‘What if this is all a simulation and we’re not really here? I read an article that said our whole life experience might be computer-generated and there are glitches visible to the naked eye. We might not even be lying down here at all. This might all be a test. We could be different people, playing this as a game.’
‘Where the fuck did you read that shit?’ I said.
‘Hey, it’s not shit,’ said Mark. ‘It could be real. How the fuck would you know? And I read it in the Guardian, probably.’
‘Keep your nose out of papers like that,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You don’t want to be believing any of those conspiracy ideas.’
We had to put on an act, you see, in front of everyone else inside. If we were as soft in public, talking about newspaper articles and life’s glitches, then we’d get the shit kicked out of us.
I’ve spotted a couple of old cars for sale at Barry’s Motors. I know someone there who’ll write false registration details for me.
The police won’t find me until it’s too late.
Fucking genius, me.
14
It’s pouring down, so there’s hardly anyone on the streets. Craig wasn’t there when I woke up. Downstairs was a handful of flowers he must’ve picked from someone’s garden in a pint glass of water. He didn’t used to be one for flowers. He must’ve been drunk or hungover when he woke up. He’d also left a folded piece of paper with the word Sorry written on the front, alongside a five-pound note.
Craig and Jason had eaten almost everything in the fridge, and most of the decent stuff from the cupboards – as well as the asparagus soup and tinned peaches. I hadn’t noticed the mess when I came downstairs at four in the morning. He’s left all the dirty plates and bowls in the sink. I know I shouldn’t be angry – it’ll take him a while to adjust – but I didn’t want to leave the house today. I’ve got a pain in my right side and it’s niggling me – I don’t think I can walk far today.
I walk past the end of Denise’s road. I put my head down but glance along her street. Jason’s car is parked a few doors down. If we were still speaking, I’d ask her if she’d seen my son. Why did Craig even mention her? He was acting so strangely last night; it must’ve been the drink. I should’ve messaged Anne Marie about it all, but I didn’t want to put it in words. There was never any doubt in my mind about his innocence – and I can’t go back on that now, but something’s cast a shadow over it. The letters in Craig’s bag, and his behaviour towards me only a few hours earlier. No, last night was just a one-off. Letting off steam.
Craig said Denise asked about me. How dare she? She told lies to that newspaper – made up things about my son – and she should’ve known what the fallout would be after it was printed. I bet they paid her for her lies. I wonder how much she got. Was it worth a few hundred, maybe a thousand pounds, for all those years of friendship? She always said that Craig was like a son to her. She used to watch him when I had a later shift at Morrisons. Once, I came back to find him under a blanket on her sofa, sleepy, watching Coronation Street. Her husband Jim came through the back door.
‘Didn’t you see Erica waiting at the bus stop?’ she hollered to him from the living room.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I hissed to her. ‘I like the bus. I don’t want people thinking I’m after lifts all the time, because I’m not.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t harm him to offer occasionally.’ She leant towards me. ‘Was he on his own in the car?’
I shrugged. ‘I didn’t notice.’
She didn’t used to be suspicious of him. I can’t remember when that started. Gradual, I suppose, like these things tend to be. I don’t even know if they’re still together. I’m not privy to any gossip these days. People used to tell me everything when I worked at the supermarket. Some of them just wanted someone to talk to, have a bit of a chat. Some would say I’d be the only person they’d talk to all day – which is ironic really, now I don’t speak to many people. Others thought me invisible, part of the backdrop of the shop, so they used to discuss their problems with their friends as they walked around the aisles. And the older people got, the more honest they were about their problems. I’ve heard them alclass="underline" Mrs Waterhouse has the depression, you know, or Gayle’s husband ran off with the man at the tyre workshop , that sort of thing. But now I know nothing.
God, I hate this town. Rows and rows of terraced houses; the back alleys with heaps of rubbish the council have given up clearing away, the bloody clouds and the bloody rain. I’ve lived here for most of my life. In the same house I’m in now.
I spot Brian Sharpe in the distance. My knees weaken; I rest my hands on a garden wall for support.
Deep breath. Deep breath.
What’s he doing around here? He must know Craig’s home now. He might be looking for him.
I stand up straight and turn into the alley on my right. If I walk slowly he’ll be gone by the time I get there.
The cobbles are uneven beneath my feet. Either side are wooden gates leading to the backyards of the terraces that block out the sun. There’s not as much rubbish down this one. No doubt Denise had something to do with that – she was always vocal about the goings-on in her precious street.
I’m almost at her gate and look up at the house. I can see from the movement behind the frosted glass of the window that there’s someone in the bathroom. I don’t want to be caught being a peeping Tom, but I steal a glance inside her bedroom.
There’s a man leaning against the window. It doesn’t look like Jim – this man’s taller, has all his hair. I walk slowly; I’m parallel to Denise’s bedroom window. It’s Jason; I’m sure of it.
He stands, and a head pops up from next to him. It’s a young girl; she only looks about seventeen from here; fair hair and she’s wearing a bright red top. She looks like the girl from earlier – Lucy… No, it can’t be. It’ll be my imagination, seeing her everywhere.
Oh God, she’s seen me.
She waves at me.
My face flushes with heat.
I put my head down as Jason is turning around. I hear a tapping on the window, but I don’t look back as I rush forward. I almost run to the other end of the alley. It brings me out on to the street and now the shop’s on my left.
I knew going out around here would be trouble. What did I come in for?
I fumble in my anorak pocket for the five pounds and the list and head to the fridges.
Oh God, it’s Pamela – every time I’ve ever been in this place, she’s always bloody here. She’s with two others I don’t recognise. The reason it’s quiet on the streets is because everyone’s in this damn shop.
Milk, bread, beans, sausages. That’s all I need and then I’ll be done.
I wish I’d got a basket; now it looks as though I’m thieving it all.
I reach the vultures and they’re standing in front of the tins. I’ll have to leave it; I’ve got tomato sauce at home anyway.
‘Are you wanting something behind me?’
Pamela folds her arms and grimaces like she’s on an episode of Prisoner Cell Block H or something. She’ll think I’m scared of her, but I’m not. I just don’t want the bother.
‘Beans,’ I say.
‘Hmm,’ she says standing aside.