She never cried when it was actually happening. He knew it was because she didn't want to give him the satisfaction, or some such crap. That only proved what a stupid cow she was, because he couldn't stand to see her cry, to see any woman cry, and maybe if she did cry once in a while he might ease off a bit.
No, she saved it up for afterwards and he could hear it now, coming through the ceiling and putting him off his dinner.
The row had been about the same thing they were all about. Her, taking the piss.
He'd backed down on this afternoon walking business, on her going out to the woods of an afternoon on her own. He'd given in to her, and today she'd been gone nearly six hours. Half the fucking day and no word of an apology when she'd eventually come strolling through the front door.
So, it had kicked off…
Lee was bright, always had been. He knew damn well that it wasn't just about her staying out of the house too long. He knew it all came down to the pills.
There'd been a lot more rowing, a lot more crying in the bedroom since he'd found that little packet tucked behind her panties at the back of a drawer. He was clever enough to see the irony in that as well. Contraceptive pills, hidden among the sexy knickers he'd bought for her.
He'd gone mental when he'd found them, obviously. Hadn't they agreed that they were going to start trying for a kid? That everything would be better once they were a family? He was furious at the deceit, at the fool she'd made of him, at the time and effort he'd wasted in shafting her all those weeks beforehand.
There'd been a lot more rowing since…
Christ, he loved her though. She wouldn't get to him so much if it wasn't for that, wouldn't wind him up like she did. He could feel it surging through him as he lost his temper and it caused his whole body to shake when it was finished, and she crawled away to cry where he couldn't see her.
He hoped she knew it – now, with her face buried in a sopping pillow – he hoped she knew how much he loved her.
Lee dropped his fork and slid his hand beneath the plate, wiggling his fingers until it sat, balanced on his palm. He jerked his forearm and sent the plate fast across the kitchen.
Watched his dinner run down the wall.
He watched them.
He lay on the grass, just another sun-worshipper, and with his arm folded across his head he spied on them through a fringed curtain of underarm hair. He watched them from his favourite bench. His face hidden behind a newspaper, his back straight against the small, metal plaque.
For Eric and Muriel, who loved these woods…
He watched them, and he waited.
He watched her of course at other times too. He'd followed her home that very first day and now he would spend hours outside the house in Barnet, imagining her inside in the dark.
He couldn't say why he'd chosen her; couldn't really say why he'd chosen any of them. Something just clicked. It was all pretty random at the end of the day, just luck – good or bad depending on which way you looked at it.
When he was caught, and odds on he would be, he would tell them that and nothing else.
It all came down to chance.
They'd begun to spend their afternoons together. They walked every inch of Highgate Woods, ate picnics by the tree where they'd first met, and one day they held hands across a weathered, wooden table outside the cafeteria.
'Why can't I see you in the evenings?' Alan said.
She winced. 'This is nice, isn't it? Don't rush things.'
'I changed my shifts around so we could see each other during the day. So that we could spend time together.'
'I never asked you to.'
'There's things I want, Rachel…'
She leered. 'I bet there are.'
'Yes, that. Obviously that, but other things. I want to take you places and meet your friends. I want to come to where you live. I want you to come where I live…'
'It's complicated. I told you.'
'You never tell me anything.'
'I'm married, Alan.'
He drew his hand away from hers. He tried, and failed, to make light of it. 'Well, that explains a lot.'
'I suppose it changes everything, doesn't it?'
He looked at her as if she were mad. 'Just a bit.'
'I don't see why.'
'For fuck's sake, Rachel…'
'Tell me.'
'I don't… I wouldn't like it if I was the one married to you, put it that way.'
She looked at the table.
'Don't cry.'
'I'm not crying.'
Alan put a laugh into his voice. 'Besides, he might decide to beat me up.'
Then there were tears, and she told him the rest. The babies she didn't want and the bruises you couldn't see, and when it was over Alan reached for her hand and squeezed, and looked at her hard.
'If he touches you again, I'll fucking kill him.'
She appreciated the gesture but knew it was really no more than that, and she was sad at the hurt she saw in Alan's eyes when she laughed.
Afterwards, Rachel leaned down to pull the sheet back over them. A little shyness had returned, but it was not uncomfortable, or awkward.
'I would tell you how great that was,' she said. 'But I don't want you to get complacent.' She turned on her side to face him, and grinned.
'I was lucky to meet you,' he said. 'That day, looking for the ball.'
'Or unlucky…'
He shook his head, ran the back of his hand along her ribcage.
'Did you know that a smile can change the world?' she said. 'Do you know about that idea?'
'Sounds like one of those awful self-help things.'
'No, it's just a philosophy really, based around the randomness of everything. How every action has consequences, you know? How it's connected.' She closed her eyes. 'You smile at someone at the bus stop and maybe that person's mood changes. They're reminded of a friend they haven't spoken to in a long time and they decide to ring them. This third person, on the other side of the world, answers his mobile phone doing ninety miles an hour on the motorway. He's so thrilled to hear from his old friend that he loses concentration and ploughs into the car in front, killing a man who was on his way to plant a bomb that would have killed a thousand people…'
Alan puffed out his cheeks, let the air out slowly. 'What would have happened if I'd scowled at the bloke at the bus stop?'
Rachel opened her eyes. 'Something else would have happened.'
'Right, like I'd've got punched.'
She laughed, but Alan looked away, his mind quickly elsewhere. 'I want to talk to you later,' he said. 'I want to talk to you tonight.'
She sighed. 'I've told you, it's not possible.'
'After what you told me earlier, I want to call you. I want to know you're OK. There must be a way. I'll call at seven o'clock. Rachel? At exactly seven.'
She closed her eyes again, then, fifteen seconds later she nodded slowly.
It was a minute before Alan spoke again. 'Only trouble is, you smile at anyone at a bus stop in London, they think you're a nutter.'
This time they both laughed, then rolled together. Then fucked again.
When they'd got their breaths back they talked about all manner of stuff. Films and football and music.
Nothing that mattered.
Alan lay in bed after Rachel had left and thought about all the things that had been said and done that day. He wanted so much to do something to help her, to make her feel better, but for all his bravado, for all his heroic notions, the best that he could come up with was a present.
He knew straight away what he could give her, and where to find it.
It was in a shoebox at the back of a cupboard stuffed with bundles of letters, a bag of old tools and other odds and sods that he'd collected from his father's place after the old man had died.