If I Never See You Again Read Free Page B

touched Rita’s face lightly. ‘You poor love,’ she whispered. ‘What did you do to deserve this?’
    She pulled the glove back on, slid the medical card back in the purse and placed it back where she’d found it. The two50s she tucked in her coat pocket.
    From the doorway behind her, Foxy said flatly: ‘The lads are on their way.’
    3
    It was early evening by the time Jo pulled into the driveway of her home, a granite cottage with a For Sale sign outside it in Barnacullia, on the Three Rock mountain, six miles south of the city centre. Clutching her sleeping one-year-old, Harry, with one arm, Jo used the other, in sync with her elbow and foot, to battle the boot of her twenty-year-old Ford Escort open and take the M&S bag containing the groceries out.
The sloped lawn was only the size of a postage stamp, but it had looked permanently shabby since Dan had left. Much as she enjoyed gardening, Jo liked the idea of keeping potential buyers at bay for as long as possible even more. Even in a recession, she could never have afforded this place now that Dundrum town centre and the city’s ring road had sprung up so close. But back when they were buying, this place had been considered the sticks, and the house in need of complete refurbishment. Times had changed, Jo thought as she struggled with the shopping. At weekends, a fleet of hip young professionals wearing shades on their heads and driving convertibles converged on the picnic benches outside Lamb Doyles or the Blue Light pub to drink cider and take in the view from the smog-line perch over the city. Jo had become adept at dodging the estate agent’s calls.
    She had a splitting headache and was having no luck trying to shake the bag free of the stroller in the boot so as not to disrupt Harry, her mobile phone gripped between her teeth. There was a sixteen-year age gap between her boys and, on days like this, the having-it-all dream seemed more like a downright lie than a myth. Eventually, the bag containing the dinner crashed out on the tarmac, bringing with it the stroller and a stack of fluttering paperwork, and Jo snagged her finger in snapping metal in the process. She sucked and shook her hand miserably, stamping on the documents before bending sideways to scoop everything back up and in.
Once the balancing act had negotiated its way through the front door, Jo dropped her bags where she stood and carried Harry, who was still – miraculously – sleeping, to his cot beside the bed in her room. After tucking him in snugly, she flicked the baby monitor on.
    Heading back down the hall, she swung into the sitting room and leaned over the back of the couch. She plucked a beer bottle and remote control from the armrest.
    ‘Hey,’ Rory protested, scrambling to his feet and turning around.
    Her eldest son scrunched his eyes shut as Jo flicked the light on.
    ‘Next time, I tell your father,’ she warned, hitting the mute button. Incoherent gangsta rap came to an abrupt halt.
    ‘Yeah, cos, like, he’ll take the call,’ Rory jeered.
    She froze with her back to him and began the silent count to ten. ‘Would you like your dinner now? Will Becky have some? And does her mum know she’s here?’ she said, walking into the kitchen, where yesterday evening’s dirty dishes confronted her.
    ‘Yes, please, and yes, Mrs Mason,’ the body that had been squirming under Rory on the couch called back. The pretty blonde teenager sat up and buttoned up her blouse quickly, smoothing her long hair back into place.
Jo glanced at the yellow Post-it stuck to the broken dishwasher door that was supposed to have been a foolproof reminder to Phone a plumber!!! for the last two days. She sighed, pulled up a sleeve and rooted under the bottom of the stack of dishes in the sink for the plug.
    ‘We’re starving,’ Rory announced, arriving and asking behind her, ‘Okay if Becky stays the night?’
    ‘Spag Bol in approximately forty-five . . .’ Jo said. ‘And yes, if Becky puts