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Quick footsteps. Panting. I peered over the top of the stone to see the chap running as if startled across the dark cemetery, away, away, towards the road. His wheezing receded into the night. I stared down at my hands, which were dark with what looked like blood. I rubbed at it, wiped the backs of my hands against my legs and set off for the chippy.
The queue had died down. The clock on the wall said it was twenty-five to nine. I’d lost half an hour, I reckoned. Round about that. The jump leads were in my pocket but my hands were pinky-brown where my knuckles had bled and were filthy with soil. I’d rubbed them clean as best I could, but I’d done no more than smear the remaining blood into my skin. One knuckle was still bleeding a bit. My mouth was full of a metallic taste. I felt sordid, grimy. I was sure I must stink of mud and oil, wet clothes. Maybe sweat, too.
The line moved forward, the lush hiss and waft of salty battered cod; sausages on the warmer plate; thick, soft chips. The ring and clink of the till, the slam of the cash drawer, the sing-song of the northern pleasantries I’d heard all my life:Y’all right, love? Usual, yeah? Hiya, love, large and chips? How’s your Debbie? She’s not still in hospital, is she? I thought it was only mumps.
‘Love? Love? D’you want serving, love?’
I shook my head. Yvonne, the woman who owned the chippy, was staring at me.
‘Sorry, love,’ I said. ‘Miles away.’
22
Rachel
The house smelled weird when I got back. Cigarettes, I thought, but couldn’t be sure; it was more of a top note than a whiff, if you know what I mean. I shouted Mark from the lounge and called up to Katie on my way past the stairs.
‘Katie! Your scampi and chips!’
The big light was off in the kitchen and the house was chilly. The smell of ciggies was stronger in here, if that was what it was.
‘You’ve been ages,’ Katie said, swinging in through the door. Again, she’d heard me this time, the promise of chips apparently cutting through noise-cancelling headphones in a way thatcan you clean the bathroom?couldn’t.
‘There was a queue.’
‘It’s freezing in this house.’
‘Put the heating on then.’
She made a face. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing’s the matter. I’m just cold and tired, that’s all. Has Liam been over?’
‘No, why?’
‘Smells like someone’s been smoking.’
She shrugged. ‘The doorbell went about half an hour ago.’
I took my order out, handed her the bag and flicked the heating on. ‘Did anyone answer the door?’
‘I dunno.’
The wordsbloodandstonecame to mind. I literally hadn’t the strength to ask anything else. My stomach was hollow and the skin on my legs was starting to itch.
‘Shame no one put any plates on to warm,’ I said. ‘And the table’s not set. Wouldn’t have been too much, would it, to set the table?’
She threw up her hands. ‘Whoa. Pass-agg or what?’
At that moment, Mark came in. ‘I was about to send out a search party. We’re starving here.’
Rage. Flashing heat all through me. A glimmer, a tiny fraction of what I’d felt in the graveyard, but still – strong enough. As I often said to Lisa, I could strangle Mark sometimes. Which, now I think about it, is probably not the best wording.
‘Well, I’m sorry the delivery service isn’t to your satisfaction.’ I put my chips into the oven and turned it on low, slammed the door. ‘Next time you can get your own.’
‘Mum!’ Katie said, shoving her nose in. ‘Calm down, will you?’
Because saying that always works.
