empty. My front door is wide open. There is a steady stream of police officers going in and out of the building, and blue-and-white police tape forms a cordon between it and the rest of the street. I guess Detective Croft got her warrant.
This has to be a bad dream. Surely by now she must have realized that I’m telling the truth. I don’t know where my husband is, why he said the things he did, or why he is doing this to me. I expect he just wanted to teach me a lesson, but enough is enough. I certainly didn’t do away with him the way she keeps seeming to suggest. I might have been diagnosed with trauma-induced amnesia as a child, but the doctors were wrong, and either way, I think I’d remember if I’d done anything as dramatic as that.
I start walking towards the police tape. They’ll have to let me in, it’s my house, and besides, I need to get ready for the wrap party tonight, I can’t go dressed like this. The wind in my newly hoisted sails dies an instant death when I see two men dressed in white forensic overalls. They are carrying what looks like a stretcher out of my front door. Something, or someone, is on it, hidden beneath a white sheet.
At first I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing.
The image seems to burn itself onto my mind, leaving a permanent mark, and snuffing out my last remains of hope.
They can’t have found a body, because that would mean that someone was dead. And if someone really was dead, then that would mean that someone else had killed them. I spot the shape of Detective Croft coming out of the house; she’s pointing at something I can’t see. If she really has found something, she’ll never believe me about the stalker now; she didn’t believe me in the first place. I can’t make out the expression on her face from this far away, but I imagine that she is smiling. I turn and I run.
Thirty-five
Essex, 1988
I sweep and mop the shop floor every night now. I listen to my Walkman while I do it and practice saying things like, Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers or Red Lorry Yellow Lorry, or things about the rain in a place called Spain. Each evening, when I’ve finished sweeping, I refill the little plastic holders with new betting slips and blue mini-pens, ready for the next day. The betting slips are two pieces of paper stuck together, but when you write something on the top white page, it appears on the bottom yellow one, like magic. When people place bets, they give the whole thing to Maggie or John, then they get the yellow bit back along with their change. If they win, they take the yellow bit to the counter and collect their money. If they lose, they tend to screw the yellow bit up and throw it on the floor, along with their cigarette butts and other rubbish. Then, when the shop closes, I sweep them all up. This is what we do every day, except Sundays.
When Maggie yells that the shop is closed for the night, I take the broom and drag it behind the counter. She and John are still putting elastic bands around today’s bundles of notes, and filling tiny plastic bags with coins, before throwing them all in the safe, which is almost as big as me, and very heavy. I tried to lift it once and it didn’t budge, not even a little bit.
“Why aren’t you married?” I ask, watching them count the money. I’ve just read about a princess marrying a prince in my Story Teller magazine. I know Maggie and John aren’t married because they don’t wear rings, and the envelopes that come through the letter box at the bottom of the stairs have different names on them.
Maggie looks up from a pile of twenty-pound notes. “Because marriage is a lie, Baby Girl, and we don’t lie to each other in this family. I’ve told you that enough times for you to know it now.” I don’t understand what she means, but I don’t ask again because Maggie is wearing her happy face tonight and I don’t want that to change. John points at something I can’t see over the counter. When I reach the shop floor, I see two great big fruit machines, side by side.
“What are—”
“English,” says Maggie. I’m not