The Woman Next Door(40)

I look over at her as the occasional car streaks past outside and stripes our interior with yellow light. She is smiling at me, hopefully, and she looks young and tired. There is a softness in her eyes that feels like something new between us.

I feel a surge of affection and do believe that this is the closest we have ever been. Five minutes ago, I felt as though I were experiencing one of the worst moments of my life, but this one I would like to bathe in for a little longer.

‘Of course we can, dear girl,’ I say. ‘Of course we can.’

Before long we see the sign for Fleet Services and I pull into the car park, which isn’t as empty as you might imagine at 2.30 a.m. in the morning.

I have to leave Bertie in the van once he has relieved himself but, he is such a good little dog, I know I can trust him not to make a lot of noise. He looks at me trustingly as I whisper to him that Mummy will be back in a little while.

These are such strange places, I think, as we go through the main doors. People come and go, all night long. There are lots of places to eat and drink now, not like my day when we would sit at the side of the road on a picnic blanket with our boiled eggs and thermos tea. Now it’s all cappuccinos and paninis, or burgers and Coke, depending on where you are on the social spectrum.

I get myself a cup of insipid tea from the least offensive-looking of the options and sit in the main seating area, where Melissa will be able to find me once she has gone to the toilet. I try to concentrate on the timing of our night ahead.

If we stay here for an hour or so, it should mean that we get to our destination as daylight arrives.

I’m terribly tired now and the tea isn’t helping all that much.

What a night!

I keep trying to picture the practicalities of moving the body and getting it down the well, but it sounds like an almost impossible task.

It’s a terrible thing to say, and, of course, I could never have countenanced such a barbaric act, but it does rather make one understand why bodies are sometimes … well, separated into more manageable pieces to make disposal easier. I’m not sure whether we would have had the necessary tools, however. Dexter has all sorts of complicated saws and things, not to mention all that plastic sheeting he uses. It’s not exactly what you’d find in the average kitchen.

We’re just going to have to work with what we’ve got but I am concerned about the rigor mortis issue. What if the thing is now as stiff as an ironing board? However will we get it in the well?

I’m half wishing I hadn’t suggested this plan, although I have no idea what the alternative would be. We couldn’t exactly put the body out with the bins.

Cradling my cooling cup of tea, I realize now Melissa has been in the Ladies for rather a long time. I wonder whether I should check on her.

The silly thought occurs to me that she has somehow left me here.

Alone.

Maybe she walked back outside and is hitch-hiking home, hip cocked cheekily and her thumb out. This thought makes me squeeze my hands into fists so tightly that my nails dig into my palms in quite a painful way. It would be a terrible thing to do to me. Evil, almost. Surely she couldn’t do that?

I really am starting to fret about this when I see her coming towards me across the concourse, holding a large Starbucks’ cup, even though this is a separate café and I believe you’re only supposed to consume items bought here. But I suppose it’s a very small misdemeanour, given our current circumstances.

She slides into the seat in front of me. Her eyes are puffy and I can see that she has been crying. This thought really rips at my heart and gives me new resolve.

I have to help this poor, lost girl. I really don’t think that, despite the riches she has (both literally and metaphorically), she is a very happy person. Mark is nice enough, I suppose but, like Saskia, I always felt that he resented my place in Melissa’s life. Sometimes I even believed he was secretly mocking me, when we had one of our rare conversations.

One thing I know for sure. There is no way we will be returning to how things used to be. Not now we have been through this together. Saskia and Mark and anyone else with an opinion will just have to get used to my new place in her life. We are a team now.

Melissa takes a sip of her drink and closes her eyes. I would like to let her rest awhile, but we have matters that must be discussed and they can’t wait.

‘So, I’ve been thinking about the rigor mortis issue,’ I say.

Her eyes snap open and her cheeks flood with blotchy colour. ‘Keep your voice down!’ she hisses, looking around the café area. ‘Why don’t you just take over the Tannoy and tell the entire place for Christ’s sake?’

This stings.

There aren’t that many people in here. There are a few men who look like truck drivers dotted about at this hour but none of them has paid us any attention. A young coloured teenager runs a huge mop around in a desultory fashion at the far end of the café area. I think she is really making an unnecessary fuss, but I do nonetheless drop my voice when I speak again.

‘I’m sorry! But I know from watching dramas that rigor mortis isn’t a permanent state, so I’m hoping we will be beyond that bit when the time comes. But even so, it’s going to be difficult to manoeuvre it, isn’t it?’

She leans forward, placing her hand on the table in front of her. Her face is so thunderous it almost frightens me.

‘Him, Hester,’ she hisses. ‘Him. That’s a person in the back of that van. Not an “it”.’ Her words seem to skid off into tearfulness then. She jabs angry looks around the café. ‘I think it’s about time you remembered that.’