‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘You’re always sorry.’
‘You said that I shouted at Anna,’ I say, cringing at the thought of it. ‘What did I say to her?’
‘I don’t know,’ he snaps. ‘Would you like me to go and get her? Perhaps you’d like to have a chat with her about it?’
‘Tom …’
‘Well, honestly – what does it matter now?’
‘Did you see Megan Hipwell that night?’
‘No.’ He sounds concerned now. ‘Why? Did you? You didn’t do something, did you?’
‘No, of course I didn’t.’
He’s silent for a moment. ‘Well, why are you asking about this then? Rachel, if you know something …’
‘I don’t know anything,’ I say. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
‘Why were you at the Hipwells’ house on Monday? Please tell me – so that I can put Anna’s mind at ease. She’s worried.’
‘I had something to tell him. Something I thought might be useful.’
‘You didn’t see her, but you had something useful to tell him?’
I hesitate for a moment. I’m not sure how much I should tell him, whether I should keep this just for Scott. ‘It’s about Megan,’ I say. ‘She was having an affair.’
‘Wait – did you know her?’
‘Just a little,’ I say.
‘How?’
‘From her gallery.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘So who’s the guy?’
‘Her therapist,’ I tell him. ‘Kamal Abdic. I saw them together.’
‘Really? The guy they arrested? I thought they’d let him go.’
‘They have. And it’s my fault, because I’m an unreliable witness.’
Tom laughs. It’s soft, friendly, he isn’t mocking me. ‘Rachel, come on. You did the right thing, coming forward. I’m sure it’s not just about you.’ In the background, I can hear the prattle of the child, and Tom says something away from the phone, something I can’t hear. ‘I should go,’ he says. I can imagine him putting down the phone, picking up his little girl, giving her a kiss, embracing his wife. The dagger in my heart twists, round and round and round.
Monday, 29 July 2013
Morning
It’s 8.07 and I’m on the train. Back to the imaginary office. Cathy was with Damien all weekend, and when I saw her last night, I didn’t give her a chance to berate me. I started apologizing for my behaviour straight away, said I’d been feeling really down, but that I was pulling myself together, turning over a new leaf. She accepted, or pretended to accept, my apologies. She gave me a hug. Niceness writ large.
Megan has dropped out of the news almost completely. There was a comment piece in the Sunday Times about police incompetence which referred briefly to the case, an unnamed source at the Crown Prosecution Service citing it as ‘one of a number of cases in which the police have made a hasty arrest on the basis of flimsy or flawed evidence’.
We’re coming to the signal. I feel the familiar rattle and jolt, the train slows and I look up, because I have to, because I cannot bear not to, but there is never anything to see any longer. The doors are closed and the curtains drawn. There is nothing to see but rain, sheets of it, and muddy water pooling at the bottom of the garden.
On a whim, I get off the train at Witney. Tom couldn’t help me, but perhaps the other man could – the red-haired man. I wait for the disembarking passengers to disappear down the steps and then I sit on the only covered bench on the platform. I might get lucky. I might see him getting on to the train. I could follow him, I could talk to him. It’s the only thing I have left, my last roll of the dice. If this doesn’t work, I have to let it go. I just have to let it go.
Half an hour goes by. Every time I hear footsteps on the steps, my heart rate goes up. Every time I hear the clacking of high heels, I am seized with trepidation. If Anna sees me here, I could be in trouble. Tom warned me. He’s persuaded her not to get the police involved, but if I carry on …
Quarter past nine. Unless he starts work very late, I’ve missed him. It’s raining harder now, and I can’t face another aimless day in London. The only money I have is a tenner I borrowed from Cathy, and I need to make that last until I’ve summoned up the courage to ask my mother for a loan. I walk down the steps, intending to cross underneath to the opposite platform and go back to Ashbury, when suddenly I spot Scott hurrying out of the newsagent opposite the station entrance, his coat pulled up around his face.
I run after him and catch him at the corner, right opposite the underpass. I grab his arm and he wheels round, startled.
‘Please,’ I say, ‘can I talk to you?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he snarls at me. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
I back away from him, holding my hands up. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to apologize, to explain …’
The downpour has become a deluge. We are the only people on the street, both of us soaked to the skin. Scott starts to laugh. He throws his hands up in the air and roars with laughter. ‘Come to the house,’ he says. ‘We’re going to drown out here.’
Scott goes upstairs to fetch me a towel while the kettle boils. The house is less tidy than it was a week ago, the disinfectant smell displaced by something earthier. A pile of newspapers sits in the corner of the living room; there are dirty mugs on the coffee table and the mantelpiece.
Scott appears at my side, proffering the towel. ‘It’s a tip, I know. My mother was driving me insane, cleaning, tidying up after me all the time. We had a bit of a row. She hasn’t been round for a few days.’ His mobile phone starts to ring, he glances at it, puts it back in his pocket. ‘Speak of the Devil. She never bloody stops.’
I follow him into the kitchen.
‘I’m so sorry about what happened,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘I know. And it’s not your fault anyway. I mean, it might’ve helped if you weren’t …’
‘If I wasn’t a drunk?’
His back is turned, he’s pouring the coffee.
‘Well, yes. But they didn’t actually have enough to charge him with anything anyway.’ He hands me the mug and we sit down at the table. I notice that one of the photograph frames on the sideboard has been turned face-down. Scott is still talking. ‘They found things – hair, skin cells – in his house, but he doesn’t deny that she went there. Well, he did deny it at first, then he admitted that she had been there.’