Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [93]
‘It looks too good to be true,’ I said. ‘What’s the catch?’
‘There’s no catch,’ Peter insisted, but he was lying.
The catch was that the house was in Bathgate, Scotland – about thirty-five miles from Glasgow. That’s why he only had pictures of it – it was too far for him to travel to view. There was no way I wanted to go to another country, of course, but he wouldn’t let it drop. The opportunities, he said, would be ten times better up there.
‘But you don’t want to do anything, opportunities or no opportunities.’
Then he went down the healthy route, talking about the fresh air and the countryside, but I just said the sea air was probably better for you.
Finally he came up with the argument he knew I couldn’t beat.
‘Think of Daniel,’ he said. That old chestnut.
‘I am thinking of Daniel!’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want him cut off from his great-grandparents.’
‘Yes, but my family live up there. He’ll see my mum and dad, my sister and brothers, my nephews and nieces.’
‘Since when do your family live there? You’re from Glasgow.’
‘Get away,’ he laughed. ‘Where’d you get that idea?’
‘It’s what you told me.’
He had, several times, along with the fact that he had six siblings and plenty of nephews and nieces.
‘Scotland’s all the same to you English, isn’t it? No, I’m from Livingston, I told you that. It’s about five miles up the road from Bathgate. Think about wee Daniel and his big, new, happy family. Doesn’t he deserve that?’
The bastard! I couldn’t argue against anything to do with Daniel’s happiness – as well he knew.
For the first time I thought about what the south coast could offer Daniel. I rarely saw my grandparents more than once a month and Aunt Anne just a few times a year. Maybe it would be nice for Daniel to spend time with more relatives his own age.
So that was it. Peter hired a lorry and we loaded it with our belongings, including, pride of our collection, the cooker and sofa from the church. All the overspill, like our pet cockatiel and clothes, went with me and Daniel in the Metro. Then we set off for Scotland in convoy, with Peter and his mate John in the lorry, then me and Daniel and, behind us, my friend Debbie in her Escort. She’d said she wanted to come up to help me settle in, but it was a long old drive just to help me unpack. It was almost as if she were worried she’d never see me again.
FIFTEEN
And Then I’ll Kill the Kid
From the moment I arrived in Bathgate, I couldn’t wait to leave.
The house in Robertson Avenue was nice enough. The pictures hadn’t been tampered with; it really was as cute and homely as we’d been shown. A decent semi-detached on the final cul-de-sac of an estate, with ample parking out the front and amazing views of cow fields on two sides, it was actually as pleasant a place as you could hope for. No graffiti, no dark, drug-filled alleys. There were no people around either. This was unusual for an estate: everyone had jobs, they were at work. They weren’t dossing around like the layabouts who’d filled that place in Corby or our neighbours in Brighton. These were respectable people who cared about their environment. In fact, you would never guess to look at it that we were on a council estate at all.
Inside, the three bedrooms were decent sizes, the lounge was very comfortable and there was even a washing machine! Apart from the horrible pink and blue colour scheme throughout, it was pretty near perfect. On paper, then, I should have been perfectly content. So why did I feel like a mouse about to nibble the cheese on a trap?
I’d been all right as late as packing the lorry and setting off. I might even have been excited. Then we’d reached our first motorway and I began to have kittens. I’d never driven on anything bigger than an A road before and here I was trying to follow Peter’s truck, with Daniel crying and a cockatiel squawking in my face. It was horrible, a real baptism of fire. Then, as the hours began to trickle by and we were still in England, major doubts really began to descend. What was I