It’s late and already dark by the time I leave work.
After returning from Margot’s earlier, I’d parked my Nissan in the underground car park beneath my flat and walked back to the newsroom, Jack chewing my ear all the way about how we should be staking out the Powells’ farm and that Ted was bound to be disappointed in us. Loitering is something I would have done in the past. It just doesn’t feel right under these circumstances. Now that I know itismy Heather who is the killer, I wonder if I’m too close to do this story justice. I instantly bat that idea away. It could also work to my advantage. I can’t let the opportunity pass. After everything that happened at theTribune, I need this story.
It’s still raining as I cut across the city centre and head towards the river, the wind tugging at my umbrella. Streetlights reflect in puddles. A few regulars are heading into the Llandoger Trow pub as I pass, but as I take a right along the river it becomes quieter and darker, people falling away, not wanting to risk the journey to pubs or restaurants in the area on a Monday night in this weather. Before long I’m alone.
It’s bleaker along here at this time of year. The trees are still bare, beaten by the wind and rain, and the one boat that serves as a café in the late spring and summer is now depressingly empty. But walking alone in the dark never bothers me. And it’s built up along the Welsh Back, the riverside soon hidden behind the buildings on either side of me, although there is a lack of streetlight here and the cobbles are slick with rain.
And then I hear it.
Someone calling my name.
Jess-i-ca.
I turn around but nobody’s there. I must be imagining it. It’s the wind buffeting between the buildings, that’s all.
I quicken my pace, my grip tightening around the handle of my umbrella. I’m not far from my apartment. The other buildings along here – mostly offices, with the odd residential block thrown in – seem deserted. There aren’t even any cars driving down here. It’s only 7 p.m. Not even late.
Jess-i-ca.
I stop when I hear it again, spinning around, fury mixed with fear, but there’s no sign of anyone. I refuse to run, to show I’m unnerved. I’m tired: it’s been a long day. That’s all this is. I take the umbrella down anyway, not caring that the rain soaks my hair. I can use it as a weapon if need be. I continue walking as fast as I can without actually running.
And then there are footsteps behind me. Loud and thudding. I almost trip on the cobbled road as I break into a run, no longer caring about showing any fear. Idon’t stop until I reach my apartment block. My hand is shaking as I delve into my bag for the keys and I let the umbrella fall from my hand in my eagerness to get inside. Is it him? I imagine his bulldog-type face, his sneer, his anger, the last words he said to me ringing in my ears:I’ll kill you, you fucking bitch.
I grab the umbrella from the ground and hold it out in front of me, like a truncheon, as I push my shoulder into the door. And then I fall into the lobby, my heart hammering. As I close the door I take the opportunity to glance out into the street, but it’s empty.
I take the stairs two at a time to the first floor. The smell of cooking hits me as I walk through the door of our flat: beef and onions. I feel foolish now. I completely overreacted. I can’t let that thug scare me. I’ve been living here for nearly a year now and there’s been no sign of him. It was just an empty threat he made, I remind myself. I can’t live in fear.
I kick off my boots and hang up my coat before wandering into the open-plan kitchen-living room. The football is on the too-large widescreen TV. It’s not even Rory’s team but that doesn’t bother him: he’ll watch any match going. He has his back to me as he stands at the hob, stirring mince in a frying pan, watching the football out of the corner of his eye. He’s wearing an apron over his jeans and T-shirt, with a naked man’s torso on the front in frilly pink underwear that one of his brothers bought him for Christmas.
Without speaking, I go to the doors that lead to the balcony and throw them open, even though it’s raining. The extractor fan is so ineffectual that we need anotherway of letting out the steam and cooking smells. I step onto the balcony and take a few deep breaths, the fresh air hitting my lungs and causing them to hurt a little. I really should give up smoking. Rory will be able to smell it on me. But after my fright earlier I’m desperate for a fag. I lean over the railings a little, enjoying the wind against my face. If I close my eyes I can pretend I’m on a boat. The flat can feel a bit claustrophobic at times. It’s on the first floor so has no garden. If it wasn’t for the views of the waterside I wouldn’t want to live here. I glance down along the river, which looks dark and unwelcoming in this light. I’m half expecting to see a figure lurking, but there’s nobody. I can see Victoria Bridge from here, all lit up, the lights refracting in the water.
We hadn’t planned on moving to Bristol, so close to where I grew up. But when Rory’s sister, Aoife, was offered a promotion at a pharmaceutical company in Amsterdam, she said we could live here and pay enough rent to cover her mortgage, which is next to nothing as she bought the flat twelve years ago. Her idea was a Godsend and benefited both of us. A place to run away to. Away from London, theTribuneand all that went wrong there. We’ve lived here for nearly a year now but the flat still doesn’t feel like home. Everywhere you look there are signs of Aoife and her life: photos of her and her friends on the white walls, the French-style bed that she bought from an expensive boutique, the charcoal linen L-shaped sofa that I’m terrified of messing up. Home is Rory’s flat in Streatham where I spent most nights towards the end, desperate to get away from my annoying housemates. Despite my reservations I’m gratefulto Aoife. I had to take a pay cut going from national to local news so the cheap rent has helped us financially, especially as Rory is supply-teaching while looking for a full-time job. Rory gave up a lot for me, and when we decided to leave London for good he’d shyly asked if I’d like to move in with him, properly.
As soon as he spots me, he leaves the kitchen area to grab the remote control and turn off the TV. He knows I hate football.
‘Don’t do that because of me,’ I say, going over to him and planting a quick kiss on his lips.
He laughs. ‘You know I only watch it so my brothers don’t beat me to a pulp.’
‘Well, you do need to sound like you know what they’re talking about,’ I reply, mock-serious.
‘You’re right there. It’s research.’
It’s our in-joke. Rory pretends he needs to learn how to be an alpha male, like his brothers, when really we both know he loves football.
He chuckles to himself as he returns to his cooking and I dart into the bedroom on the pretence of drying my wet hair. But really I want to look out of our bedroom window. From here I have views of the street I’ve just walked down and I pull back the roller blind to get a better look. A young couple are weaving across the cobbles, laughing too loudly, arm in arm and obviously holding each other up. Across the road from us, a derelict building is going through the planning process: it’ll be converted into apartments. Is that a figure I see loitering in the doorway? I press my face to the glass but, no, it’s just a trick of the light. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
I comb through my damp hair, then go and find Rory in the kitchen, happy now I know there’s no threat, just my imagination running away with me. ‘Thanks for making dinner,’ I say to him. I don’t need to addagain.He’s always the one cooking. He says he enjoys it and finds it relaxing, even though it looks like a bomb has hit the kitchen after he’s finished with it. I survey it now: a dirty spoon left on the black granite worktop, dishes and cups filling the sink. He usually leaves all the clearing up to me. I don’t mind – I’d rather stack the dishwasher than cook any day. Jack jokes that if I married Rory the cooking would soon stop, that it’s his way of lulling me into a false sense of security. But I don’t believe him. Rory’s too honest.
He brushes back my hair so that he’s looking at me. Really looking. He has these brilliant blue eyes and when he stares into mine I almost squirm because it’s as though he can read my mind, as though he knows every evil thought I’ve ever had, or the horrible dark things I’ve done, like the real reason we had to leave London last year. Or the guilt I carry about what I did that summer of 1994.
‘What’s going on, Jessie?’ he says now. He’s the only one who’s allowed to call me that. The way he pronounces it in his sexy Irish accent gives me a little thrill. ‘Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?’
I move away from him to pick up a spatula and dump it in the sink. He’s still studying me when I turn around. ‘It’s just work.’
‘I thought it would be better now. Local news. Twice-weekly deadlines instead of daily, you know?’
‘Itisbetter. Or, rather, it was …’
