Chapter Eight Rotten Timber #3
His dad grunted, as though hope wasn’t nearly as useful as a signed contract. Then, after a moment, he said, “You want proper money, you need to get yourself in front of Blackridge.”
Jake looked up. “Blackridge?”
“Aye. Walter’s got work coming out his lugholes at the minute. Estate houses. Farm buildings. Refurbs. Half the bloody county belongs to him.” There was a note of admiration there. The sort men reserved for people they’d decided were decent. “Get yourself a subcontract over there.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Aye.” Donnie nodded firmly. “When the steelworks shut and men were scrambling for anything they could get, Walter looked after a lot of families round here. Mine included. Gave me work when plenty of others wouldn’t. Never forgot that.”
Jake tapped his fingers on his knees.
“He remembers people too,” Donnie continued. “Knows who works hard. Who’s worth having around. If you asked, he’d find summat for you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Think quicker than that. Opportunities don’t wait forever.”
Jake managed a noncommittal grunt.
Which really meant he’d avoid it for as long as possible.
The money would be good. Better than good.
But Jake had spent thirteen years making sure he stayed on the right side of a restraining order and a prison sentence.
He wasn’t keen on testing either by putting himself on the same payroll as the man who’d put him inside. Nor would he remind his dad about that.
Thankfully, tea arrived.
And the living room turned into the usual chaos.
Plates balancing on knees, cutlery scraping over chipped plates.
Mum’s pie golden, pastry risen and defiant, gravy thick and glossy as it spilled over mashed potatoes.
Jake wedged himself between Maggie and Teddy on the sagging sofa while his dad held court in the armchair, remote resting on the arm, slippers planted square on the patch of carpet worn threadbare in front of the fire.
For a while, it almost passed for normal.
Teddy moaned about maths homework. Maggie muttered about the state of Teddy’s school uniform. Jake slipped a forkful of peas onto Teddy’s plate when he wasn’t looking, and Teddy retaliated by launching carrots back in quiet protest. Maggie swatted at them both with no real heat.
Then the local news theme hit, and suddenly normal was gone again.
Other headlines came first. A road closure. A council dispute. Weather warnings rolling in off the moors. Jake chewed and swallowed, tasting none of it.
Then, there he was.
DI Harrison Black filled Jake’s television screen, standing in front of the stone wall backdrop. The force crest was visible over his shoulder. Tie straight despite the wind tugging at his coat.
Jake’s lungs forgot their job.
He pressed his palm flat to his chest, over the swallow pendant hanging on the chain that’d been replaced several times of the past thirteen years, and tried to stop the thudding.
As if he could ask his heart, please, for once, don’t make a spectacle of him.
It was for what he knew was coming next.
The missing girl. The investigation. The woodland path once again featuring in all their lives as the last known location.
But it was also his voice.
“I’m Detective Inspector Harrison Black, Senior Investigating Officer in the disappearance of seventeen-year-old Emily Fisher…”
Maggie’s fork clinked against her plate. His dad didn’t blink. Teddy went very still.
“…We are treating this as a high-risk missing person investigation…”
Maggie made a small sound in the back of her throat.
Not quite a sob. Not quite a sigh. Then she stood abruptly, plate still half-full, and carried it into the kitchen.
His dad remained fixed on the screen, jaw tight, eyes glassy but dry.
As if movement might fracture something.
Teddy watched the footage with thirteen-year-old eyes.
Old enough to understand, young enough to hope the ending would be different.
“It’s going around that she’ll turn up in Manchester.” Jake wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince. Because he hadn’t convinced himself.
His dad didn’t answer.
So Jake rose and gathered the abandoned plates, taking them to his mum in the kitchen.
Maggie stood at the sink, bracing her hands on the counter, shoulders bowed, as if she had to physically hold herself upright.
Rain had started outside, streaking the back window, echoing the quiet tracks of tears slipping down her face.
She swiped at them when she heard him, but Jake didn’t pretend he didn’t see.
Not here. Not with her. This house wasn’t built for pretending.
Everything was too big. Too close to the surface.
He set the plates down gently, then stepped in and wrapped his arms around her.
She folded into him straight away. And years of held breath broke loose in one jagged sob as she clutched his hoodie and cried into his chest. Jake held her tighter, resting his chin on the top of her head, letting her take whatever she needed.
The fabric was already stained.
So he let her soak her way through it.
“Not again,” she whispered into his chest.
He didn’t answer. What could he say?
When her breathing steadied, when the sobs softened into something survivable, he eased back. “Keep an extra eye on Teddy tonight, aye?”
“Oh, aye. Will hold him whether he wants it or not.”
Jake gave a smile and kissed her forehead.
They went back into the front room together then.
His dad had muted the television but hadn’t turned it off.
Harrison’s image lingered on the screen, frozen mid-sentence.
A still frame of control. Maggie sank down beside Teddy and drew him to her side.
Teddy let her. He didn’t shrug her off. Maybe he knew he didn’t get a say.
Or maybe, just this once, he wanted it. Jake stayed where he was.
Took them all in. Three of them. All still orbiting what had happened thirteen years ago.
Then he turned to the door.
Maggie twisted round on the sofa, frowning at him. “Where you going, love? Not back to that pit of yours? You can stay here.”
She’d never liked the bedsit. Neither had he, if he were honest. But Teddy needed his own space now he was a teenager.
Somewhere that was properly his, not a corner carved out of a house full of ghosts.
And Jake had done his time on their sofa, nights staring at the ceiling while the door to Robyn’s room stayed firmly shut, none of them willing to cross that line.
So he’d taken the bedsit. Damp, cramped, costing more than it should.
And he needed his own space. At thirty-one, he needed somewhere to bring the blokes back.
Even if he hadn’t yet.
“They’ll be organising a search.” Jake tipped his chin at the door, already halfway gone in his head. “I’ll help.”
“It’s bucketing down out there. You’ll catch your death—” The words caught in her throat and broke apart halfway through.
Jake drew a breath, then glanced out the window.
Rain battered the glass, hammering the guttering, turning the quiet street into a silver blur. It would flood the woodland path within the hour. Wash footprints clean. Flatten the grass. Turn soil to sludge.
Destroy evidence.
He crossed the hallway in three strides and yanked the front door open. Cold rain slapped against the threshold in heavy sheets, the wind forcing it sideways. Then he pulled his hood up. Looked back at his mum curled around Teddy and his dad staring at the blank-blue glow of a muted, frozen screen.
Jake forced a smile. “I’ll call.”
Then he stepped out into the downpour.
Because if there was something to be found, to salvage, he had to be the one to find it.