Wondering what her weekend plans would be, today, after all three women had left for work, Witch had entered their house. Inside, she’d found a pleasant surprise: the other residents were going away for the weekend. There were signs of planned departure: packed and half-packed bags, raids on the bathroom toiletries. They’d tried to pack this morning before leaving for work, but had blearily only half succeeded. Only Christine Jones’s room was tidy. No luggage there.
In the kitchen was the brochure for a Welsh campsite. Its telephone number had been ringed. Obviously it was there in case Christine needed it: Christine’s idea probably. She seemed so much more organized than her housemates. And on a wall calendar was marked a time this evening when “Garry and Ed” would be calling. Another look in the housemates’ bedrooms confirmed that Garry and Ed were the boyfriends. The four of them were off to Wales on a camping expedition. Lovely.
Witch wondered how Christine Jones would spend her weekend. There didn’t seem any clues that she was planning to go away, or to have someone over, or to hold a party, even a dinner party. She was doing German at night school, and it looked like part of her time would be spent catching up on her assignments. There were also three fat and newly borrowed library books to be read, and a video club membership card was handy on the coffee table in the living room, in case she wanted to rent a film or two...
There’d be a spot of shopping on Saturday morning. Not having transport, she tended to use the local shops — though someone in the flat had access to a car, since there had been supermarket buying in bulk, shown in the contents of the refrigerator. Christine Jones wouldn’t go hungry, not for food. But it wasn’t party food, not social food; it was fast food, the stuff of days spent doing homework and nights spent watching TV.
One of her housemates, Tessa, kept a diary, and recent entries, when not running on about Garry and his physique and his bedroom athletics, showed concern for “Chris,” who had split up with a boyfriend several months before and seemed to have just lost interest...
“Hope she’ll be okay this weekend,” the entry ended. Witch was tempted to take up a pen and add: “She’ll be fine, honest.”
She didn’t.
When the mail arrived, she glanced at it, leaving it untouched on the hall floor. Then, having satisfied herself with the layout of the house, she left it as neatly as she had entered it, and walked back to the railway station, a lazy stroll, nothing better to do, just whiling away the hours...
Until now. As she follows Christine Jones along Victoria Street, she’s thinking, ticking things off on a list in her mind. Christine knows the guard, but that probably doesn’t matter. Another of the DTI buildings farther along Victoria Street would do just as well, once Witch has a security pass. She’s studying the way Christine moves, the way she walks, how far she places one foot in front of the other, the way she turns her head when she wants to cross the road. None of this is necessary — she doesn’t intend to impersonate Christine Jones after all — but it is useful and it is interesting. Witch is learning to move like a professional woman, a woman on the way up in the civil service. She’s thinking, too, of the evening ahead, of what must be done immediately, and what can be left till later. And, briefly, she’s thinking of Khan, of how pleased her employers were, how generous. And she spares a thought, too, for Dominic Elder and all the other people who may be chasing her shadow just now. She’s thinking all these things, but her walk is that of the girl about town, making her way home.
Home to Stoke Newington. Directly home. Poor Christine Jones, her eyes fixed on yet another book, a fat paperback this time. (She’s almost finished it. Probably she’s already looking forward to the three fat library books waiting for her at home.) No after-work drinks for her. Probably she wants to make it back to the house before her housemates leave. Sending her best wishes with them. Yes, better to return to a few minutes of chaotic farewell than to an absolute forty-eight-hour emptiness. Poor Christine Jones.
She stops in at a newsagent on the way home. She buys a couple of magazines, and then, biting her lip guiltily, adds several chocolate bars to her purchases. Comfort food. The newsagent puts the whole lot into a white paper bag. It is awkward to carry. She might stop for a moment, open her satchel, and place the magazines and sweets inside, but she’s hurrying now. Bloody London bloody public bloody transport. The bane of her existence. Late home as usual. It’s nearly seven. The girls will be leaving soon. Yes, the car is parked outside the house. A tanned young man is carrying out two suitcases.
“Hello, Garry,” says Christine.
Garry lifts the cases higher. The action shows off his physique. “Look at this,” he says. “You’d think we were off for a fortnight on the QE2. I wish now I was staying behind with you, Chris. We could get nice and cozy, eh?”
“Leave my flatmate alone!” yells Tessa from the front door, half-jokingly at least.
The other housemate emerges with more bags. Behind her, her boyfriend is maneuvering a large suitcase out of the door.
“We’ll never get it all in!” calls Garry.
“As the actress said to the bishop,” retorts his friend. The girls laugh, the way they’re supposed to. This is fun. Christine’s smile is fixed. Witch can see that she is in a quandary. She’s holding the paper bag to her, while she wonders whether to offer the chocolate to the foursome for their journey, or whether to say nothing about it. Witch is surprised, but pleased too, to see that self-gratification wins. Christine keeps the chocolate to herself.
Witch has passed the scene now, eyes on the cracks in the pavement ahead. She’s on the other side of the street from them, but not quite invisible enough. Garry gives her a half-hearted wolf whistle, almost drawing unwanted attention. But no one seems to pay him any heed. The cases will all go in, but only if some of the bags sit on the floor in the back and under the driver’s and front-passenger’s seats, and even then it’s going to be tight.
“As the actress said —”
A thump silences the end of the sentence. Witch has turned the corner now. She stops, pretending to rummage in her bag for something. The car doors are opening, closing, opening again. Kisses and hugs are exchanged.
“It’s only for the weekend,” complains Garry as the housemates make their farewells. “It’s not like a fortnight on the QE2 or anything...”
The doors close. All four of them. The engine starts with a throaty roar. Not one to hang about, the driver lets the tires squeal as he releases the hand brake, and he fairly races to the end of the road, signaling left, turning left, and revving away in the opposite direction from Witch.
Moments later, the front door of the house closes, leaving Christine Jones indoors on her own.
Witch waited at the corner for a few minutes, not looking in her bag anymore but waiting for a gentleman friend. She peered up this road and down along that, searching for him. And glanced at her watch, for the benefit of anyone looking from their windows. Not that anyone did. They minded their business and got down to the proper work of the evening: watching the television.
A few people hurried past, refugees from the latest train, she guessed. They looked worn out and glanced at her, nothing more. Nobody smiled, nobody offered a chat-up line or a joke or a “Can I help you?” The time passed without incident.
She walked back around the corner, then started into a brisk run, clutching her carrier bag to her to stop the contents from spilling out. She ran up to the gate, pushed it open, climbed the steps noisily, and rang the doorbell.