Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

‘I don’t know. Stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

He stabs a roasty with his fork and pauses for a second to think. ‘Everyday stuff. I don’t know – the news, politics, the kids. He talks about the kids a lot. He shows me funny things he’s seen on the Internet. Music. My writing. I run plot twists by him.’ He lifts the bottle of wine from the cooler, looking at me questioningly.

I slide my glass towards him. ‘And?’

‘He tells me about the jobs he’s applied for.’ Jim goes to pour me a glass of wine but pauses. ‘Actually, he hasn’t spoken about the job situation lately.’ He resumes filling my glass. ‘Sometimes, not often, we play that online poker game. And he talks a bit about his magic pen.’

‘Magic pen?’

‘Yep. He’s been developing this pen idea. Marc O’s Magic Marker, he calls it.’

‘Sasha did mention something about that.’

‘He reckons it’s going to revolutionalise security in the clothing industry.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t fully understand how it works, but instead of using security tags, shop owners mark clothing with this pen. It engrains a code into the fabric undetectable to the naked eye. If someone tries to steal the item, they set the shop alarms off. It’s early days. Actually, he used to talk about it a lot, but not lately.’

I find a space in my crowded head to park this information. ‘Answer me something. From a guy’s point of view, is Marc the type to cheat?’

He throws me a look that says what a stupid question. ‘Marc, a cheater? No. No way.’ He thinks for a second as if wondering if he could be wrong. ‘He’s never given me that impression anyway. Why? Do you think there’s a woman involved?’

‘I never would’ve thought that before today – not of him. I agree, he’s not the type. But now I don’t know. He had a suit on when he came to the station. As if he was going somewhere important or somewhere special. Maybe he was going for a job interview?’ I take a sip of wine and another. ‘I didn’t tell Sasha that, of course.’

‘What’re you planning on doing about it?’

‘Missing people often return after a couple of days. Saying that, it’s rare for someone to officially declare they don’t want to be found. Not that it’s a first, though.’ I think for a moment. ‘Do you remember me telling you about that girl from Herne Hill? She was young, barely eighteen. She didn’t want to go through with an arranged marriage. I was there the day she came into the station and declared she was going to run away from home and didn’t want to be found. There was that man, too, a few years ago – the one with curly hair. I remember him because he reminded me of Ben. Both cases were pretty much the same as Marc. I wonder what happened to them?’

‘Why don’t the police encourage them to go home?’

‘We’d encourage them to leave contact details and for them to keep in contact. And get their permission to pass such messages on to the family, so they know they’re OK. Everyone has rights, though. We don’t know what goes on behind closed doors.’ I sip more wine. ‘I’ll give it a few days, and if he doesn’t appear, I’ll make some enquiries.’

‘Look, I know they are our friends and, believe me, I think a lot of them, but you’re a heartbeat away from promotion. What’s that line Arthur always tells you?’

‘I know. I know.’ I repeat Arthur’s precise words: ‘“Don’t get involved in their story. It’s not your problem.”.’

‘You’re a hotshot rising star.’ He squeezes my hand again. ‘I love you too much to see you ruin your career. Think about this carefully.’

I push away my half-eaten plate of food and drain my glass. He offers me another.

‘I’ve got some work to do.’ I pick up his plate and stack it on top of mine.

‘But it’s nearly nine. You look tired, darling. Take a break.’

‘I’ll only be half an hour, honestly.’

I load the dishwasher, and we take ourselves to the lounge but go our separate ways. Him towards the telly where he transfers himself to the L-shaped sofa and me to the corner that houses my improvised study. It’s a small area but with enough space for a desk for my laptop and printer and a cupboard for files. I can work from here while I watch the kids. And be on hand to help them, and Jim, when they need me. I hear Jim swear.

‘For Christ’s sake, where’ve the kids put it now?’

After locating the remote control down the back of the sofa, along with some Lego bricks and a doll’s hairbrush, I text Rob, a colleague who I’ve been working closely with for the past few years.

We have a meeting with Arthur at eight in the morning. E

He replies with a middle finger emoji. I chuckle as I fire up my laptop. He sends another text.

Car broken. Can you pick me up?

I tell him OK before attempting to tackle my out-of-control inbox. But I can’t fully concentrate. Marc’s tormented face at the Tube station today won’t let me. I dig into my bag for today’s post to add to the jumbled pile that I haven’t got around to opening from last week. I open each envelope and sort the contents into piles of bills and rubbish for recycling.

‘Eva,’ Jim calls out. What now? ‘It’s been over an hour. I’m going to bed.’

I look at my watch. He’s right. ‘I’ll join you in five.’

He wheels himself off while I finish what I’m doing and click my laptop shut. I clear up the lounge and empty the dishwasher then join him in the bedroom where I slip into a skimpy nightie. Tonight’s heat won’t allow anything more. He turns out the light when I get into bed, and I snuggle into the comfort of his open arms. He falls asleep straight away but an hour later, I’m still staring