Page 105 of Secret Paths

Distance.

Sensible distance.

I put the phone away without replying.

And carry on walking home, still smiling.

Chapter 11

Peter

By Friday night, the branch closure has become less of an announcement and more of a communal injury.

People come in with letters folded into careful squares. They place them on my desk as if I might be able to unfold a different future from the creases.

Yes, the branch is closing at the end of the month.

No, they can’t call me for a loan anymore.

Yes, standing orders and Direct Debits continue as normal.

No, I do not think being told to use online banking is helpful when you have just explained that you do not own a computer.

I say all of it kindly.

I say all of it so often that by the time I lock up, the words have lost their edges and become stones in my mouth.

At home, the cottage is quiet.

I put my keys in the chipped bowl by the door, hang my coat on the peg beneath my father’s old walking hat, and stand there for a second. The hallway smells faintly of polish and damp wool. The bulb above me flickers once before settling into its usual weak yellow glow.

I should eat.

Instead, I make tea.

I sit at the kitchen table with my notebook open, pretending I am going to write down sensible questions for Hunter about the Morton Hall job. Salary. Hours. Start date. Whether his Director of Finance is likely to murder me if I call her spreadsheets “not quite perfect”.

I write salary.

Then nothing.

Then Mandy.

I stare at her name for longer than is useful.

Then I cross it out.

Excellent. Progress.

Rain ticks against the kitchen window. The house settles around me, pipes clicking, floorboards answering the weather. I am halfway through a mouthful of tea when a knock comes at the front door.

Not loud.

Not certain either.

A pause follows, then another knock.

I get up.