say, nothing concrete. I suppose I still had hope, so that’s what I clung to.’
Hope. Hope that Mark’s knife would not match the wounds on poor Anne-Marie, hope that the blood on my tissues was my own. Hope that my proximity to every single attack could be explained away by coincidence even though one coincidence is believable, three not so much. Hope that the police would discover some incriminating piece of evidence that pointed to a local madman.
My phone buzzed. A text. Lisa. Are you OK? Thinking of you. Call me any time. I’m here, you know that. Xx
I switched my phone off, felt my mouth contort. Anger had turned, as anger will, to hate.
I don’t know what’s worse, being betrayed by your husband or your best friend. A love triangle straight from one of the Trollope books I used to borrow from the library. There was something old-fashioned about it, a bit seventies – like sexism, or racism or homophobia: Take my missus, I wish somebody would; Hey up, Chalky; I’m free, what a gay day. Laughter from a can. Sunburn. Sideburns. Sheepskin coats.
In the staff kitchen of the pub, I pressed my fists to my temples and roared. So much for my dear ones not seeing me. Turns out I hadn’t seen them at all, was blind to all but strangers.
The kettle rumbled. I took the young chap his coffee.
‘What’s your name, love?’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t asked you before.’
‘Ian,’ he said. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Rachel,’ I said.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ That lovely smile again. All the warmth of the sun in it.
‘You too.’
I told him I’d be back in a minute. I had to get away, away from the bar, from everything. I locked the pub door and walked away, to the canal, to where I’d seen that GP, and carried on, left, towards the arts centre. The day was up, thick white cloud above me, the black water of the canal below. A man had been strangled and dumped in the water here in the eighties, under the bridge, they said. I remembered it from when I was a kid. I stood on tiptoe, caught the reflection of the top of my head. Water is a mirror. Life is a mirror. Mark never looked at me. But if you want someone to look at you, really look at you and see, chances are you have to look at them. You have to see them too. And I hadn’t looked at him. Not for a year.
I walked back into town, past the swimming baths, round the corner into Church Street, past the betting shop and back to work. I didn’t care about being late opening up but I didn’t know what to do other than this. I had nowhere else to go, no one left, no one at all. All I had were the seconds, the minutes, the hours of this horrific day, of every day after this one, hours upon hours, chiming on a great cosmic clock. I had the town, the Co-op, the Barley Mow pub.
I had Dave, who, when he popped in to see if I was OK – checking up, more like – at around midday, in a newsworthy act, made me a cup of tea.
‘Are you all right, Rachel?’ he asked. ‘Sure you’re OK?’
Stop asking me that, I didn’t say, of course.
‘I’m fine, love. Don’t be worrying about me – I like to be busy.’
I had the punters to make small talk with, pints to pull, meal orders to pass through to the kitchen and take to the tables. I had Phil to say hello to, sad and hunched over the slot machine with the last of his coins, ghost of a man. I got through those seconds and minutes and hours like you’d get through pushing your forehead up a tarmac road. Phil’s suit was hanging off him, poor thing.
‘Here,’ I said, handing him my sandwiches.
‘What’s that for?’ He looked shocked, like kindness was a surprise to him.
‘Your suit’s falling off you,’ I said. ‘And I’m not hungry.’
He smiled, then laughed.
‘I’m not losing weight,’ he said. ‘The ex cut up all my suits. This one’s from Oxfam. It’s too big, that’s all.’
‘You’re joking.’ I shook my head. ‘Bloody hell, Phil,’ I said. ‘I think that deserves a cup of tea an’ all.’
I made him a cup of tea even though I’m not supposed to give anyone anything for free. But whenever conversation stopped or I was between punters, Anne-Marie fell