Chapter Twenty-One
Sam wonders, for the hundredth time that week, What is wrong with men?
Then she pictures Adam Taylor and knows deep down that it’s not all men, just too many of them.
Not Dr. Pete Thomson, either. She settled her own bill for the missed sessions, and the doctor easily understood why that was important to her.
The bill that usually went to Harry was redirected to her instead, and she thanked the doctor before signing herself off.
He’s recommended a few female PTSD specialists who she’ll reach out to in the future if and when she needs them, and she’s engaging with the police psychologist as far as is necessary to get her suspension lifted.
Sam crosses the city of Bath to the suburb of Twerton and parks up a couple of streets away from the house of recently released murderer Richie Scott.
From the passenger seat, she spends a few minutes stuffing her own long hair into a wig cap, before sliding a man’s wig over the top.
She looks like her younger brother in his emo stage.
If she had a younger brother, that is. Then she slides a beanie on top of the wig, leaving just small bits of hair visible.
She’s already wearing men’s jeans that conceal her curves and now pulls on a leather biker’s jacket.
Finally, she attaches clip-on lip and nose rings, then slides on her sunglasses.
Outside the Fiesta, Sam checks her reflection in the windows of the car.
Bloody hell, she thinks, I look cool. If Green Day and Metallica had a son.
After thirty minutes she’s seen nothing, and Toni begins to whine. She picks him up and he sits awkwardly on her lap. His little body has filled right out and his coat feels much thicker than it originally was when she strokes him.
“We need some more dental chews for you, boy,” she says as he licks her face, almost making her gag.
Sam’s so busy wiping away the saliva that she doesn’t notice Richie Scott leave his house.
By the time she looks up, he’s already through his garden gate.
Sam stays seated, her stomach tightening at the sight of Richie without his handcuffs.
He’s wearing a red football shirt that’s at least one size too small.
Snug jeans and no coat. He stops, lights a cigarette and hovers.
What’s he waiting for? Sam wonders. For a heart-stopping moment she thinks he might have clocked her as his eyes roam up and down the street, but after a second they pass over her and he looks up at the sky in the way that recently released men tend to do.
“Hurry up, Lindsay!” he yells.
Moments later, the duck-egg door opens and a blond woman steps out.
She looks a lot like Melanie, Sam thinks.
Bright-blond hair. Deep tan. Eyelashes and nails.
Gorgeous, if a little overdone for Sam. Far too beautiful to be with this monster.
She locks the door and totters down the garden path on skinny stilettos, pulling her denim jacket around her.
Richie begins gesturing to her before she’s reached the gate.
Sam frowns, unable to make out what’s going on.
He seems to be pointing to Lindsay’s shoes and then he tugs roughly at her coat.
Lindsay says something in return but he shakes his head and she goes back inside the house.
They wait again. Toni is fidgety on Sam’s lap, but she doesn’t want to move and attract attention.
Richie scrolls through his phone, oblivious.
Lindsay re-emerges, this time wearing flat shoes, and the jacket is gone, revealing a tight, red tank top and noticeable cleavage.
She really is stunning. Richie takes her in from head to toe, nods and they set off down the street.
They walk strangely, switching sides of the path now and then.
Richie always initiates the movements. It’s like a badly choreographed dance and Sam frowns again, baffled.
Lindsay rubs her arms as if she’s cold. Why did she take her jacket off?
It takes Sam a few more moments to finally realize what’s going on.
Richie Scott is a man who likes to control how his women look.
The cleavage needs to be out. The makeup and nails done.
She’s just an accessory to him, like a polished car.
Lindsay looks like Mel, but she’s taller and surpasses Richie Scott’s five foot five by at least two inches.
That’s why he made her change out of her heels.
That’s why he’s making her walk on the lowest part of the footpath.
He needs to be as tall as possible next to her.
What an egomaniac, Sam thinks, as Richie maneuvers his girlfriend again.
“He’s making her walk in the actual gutter,” Sam mutters to Toni, who ignores her.
After ten minutes of Sam following at a distance, the couple enters a pub.
It looks like a nice local, with baskets of flowers along the redbrick front and a few football flags adorning the windowsills.
Sam walks past the pub and heads back to the car to sit for a while, so her presence isn’t noticed.
When she enters the pub two hours later, she hears Richie before she sees him.
As expected, he’s clearly several pints in and sits opposite a large screen showing a football game.
Sam orders a lemon and lime and sits a few tables behind the couple.
They’ve been joined by some other men in football shirts, whose eyes move from the screen to Lindsay’s cleavage and back again.
The place smells of hops, BO and cheap aftershave.
Occasional cheers and regular profanities fill the air. It seems that the home team is winning.
Sam sips her drink and Toni settles on the floor at her feet.
He seems very comfortable in this environment and she wonders if the little scruff frequented similar old-man pubs in his previous life.
Despite not being remotely interested in the game, she forces herself to watch it.
She allows her eyes to roam across Lindsay’s body from time to time but sees no evidence of bruises or other abuse.
If anything, the atmosphere between her and Richie feels positive.
He leans in and whispers to his girlfriend, who discreetly takes a twenty-pound note from her purse and passes it to him surreptitiously, as if it were cocaine.
He then gets up and buys four pints, which he places in front of each of the men at the table, pocketing the change.
He’s using her money but wants it to appear that he’s using his own.
No drink for Lindsay, either. What a knob.
Suddenly, the men erupt in shouting. Toni jumps on to Sam’s lap, sending cold liquid down her sleeve.
The men swear and point at the screen. An opposition player is carrying the ball toward the penalty spot.
The atmosphere for the remaining seven minutes of the game is hostile.
The barman eyes the group as they become more agitated.
When the whistle blows, Richie Scott slams his glass down on the table.
Lindsay places a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs her off, jumping up and storming out of the pub.
The remaining men chunter among themselves, ignoring Lindsay, who starts looking around for Richie. She’s clearly uncertain whether to follow him or await his return. One of the other men speaks to her and she smiles politely, then spins as she hears the door crash open behind her.
“You coming, or what?!” Richie yells at her.
“Sorry, love, I wasn’t sure if you’d just gone for a ciggy.”
“You’ll say anything, you will. You’ll sit all day and talk to any man that’ll look at ya. Fuckin’ whore,” Richie hisses, and Lindsay blushes.
“There’s no need for that. I was just coming,” she says.
Richie Scott grabs Lindsay by the arm and pulls. She appears well made and strong, but she is no match for Scott and flies off her stool, which clatters on to the floor.
“Hey!” calls the barman, but Richie has already dragged his new girlfriend through the pub’s front door, letting it swing shut behind him. Sam watches as the barman shakes his head and picks up a glass to polish. “Arsehole,” he says to no one in particular.
Don’t worry mate, she thinks, clipping on Toni’s lead. I’ll make sure he gets exactly what he deserves.