Chapter Seven You Could Be Happy
Chapter seven
You Could Be Happy
Kenny opened the door to The Jobber’s Rest country-style public house on the outskirts of Ryston, wondering if he should be here at all.
Probably not.
But he was.
And he was wearing the blue shirt as ordered, paired with a casual pair of jeans, and kept his hair down, having washed it earlier after the gym. His date outfit was a little out-of- date, though. He hadn’t used it for a long time and he entered the bar with the apprehension one might expect of someone who was a little rusty.
The rustic saloon bar, serving decent home-cooked food over dulled candlelight, with a roaring open fire and a sweeping beer garden dotted with outside heaters, was one of the more intimate places on the outskirts of town where couples came to dine rather than prop up the bar. A middle class hangout, with a decent selection of independent ales and fine wines.
A far cry from a seedy nightclub in central London.
Adjusting his collar to show a bit of skin and chest hair, he scanned the tables and found a woman, brunette, red dress, sipping on a glass of white wine on a table for two by the window. Heather . The photo Dominic, a fellow lecturer at the uni who’d set them up, had shown him hadn’t done Heather justice. She was way more attractive. She looked how he imagined Jessica might. And that thought unexpectedly pinched him behind the eyes and made him regret agreeing to this even more. He wasn’t sure why he had. Other than to try for some modicum of normalcy. And, maybe, if he delved really deeply inside his own psyche, which he never liked to do all that much, he was hoping this might lead to giving his mother what she pined for before she left the world for good—physically or mentally. Grandchildren . Since her chances had abruptly reduced by half twenty-six years ago, he felt some responsibility to at least try. For her. Even if it wasn’t normal.
What was normal, anyway?
Certainly not dating someone who reminded him of his sister.
As he approached, Heather glanced up, offering a smile that lit up her delicate features. In her late thirties, with a body kept trim, but with the hallmarks of having birthed the child she’d had in her previous marriage, she was as Dominic had described her. Wholesome . Someone to take home to mother. To bear children. To be a wife .
Kenny dug deep to find his attraction to her.
Nerves were evident in her eyes as she shuffled out of her seat. “Dr Lyons?”
“Kenny.” Kenny shook her hand, then kissed her cheek, and they both sat on either side of the table as a waitress drifted over. “I’ll have what she’s having.” Best way to counteract nerves was to order the same. It meant they could share later if this all went well, and she’d feel a sense of validation. As if they had something in common already.
It didn’t matter that he’d prefer a whisky.
When the drink arrived, he held his glass up, and they clinked. “To first dates.”
“To mutual friends.”
“How do you know Dom?”
“We were at primary school together. He held my hair when I threw up after being pushed on the roundabout too fast after eating an entire packet of Refreshers . That sealed our fate of being just mates.”
Kenny laughed. That small addition of an amusing anecdote had told him enough about who she was and how she felt at ease when she talked about herself. So he steered the conversation to her.
“Dom tells me you’re a teacher?” He didn’t much feel like divulging too much about himself, anyway. He was a far better listener. As he was so often told.
“I am. Teach year six.”
“Blimey. Take my hat off to you. I’d take university students over eleven-year-olds any day.”
“You might be right there. They can be a handful.”
“And you have a daughter?”
Heather swallowed her wine. “Yep. Alice is thirteen, nearly fourteen, but going on twenty-one. Quite the madam. I blame the divorce. She’s not handling it well.”
“They never do. It takes time to adjust.”
Heather smiled, cocked her head. “You have any children?”
“No. No. Lucky, really. I think I’m more of a fun uncle, anyway.”
She chuckled. “Are you an uncle?”
Damn . He walked right into that one. “Sadly, no.” He changed the subject before it could sit too comfortably on his already heavy shoulders. “Do you share custody of Alice?”
“Yes. Although, I think she’d prefer to live with her dad. She blames me for the divorce. Even though it was him who cheated.”
“Sorry to hear that. Must have been tough.”
She took a sip of wine and glanced out of the window, composing her thoughts. Kenny let her drift over the pain in her own time. He’d be there when she returned. When she did, she smiled, eyes glistening, and she ruffled away her tousled hair, inhaled, chest rising to cause the heart-shaped pendant on her gold necklace glint against the candlelight.
“Ever been married?” she asked wistfully.
“No.” Kenny twisted the stem of the wineglass between his fingers. “Avoided that one. Sort of got too busy to marry.”
“How long was your longest relationship?”
Kenny pretended to think about the answer, furrowing his brow and glancing up at the ceiling as if counting the fallen years. Except he knew. Off by heart. As if he’d marked each year off on the desolate prison walls he’d been left within since. “Six years.” He took a sip of wine. “On and off.”
“Bad breakup?”
“Yes. The worst. Blood and everything.” Whilst that was true, he smiled, letting her believe he was simply embellishing.
“Do you still see her?”
Kenny contemplated telling her the truth. Some people were okay with his bisexuality. Some people weren’t. And as she’d thrown in the gender pronoun, it hadn’t entered her head that he might enjoy more than one type of sex. At this early stage in a courtship, it was often easier to pretend his relationships had all been with women. Keep it simple. He’d had lovers of both genders. But neither sex had stuck around for long. No one longer than Jack. It wasn’t ever the sex, or the gender, that mattered.
It was the person sharing it.
“No. No, not really. We live in different corners of the country.”
The conversation moved swiftly onto other things then. Kenny let her do the talking. About her divorce. Work. Anything she wanted to talk about. And as she did, Kenny listed in his head all the boxes she ticked.
One . Stable. She had a secure upbringing. Parents were still together. Had a younger brother who was a finance manager in the city. Making her an auntie to two toddlers. They had Christmases together. She painted a portrait of conventionality meaning nothing was in her past to cause her trauma. Apart from the divorce, and her husband having cheated on her with her best friend, she was remarkably of sound mind.
And fuck knew he needed someone stable .
Two . Dedicated. She had a passion for her work. Despite all the paperwork and changes in education, her eyes lit up when she spoke of the children in her class. Her enthusiasm was endearing, and the way she spoke of her lesson planning, crafting each one with care, was a trait he admired, resonated with even, but it merged into another detail, failing to stir anything within him other than emptiness.
Three . Stunning. He couldn’t deny how attractive she was. The gentle curve of her jaw, the vibrancy of her hair, her subtle yet elegant make-up framing soft features. She had a tattoo of two combined hearts on the underside of her wrist she’d got in her twenties before she’d married the man who’d broken her heart. Yet as he took in her features, they blurred into a generic template, one that failed to imprint on his mind or quicken his pulse.
Kenny’s responses to her questions were automatic, his thoughts elsewhere. As they always were, flown to dark corners and unresolved questions. To places he should forget and walk away from. After another large glass of wine each, Heather cupped her chin in her hand, eyes sparkling, the alcohol easing her ability to be a touch more flirtatious.
“What made you go into psychology?”
Kenny sat back, swishing his glass in his hand, desperate to want to linger on her, subtly peer down the cleavage peeking out from under her wraparound dress. Instead, he stared into his glass. “Had a fascination with the human mind since I was fourteen.”
“Fourteen?” She bit her little fingernail, painted red to match her dress. “Pretty sure I had a fascination with other parts of the human anatomy at that age.”
Kenny breathed through a laugh. “I’ll bet you did.”
Heather’s cheeks glowed, and she smiled. A suggestive one. Letting Kenny know she’d been a rebel once, and fancied going back to those carefree times in her youth. “So, can you read minds?”
He could read hers, yes.
“No, I can’t read minds. But I can often explain what drives people. The patterns, motivations, underlying needs that push them toward choices that might seem baffling or wrong to others.”
“Like, why my cheating ex-husband fuck my best friend?”
“I could make an educated guess. But without meeting him, it’d only be a hypothesis.”
She straightened. Drank her wine. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Kenny leaned back, considering. “He likely has what we’d call a developmental over-attachment, possibly rooted in an indulgent relationship with his mother. If she overcompensated, did everything for him, turned a blind eye to his misbehaviour, he could have developed a sense of entitlement, an expectation that his needs are the centre of attention. Let’s say he grew up feeling validated only when he was the focus. Perhaps he was the baby of the family, accustomed to receiving special treatment, or a middle child, lost in the shuffle. Either way, he might gravitate towards relationships where he’s the focal point, the one who receives constant admiration.”
Kenny watched her eyes sharpen as she began piecing it together. He was on the right track then.
“So when your focus shifted, say to your daughter, he could have perceived that as a threat. A latent narcissistic tendency might have driven him to reestablish that validation, and rather than resolving his insecurity, he acted out by finding someone in your inner circle, because his arrested development also makes him lazy. And she offered him immediate gratification, perhaps even a sense of superiority.”
Heather’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus Christ .”
Kenny breathed out a laugh, held up his glass. “Honestly, it’s all behavioural statistics.”
“And her? My so-called best friend?”
“Oh, that one’s easy. I imagine you have a complicated history. She carries her own grievances. Maybe she’s harboured an envy toward you. A competitive tension that could go back to the smallest things. Even something as trivial as you becoming the netball captain could feed a subtle resentment. That sort of history could easily turn into a situation where she saw an opportunity for payback. Aligning herself with him, in that sense, made her feel as if she were levelling the field, if not asserting her own power.”
Heather was silent. Kenny let her absorb it all, taking the time to enjoy the wine with the quiet satisfaction of his years of studying behaviour and motivations, uncovering hidden patterns people rarely saw in themselves, could come into good use on a first date.
Heather’s eyes narrowed in thought before she spoke. “He’s a middle child.”
Kenny nodded, unsurprised.
“Older brother’s a GP, little brother plays for Watford F.C. He’s a labourer.”
Kenny shook his head, masking a wry smile. “Classic.”
Heather gave a bitter laugh, then downed the rest of her wine. “And yes, I was elected class prefect back in school, and Britney—well, she never got over it.” She slammed back her wine. “So, are you saying he would have cheated on me no matter what? That it was inevitable?”
“Not inevitable. It’s not written in his genes or wired into his DNA. Think of it as a set of influences. All our experiences, formative relationships, internalised beliefs shape our motivations. The choices people make are like a convergence of patterns. His just led him down that path. With his particular combination of unmet needs and adaptive behaviour, he found validation through an immediate, if destructive, source.” Kenny twisted the wineglass in his hand. “Had he been raised differently, with different support systems and value structures, he could have made a different choice. Someone with an opposing coping style might have sought connection by opening up a dialogue with you. Another person would have slain you in your sleep.”
Heather widened her eyes, choked on her wine.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that last part.”
Heather grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth.
“Probably more of a third date conversation.”
Heather coughed over an amused laugh. “I’ll say.”
“Can tell why I’m still single.”
“Dom said you work with criminals. Get into their minds.”
Kenny knocked back the rest of the wine in his glass. “Yes. Although, I focus mainly on lecturing now. Trying to move away from crime scenes and work on the academic professorship.”
“You seem awfully young to be a professor. Forty?”
“I followed the path early. Having known what I wanted to do since I was fourteen, I worked hard and got myself in front of the people who could make that happen.”
“Fourteen is still very young to want to get into the minds of disturbed individuals. What on earth made you want to go into that?”
Kenny inhaled a sharp breath, wishing he had more wine, but also not wanting to prolong this anymore by asking for another glass. He was about to kill the mood, anyway. “Because at fourteen, my twin sister, Jessica, was abducted, raped, and murdered.”
Heather fell back in her chair, mouth agape. “Fuck… Kenny , I’m so sorry.” She leaned across the table to place her hand over his.
“From that point on, I dedicated my life to finding out what would make a person do that and, most importantly, why they would do that. Because ever since then, I’ve had half a heart.”
Heather said nothing. There wasn’t anything she could say. Kenny didn’t want her to. Superficial apologies and pity never helped. What helped was keeping busy. An idle mind is the devil’s workshop.
“Fuck.” Heather slipped her hand from Kenny’s, falling back in the chair. “I think we should have stuck to those bland first date interview questions.”
Kenny chuckled, ghosting his fingers over the imperfections in the wood on the table. “Like what?”
“What animal would you be, and why?”
“A fish.”
Heather scrunched up her nose. “A fish? Why a fish ?”
“Because there aren’t any monsters in the sea. They all walk on land.”
Heather swallowed.
“Sorry.” He wasn’t that sorry.
But the date ended there, as it inevitably would, and Kenny offered to share his Uber with her. He knew she’d invite him into her place, and when he walked her to the door of her terraced house at the other end of town, she gave him a tempting look over her shoulder whilst she put her key in the lock.
“Alice is with her dad tonight.”
Kenny had already known this would happen. She didn’t want them to make it to the bedroom. She wanted him to accost her in the kitchen whilst she made the coffee, as if he couldn’t wait to have her there now . And if he went in, he’d oblige. He’d take her over the kitchen surface, hard and fast, make her scream. They’d laugh afterwards, half-dressed but fully fucked, remarking how they were like horny teenagers again. And it would be the best damn lay of her life. Because she’d feel desired again.
Kenny, though, would leave empty.
He had to learn how to want that.
He kissed her, chaste, on the lips. “It’s a not a ‘no’ never,” he said. “Just a not tonight.”
To her, he’ll come across as chivalrous. She’d like him more for it. She’d ask him out again. He’d say ‘yes’, too. Because he had to. Had to make something normal work .
She swiped away some of his hair from his face to kiss him again. “Good night, Kenny.”
“Night, Heather.”
He saw her safely inside. Door clicked shut, lock turned, because he knew the people who lurked in the bushes, then rushed over to the waiting car and jumped in.
At home, he made himself a whisky, took it to his office and sat on his leather chair, poring over the box file he should have left on his office shelf. Or shredded. The papers inside were orderly, yet ominous. Witness statements, crime scene photos, reports and analysis all held together by a rusted paperclip.
He thumbed through each one, unfolding the arrest document with the dull thuds of his heart telling him to keep looking . The words blurred into a narrative he knew, as if he’d written them himself, yet there was something missing. Something out of reach. Niggling at him. Refusing to let go. The Howell murders had terrorised this small, rural midlands community. Changed its very fabric. Until the final, fateful raid that had stopped their wicked deeds. He tracked every line, absorbing the details he could recite in his sleep.
Then there, amidst the procedural language and dry recounting of events, was the anomaly he’d been searching for. The silence in his office suffocated him. He couldn’t bear it. Idle minds. He dropped his glass on the floor, grabbed his mobile from the desk and scanned through the contacts. He stopped at Jack’s name, gut knotting. Closing his eyes, he hit call, quivering in the seat at having to do this. At dredging up the past. But this wasn’t about Jack. Wasn’t about what they had gone through. What had killed them.
“This number has been disconnected.” The automated message felt like the final nail on the coffin.
As it should be.
Nothing good ever came from opening old flesh wounds. From digging up corpses that should rest in peace. No more evidence needed to be gathered. It would only bring the past back to haunt him.
He opened his laptop and googled, anyway.