or two, limbs like gravestones, legs and cleavage sticky-salty with dried sweat. But it wasn’t the sweats that had woken me; it was a nightmare, which came back to me as I hauled my heavy bones out of the sour sheets.
I’m running down the high street. It’s daytime. In front of the Co-op, five or six turquoise buses rattle in the depot. Shoppers crowd the pavement. And here comes me, naked, completely naked, running, trying to hold my hands over my bits while my stomach wobbles like raw bread in a gale. That’s when I realise to my sweating horror that I know everyone, absolutely everyone.
But no one is taking any notice…
I can’t catch my breath. Heat flares up in my chest and my forehead pricks with sweat. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Just let me…’
Blue Eyes is holding out my glass of water. ‘It’s OK, Rachel. Don’t rush. Would you like a cup of tea? Should I open a window?’
I shake my head. The glass smells of dust but the water’s wet and it soothes me. With my tissue I dab at my forehead, focus on breathing myself cooler.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘It’s OK. No need to apologise. Tell me what happened after that.’
‘I went downstairs,’ I say after a minute or two. ‘I made a cup of tea and ran my usual checks on the iPad.’
A glance at her notes. ‘Checks?’
‘For violent crime. Regional and national news. I do that every day. Well, I did. I started it last year. I was building up evidence to take to my MP. I mean, it’s an epidemic, isn’t it, this knife crime? Who’d be a parent of young adults now? I tell you, it’s terrifying.’
That has her scribbling with that lovely silver fountain pen of hers. Her nails are short and painted dark grey. I suppose I didn’t mention my clip file in my statement. But they didn’t ask. They’ll have found it by now, I expect. That and the knife. And that poor lad’s clothes would still have been in the washing machine.
My eyes fill. She hasn’t replied, and for the umpteenth time I’ve no idea whether I said that last bit out loud or what. She’s still writing me up, anyway. Writing me up before they lock me up. They’ve brought in the big guns with this one: Blue Eyes, big boss, top dog. Her hair is short. Trendy, you’d say. I thought it was white, but it’s more of a pale lilac. Rainbow colours glint in it from time to time, like petrol caught in the sun. What must she make of me? I wonder.
She looks up, the merest twitch of the lips. ‘Carry on.’
I tell her how the sun was coming up when I went downstairs that morning. How ghostly my reflection looked in the buttery windows. How the teaspoon clinked loudly against the side of the mug when I stirred in the sugar.
Armed robbery leaves two dead in Stockton Heath.
I skim-read. Both gunshot wounds, another seriously injured in Liverpool General.
House fire in Warrington. Suspected arson.
Suspected arson… but no casualties. Kids, I thought. Arson about. It’s an old joke, one of my dad’s, when he was compos mentis enough to make jokes.
I printed off the armed robbery, slid it into a plastic sleeve and clipped it into the file. The nationals had a stabbing. Croydon. Young lad, as per. Intensive care. The usual links: Reform school exclusions to tackle knife crime; One in four teenage girls involved in violent crime; Hold schools accountable for expelled students, MPs urge; Third man arrested over double murder at Warrington house party.
The Warrington house party had been the week before. I wondered if the Croydon lad would make it through the night. The first twenty-four hours are crucial. I printed that off too and put it with the others.
‘The clip file.’ Blue Eyes’ fore- and middle fingers make an L around her mouth, her thumb a chinrest. ‘This is the same file you showed to your neighbour, Ingrid Taylor?’
‘Ingrid? Why, did she say she’d seen it? I never showed anyone.’
The police must have spoken to Ingrid. I wonder what everyone’s been saying about me. Who else the police have spoken to. Ingrid must have looked in the file when I went to the loo or something. I wouldn’t have thought she’d be interested in anything to do with me, to be honest. She was so stressed about her own life. I felt sorry for her. I thought it was her with the problems. Turns