Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Sloan could not stop noticing how she was in town instead of at her desk.
No one would question a day off—least of all herself.
After all, she was in charge and should be the first to insist on it for someone in her situation.
Running on little sleep. A night in A one Sloan had never used before. The sun was out, it was warm, and there were seats outside, some already filled with people going about their own day. “Park me there.”
Sloan manoeuvred the chair to a table and smiled at a young boy who stood quickly and pulled one of the chairs out of the way to make room for the wheelchair.
“Thank you,” she said to him as she slid Gloria into place. He pushed the chair under another table, shrugged as though it were nothing, and sat back down again. “What would you like?”
Gloria looked up at her. “A caramel latte. Then you can buzz off.”
“Charming. Where do you propose I go?”
Gloria shrugged. “Dunno. One of those fancy shops you like. Buy yourself a new jumper. Or some matching knickers for when Matty stays over again.” She chuckled to herself, knowing Sloan would surely react to the last suggestion.
Sloan rolled her eyes and went inside.
“Can I get a medium caramel latte and a flat white, both in takeaway cups? We’re drinking outside, if that’s alright.”
“Absolutely,” the barista said as he tapped in the details of the order, then held out the card reader.
“Actually, scrap the flat white.” She tapped her card once the order was corrected and headed back outside, settling her sunglasses properly on her face.
“Why are you hovering?” Gloria asked. “Go on…go and enjoy a moment to yourself and let me do the same. Nothing will happen to me while I drink a coffee.”
Sloan considered it. Gloria was right, of course, so long as she did not take it upon herself to wheel away, but with only one good arm, she would just end up turning in circles.
“Fine. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
“Forty-five. What do you think I’ve got? An asbestos mouth?”
A minute later, the barista appeared and set the cup down. “Thank you,” Sloan said, lifting the lid to check it was the right drink.
“Go on then,” Gloria said again. “I’m hardly going to elope.”
Sloan placed the lid back on the cup and stood up. “Right. Enjoy your forty-five minutes.”
She walked off towards the car, looking back once, only to find Gloria waggling her fingers at her.
By the time she stopped, she had walked past the car, out of the shopping centre, and into a street she recognised a second too late.
The shop below the flat was crammed with Polish groceries, soft drink crates, and handwritten offers taped to the glass. The side door had once been white, but the paint was peeling and the number hung off one nail.
She reached for the knocker, paused, then rapped it hard against the door before she could change her mind.
Nothing happened. She was just about to knock again when the sound of feet pounding down the stairs stopped her.
A lock scraped back.
The door swung open and a short, dark-haired woman looked her up and down. “Yeah?”
“Sorry, I’m looking for Matty.”
“Who? What are you, Old Bill or something?” she said, louder now.
Upstairs, something scraped across lino.
“Old Bill?” Sloan repeated, frowning. “No. I’m her employer.”
The woman’s face changed at once. “Oh. You’re...” She pulled the door wider. “You’d better come in.”
Sloan stepped over the threshold and tried not to overtly grimace at the smell—sharp, sour, unmistakable.
“Yeah, it’s the shop downstairs. They sell fresh flaki and bigos. You kind of get used to it after a while.”
Sloan nodded and said nothing. She started up the stairs, each step tacky under her soles, the wall beside her dotted with round holes and scratch marks.
“It’s not the police,” the woman shouted up the stairs as she followed Sloan.
Sloan resisted the urge to wince.
“Matty’s in the shower. You can wait in her room, if you prefer.”
At the top of the stairs, Sloan glanced into the first room, the kitchen, and found a scruffy man staring at her, smoking something that looked like a cigarette but clearly was not.
“That’s Brandon,” she added. “You can sit in here with us if you want. I’m Sarah.” She held out her hand. Sloan hesitated, then shook it.
Dragging her eyes away from the kitchen—if that was what one could call it—Sloan said, “No, it’s fine. If you could just point me towards Matty’s room.”