Before Christmas, Carl had told the group he would be starting a new part-time job as a bouncer at a club in Pontypridd. Now just a few weeks in, Carl already seemed disaffected by his new employment. He wasn’t the type of person Tim Cole and Connor Price had had in mind when they’d started the support group. The group had been started with the aim of helping young people in the local area overcome anxiety and depression, yet Carl didn’t seem to suffer with either. Nor was he that young. He was just angry, and his anger was starting to make everyone else’s anxiety tangible.
‘Anyone do anything different this week?’ Connor asked, keen to take the focus away from Carl. ‘Last week we talked about meditation.’ Christ, he thought. Meditation. Another of Tim’s hippy-dippy theories. Come spring, he’d have them all out in the street hugging the nearest available tree. Still, if it kept the focus off Carl and away from Tim for at least five minutes, it was bound to be worth it. ‘Anyone try it?’
Carl gave a snort which went ignored by the rest of the group. Rachel shifted awkwardly in her seat, and Connor considered the idea that perhaps it was time this man left for good. He was making people uncomfortable and if they were unable to be comfortable here then the whole purpose of this group was lost. He might agree with Carl’s scepticism about Tim’s proposed remedies, but at least he was attempting the politer thing by hiding his derision.
Connor was adept at hiding his true feelings. It was becoming quite a skill.
‘I tried it,’ Sarah said. She flicked a long length of blonde hair away from her face. ‘It was good. Really good.’ She dragged the vowels in her words, stretching their meaning into ambiguity.
‘What did you try?’ Tim asked, reaching for his beanie hat from the floor. He put it back on, protecting his bald scalp from the snapping cold of the village hall. Beside him, Connor shifted. Sean shot him a look that went unnoticed by Connor but, for Sarah, demonstrated the intended effect of her words.
‘You know… just breathing. In and out… slowly.’
Her eyes stayed fixed on Connor, challenging a response.
‘I found meditation really useful when I first came out of prison,’ Tim said, oblivious to the looks that were being passed between certain other members of the group. The volunteer leaders encouraged group members to be honest about themselves and their pasts, always starting with themselves and their own experiences in order to develop an atmosphere of trust. There was nothing Tim had held back: he had shared stories of his drug addiction, his brief period of homelessness; his even longer period of residence as a detainee at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Connor wondered if he shared too much. Being honest was good; being too honest could be fatal.
‘The funny thing is,’ Tim continued, ‘people assume that being in prison is the difficult bit, but if you keep your head down and don’t make yourself any enemies, it’s not. Actually, it’s being released that’s the hard part. You come back out into the world, you think you’ve got nowhere to go and nothing to live for. It’s tough. Sometimes just being able to step away from things makes life a lot clearer. You need that time for yourself. Did you find that, Sean?’
Sean Pugh had sat quietly taking it all in, or appearing to. Tall, skinny, and with a sleeve of tattoos that depicted the array of things he believed were to blame for his life’s early downward spiral (he had given the group a guided tour of his arm at his second meeting, proudly declaring that what he carried with him and could keep an eye on could never defeat him), he had spent three years in prison for car theft and armed robbery and was now, still only twenty-two, unemployed and living back at his mother’s house.
‘Uh? Sorry, what did you say?’
‘When you left prison. Did you try meditation to help yourself readjust?’
Sean looked at Tim as though he’d just spoken to him in a foreign language. ‘Uh… no. I listened to a lot of music though. You know, to chill out.’
Connor Price let the conversation pass over him. He kept an eye on Sarah, his mouth fixed in a grimace. Rachel’s attention was distracted from Tim’s next question about what sort of music Sean had listened to; instead, she found herself engrossed in the silent exchange taking place between Connor and Sarah: in the twitching of jaws and the narrowing of eyes that seemed to form their own muted conversation. Carl pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time.
‘Are we going to the pub tonight?’ Connor asked, interrupting the debate.
Invariably, the group sessions often began in the hall and ended in the pub. The cold was usually a good enough excuse, although they never seemed to need one. Carl never went. Connor presumed he didn’t want to be seen out in public with them in case Carl saw someone he knew. Explaining he was out with his support group likely wouldn’t help the hardman image he seemed so keen to project.
‘I’m up for it,’ Tim offered.
There were a few nods and mutterings from the remaining members of the group. Connor got up from his chair and turned the heater off, unplugging it and moving it back to the far side of the room. The others returned their chairs to the corner, stacking them noisily.
‘Anyone heard from Lola?’
Connor turned to look at Tim. He shook his head.
‘She said she’d be coming back after Christmas,’ Sarah said.
‘But no one’s seen her?’
Sarah shrugged. ‘She’s never been that regular, has she?’
Connor turned back to the wall, busying himself with rolling up the cable of the electric heater. It didn’t need doing – he just didn’t want people looking at him. He didn’t really feel like going for a drink. He didn’t want to go home either. The problem was, Connor didn’t really know what he wanted. Except the one thing.
The need for that never seemed to leave him.
Chapter Five
Alex sat on the edge of a desk in the main investigation room of the station and looked at the image of the murder victim pinned to the board in front of her. The team had assembled, discussed, and dispersed, and on any other day Alex might have been due to head home. Now she wasn’t going anywhere. Murder victims couldn’t be made to wait for office hours, she thought. While there was something she could be doing, she would make sure she was doing it.
‘What you thinking?’
Alex became aware of the superintendent’s eyes on her. He was still sitting at one of the computers, so quiet that she had forgotten he was there. She had never liked having to address the team in front of him, always feeling reduced to her teenage self, keen to impress a favourite teacher. It was ridiculous, especially after all these years of working together. She and Harry Blake had known each other for years, and he had always treated people fairly. During her ongoing fertility treatment, the superintendent had been an unlikely ally. He had fought her corner when the nonsensical rules regarding time off work for treatment had stated Alex should use her days off as unpaid leave. According to the police service’s rules, IVF treatment was a ‘lifestyle choice’. Like having a boob job, Alex remembered thinking at the time.
‘Oh, you know me,’ she answered flippantly. ‘Nothing much.’