I’m not scared of you, you bastard.
I open my Coke and take several big gulps that fill my stomach with uncomfortable air. Then I pull two pages out of my notebook and start to write another letter to the police. I write quickly, automatically, without allowing myself to stop and think. I’ve got to get it all down on paper before the dizziness at the edges of my mind gets any worse. I grip the edge of the table, a pins and needles sensation prickling the skin all over my body. I really ought to eat something. Instead, I write and write, everything I think the police need to know, until I can no longer ignore the twitching in my throat. I’m going to be sick. I grab my letter and my bag and run to the ladies’ toilet, where all the Coke I’ve drunk comes back up. Once my stomach is empty, I close the toilet lid, sit down and lean my head against the partition wall. It occurs to me that I could collect Zoe and Jake early today. I’m not working; I could go and collect them now.
My letter isn’t finished. I wanted to write more, but I can’t remember what. Strange, dark shapes move in front of my eyes, blurring my vision. I open my bag and pull out a white envelope that has been in there for at least a year. It’s addressed to Crucial Trading, the carpet company. I was supposed to fill in a customer satisfaction questionnaire and return it to them. Nick and I spent seven thousand pounds on new wool carpets and leather and sisal rugs for our lovely old house, before we went mad and decided we needed to move next door to Monk Barn Primary School. This makes me cry. Then I realise I can’t collect Zoe and Jake because my car tyres have been slashed, and cry harder.
I pull the uncompleted questionnaire out of the envelope, put my letter in, cross out Crucial Trading’s name and address, and write ‘POLICE’ in capital letters. I can’t manage any more than that one word. Stumbling back to my table, sweating, I admit to myself that I am seriously unwell. It must be the shock. I should pick up the kids and get home before I start to feel worse. ‘I need a taxi,’ I say to skunk-opera woman.
She eyes me with suspicion. ‘Rank is outside health shop,’ she says. ‘You no eat?’
‘Sally?’ A deep, male voice comes from behind me. I turn and see Fergus Land, my next-door neighbour. He beams at me, jolly as ever, and I feel even weaker. ‘I can give you a lift,’ he says. ‘Are you going home? Not working today?’
‘No. Thanks,’ I force myself to say. ‘Thanks, but… I’d rather get a taxi.’
‘Are you all right? Gosh, you’re a bit off-colour. Been overindulging? Celebration last night, was it?’
He looks so kind, so concerned. If he offered to drive me to nursery and then home in silence, I’d gladly accept, but I can’t face the prospect of making conversation.
‘Did you tell Nick I’ve got his driver’s licence? He hasn’t-’
‘Fergus.’ I grab his hand and press the envelope into it. ‘Will you do me a favour? It’s important. Post this for me. Don’t say anything to Nick, or anyone, and don’t read it. Just post it. Please?’
‘The police?’ He says it in a loud whisper, as if they’re a controversial secret society, unmentionable in polite company.
‘I can’t explain now. Please,’ I say, on my way out of the door.
‘Sally, I’m not sure. I…’
I run out on to the street, thinking that if I can only get to Nick’s work, everything will be all right. I need to speak to him. I need to tell him someone is leaving headless animals next to my car. I walk as quickly as I can to the taxi rank outside the health food shop, looking behind me every few seconds to check I’m not being followed, and pretending I can’t hear Fergus, who is standing outside Mario’s shouting, ‘Sally! Sally, come back!’
I stagger along the pavement. My legs feel as if they’re made of wool. No red Alfa Romeo that I can see. Other red cars, though-their brightness hurts my eyes. And one green VW Golf that’s driving behind me, just an inch or two behind. In the pedestrianised, access-only part of the street. I stop walking, turn back towards Mario’s. Fergus has gone.
The green VW stops and the driver door opens. ‘Sally.’ I hear relief. ‘Are you okay?’
It’s as if I’m looking at him through running water, but I’m still sure: it’s the man from Seddon Hall.
‘Mark,’ I say faintly. The street spins.
‘Sally, you look terrible. Get in.’
He hasn’t changed at all. His face is round and unlined, a mischievous schoolboy’s face. Like Tintin. Worried, though.
‘Sally, you’re… I’ve got to talk to you. You’re in danger.’
‘You’re not Mark Bretherick.’ I blink to straighten out my vision, but it doesn’t work. Everything’s wobbly.
‘Look, we can’t talk now, like this. What’s the matter? Are you ill?’
He gets out of the car. The scene in front of me is going grey around the edges; all the shops are shaking, distorted. I’m vaguely aware-as if it’s a dream I’m watching through a gauze veil, someone else’s dream-of looking up at Mark Bretherick, of his arms supporting me. Not the real Mark Bretherick. My Mark Bretherick. I’ve got to get away from him. I can’t move. It must be him-the cat, the bus, everything. It must be.
‘Sally?’ he says, stroking the side of my face. ‘Sally, can you hear me? Who was the man shouting your name outside the café? Who was he?’
I try to answer, but nobody’s there any more. Nobody’s anywhere apart from me, and I’m only in my head, which is getting smaller and smaller. I let the nothingness pull me down.
Police Exhibit Ref: VN8723
Case Ref: VN87
OIC: Sergeant Samuel Kombothekra
GERALDINE BRETHERICK’S DIARY, EXTRACT 4 OF 9 (taken from hard disk of Toshiba laptop computer at Corn Mill House, Castle Park, Spilling, RY29 0LE)
29 April 2006, 11 p.m.
On the news tonight there was an item about two little boys in Rwanda. Their parents had been murdered by an enemy tribe a few years ago. The boys were only seven or eight years old but had worked for years in a mine, doing heavy manual work in order to survive. Unlike us pampered Westerners, they had no days off. They were on the news because finally (perhaps thanks to some charitable initiative-I missed some of the report because Mum phoned) they are able to stop working and go to a new school that has opened nearby. The BBC reporter asked them how they felt about this new phase of their lives and they both said they were delighted; both are eager to learn and grateful for an opportunity they thought they’d never have.
While Mark mumbled next to me-all the predictable responses: how sad, how shocking, how moving-I thought to myself, Yes, but look how civilised and mature they are. We should pity them, of course, but we should also admire what they have become: two wise, polite, sensitive, substantial young men. You only had to look at them to see what a pleasure they would be to teach, that they would give nobody any trouble. It was hard not to marvel at the vast gulf between these two lovely, respectful boys and the two children with whom I’d spent the afternoon: my own daughter and Oonagh O’Hara. If ever two people would benefit from a few weeks’ forced labour in a Rwandan mine… well, I know it’s a terrible thing to think, but I do think it so I’m not going to pretend I don’t.
So, this afternoon, a Saturday. Cordy and I are at Cordy’s house, trying to persuade our children to eat. Sausages and chips, their favourite. Except Oonagh won’t eat hers because there is some ketchup on a chip, and Lucy won’t eat hers because the sausages are mixed in with the chips instead of on separate sides of the plate. By the time the complex negotiations have been concluded and all the necessary amendments have been made, the food is cold. Oonagh whines, ‘We can’t eat our food now, Mummy. Stupid! It’s cold.’
Cordy was evidently hurt, but she said nothing. Her idea of discipline is Sweetie-come-for-a-cuddle. If Oonagh called the Queen of England a scabby tart, Cordy would praise her democratic slant of mind and her confident colloquialism.