Read The Son-in-Law for Free Online Page B

rain. The odds on a white Christmas had just lengthened.
    Sitting unnoticed in the crowd, Joseph took off his coat and scarf before pulling a phone from his pocket. It had been held in storage by the prison authorities and looked comically clunky compared to the slim-line gadgets he saw around him. He had a call to make, and he was dreading it.
    He tried her mobile number first, but there was no answer. Scrolling through his contacts, he found Marie work . He pressed call and waited, staring through the steamed-up window at the road. Three workmen in shiny wet-weather jackets were lifting a manhole cover.
    On the eighth ring, someone answered. It wasn’t Marie. Far too gentle.
    ‘Women’s refuge?’
    ‘Hi.’ Joseph’s throat seemed cluttered. He had to clear it. ‘Um, is Marie Scott still the manager there?’
    A distinct hesitation. Then the soft voice again. ‘I’m sorry, but would you mind telling me the nature of your call?’
    I’m calling b ecause I’ve got nobody else. ‘I’m her brother,’ he said. ‘Joseph Scott.’
    ‘You’re who ?’
    He repeated his name patiently. This time there was an even longer pause, with scandalised whispers in the background. Joseph could imagine the effect of his name uttered in a women’s refuge. He was, after all, the poster boy for everything they most reviled. He was a man who killed women.
    In the end he caught a muffled ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ This was followed by a thud, as though the phone had been knocked against something; then a stronger voice.
    ‘Joe?’
    Joseph’s lips curved wistfully. Ah, now. Here was his sister, her speech still rich with the music of Tyneside. She’d always called him Joe, somehow managing to give the name more than one syllable.
    ‘Hi.’ He closed his eyes. ‘It’s me.’
    She sounded impatient. ‘So I gather. You’re out, then.’
    ‘Yes. I’m out . . . Um, how are you?’
    ‘I’m fine.’
    ‘That’s good.’
    ‘What d’you want?’
    I want you to forgive. I want you to love me again.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said, despising the pleading jocularity in his own voice. ‘I just thought I’d get in touch, see how you’re doing. Maybe I could come up and visit you?’
    ‘Have you dealt with your anger issues?’
    ‘I don’t think I really have a problem with anger.’
    ‘Ha!’ He’d forgotten that mirthless bark. ‘Have you not? I very much doubt whether Zoe would agree.’
    ‘Come on. You’ve known me all my life. You, of all people, know who and what I am.’
    ‘No, Joe. I don’t know who you are.’
    He imagined her in the kitchen of the refuge, perhaps carrying out the bin bags or counselling some downtrodden girl with a miserable baby; he could picture his sister’s careworn face and frizzy hair. He longed to reach out to her down the line. ‘Please, sis. Nobody hates me more than I do myself.’
    ‘I doubt that.’
    ‘What do you want me to do—crawl away and die?’
    Her accent broadened. ‘I’m surprised you can joke about death, in view of your history.’
    ‘You know I’m not a monster. Was I a budding psycho as a child? No. Did I fry ants under a magnifying glass, or kick our cat? No. Did I pull girls’ pigtails? Never, as far as I recall, though I do remember getting myself beaten up savagely that time Matthew Brown called you a fat slag and I stood up for you even though I was half his size. Now, Matty Brown actually was a bully. And then there was Jared, who—’
    ‘Never mind all that. I’ll admit you didn’t display any of the classic signs. But you’ve made up for that royally.’
    The trio of workmen were sliding barriers around their open manhole.
    ‘Please,’ begged Joseph. ‘If you could just take the time to hear my side—’
    ‘Oh, I’ve heard your side of the story, Joe. I went along to your sentencing, and I sat there open-bloody-mouthed as I listened to what that poor female barrister had to say on your behalf. I hope they paid her lavishly for the public