him, call him a pervert, tell him to sling his hook. I didn’t, but I must have whispered louder than I’d thought, or gasped in shock or something, because he turned quite suddenly to look behind him. Turned and stared right at me. I swear to God, he peered into my face as if he were trying to make out if I had a nose or not. Apparently seeing nothing at all, he looked past me then, over my shoulder, into the silent darkness. A second or two later, he turned back and carried on. Carried on, would you believe? Animal.
I took a step nearer, another. My hands sank into my pockets – well, into Mark’s pockets. The jump leads were still in there. I dug them out and stopped walking, teased them apart and returned one to the pocket. Alligator clip in one hand, I wound the lead around my other hand, pulled the smooth, thick cord tight, testing it. It was very strong.
I ducked behind a gravestone so he wouldn’t see me. He was engaging in this indecent activity to shock, that much was obvious. To shock himself mostly. The noise I’d made had excited him, for crying out loud. He was getting off on being seen, on being observed in a holy place doing an unholy thing. ‘Dirty bastard,’ I whispered. ‘Have you no shame?’
The cord was wrapped double around my hand. It slid about on my knuckles. Teeth gritted, I pulled tighter. Echoes of images took shadowy shape in my mind’s eye. In them he became a child, a child abused by, oh, guess what, by a ruddy priest. Not in this church, not in any church in this town. How original, though. How depressing. It started to make sense. Poor chap. Have you no shame? I’d wanted to spit in his ear. But he was riddled with shame; I felt the queasy roll of it in my guts, the cold heat of it burning through my body, head to toe. All his life, this shame for something that had been done to him when he was a nipper, a shame that was not, was never his. And my God, the loneliness, loneliness to make a grown man howl at the moon. He’d been lonely all his sodding life.
Blackness. The rustle of leaves above me. A pain throbbing on the left side of my head. I coughed, once, twice. I was on my knees, coming to my senses. I had the impression that time had moved on, but I couldn’t say how far. The jump lead was loose around my hands but my knuckles were sore. I had dropped to my knees, here, behind a gravestone. I was still here, behind the gravestone. Had I passed out, hit my head?
Quick footsteps. Panting. I peered over the top of the stone to see the chap running as if startled across the dark cemetery, away, away, towards the road. His wheezing receded into the night. I stared down at my hands, which were dark with what looked like blood. I rubbed at it, wiped the backs of my hands against my legs and set off for the chippy.
The queue had died down. The clock on the wall said it was twenty-five to nine. I’d lost half an hour, I reckoned. Round about that. The jump leads were in my pocket but my hands were pinky-brown where my knuckles had bled and were filthy with soil. I’d rubbed them clean as best I could, but I’d done no more than smear the remaining blood into my skin. One knuckle was still bleeding a bit. My mouth was full of a metallic taste. I felt sordid, grimy. I was sure I must stink of mud and oil, wet clothes. Maybe sweat, too.
The line moved forward, the lush hiss and waft of salty battered cod; sausages on the warmer plate; thick, soft chips. The ring and clink of the till, the slam of the cash drawer, the sing-song of the northern pleasantries I’d heard all my life: Y’all right, love? Usual, yeah? Hiya, love, large and chips? How’s your Debbie? She’s not still in hospital, is she? I thought it was only mumps.
‘Love? Love? D’you want serving, love?’
I shook my head. Yvonne, the woman who owned the chippy, was staring at me.
‘Sorry, love,’ I said. ‘Miles away.’
22
Rachel
The house smelled weird when I got back. Cigarettes, I thought, but couldn’t be sure; it was more of a top note than a whiff,