Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

something I want to do, but it’s better than being caught and going to prison. Anyway, it’s not like I’m anyone special. This won’t be the first time I’ve had to resort to sexual favours to get what I need and besides, isn’t it what women in relationships all over the country are doing? All over the world, even? Wives, included?

We’re standing on an apron of concrete outside a row of garages on an estate in Bletchley. The wind cuts through my clothes and throws my hair in my face. I’m staring at a black Fiat Punto on a 2004 plate. It looks clean enough but I know only too well that external appearances can be deceiving. It’s the stuff under the bonnet that matters.

‘It’s only got 80,000 miles on the clock,’ Derek says. ‘A nice little runner. You’ll have no trouble with it.’

‘What about number plates? I don’t want this one traced back to me.’ I wave an arm at my silver Fiesta. How close are the police to tracking it near the scene of the crime? Have they traced Robert to Paisley? Trawled through hours of CCTV and ANPR data? I close my eyes as a wave of nausea and fear threatens to expel my breakfast.

‘I can sort that. Easy. Shall we shake on it?’

He holds out a grubby hand and I take it reluctantly. It’s clammy and I have to fight the urge to wipe my fingers clean afterwards. God, I’ll need a scalding hot shower after paying my debt later. I’m not sure I’m even getting a good deal. My Fiesta is better and newer than this one.

For a moment I hesitate and my heart argues with my head. I don’t think I can do this. The price is too high. But I can’t take the risk of my Fiesta being tracked from Scotland. I’ve already kept the car too long. My head wins. I really don’t have any other option. I fish my Fiesta key out of my pocket and hold out my hand for the key to the Fiat.

‘Oh no.’ Derek’s smile is cold. ‘Payment first, exchange tomorrow.’

‘I’m only paying once.’

‘Of course, Sarah! Of course. I’m not asking for more.’

When I get home the DNA paternity kit is on the mat. I scoop it up, grateful Mum hasn’t seen the post and wondered what is in the grey plastic bag, and shut myself in my bedroom, my heart fluttering with excitement. I read through the instructions and am surprised to learn that the laboratory strongly recommends that a sample of the mother’s saliva is included when submitting the home DNA test. This is to greatly increase the chance of obtaining a conclusive result. I slide the kit under my pillow. I’ll deal with that later.

Right now, I need to find something sexy to wear for Mark. I rummage through my wardrobe and drawers, my frustration increasing as I realise I have nothing decent. In the end I settle for a pair of black jeans and a tight red vest top, grateful that I haven’t gained weight in the ten years since I bought them. In fact, they’re a bit loose. I’m probably shedding weight from all the stress. I find a short black jacket that has seen better days then apply a layer of make-up. The bruising around my eyes has faded to green and yellow, and is easier to cover now. Mark hasn’t mentioned it so the concealer must have done its job.

The restaurant is small and intimate, and the menu pleasingly different. We choose several dishes to share and a cocktail each. It feels strange to be dating someone who knows my dodgy family history. I have no need to pretend I’m someone else. The conversation is light and friendly, but I can tell by the occasional lengthy pauses that he wants to ask me about my dad.

‘Do you ever visit him?’ he asks eventually. ‘Your dad, I mean.’

‘Nope, and I never will.’

‘What about your mum? Does she see him?’

‘She’s never sober enough. Why would we want to see the man who made our lives a misery? We were glad to see the back of him.’

‘Was he violent towards you?’ Mark looks at me, his eyes full of compassion.

Well, I think it’s compassion. Maybe it’s just morbid curiosity. He lifts his hand and moves it towards mine then changes his mind as the waiter appears with more small plates of food. Once he’s left, Mark picks up his cutlery and smiles at me.

I spear a garlic prawn and eat it. Hopefully, if I consume enough of them, Derek won’t try to kiss me later. The food is delicious. We share roasted peppers, chicken skewers and a bean salad, and the conversation turns to talking about people we’d known at school and old favourite bands.

‘He was violent,’ I say suddenly. ‘Dad, I mean, or perhaps I should call him John. More to Mum than me. He mostly looked through me as though I wasn’t there. I heard him once telling his mate that I was a big disappointment to him and I thought it was because he wanted a son. It was only recently I realised that wasn’t the real reason.’

Mark listens avidly but doesn’t interrupt my flow of words.

‘He punched that man, Colin, and killed him, because he thought Mum had been having an affair with him going back years. I’ve realised he also thought I was Colin’s daughter, not his, which is why he never showed me any love.’

‘Do you think you’re Colin’s daughter?’ Mark asks.

‘Maybe. I think Mum did have an affair but she’s too weak to admit it. She was certainly cut up about Colin. She’s always liked a drink but I don’t think she’s been sober since he died.’

‘That’s understandable though, isn’t it? Her husband was the one who killed him.’

‘I suppose. Anyway, I’ve written to John and he’s agreed to take a paternity test. I’ll know the results in a couple of days’