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‘I haven’t finished my chips.’ I sat firm. You’d have been proud of me. Literally, I didn’t budge.
Mouth half open, the merest shake of her head, the faintest mutter of an oh-my-God she didn’t believe in, she crossed the kitchen on the world’s heaviest legs and heaved, yes, heaved the milk out of the fridge door. Back the same way, oh, the effort, plastic flagon dangling from her forefinger like a dirty pair of pants no one would own up to.
‘You should get one of them apps,’ I said. ‘A Fitbit, is it? One of them things that measures how many steps you’ve done. You must have done at least thirty today.’
Her eyes widened to the size of flying saucers. Her mouth dropped all the way open. Honestly, I thought her chin might land smack on the kitchen table. I kept my face straight, but it was a struggle. You might not think I’m funny anymore,I wanted to say. But Jo did. She thought I was hilarious.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Put us a sugar in, will you? I need a bit of something sweet.’
Heavens above, the eyebrows on it. The gob.
‘Unbelievable,’ she said, shaking her head. Poor put-upon slave. Someone call social services.
When she’d gone – my tea left next to the kettle, door slammed, don’t worry you’ve made your point, love – I ran my fingers over my knuckles. My left hand was the worst, but it had started to scab up now. I’d just have to be careful I didn’t knock it, perhaps not use the jump lead again.
Perhaps not use the jump lead again.
Yes, I had that thought, I can remember having it. Which makes me think I thought there was a chance I’d done something for real.
I would have worried about Katie or Mark noticing the grazes but for the fact that neither of them could see me at all unless I was failing to do something for them. So I stopped worrying. As long as I got the dinner on and the shopping in and their laundry done and delivered to their wardrobes, I’d be fine, knuckle-wise. Kieron would have noticed, but he wasn’t here, was he, so there was no point dwelling on that. I sent him a quick text:Thinking of you. Hope you’re not going too mad. Send us some piccies of your latest work, I’m curious.
I scrolled back to his last one:
All good. Got a date tonight! Love ya.
I’d replied:Get you. Be good. Love Mum xx
My head was still sore, under my hair, and I could still feel the slide of the jump lead, the smear of the muck and blood. The roots of my teeth. The gasping, grunting sound that poor grubby article had made. I didn’t think I’d gone anywhere near him. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t. And it didn’t explain why I’d woken up with bleeding knuckles, as if I’d done something violent. The way he had run away… had he been running from me? Had we fought? Was that why my head hurt – from a fall?
He could call the police, I thought then, as I washed down my last mouthful of chips with the cup of tea. He might have already called them. He might have legged it straight to the cop shop and be giving a statement right now. I wondered what he’d say. Actually, that was a point, whatwouldhe say?
I was indulging in a bit of self-abuse, Officer, when some middle-aged woman jumped me from behind and tried to strangle me…
No. Impossible. I ran my finger around my plate and sucked the salty grease off my fingertip. My nerves died down a bit. Odds on he wouldn’t go to the police after all, would he? He was a lowlife, a flasher. He was an abused child carrying a shame not his and making it his every day, poor sod. Even if he did report it, whatever it was, I doubted he could give a description. He’d stared at me without seeing me in the dark, and then for the rest of it, I’d been behind him like a chubby Nosferatu. If I’d even been behind him, that is. And then in the chippy, no one had looked at me funny. No one had looked at me at all. If anyone had noticed me, they’d have seen some grey-haired middle-aged woman in her husband’s raincoat, forgotten me seconds later. No bugger would have noticed that one of my hands was bleeding, that my eyes were glittering with the electric thrill of what had just happened. Most of them had been on their phones.
I put the plates into the dishwasher, switched it on and swabbed the decks. I’d keep an eye on theWeekly Newswebsite as usual, I thought.
Except this time I’d be looking out for myself.
24
Mark
Transcript of recorded interview with Mark Edwards (excerpt)
Also present: DI Heather Scott, PC Marilyn Button
HS: Mr Edwards, can you tell us where you were on the night of Thursday the fourth of July?
ME: Thursday? Thursday I generally… let’s see…
HS: It was the Thursday following the Saturday that Joanna Weatherall was attacked.
ME: Oh. Oh, OK.
HS: Your wife says her car broke down?
