The Wolves of London Read Online Free Page A

on, but I’d always managed to bite my tongue, and so keep the peace.
    As for me and Michelle… well, I can’t pretend that it hadn’t been tricky between us over the years. We were like repelling magnets, always rubbing each other up the wrong way. The main problem was that we had different outlooks on life, which had led to a hell of a lot of resentment, at least on her part. Whereas Michelle had obstinately dug herself into a rut and refused to change her circumstances, even though (according to Candice) she was bitter and unhappy, I had pig-headedly rejected what it seemed at one time was the path laid out for me, and had done my best to turn negatives into positives – most obviously by viewing the misery of prison life as a watershed, an opportunity to motivate myself into crawling out of the sewer, shaking off the shit and moving on to better things.
    I don’t mean that to sound smug. I’m not saying it to make you think that I consider myself superior to Michelle. It’s just the way things were, just an illustration of our different personalities. Maybe you have to fall a long way in life before it hits you what a fuck-up you’re making of it, and maybe Michelle had simply never had a jolt big enough to persuade her to change her situation. I don’t know. All I knew was that we were polar opposites, and that it had led at times to arguments over how we each thought Candice should be raised. My worry had been that Michelle and Glenn were holding her back, stifling her natural intelligence, whereas I knew Michelle had been obsessed with the idea that whenever Candice had been with me she’d been exposed to some kind of weird, academic, cultural life that might turn her into a snob, or make her want something that Michelle didn’t understand and couldn’t provide.
    Despite all that, though, I think both of us were agreed that Candice had turned out all right – more than all right. She was bright, sensible, funny, tolerant, all the things that ought to make any parent proud. In spite of Glenn’s sneery attitude towards students, she had just started the second year of her A levels and wanted to do Hospitality and Event Management at Loughborough University. Everything was going brilliantly for her.
    Or so I thought.
    After her outburst about Glenn, I gave her another squeeze and asked, ‘What are you sorry for?’
    ‘Swearing,’ she said.
    ‘You don’t have to worry about that,’ I said with a grin. ‘I was swearing like a trooper before I could walk. I think my first word was “bollocks”.’
    An elderly woman with coiffured hair and expensive-looking jewellery turned to give me a disapproving glance as she tottered past, and both Candice and I burst out laughing. Her laughter died quickly, though, which prompted me to give her another reassuring squeeze.
    ‘Ignore what Glenn says,’ I told her, ‘and I’m not just saying that because of the history between us. You do what you’ve set your heart on, and don’t let anyone sway you. I know your mum’s proud of you, and so am I.’
    ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said, and sighed.
    ‘But?’ I asked.
    ‘But what?’
    ‘But that’s not the only thing that’s bothering you, is it? There’s something else.’
    This time the sigh was big enough to make her shoulders slump as if the air was leaking out of her. ‘Is it that obvious?’
    ‘Well, maybe not to the untutored eye,’ I said, ‘but I’m a psychologist, remember. I’m trained to notice these things. I can always spot those little signs of discontent – the downturned mouth; the constant sighing; the tears running down the cheeks; the scribbling of the suicide note; the noose around the neck…’
    ‘All right, Sigmund Freud,’ she said, poking me in the ribs as a smile crept back on to her face, ‘you can shut up now.’
    I took a long drag on my cigarette, giving her space to breathe, to think. Sure enough, after a few seconds, she said, ‘Can I talk to you about something?’
    I