I See You(52)

‘No no, really, you’re not,’ I say, although my chest feels as though someone’s squeezing it.

‘I’ll cross the road, then you won’t feel obliged to talk to me.’ He grins. He has a nice face; warm and open. I don’t know why I feel so uneasy.

‘There’s no need, honestly.’

‘I need some cigarettes anyway.’ We stand still as people weave their way around us.

‘Well, goodbye, then.’

‘Bye.’ He opens his mouth to say something, then stops. I turn to walk away. ‘Um, would it be terribly forward of me to ask you to have dinner with me one evening?’ The question is delivered in one breath, rushed as though he feels embarrassed asking, although his face still wears the same confident expression. It crosses my mind that the delivery is deliberate. Practised, even.

‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’ I don’t know why I’m apologising.

‘Or a drink? I mean, I don’t want to play the “I saved your life” card, but …’ He holds up his hands in mock surrender, then lets them fall and assumes a more serious expression. ‘It’s an odd way to meet, I know, but I’d really like to see you again.’

‘I’m seeing someone,’ I blurt out, like a sixteen-year-old. ‘We live together.’

‘Oh!’ Confusion crosses his face, before he composes himself. ‘Of course you’re with someone. Foolish of me; I should have expected that.’ He takes a step away from me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

We say goodbye and when I glance back he is crossing the road towards the newsagents. To buy his cigarettes, I suppose.

I call Simon’s mobile, not wanting to walk along Anerley Road without company, even if it’s at the end of a phone. It rings, but goes to voicemail. This morning he reminded me he was having dinner at his sister’s tonight. I’d planned to watch a film; perhaps persuade Justin and Katie to join me. Just the three of us; like old times. But my encounter with Luke Friedland has left me unsettled, and I wonder if Simon would postpone his trip to see his sister; if he’d come home instead.

If I call now I might catch him before he leaves work. I used to have a direct line for him, but the paper moved to hot-desking a few months ago and now he never knows where he’s going to be from one day to the next.

I Google the switchboard number. ‘Could you put me through to Simon Thornton, please?’

‘I’ll just put you on hold.’

I listen to classical music until the line connects again. I look at the Christmas lights on the lamp-posts lining Anerley Road, and see they’re already coated with grime. The music stops. I expect to hear Simon’s voice, but it’s the girl from the switchboard.

‘Could you give me the name again, please?’

‘Simon Thornton. He’s an editor. Mostly features, but sometimes he’s on the news desk.’ I repeat the words I’ve heard Simon use, without knowing whether these two roles are in the same place or miles apart. Without knowing if they’re in the same building, even.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got no one here of that name. Is he freelance? I wouldn’t have him listed if he was freelance.’

‘No, he’s on the payroll. He’s been there for years. Could you check again? Simon Thornton.’

‘He’s not on my system,’ she repeats. ‘There’s no Simon Thornton working here.’





16


Kelly took out her chewing gum and dropped it into a bin. Having left home early, if she loitered any more she was in danger of being late, and that was hardly going to endear her to Nick Rampello. She took a deep breath, pushed up her chin, and walked briskly to the door she’d stood in front of on Friday, her umbrella doing little to protect her from the drizzle that seemed to be coming at her horizontally.

Wanting to make a good impression on her first day, Kelly had instinctively reached for her suit that morning, before feeling the coldness of an unwelcome memory. She had worn it for her disciplinary hearing; she could still feel the woollen cuffs scratching her wrists as she stood outside the chief’s office, waiting to be called in.

The reminder had made her nauseous. She had taken the suit off the hanger and bundled it into a bin bag to go to the charity shop, wearing instead her striped shirt with a pair of wide grey trousers that were now dark with rainwater where they met her shoes. Even without the sartorial prompt of the suit, Kelly was assaulted by memories, appearing in reverse order, like a film on rewind. Her return to shift; slinking into that first briefing with her cheeks ablaze, the echo of gossip reverberating in the air. Her months away from work; days on end in her room, unwashed and uncaring, waiting for a disciplinary hearing that could have ended her career. The sound of the alarm, signifying a crisis in custody; an urgent need for support. Running feet; not coming to back her up but to pull her off.

There were no images of the assault flashing in her head. There never had been. During her anger management classes Kelly had been encouraged to talk about the incident; to walk her counsellor through what had happened, what had triggered it.

‘I don’t remember,’ she’d explained. One minute she’d been interviewing the prisoner; the next … the custody alarm. She didn’t know what had caused her to lose control so horrifically; she had no memory of it.