Red Marks

  By Glenn McGoldrick

  Text Copyright @2017

  Glenn McGoldrick

  All Rights Reserved

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  Red Marks

  On Monday afternoon I boarded the bus on Westbury Street, on my way to the Jobcentre. I made my way to the back, looking for an empty seat.

  The back row was free, and I saw a purse on the seat by the window. I sat down beside it, and looked around to make sure nobody was watching. The purse was black leather, slim and flat; as the bus pulled away I slipped it inside my jacket.

  I got off the bus outside Lidl in the town centre, rushing down Allensway to make my appointment in time.

  I checked the purse as I walked. There was a name badge and a folded piece of paper. And there was £40 in cash, which I put in my jeans pocket. I put the purse back inside my jacket as I entered the Jobcentre.

  The guy was sat at his desk when I approached.

  “Michael Atkins?” he asked.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “I’m Zack. I’ll be helping you today.”

  “OK.”

  “Please,” he said. “Take a seat.”

  I sat down and waited for him to talk.

  “They sent you to the right person,” he said, winking at me. “I’ll find you a job.”

  I zoned out after that comment, picking up a few words here and there. Motivated. Initiative. Up skilling. Stuff like that.

  He seemed to straighten the knot on his tie a lot. Mid-twenties, about ten years younger than me. He mentioned enrolling me on a course.

  “Online Essentials,” he said.

  “Online Essentials?”

  “Yes. Is that OK?”

  “Excellent,” I said.

  I left the Jobcentre and sat on a bench by the Methodist church. An old woman walked an overweight Golden Retriever. Really overweight. Plenty of that going around.

  When they passed me I took out the purse and opened it. The name badge was made of white plastic, with a photo on it. Kate Summers. Logistics Administrator at Perfect Plastics. Good looking woman. Early thirties, I thought.

  There was an electricity bill for £27.44 and a couple of loose paper clips; other than that, the purse was empty.

  I was pissed off after my chat with Zack, and I felt like drinking. Plus, I had £40 more than I’d started the day with. I bought some cigarettes from Asda petrol station, then walked to The Roundel.

  I got a pint from the bar, then went outside to the smoking area. I saw Colin, an old schoolmate who I bumped into occasionally. He sat alone at a wooden picnic table, with half a pint of lager in front of him. He was wearing the black shorts and red sweatshirt of the Royal Mail.

  I joined him at the table, and told him about my chat with Zack. He seemed to find it very amusing.

  “Online Essentials?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Give it a chance. Maybe you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Yeah” I said. “Right.”

  “I’m glad I’m back on the mail again. Not having to sign on any more,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah?” I said.

  He took a drink, shook his head slowly and said, “There’s too much bullshit.”

  “And too many courses.”

  “And you have to do it, otherwise they’ll mess with your benefits.”

  “I know,” I said. “Bastards.”

  He laughed, then stood up and finished his pint.

  “I have to go,” he said. “It’s date night with the wife.”

  I lit a cigarette and watched the traffic pass on Mitchell Avenue. Then I took out the name badge and looked at her photo.

  Kate. There was something about her. She reminded me of Becky. No real physical resemblance, but there was something.

  Three pints later, I knew what it was. The eyes. Or the way she looked at me. Like she was trying to tell me something.

  When it got cold, I went into the lounge and had a chicken sandwich. I put the name badge on the table, looking at the photo as I ate. I found an address on the electricity bill. Teesgate. Not far from The Roundel.

  It was dark now, after midnight. I leaned against a lamppost and studied the house.

  There were no lights on that I could see, and the driveway was empty. I wondered if she had a car; probably not, if she’d been on the bus. Was she home? Did she live alone?

  A light rain started to fall, so I put up my collar and walked home.

  On Tuesday evening I went to my parents’ house on The Green. We sat at the table in the dining room, eating Spaghetti Bolognese and drinking red wine. There was the usual Q&A.

  “Any leads for a job yet, son?” my dad asked.

  “No.”

  “Any interviews lined up?”

  “No,” I said. “They’ve got me going on a course.”

  He tapped his fingers on his wine glass. “A course,” he said.

  “Yeah. Online Essentials.”

  “Well, it’s a start, I guess.”

  “And tell me, Michael,” Mother said, twisting some spaghetti with her fork. “How’s your love life?”

  “Mother. Really. Do we have to?”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t stay single forever.”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  “How long’s it been since Becky?” she asked.

  “About a year,” I said, taking a gulp of wine. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Oh, don’t be so touchy, son,” my dad said. “We’re just concerned that’s all.”

  “Well, don’t be.”

  “OK,” he said.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  After dinner we sat in the living room, watching crappy TV and drinking more wine. When News at Ten started, they were both asleep in their chairs. I let myself out.

  The night was warm, perfect for a walk, so I took a detour past Kate’s on the way home. There was a light on upstairs, probably her bedroom. Maybe she was reading before sleep. I lit a cigarette, watched the house and thought about Becky…

  It seemed so long ago. I tried to make her talk, to make her say it, to articulate the message in her eyes. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but she should have just told me.

  She ended the relationship the next day. Her dad was there when she finished it; he looked like he wanted to hit me. I noticed red marks on her neck, from where I’d grabbed her.

  I was on my second cigarette when Kate’s bedroom light went out. I wondered if she was sleeping alone; I liked to think that she was. It was too late to knock on her door and say hello, but maybe I’d get the chance some other time.

  That time is now. I can see her in the kitchen, looks like she’s washing the dishes. She’s alone. No boyfriend. I’ve been here a few times this week, and I haven’t seen any visitors at all.

  I’ll knock on her door and give her the purse, tell her I found it. The money’s gone, but she’ll be grateful to have the purse back. And the badge. Maybe even the electricity bill too.

  She’ll thank me. Maybe she’ll invite me in. We’ll have a coffee and a chat. Then I’ll ask her what it is, what’s in her eyes, what’s the message she wants to give me.

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  Until next time.

  Glenn McGoldrick.

  If you enjoyed reading this story, then you might like to try a collection in the Dark Teesside series:

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  Glenn McGoldrick, Red Marks

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