Our House(38)

Even so, when the lift operates normally, not a word spoken between its occupants and Bram deposited safely at the ground floor, the relief he feels is savage.

Even so, when he slips into a pharmacy on his way back to the hotel, searching the aisles for a good pair of scissors, he glances over his shoulder more than once before he makes his selection and pays.





21


Bram, Word document

For the next twenty-four hours, I heard nothing from Wendy and I wondered if I’d imagined what she’d said. What I’d said. Maybe she’d left before I woke up and I’d had that exchange in the kitchenette with an apparition – Lord knows that between Macbeth and me countless men have been so demented by guilt they’ve given their conscience voice and mistaken it for retribution.

Better still, perhaps I’d never met her; she didn’t exist! But, no, that really was wishful thinking. There’d been a text from Rog in the morning, asking, Good night?, complete with the ‘lucky bugger’ subtext of a winking-face emoji. No doubt he’d told Alison I’d been on the pull. Definitely she’d told Fi. But Fi was the least of my worries, for once.

Nothing happened, I texted back. No emojis.

I didn’t go near the car – by now, I couldn’t even look at it – and as I took the train to and from work, I abused myself ceaselessly for not having stayed on the platform that morning of the conference and bitten the bullet of a commuter delay. What would a late start have been, or even a no-show, a job loss, compared to this inferno of misery?

Then, on the Friday evening, a text came from her. I hadn’t been aware of having given her my phone number, but evidently she had it. Easy enough to discover by calling my office, I supposed, or even snooping while I slept. The message consisted of a link to a story on a Croydon news website:

Reward offered in hunt for Silver Road crash driver

A ￡10,000 reward for information has been offered by the husband of the Silver Road collision victim, a forty-two-year-old woman recovering from critical injuries sustained in the collision on Friday 16 September. The couple’s ten-year-old daughter was also severely injured in the incident.

The police have yet to identify the other party in the collision and are keen to hear from motorists and pedestrians in the area at approximately 6 p.m., the time of the incident.

A spokesperson for the victims’ family said: ‘Two innocent people have sustained terrible injuries as the result of a cold-blooded and cowardly act and we will do everything in our power to help the police find this criminal.’





A ￡10,000 reward, Jesus. It was a bounty on my head.

Or – have a beer, a cigarette, think – was it possible that the announcement of a reward was a useful development? Might it not bring unreliable witnesses and charlatans into the mix, both of which would waste police time?

As I read the item a second time, searching each word for new meaning, my stomach heaved. It wasn’t the money – a sum that Wendy clearly expected me to improve on in my compensation of her – but a single word buried in the first paragraph:

‘Recovering’.

It sounded as if the driver of the Fiat was now conscious and improving. It sounded as if she was now in a fit state to be interviewed by the police.

I made no reply to Wendy. I wouldn’t have replied to her even if I hadn’t lost the use of my hands to uncontrollable shaking.


‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:21:40

So I’d say it was probably only a few days before the guy from La Mouette got in touch, inviting me to have a drink with him the next Friday. I suggested a bar in Balham, striking distance for both of us but a safe enough distance from home turf to avoid any neighbourhood gossips spreading the word. Not that Bram had worried on that score, brazenly picking someone up in the most popular drinking hole in Alder Rise, but I had different standards.

It was surprisingly easy to get back in the game. Toby was such effortlessly good company. I told him about my job in homewares and he talked about his work as a data analyst for a think tank commissioned by the Department of Transport.

‘It’s not a study of inveterate speeders, is it?’ I laughed. ‘If so, you might want to interview my ex-husband. He’s had three tickets in the last eighteen months.’

Toby grinned at me. ‘We’re interested in the exact opposite: why the average speed for a journey through central London has slowed so dramatically. You know it’s getting down towards eight miles an hour? Everyone agrees the congestion charge isn’t effective any more, so we’re working with a big engineering consultancy to put together a new strategy.’

‘It’s all the white vans, I suppose?’ I knew from my work that people expected same-or next-day delivery on even the cheapest, smallest items.

‘Partly.’ He described his team’s surveillance of freight vehicles and mini cabs, cycle lanes and construction projects, before apologizing for boring me. ‘I sometimes think talking about work should be against the law.’

I lifted my wine glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ It was true I wasn’t looking to share career angst. I wasn’t looking to share lives. This was a physical attraction, the interesting conversation a delightful bonus. ‘Just tell me one thing: I’m not under surveillance, am I?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not the kind you mean, anyway.’