The Fixer Read online

  ‘So how are things, Mum?’ I ask her, standing at the edge of the sofa. Not that I need an answer. One glance tells me everything.

  ‘Total shite,’ she yawns, barely able to keep her eyes open. ‘Couldn’t shift the last of the tulips, even though I was almost giving them away. Been at the flower market since six this morning. Banjaxed now. Never even heard you at the front door.’

  ‘Go on back to sleep then,’ I tell her, already peppering to get away, if the truth be told. ‘I’ll run upstairs to see Nan.’

  ‘Sit down for two minutes first, will you? You’re making me nervous standing there.’

  ‘Can’t. Sorry. No time. How has Nan been this week?’

  ‘Got out twice when I wasn’t here. Once in her nightie. Bridie across the street had a right job getting her home. She kept saying there was going to be an air raid any minute.’

  Worse, in other words. A whole lot worse.

  ‘Did you bring me anything?’ Mum asks, suddenly perking up.

  ‘Of course I did. Same as I do every week.’

  With that, I reach for my bag, unzip it, whip out a neat white envelope and hand it over.

  ‘How much this time?’ she says, with a spark in her eye.

  ‘Two thousand,’ I tell her, leaving the envelope on the coffee table in front of her.

  If I was expecting thanks, though, I’m left disappointed.

  ‘Thought you’d be pleased, Mum.’

  ‘Well, at least you remembered to bring cash,’ she sniffs. ‘Cheques are no good to me. A cheque from someone called Meg Monroe? Sure, what use is that? Who’s this Meg Monroe when she’s at home?’

  ‘It’s the name I go by now,’ I sigh. ‘As you know perfectly well.’

  ‘Well, you’ll always be Megan MacKenzie in this house.’

  There’s a tense pause, but I’m not rising to the bait. Not again.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve enough cash there for this month’s mortgage,’ I tell her, making to leave. ‘I’ll bring more next week. And in the meantime—’

  ‘Yeah, but where’s all this cash coming from, that’s what I’d like to know,’ she interrupts, looking flatly over at me.

  ‘I’ve told you a thousand times. I have a new job, a great job. I’m in waste management now and I’m working hard and the money is good. So good, in fact, that you and Nan—’

  ‘If you’re going to suggest your Nan and I move out of here again . . .’ Mum says, with a warning note I know well in her voice.

  ‘The offer is still on the table,’ I tell her, calmly folding my arms and facing her. ‘You know I can find you somewhere a lot better to live than here. Somewhere safer, for a start. Somewhere where you don’t have to witness a drug deal every time you go out to buy a carton of milk.’

  Mum shakes her head stubbornly and sits up, reaching across the table in front of her for her cigarettes and a lighter.

  ‘I’ll never leave this house and you know it, missy,’ she says firmly. ‘Just because you’re ashamed of the place, with your fancy new accent, and your new name, and your expensive clothes, doesn’t mean that I am. Your nan loves this house and it’s where she and your grandad raised their family, and if that’s good enough for them, then it should be good enough for you too. With your notions and your flashy job, and your ridiculous, invented new name. Megan.’

  I don’t rise to the bait. Instead, I leave the room without another word so I can get upstairs to see my nan. Pointless having the same roundabout argument with my mother, time and again. Best thing, I know of old, is to get in and get the hell out as fast as I possibly can.

  ‘What does a job in waste management even mean?’ Mum calls up the stairs after me. ‘A posh way of saying you put out bins?’

  I keep my cool and will myself not to give a smart answer back. Instead, I knock gently on Nan’s bedroom door and let myself in.

  ‘Heard all that, loud and clear,’ Nan says, sitting bolt upright in bed, rollers wobbling in her snow-white hair, with a flowery, old-fashioned bedspread tucked around her, surrounded by magazines with articles in them about gardening and how to knit the perfect egg cosy. ‘You’re not in the door two minutes, and already you and your mother are at each other’s throats. What are the pair of you like? You need your heads banging together, if you ask me.’

  I bend down to kiss her lightly on the forehead, inhaling the deep, comforting smell of lavender talc that I always associate with Nan.

  ‘How are you, Megan?’ Nan twinkles up at me. ‘Stand there till I have a good look at you.’

  I do as I’m told, grateful that Nan seems a little bit more like herself this evening.

  ‘Lovely dress,’ Nan smiles. ‘You look nice. Like one of those girls who give out the free samples in Marks and Spencer. The kind of girl that any fella would be glad to bring home. Do you have a boyfriend, love?’

  ‘Nan!’ I say to her, faux annoyed. ‘Why would I want a boyfriend?’

  Why would anyone want a boyfriend? Who has the time, for starters?

  ‘Because that’s what people do,’ Nan replies, frowning. ‘You never have boyfriends. Why are you always single?’

  I instantly change the subject. ‘I brought you some Werther’s Originals, Nan. Would you like one?’

  ‘Stupid question, course I want a Werther’s Original,’ she says as I delve into the bowels of my bag and produce five value packs I picked up for her earlier. But then it would be a hardy soul who dared cross the threshold of this house without a good supply of Werther’s Originals for Nan.

  ‘Anyway, pay no attention to your mum,’ Nan says, gratefully taking the stack of sweets and ripping open the first pack her bony little hand lights on. ‘I know she’s in a right nark tonight, but it’s only because your dad went to see her at the flower market earlier.’

  Just at the mention of his name, I swear I can feel my spine stiffen.

  ‘What the hell did that gobshite want?’ I ask icily.

  ‘What do you think?’ Nan replies, taking out her dentures, and leaving them on top of a magazine with Prue Leith on the cover before popping a sweet into her mouth. ‘To talk about you, of course. Said he’s been trying to track you down for ages now, but you’ve changed address again and he can’t get a hold of you.’

  I rub at my temples as my head begins to pound.

  ‘Worthless fucking tosser . . .’ I mutter, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Nan’s hearing.

  ‘You watch your language,’ she says sternly.

  ‘Sorry, Nan.’

  ‘Your mum and I are allowed to call him a fucking tosser, but you’re his daughter and you’re not. Anyway, he says his youngest kid is going to be ten next week, and he’s having a party for her. Chocolate fountains, bouncy castles, the whole works. Wants you to go. Says she’s your half-sister and you can’t keep on ignoring her and the half-brother and your stepmother forever.’

  ‘Oh, can’t I, Nan?’ I say, starting to pace the room, just to calm down a bit. ‘Just watch me.’

  At that, I think back to my own tenth birthday party. My dad faithfully promising to take me to McDonald’s, and then to the movies. I was all excited and had even dressed up for the day in my brand-new party dress. It’s not even like the whole day would have cost the fucker that much, I think; the price of a kid’s meal, a bucket of popcorn and the movie tickets?

  But the arsehole couldn’t even get that much right. Instead, he left me waiting on the front step outside the house till it got dark and cold, with not even a phone call to cancel – nothing. Eventually, Nan came out and coaxed me back inside, with the promise of Häagen-Dazs and Fanta and all the telly I wanted.

  Still, though, it hurt then and it still stings now.

  ‘You’re only narky because your dad is far better to his new family than he ever was to you, that’s all that’s wrong with you,’ Nan nods sagely. ‘There was a family just like that on breakfast telly this morning. Deadbeat Dads, they called it. Eejits who were louses to their first family, but
as soon as they remarried and had kids with a new partner, sure it was nothing but trips to Disneyland and private schools and brand-new mobile phones all the way.’

  No, actually, I think, as an old familiar fury rises up inside me. No, that’s not it at all. The only reason I’m annoyed is because I’d gladly sort out the likes of my father in about two seconds flat, if only I was allowed. I do this kind of thing for a living now and astonishingly satisfying it is too. And, in his particular case, it would be a fucking pleasure.

  Just then my phone rings out loud and clear, distracting me. But when I glance down at the phone to see who it is, my stomach instantly withers.

  No, no, no, no. Another clatter of missed calls from the very same number as earlier.

  Which means this is no coincidence. Which means this could be bad.

  Not again, not now, just NO.

  A brand-new sensation washes over me. Guilt, maybe? A long-abandoned conscience finally niggling at me?

  If so, it feels exactly like heartburn.

  ‘Who’s that ringing you at this hour?’ Nan says, as I click it off and try to put it out of my mind.

  ‘No one. Nothing important. Just work.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ Nan says, looking beadily at me. ‘How many people want their bins collected at ten o’clock at night?’

  ‘Never you mind who it was, Nan,’ I say briskly, determined to get the most out of the tiny chink of quality time I spend with her. Particularly when she actually seems well this evening. Coherent, even.

  ‘Now, how about another nice Werther’s Original, and you can tell me all your news since last week?’

  ‘Oh well, I’m glad you asked, because loads has happened since you were here last,’ Nan says, sitting up in the bed and smiling brightly. ‘The main bit of news is that Edward the Eighth has abdicated to marry this skinny malink called Wallis Simpson. She’s American and she’s twice divorced. Or so Queen Mary was telling me, when she rang just now . . .’

  I sigh and settle in for what I know is going to be a long, long evening.

  Chapter Six

  Harriet

  Airport arrivals hall

  ‘It’s absolutely wonderful you’re home, pet! Your dad and I missed you so much. And I know the twins did too, in their own way. Even though the pair of them wanted to sell all your stuff on eBay, because they were so sure you were never coming back from Africa at all.’

  ‘Oh, Mam, it’s so great to hear your voice!’ Harriet says, loving that she can just call her mother and get through instantly, without going through all the palaver of trying to find Wi-Fi in the back arse of Mombasa, Kenya, just so she could Skype or make a WhatsApp call.

  ‘I wish you’d given us a bit of warning though,’ her mam says. ‘You remember I’m over in New York all week for this big conference? Well, your dad came with me too – sure, you know how he can never resist a freebie at a nice hotel that someone else is paying for. But, my God, we wouldn’t have dreamt of going away if we’d known you were coming home, pet! Not in a million years.’

  ‘I wanted to surprise you, Mam,’ Harriet beams, so thrilled to be home that she doesn’t even mind the never-ending queue at passport control she’s stuck in. Probably the only person in the whole arrivals hall who looks all happy and glowing and ‘lit from within’. As opposed to pissed off and stressed, like anyone halfway normal.

  ‘Your dad will be so happy you’re back, too,’ her mam chatters away. ‘You’re always so good at refereeing arguments when the boys are around. And there have certainly been plenty of them since you left, let me tell you. With this double wedding, honest to God, my nerves are shot.’

  ‘I can’t wait till I see you, so I can hear all about it,’ says Harriet, as the queue inches forward by another half-degree.

  Her twin brothers, Jack and Terry, have been double-dating two best friends for years now, and then both couples got engaged on New Year’s Eve, with a double wedding in the planning ever since. In fact, that’s one of the reasons Harriet flew home so early; the twins are having their stag night in Dublin this weekend, and there’s no way on earth she’s going to miss out on all the fun.

  One of the reasons she’s come home, but by no means the main one. ‘It’s so weird to be back, Mam,’ Harriet smiles, struggling with the backpack that has been strapped to her aching shoulders and hauling it off her, dumping it on the floor in the passport hall. ‘Cold weather for one thing – and no mosquitoes. And just hearing all the accents from home after so long – it’s incredible. All I need now is a big feed of Tayto crisps and McCambridge’s brown bread and chocolate Kimberleys and then I’ll really believe I’m back!’ ‘We’ve so much to catch up on,’ her mam says, slightly wafting in and out of phone coverage. ‘Your dad and I will be home in a few days, so we can have a lovely family reunion then. So exciting! I’m delighted you’re home, pet. It’s going to be a lovely fresh start for you, wait and see. After all of that . . . well, you know. Unpleasantness, I suppose. After everything that happened last year. Oh . . . you know what I’m trying to say here.’

  There’s a tiny, strained pause before Harriet answers.

  ‘Well, for better or for worse, I’m back to stay now, Mam,’ she says quietly, as an airport announcement in the background almost drowns her out. ‘Onwards and upwards, and all that.’

  ‘Do you know what?’ her mam replies. ‘It’s so wonderful to hear you say that, love. Just wonderful. Bigger and better things ahead for you, wait till you see. No more running away!’

  No, Harriet thinks. No; I’m done with running away, that’s for certain.

  ‘So will I send one of the twins up to the airport to collect you? Although, mind you, I wouldn’t put it past the pair of them to be out on the tear with their mates. Yet again. Honestly, they’re acting like this stag night malarkey is a month-long event, and the whole town should be out buying them free drinks.’

  ‘Don’t do any such thing!’ Harriet insists. ‘Sure, it would take the twins the guts of three hours to drive to the airport – I wouldn’t ask anyone to do that.’

  ‘But you can’t stay in a miserable old airport hotel on your first night home,’ her mam says, worriedly. ‘That would be awful.’

  ‘Who said anything about a hotel?’ Harriet smiles, as the passport queue lurches forward again. Directly ahead of her in the queue a woman is struggling with a buggy with an unruly toddler strapped into it, crying and cranky on account of the late hour. The little boy flings his toy tractor out of the buggy, hurling it down on to the floor in a tantrum, and Harriet immediately bends down to help.

  ‘Actually, I was going to stay with a friend,’ she beams happily. ‘You remember Meg Monroe? Course you do, everyone remembers Meg!’

  Chapter Seven

  Meg

  It’s late, late, late when I’m finally in the back of a taxi, rolling home after that duty visit to my family. I’m shattered at the tail end of another exhilaratingly insane Day in the Life and so looking forward to a well-deserved snooze. Out of force of habit more than anything else, I whip out my phone to double-check it. Well, as I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, this gig requires me to be on call twenty-four/seven. A bit like an emergency paramedic, I think, with a self-satisfied little smile.

  Two seconds later and I’m certainly not smiling anymore.

  Because there it is, again. Yet more missed calls from that same unfamiliar number. Except this time, I know for certain it’s her. Which means so far she’s rung dozens of times, left two voice messages and a countless string of rambling text messages.

  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

  And now my breath will only come staccato-style and I’m sweating. Me, who never breaks a sweat – ever.

  I catch a tiny glimpse of one text before instantly punching delete.

  Meg, need to talk, where are you? I have a HUGE surprise for you – please return my calls!

  You see? I think, kicking myself crossly. This is what happens when you break your own rul
es. This is what happens when you let someone in. This is what you risk when you let your guard down, when you get too close.

  The very fact she’s back means that . . . potentially . . . worst-case scenario . . . I don’t allow myself to finish that thought though. Instead, I sit back against the car seat and try to breathe nice and regularly, like they teach you on mindfulness apps. In for two and out for four, in for two and out for four . . .

  I remind myself that she can’t find me. She doesn’t have a clue where I’m living now, and thank God for it. I can just ghost her – then with any luck, she’ll assume I’ve changed my number.

  I tell myself I’ve actually done this particular person a favour. A very big favour, as it happens. And OK, so maybe I had to be a teeny bit cruel to be kind, but hey, that’s the way the world works and you could sink or swim – your choice entirely.

  Brain pounding, I pay the taxi driver, then let myself in through the communal door in the hallway where it’s so late, even the concierge is off duty. Stepping into the lift, I give my throbbing temples a comforting little rub.

  The lift doors glide gracefully open on the penthouse floor.

  And suddenly, I’m shocked wide awake, blood whooshing most unpleasantly through my ears.

  What. The. Actual. Fuck?

  There’s a tight little ball of a person, right outside my apartment door. Fast sleep, and with a wheelie bag and a tatty old rucksack beside her, as if she’s planning to stay.

  So she found me, then. Somehow. Some way. She tracked me down to my home, the very last place I’d ever want her to know about.

  I will myself to stay cool. Regroup. I’m good at weaselling out of things, and I’m pretty sure I can deal with this too.

  ‘Wake up,’ I hiss at her, bending down to give this unwanted guest a good poke in the shoulders.

  Next thing, a pair of eyes open drowsily and the silky fair head of waist-length hair that had been sprawled out on a rolled-up puffa jacket begins to stir.

  ‘Meg, there you are!’ she says, blinking up at me – a Disney princess stirring to life – utterly vomit-making. ‘You’re back . . . finally! I’ve been calling you and calling you and waiting for you to come home all night. So, here I am, and I’m back! Surprise!’