Cages David Mark (mobi reader txt) 📖

pulled on a pair of jogging trousers and a hoodie when she’d finished toweling off. The result is a face she recognizes from long ago. Without make-up, and with her damp hair pulled back in a ponytail, her features are frighteningly exposed. She’s a little plumper, a lot more lined, but the woman in the mirror is not much different to the girl who screwed jagged glass into the throat of a man she’d tried to love. She closes the mirror before she upsets herself. She’s never liked how she looks, but it seems important to her now that she reveal the truth of herself. She would rather give Rufus a glimpse of the reality than spend an age slapping on make-up and choosing outfits, only to look like a glammed-up stranger.

A deep breath, then out the car. Her skin tightens at once. Despite the washed-out blue in the sky and the raucous squawks of gulls fighting over scraps by the sea wall, the wind still cuts like a lash as it streaks in from the water. She puts her hood up as she walks past Rufus’s car, holding herself tight so she doesn’t shiver. She follows the line of the sea wall, scanning the horizon for any signs of life. There’s nobody here. Won’t be for a few weeks. She’s glad. Autumn and winter are desolate times in little seaside villages, but she enjoys the solitude. She can walk for miles along the lip of the estuary, gazing out across the muddy water to the distant blur of Cleethorpes on the south bank of the river. She’s solved the world’s problems more times than she can count, losing herself in thoughts and ideas as she walks for miles in the general direction of the ocean. It won’t change much when summer comes. Paull is not a holiday destination. There are no arcade games or beach huts or chip shops. But birdwatchers arrive in decent numbers, and there are no shortage of US visitors eager to see the old lighthouse or to tell the locals that their ancestors arrived here three or four centuries ago, heading for life in the New World.

Annabeth pauses, one hand on the door, then pushes into the warmth of the Humber Tavern. It’s a pleasant, cosy pub. Wood floor, round tables, a dartboard and a log burner: the glass glowing gold. Not many in tonight, though there never are on a weekday. She gives the room a quick once-over and spots the broad back and thick hair of Rufus, spilling over the wood of a stool with one elbow on the bar. His hand is curled, protectively, around the circumference of a pint glass, supped almost down to the foam. He’s in conversation with Fran, a young barmaid who’s saving up to go travelling for a year before committing to a university. Annabeth doesn’t think she’ll actually embark on either adventure. Imagines she’ll settle down and become a mum with a part-time job and a half-decent husband before she gets anywhere near an airport. She’s seen it happen time and again. Seen people with all the possibilities open to them, settle for something mundane. She tries hard not to be resentful. Annabeth’s life choices were limited, and she’s doing the best she can with what she has left.

‘Evening,’ says Fran, warmly. Rufus turns. Grins, widely, as she approaches. She takes the initiative. Kisses his cheek. He smells like old books and the outdoors. Past his shoulder, she sees two familiar faces, both staff from the prison. Julie works in the education suite, and her husband, Mark, is Supervising Officer on B-wing, and technically, Annabeth’s line manager. He’s short and stocky, with grey hair shaved down to the wood, and an air of quiet control. Annabeth admires him, and likes it when he praises her for the way she’s handled situations, or offered gentle words of advice on the rare occasions she has not performed to her best. He raises his bottle of Brown Ale in greeting as they lock eyes. Julie, seated across the table, turns round to see who her fella is making eyes at. Seems delighted to see Annabeth out on what appears to be a date with a handsome, if rather careworn, older man.

‘Sorry I’m so late,’ begins Annabeth, breathily, caught in what her mother would describe as ‘a bit of a tizzy’. ‘Getting out of the car park, and then the fuss on Hedon Road, and …’

He shushes her, as nicely as she has ever been shushed. ‘Not a problem, not a problem,’ he says, half standing, gentlemanly, as she levers herself into the chair beside him. ‘Been learning a lot. Fran here is off to Machu Picchu, soon.’

Fran, who has ruffled blonde hair and a slightly vacant look about her, begins to giggle. ‘Don’t be mean! He’s being silly, don’t take any notice …’

‘Fran wasn’t familiar with the place, Annabeth. Believed it was a Pokémon …’

Fran giggles, as if she and Rufus have been making fun of each other for years.

‘What can I get you?’ asks Fran, making a face. ‘Good to see you in. You don’t do weeknights, as a rule …’

There was a time when Annabeth would have loathed the idea of her routine being so well-known to her friends and neighbours. Years went by when Annabeth and Ethan made it their business to never interact with strangers and to give as little away as possible to those who became their friends. Annabeth didn’t know if people were looking for her, but she knew that she had to keep moving if she wanted to make sure her past didn’t catch up with her. All these years later, she can’t so much as pop out for a stroll without being asked about her son’s prospects in his GCSEs or have it remarked upon that she’d been home late on Tuesday week. She winces as Fran starts pouring her a small glass of Chardonnay with a squirt of soda, even