Time To Play by KA Richardson (best book club books of all time TXT) 📗

His whole life was a big fat lie.

His home life was a lie. Work was a lie, too. They didn’t know who he was, didn’t know that he was the son of a major criminal, that he fed him information on drugs raids to help ease the guilt he felt at not being able to look after his own parents. Which in itself was beside the point now, since his dad wasn’t actually his dad, so there was no reason to feel guilt.

But he did. Guilt threatened to overwhelm him. It was heavy, and he didn’t know how he could continue to carry it.

Sighing again, he tried to remember the last time he had been genuinely happy, the last time he had smiled so wide he’d actually thought his face would split. It took a minute, but he eventually recalled.

He’d been about fifteen years old. The girl he’d liked at school had passed him a note secretly in class, asking him to meet her later. That she’d sent him a note had been the highlight of his day, and later, when they’d met up under the cover of darkness after he’d snuck out of the house, she’d made his night. They’d gone walking by the river, just the two of them. Holding hands and bumping into each other in that accidental way people do when they like someone, where it’s not really an accident but they pretend it is so they can make contact and apologise. And under the light of the moon, he’d had his first kiss.

That meant it had been almost thirteen years since he had been totally and utterly happy. He’d come close when he’d made the dive team down south. Having a working brain, he’d aced the tests and exams, and he had the natural affinity for the water that most divers had. But then they’d found out about his uncle. It hadn’t got to the investigation stage. He’d transferred back up north to get away from Fred and the people he used to call friends. They’d dropped the case as he was no longer classed as an associate. Then his uncle had followed him up north, and the cycle had started again.

Now it was all threatening to turn to shit again, and he couldn’t help but wonder whether it was worth it.

After sitting there for almost an hour, he decided it was time to head inside, and head bowed low, the feeling of intense despair flooding every pore, he made his way up the path.

Crankle Reservoir, South of Sunderland – 16 November

‘Brian, move the pipe over to the north-west corner. Schematics show a dip up there,’ hollered Paul Deacon, pointing Brian Fellows in the right direction.

The work on the reservoir had commenced the week before. The council had decided to increase the size of the reservoir to improve flood defences. The first stage involved draining it in sections.

Brian nodded and made his way along the track to the other end.

Once the pipe was under the water, the machine trundled and pumped it over the top of the makeshift dam erected by the crew. Paul had been right: there was a hell of a dip at this end of the reservoir. Barry didn’t know if it had been man-made, or whether it was just natural. The walled path led along the edge past a small water tower. It was a regular spot for walkers; they’d go from one side of the water to the other and back again to the car park. When it was all done, there’d be car parks at both ends, with a toilet block, too. There were also plans to erect fishing piers for those interested in catching rainbow trout.

Tourism would help pay for the work, but today no one was around.

Barry sat back in his chair and listened to the repetitive thudding of the pump. It was days like this he loved his job. The sun was trying to shine, though the air still held the bitter chill of impending winter. Birds were singing in the trees – at least he thought they were, he couldn’t really hear over the pump, but he liked to think they were.

Jumping out of the cab, he lit a cigarette and leant over the wall to watch the water ebb from the shore as it was transported elsewhere.

Even now, twenty years into the job, it surprised him what people left at the bottom of a lake. He’d found endless bicycles, water drums and old boots. Once he’d even found a car. That had caused a stir: they’d initially thought there might be a body inside, but the car had been empty. Obviously just someone’s idea of an easy way to get rid of a car for an insurance job.

He squinted as something started coming into view. It looked quite big, whatever it was. As the water level dropped further, he could make out something that looked almost cylindrical, and murky white in colour.

The water decreased further still, and Barry felt his eyes almost pop out of his head as he saw, at the top of the shape, a girl’s face. Her eyes open and opaque, her face covered in bruises. He felt himself stumble backwards in shock. Unable to stop himself, he threw up the man-sized breakfast he’d eaten an hour before into the grass.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered, wiping his mouth then making a cross motion across his face and chest. Jumping into the cab of the pump, he pressed the emergency stop button. The pump fell silent, and he reached for the radio.

‘Paul? You need to get your arse over to the north-west corner pronto. There’s something here you need to see. Fuck, I’m going to throw up again,’ he said, before sticking his head out of the window and heaving