‘Melanie,’ is the word I go with as I stand over her. Say what you see and all that. I don’t know what else to come out with.
Her face is craggier than I remember, the wrinkles deeper, her hair a wiry scrubbing pad of grey and rusty brown. Some things never change, however. There was always spite and fury in her eyes – and, if anything, it burns brighter in the years since we last saw one another. Billy must feel it, too. He sits behind my legs, not daring to look at her.
Melanie continues to stare but says nothing. Eventually, she twists away to gaze out towards the water on the far side of the park. Red-faced runners continue to bob past, huffing and puffing their way to the finish line.
‘I didn’t know you got to this end of town,’ I add. The silence between us is agonisingly awkward.
Melanie tugs her red anorak away from her collar and gasps a loud gust of breath.
‘Are you, um…?’ I’m not sure what I’m asking; not even particularly certain why I’m continuing to talk to her. It’s been four years since we last saw one another. She was a venomous inferno of anger then. I’ve moved on and I suppose I’m wondering if she has.
In a flash, she spins back to me, eyes blazing. ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
She spits the words with such spite that I take half a step backwards, almost treading on poor Billy.
‘Like what?’ I manage.
In a blink, Melanie is on her feet. She glares daggers and then turns with a swish and stomps off towards the park exit. I watch her go and it’s only as she disappears out of sight that I feel able to move again.
I suppose I thought she might have moved away from here and found herself some peace elsewhere. A little place near the seaside, or a flat in a city centre where everything and anything is on the doorstep. It’s no surprise she’s still around, of course. It’s not like I moved; not like I found peace elsewhere. We live in the same big town, but it’s easy to get lost among so many people. To be invisible. Her in her space, me in mine.
It’s only as I release a large rasp that I realise I’ve been holding my breath. I shiver with relief and, suddenly, it feels as if I’m still the shaky, traumatised woman I was in years gone by.
The thing is, it’s not that I don’t see her point of view. There’s a part of me that understands exactly why she is how she is. Melanie doesn’t like me, which is completely reasonable given that she believes I killed both her sons.
Chapter Five
When it comes to fashion statements, shoes that are literally being held together by sticky tape certainly sends a message. Admittedly, the message is: ‘This person cannot afford to buy new shoes’, but it’s a clear statement nonetheless.
My only other option of shoes to wear to work is a low pair of heels that are leftovers from my school days more than a decade ago. There’s no way I’ll be able to stand in those all day – so it’s my taped-up trainers or bare feet.
I have to go to work but cannot resist opening the envelope of money to check it’s still there. It is, of course, precisely in the way I repacked it all with the neat, uncrimped notes at the top. The small voice telling me to take what I need for new shoes is starting to become louder. There’s still nothing online about missing or stolen money. If nobody’s missing it, then what would be wrong with taking a bit for myself…?
I reluctantly put the envelope of money into the drawer underneath the television and then say goodbye to Billy. He’s used to being by himself while I’m at work – but it’s still hard to escape the guilt for leaving him alone. In between showering and changing, I’ve had another missed call from ‘unknown’. There is no number to call back, no clue as to who is trying to get in contact.
After closing my door, I pause for a second, drawn to the flat opposite. Good or bad, Hamilton House is the type of block in which everyone recognises everyone else. There is a certain amount of all being in it together, as they say. We know it’s a bit of a crappy place to live – but it’s still ours. There are three floors of six flats and that creates a community. If someone has moved in opposite, there is a strangeness in that nobody has seemingly seen the person.
I head downstairs and there are posters for Karen’s birthday party at the bottom with ‘all welcome’ written on each in felt tip. Karen’s written her flat number on there, inviting anyone who wants more details to knock on her door.
Outside, and the chill is still clinging to the air. I pull my coat tighter and take a few steps towards the bus stop before halting. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m back inside and rushing up the stairs. I wrench my door open and almost fall inside with the speed of it all.
Billy is lying on the sofa and his ears perk up with confusing expectation. I whisper a ‘sorry’ in his direction and then grab the envelope of money from the drawer. It’s comforting and feels like something I need to have close. I tuck it into my bag and then wrench the zipper shut. After another apology to Billy, I close the door and then I’m off again. This time I don’t change my mind.
It’s only when I pass the low wall on Allen Street that I remember the feeling of first seeing the money in the envelope. The thrill of it all. It was nearly a day ago and yet I can still feel the buzz. There’s an urge to open my bag and check it over, but I force it away and continue on until I arrive at the stop just as the bus is pulling in.
The difference between Saturday morning and Friday evening on the number 24 bus is ridiculous. Today, there are barely half-a-dozen people spread out among the seats. I show the driver my pass – my biggest monthly outgoing aside from rent – and then get a double space to myself. One of the other passengers is seemingly passed out across two seats, his beanie hat pulled low over his eyes as he rests his head in the crook of his elbow. Everyone else is on their respective phones and I copy their lead. There are still no hits for missing or stolen money. I would hand it in but, if I was to take it to the police, who’s to say it wouldn’t end up being divvied out among them? If anyone should get it, surely it should be me?
I glance towards the front of the bus, eyeing the spot near the pole where I was standing last night. There’s nobody there now, but there can’t really be any doubt that this is where the envelope appeared in my bag. Could it really have been by accident? Surely the alternative is weirder – that someone gave me this money? But who? And, if it was deliberate, why not simply hand it to me?
So many questions.
I open the zip of my bag and finger the top of the envelope, craving to touch what’s inside. I know it’s strange – I know, I know – but I can’t help myself. I picture those poor, hungry people that appear on television appeals every time it’s Comic Relief, Children In Need, or whatever. If someone gives them food, it gets eaten. There’s no need for politeness or reticence. The amount of money in the envelope is close to three months of wages for me – why shouldn’t I treat it in the same way that hungry people treat food? I’ve not stolen it.
For some, it’s pocket change. I read once that if Bill Gates was to drop a $20 note, it wouldn’t be worth the time it would take him to pick it up. He earns more from carrying on with his day. For someone like that, this money is nothing. For me, it can change my life.