zoned out during Brogden’s waffling speech. Even Mungo and Rogers had nudged her with a snigger at the dramatic build-up. And then Fox had walked in with his understated swagger and, refusing the stage, had chosen to talk to the team individually, suggested everyone have a cuppa so they could just chat informally. Totally against Brogden’s carefully orchestrated welcome ceremony. He’d had Mungo and Rogers onside before you could say Nescafé Gold Blend. Then he took them all to the pub after work, bought the first two rounds. Transfixed them with tales of covert operations and feats of endurance. Made Mungo spit out his pint as Fox talked of chopping his own toe off with a Swiss Army knife on one particular mission to stop the gangrene spreading. Dolly had sat back and watched with a mix of suspicion and jealousy. It had taken her years to get those same guys on side. Fox’s routine seemed like well-practised manipulation to her.

  ‘So, go on then,’ Fox said as they cruised along a wide empty stretch of motorway, the sun warm on their backs, a couple of dead badgers at the side of the road being pecked at by crows. Wind turbines stationary in the still air. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘There is no story,’ Dolly replied.

  ‘You really are very defensive, Dolly.’ Fox overtook a giant milk tanker. The size of it next to them made Dolly feel especially vulnerable.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she could feel the edge in her voice.

  ‘Your aunt said it was a funny time back then. Like funny haha?’ Fox mused, trying to stumble on the answer. No reply. He thought for a second. ‘Not funny, haha?’ He paused. ‘Is it not good with your sister? With this Ruben character?’

  Dolly had stayed silent when she should have spoken.

  Ruben went, ‘Mmm, interesting,’ with the smug deduction of a TV detective. ‘See, this is why I’m so good at my job,’ he laughed.

  ‘What? Arrogance?’ she replied tartly.

  ‘You’re so funny, Dolly,’ he said drily. Then carried on as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘So … I’m sensing some complex family history here.’

  Dolly stiffened. ‘There’s no family history.’ She had a sudden flash of Willoughby Park, reaching up on her tiptoes and her lips touching Ruben’s, the coolness of his mouth, the smell of Marlboro Lights on his breath. The horror on his face.

  ‘Every family has history, Dolly,’ Fox replied, lifting his hand to wipe something off his visor, a squashed fly probably.

  Dolly squeezed her eyes shut to make her mind go black. ‘Not mine.’

  They drove on for a minute or so in silence, Dolly presuming that was the end of the discussion. Then Fox said, ‘Do you know, according to the Dalai Lama, the more honest and open you are the less fear you’ll have, because you won’t have the anxiety about being exposed to others. Don’t you think that’s interesting?’

  Dolly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘According to the Dalai Lama?’ she scoffed. ‘Is that from your Quote of the Day calendar?’

  ‘No, Dolly,’ Fox replied, carefully moving round a caravan that suddenly pulled out into the middle lane without indicating. ‘I learnt it from a Tibetan monk.’

  Dolly snorted a laugh.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ asked Fox.

  The sun was getting hotter, the parched ground was dotted with mirages of puddles up ahead. Brambles and blackthorn bushes tangled at the roadside like snakes.

  ‘Actually, I do believe you. I can totally imagine it,’ said Dolly, rolling her eyes at the very idea. ‘I just think it’s ridiculous. Where was this Tibetan monk?’

  ‘Tibet,’ Fox replied, deadpan. ‘His name was Ngawang.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ she replied, not quite sure whether she believed him or not. ‘What other gems did he teach you?’

  ‘Well, my favourite is “Recognise, overcome, then transcend.”’

  Dolly had never heard anything more ludicrous. ‘Do you have them filed on index cards?’

  ‘Some of them,’ Fox replied, glossing over her mockery.

  Dolly sighed. ‘So go on then, why were you with a monk in Tibet?’ she asked, waiting for some epic tale of heroism and bravery.

  ‘Because when I had a breakdown and left the military,’ he said, matter-of-fact, ‘a monastery in the Himalayas seemed like a good place to go.’

  That shut her up.

  ‘Anything else you want to know?’ he asked, as if any aspect of his life
were there for the taking.

  So much! Dolly’s brain screamed. Instead, she said, ‘No,’ as if she wasn’t curious at all and they drove on in silence.

  Dolly gazed at clouds closing in on the fading blue sky and wondered why Fox had had a breakdown. The thought of it didn’t align with his macho bravado. Or maybe it did. Maybe it aligned exactly. She wondered what it would be like to be so honest. If she’d actually listened to his Dalai Lama quote then perhaps she would know. Dolly didn’t tell anyone about herself. Only the neighbour’s cat and it would walk off halfway through. It was weird to imagine just saying the truth when asked. The thought of it almost made her laugh.

  The air was still clammy and warm but up ahead the sky had gone from picture-perfect to ominously black, grey pastel lines sheeting the horizon. Just looking at it made Dolly think of thunder.

  They approached signs to a service station and Fox indicated. ‘I just want to grab something to eat. You want anything?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Dolly wasn’t hungry. Fox ate all the time. She knew that from their stakeouts. Him always stopping for a Snickers or something. For someone so Zen he ate like shit.

  ‘I’ll wait here. But can you take my helmet off before you go?’ Dolly asked as they pulled up in the car park.

  Fox obliged with, ‘The great Dolly King asks for help,’ and a grating chuckle.

  Dolly folded her arms and waited staunchly by the bike. She stood, watching people coming and going with their Burger Kings, wondering again what Olive and Ruben were doing. Knowing them, they’d probably already finished the treasure hunt. So aligned in their innate competitiveness, it was pointless even trying to compare. As children, Dolly would still be reading the clue as Olive or Ruben hollered the answer and the other set off in hot pursuit. She remembered one Christmas, her mother mortgaged up to the hilt in Monopoly, shaking her head at Olive and Ruben and saying, ‘You two should go into business together. You’d rule the world!’ Even then Dolly had felt the red-hot stab of jealousy. Why couldn’t they rule the world as a three?

  Dolly checked her phone: nothing. She ran through her head what she would say when she saw Ruben, considered his appraisal of her. She wasn’t stupid, she knew she looked different. She was honed and toned and her hair was the colour of gold. She’d grown into her features. Her nose was less obvious, her big eyes had stayed the same. She didn’t have the time or inclination for much make-up, but her one indulgence was her hair salon bills. The tree-climbing, frizzy-haired tomboy was a thing of the past. She allowed her imagination to run away with itself, to conjure up what Ruben’s face might look like when he saw her. She wouldn’t admit it to a soul but she was wistful for a double-take. Maybe even a low whistle. That was the fantasy. The idea of it made her bite down on an embarrassed wince. Admitting it even to herself made her blush.

  ‘Hello gorgeous,’ a voice said next to her. ‘Waiting for me?’

  Dolly’s head shot up.

  She was surrounded by four guys in black leather. Younger than her but taller. Big lads munching on Burger King Whoppers. The one talking to her had a tattoo of skeleton teeth over his knuckles.

  Dolly felt like all her innermost desires and silly wants were visible in the redness on her cheeks. It made her feel small and exposed. She narrowed her eyes. ‘No,’ she said with a withering glare. ‘I’m certainly not waiting for you.’

  The guy laughed. Looked round at his mates. ‘Feisty.’

  Dolly rolled her eyes. ‘Get on your bike and go.’

  ‘But I’ve got my burger to eat and you to look at, sweetheart,’ the guy said, and his mates laughed in unison like sniggering hyenas. ‘Stunner like you. Bet you give it some.’ He winked. His hair was too short and his skin held a trace of acne scars but his eyes were pale like wolves’ and cut right to her core.

  Under normal circumstances, this would be water off a duck’s back. But Dolly felt ashamed of her pathetic fantasies, angry that she had dropped her guard in such a public place. Her lip curled. ‘Before you go any further, I should warn you, I’m an officer of the law and I could arrest you for harassment.’

  ‘Ooooooh!’ The guy made a show of acting scared. His mates grinned. Then he leaned in real close and said, ‘I like a woman in uniform.’

  Dolly snarled.

  The guy smirked. ‘We could teach you a thing or two.’ His mates grinned. He took the last bite of his Whopper and chucked the wrapper on the floor. He licked his lips. ‘Girl like you. All nice on the outside. Bet you like it a bit rough, don’t you? Bit nasty.’

  Before he could say anything more, Dolly had swept his legs out from underneath him and had him pinned to the floor, her knee jabbed into his spine and his arm pulled round his back with her one good hand. The movement had been murder on her dislocated shoulder. His face was pressed into the gravel. His mates were frozen for a second in shock but then before they could react, Dolly muttered through gritted teeth, ‘Any of you come any closer and I’ll break his arm and arrest the lot of you. Got it?’

  They watched, uncertain how to react. The guy’s face was contorted in agony on the tarmac. ‘Get off my arm, you bitch!’ People were slowing to watch, panicked and intrigued by the drama.

  Then she heard Fox’s voice. ‘What’s going on?’ His shadow loomed over them. ‘Dolly?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, getting her breathing back under control. The guy’s mates seemed less inclined to react now Fox was there, intimidated by the hulking great size of him. Dolly leaned forward so her mouth was close to the guy on the floor’s ear, ‘Watch your mouth in future.’ Then she loosened her grip on his arm and stood up, walking away back to the bike like nothing had happened. Fox watched, confused. ‘What’s going on?’

  The guy stood up, brushing gravel off his jacket. ‘Your girlfriend’s an effing psycho, that’s what’s going on!’

  ‘Calm down, sir.’ Fox held up a hand to pacify then looked between the pair of them. ‘Do we need to talk about this?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the guy spat. ‘I want her charged with police brutality.’

  Dolly scoffed. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘OK, let’s all take a moment—’

  The guy did an imitation of Fox and made his mates laugh again. Then he said, ‘Piss off, you twat.’ And to his mates, ‘Let’s go. Good luck with the bitch,’ he added, a sly smirk on his lips as they sauntered over to where their own bikes were parked.

  ‘Dolly, you’re suspended from duty. You can’t have people on the floor. What did he do?’

  ‘He was a prat. I was just teaching him a lesson,’ she said, adrenaline subsiding, annoyed with herself for losing her cool over something so petty. The lecherous taunts merging insidiously with her childish fantasies. Riling her, making her forget all her training, making her embarrassed at her own weaknesses. What had she been doing pinning him to the floor?

  ‘Great way of going about it,’ Fox replied, shaking his head.

  ‘Don’t shake your head at me. You weren’t there!’

  Fox raised a brow. ‘You’re telling me whatever happened just then, it really needed to end with him flat on the floor?’

  Dolly stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it did.’

  Fox blew out a breath. ‘You need to learn to fight with your mouth not your hands.’

  ‘Is that another Buddhist quote?’ she asked snarkily.

  Fox didn’t deign a reply, just got on the bike and pulled on his helmet. Dolly got on behind and annoyingly had to wait for him to turn and help her on with her helmet.

  They had to drive past the gang of guys to exit. Dolly heard them shouting and she gave them the finger.

  ‘Dolly!’ Fox reprimanded.

  She felt like a child.

  They pulled out onto the motorway. Clouds were blocking the glare from the sun. The traffic was mainly lorries.

  Neither her nor Fox said anything. She could feel herself sulking. She felt the weight of irritation with her own behaviour. Replayed it a couple of times, thinking how she cou
ld have done it differently. She hated herself for her pathetic fantasy about Ruben.

  Staring out at the countryside, Dolly saw an old billboard for Wookey Hole Caves, which she’d been desperate to visit as a kid. Then she saw her favourite Little Chef was now a Starbucks. She bit her lip, remembering stops on the way to London to visit Aunt Marge. Sharing toasted teacakes with Olive and blowing bubbles through their straws as their dad complained about the Little Chef coffee and went off on captivating tangents about espresso he’d drunk made out of civet poo. Their mum serenely sipping her tea, tucked snugly under his arm, so blissfully happy when the family was together as one.

  It drove home the feeling of loss, of change. It reminded Dolly why the hell she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.

  The rain had started to fall, fat and heavy, almost sizzling when it hit the tarmac.

  She remembered the day they had left Willoughby Park. Their stuff rammed into overnight cases. Plastic bags of whatever extra bits they could fit in Aunt Marge’s car. She remembered asking what would happen to the rest of it and no one answering. Like her voice had disappeared along with everything else. Driving away in Aunt Marge’s ridiculously impractical white Mazda, straight past the Little Chef and Wookey Hole because Marge didn’t stop, Dolly had still thought there was a chance they would return. What else would happen to their stuff otherwise? It was too terrifying to think that normality was no longer a possibility.

  Suddenly she wanted to be off this long, monotonous road, away from its familiarity. She wanted to turn around but she wouldn’t be able to explain why to Fox. She wanted a diversion. Anything.

  Except the next minute, she got her wish and wished she hadn’t. The loudest roar came up behind them. Dolly glanced round to see the gang of riders from the service station bearing down on them. The bikes had no silencers, the noise was earsplitting. The leader, with his skull tattoo drove really close, his tyre almost scraping Fox’s, goading.

  ‘What are they doing!’ Dolly couldn’t believe anyone would be so stupid. She beckoned for them to shoo with her hand.

  ‘Being dicks,’ said Fox, tightly controlled tension in his voice, the muscles in his back taut.