‘I don’t understand this,’ Rachel says. ‘I only saw Victor yesterday. I wish I’d asked him to stay last night. This might not have happened.’
‘There’s no point thinking that,’ Edgar says.
Rachel sits down abruptly beside Lucy, covers her face with her hands. Edgar turns his head slowly to look at her. With a start, Lucy jumps up from the sofa so that he can sit next to his wife, comfort her.
He stays motionless, though. Lucy shifts her weight from foot to foot, unsure what to do, whether to stay in the room, walk out, run for the hills and never show her face there again . . .
‘I’m going to make myself a coffee,’ he says, before he turns and walks out, shutting the door gently behind him, the click of the latch loud as a slam in the silence.
42
Anna knows the way. She went out with someone for a short time in first year who lived in a house up the Woodstock Road, and she’d go up after her lectures were finished to hang out with him. It was a brief relationship, but passionate, and she remembers the joy with which she’d make her way there, the sense of anticipation. Now, it’s one of dread.
She knows how thin the ice is where she’s walking. Any moment it could crack beneath her feet and swallow her whole. She smelled the acrid smoke from the remains of Tom’s house, she heard the screech of the brakes of the car as it tried to hit her after she left prison. She remembers Kelly’s muttered words before she died. She doesn’t understand how, or why, but danger is stalking her, closer than ever.
She’s at the street now, close to the address on the piece of paper. Safety, at least for now. A warm drink, maybe a bed for the night, and she can regroup, work out how the hell she’s going to get out of this mess, discover what she can about the dead woman and who was calling her on the hidden phone.
Now she’s at the house. It’s nice; semi-detached. Spacious. Much bigger than Tom’s. Bigger than the student flat she used to visit all that time ago. She glares down at her grubby clothes. Instinctively, she pulls her jacket straight, brushes her fingers through her hair to make it halfway respectable, then gives up. She’s not here to impress.
She’s here for sanctuary.
She rings the bell. After a moment, a woman opens the door slightly and peers out, full of caution. It’s the volunteer from the hostel, the one who gave her address to Anna. Anna nearly collapses with relief – at least she’s found the right place.
‘I’m sorry,’ Anna says, ‘I didn’t have anywhere else to go.’
‘Not another of your waifs and strays,’ a man’s voice says from further within the house. ‘This is not the time.’
‘She needs help.’ The woman opens the door fully, gestures Anna in. ‘Come through here.’
Anna follows her into the kitchen at the back of the house. It’s warm, cosy, plants on the windowsills and books on the table. A scent of flowers in the air. So normal that Anna nearly collapses with relief.
‘Tea?’ the woman says, and Anna nods. The woman has brushed, shiny hair, and as Anna sits down at the wooden table, she feels conscious again of her scrappy clothes, the fact that she hasn’t washed since early this morning.
The woman brings a steaming orange mug to Anna and hands it to her before sitting down opposite.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name,’ Anna says. ‘But you were kind earlier, giving me your address. My name is Anna. Anna Flyn.’
The woman nods. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’m Rachel. And as I might have mentioned, I do some work with people who need help to get back on their feet. I think that’s what you’re looking for.’
Anna hasn’t heard it stated so subtly before, so gently. It’s easy to sayyes, that’s me, in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
‘No judgement here,’ Rachel says. ‘I understand how hard it can all be. Why don’t you tell—’ She’s interrupted by the man, who pushes open the kitchen door.
‘Seriously, Rachel, now is not the time. This is more important. Tell her to come back later. Tomorrow.’
Rachel ignores him, returning to the question she was about to ask Anna. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?’
Anna takes a deep breath, scratches reflexively at her arm. The patch of skin on her arm is itching – her personal weathervane. Too much tension in the air, too much emotion emanating from the man, who has now taken up position leaning against the kitchen counter, the set of his mouth grim. But Rachel is smiling in an encouraging way, so Anna knows she should feel safe, even if she doesn’t.
‘I was meant to be staying somewhere tonight,’ she says. ‘But—’
‘Where was it you were meant to be staying?’ the man says, speaking for the first time.
‘A house. Near Cowley Road.’
Another person comes into the room. Much younger, this one, in her early twenties by the look of it. Pretty, too. She stands next to the man, a strained expression on her face.
There are too many people in the room. They’re too close to her, looking at her with an intensity that wrinkles her skin.
