He Said/She Said(63)

‘Don’t worry, we don’t know each other,’ says the man.

‘Haha,’ says Richard. ‘Your fame goes before you. Another one who’s seen your video. That’s weird, though, that you recognised him without the beard.’

The man looks nonplussed. ‘What video? No, there was a woman walking around with a photograph of you, looking for you. Taken a few years back, but I’m sure it was you.’

My heart flips like a landed fish. She isn’t looking for Christopher. She’s looking for Kit. She’s here, and she’s going to fuck up my eclipse. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘It must be someone else.’

He studies me. ‘Either that or you’ve got a twin brother somewhere.’ I flinch at that, but I can tell from his face that it’s just a turn of phrase.

‘What did she look like?’ I wonder if Richard can detect the wobble in my voice.

‘About your age, I’d say. Pretty. Dark hair. She went off on one of those pink coaches.’

He nods towards the harbour. I see the Calpol-coloured paintwork shining, just proud of the harbour’s curve.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

‘Well, I’ll keep my eyes open,’ I say. ‘Have a good eclipse, yeah?’

‘Good luck!’ says the man, his face shining with idiot hopefulness, and vanishes into the crowd.

If I’m right, and that was Beth with the photograph, she’s literally boarding right now. Something inside snaps, almost audibly.

‘Be right back,’ I say to Richard. ‘Hold this.’ I give him my bag, but keep my camera. It dangles in my hand like a slingshot.

‘What do you mean, be right back? It’s not a moveable feast – Chris! Chris!’ Richard’s voice trails away as I press through the tight pack of bodies. Every time I push past someone there’s the zippy nylon swish of contact with another person in sensible waterproof clothing. Is this what it’s like for Laura? Knowing you’re behaving like an idiot, powerless to stop?

I try the nearest pink coach first. ‘Are you with this party?’ The woman with the clipboard has bubble-permed grey hair and a smile that’s tipping into alarm.

‘No, but I need to check if someone’s on the coach.’

‘This is strictly pre-booked tickets only.’ She looks over her shoulder to the coach driver for back-up but he’s about ninety. ‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to—’ She puts up zero resistance as I barge past her.

‘I only need to see if she’s there.’ I stand in the gangway of the coach. One sweep of the passengers tells me Beth is not among them. ‘Sorry. Thank you,’ I say, bowling back down the stairs, and the murmurs start up: ‘Is he on something?’ ‘Was that a British accent?’ ‘Should we call someone about him?’

The second pink coach, parked directly behind, is still boarding. I bypass the front entrance for a second door halfway down and this time I don’t even pretend to ask. White heads bob in concern. There’s no one here under sixty-five.

Someone’s radioed or phoned ahead because they’re wise to me on the third coach. Two men, arms folded, wait for me at the entrance. I’m forced to shout up the stairs.

‘Beth!’ My voice is loud enough to travel the length of the coach; it’s loud enough to cause avalanches. ‘Beth! I’ve had enough! Come on! You win! Let’s have it out! I’ve had enough!’ The door swings shut in my face. ‘I’m losing my mind out here,’ I shout through the glass. I press my face against the door and wait. If she’s on board, she must have heard me; and if she’s here, she’s here for me. She will come. ‘I’m losing my fucking mind,’ I repeat in a whisper.

The driver revs the engine and my face judders against the body of the coach, shocking me back to my senses. I sprint the length of the emptying harbour, and find Richard, on the yellow coach, my bag on the seat next to him.

‘What the bloody hell was all that about?’

‘We need to switch seats,’ I say, hoisting my bag and lugging it to the back row. From here, I can see every passenger board. My muscles are locked in rigor. I am braced for confrontation. I hate thinking like this, but if anything happens to Beth today, she has brought it on herself by following me here.

No, that’s not fair. Whatever her faults, Beth went through hell too. It’s Jamie Balcombe I should be angry with; if, indeed, the buck stops there.





Chapter 33





LAURA

25 June 2000

‘Are you sure you haven’t moved it?’ said Kit, for the twentieth time that hour. ‘It’s a little canister of film in a plastic tube. About so big. It can’t have just disappeared. It was literally here.’ He pointed to the worktop.

‘It’s probably gone down the back of the cooker or something,’ I said. ‘Can you not wait till we’re finished?’ I was sitting on a kitchen chair with a towel around my neck and my hair parted in the centre, while Beth, in latex gloves, painted a violet paste of hydrogen peroxide on to my roots. I felt the familiar caustic tingle as the bleach lifted the colour from my hair. I’d already had a go at hers, turning a couple of dark curls bright purple at the ends.

The radio was on so loud that the water in our glasses jumped with the beat, but her phone, propped on a bookshelf, was still audible. The screen glowed green, the word home spelled out in dot matrix. She gave it a look, pinched her face slightly, and ignored it. Kit raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.