‘All right, Mags?’ said Arnie, to the woman behind the bar. ‘Another two here.’
Mags retrieved two pint glasses from the stack behind her and pulled at the pumps with muscular efficiency. Her arms were bare; she wore a stretchy white top with straps that had entwined with the lace straps of her bra, in a shade of red that clashed with her curly, purplish hair. David imagined her to be in her early fifties, with heavily wrinkled skin under her arms, flapping as she pulled their pints, but her blue eyes, intense in the bristling mess of mascara, looked younger, more alive than the patrons of the pub. She was looking straight at him.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘I’m not a waitress.’
David got up and took the pints from the bar.
‘Nine pounds, lovey.’ He paid the money.
‘Is this your son-in-law, then, Arnie?’ she said, not taking her eyes from him.
‘That’s him. The daughter’s only gone off to Skein Island and left him.’
This news was greeted with fresh mutterings from the other men. David carried the pints back to the table.
‘Like mother, eh?’ said Mags, with some degree of satisfaction evident in her voice as she switched off the radio. ‘Right, well, it’s eight o’clock.’ And that was the end of the conversation about Marianne. How unimportant she was to them. It was a strange relief to not have to field questions, to explain the inexplicable. Apparently this leaving business was something that women did, apart from Mags, who seemed to have transcended female status. Old men knew not to be surprised when women left. Instead they merely nodded, and pulled their chairs closer to the bar as Mags retrieved a small green box from behind the rack of spirits.
Arnie rubbed his hands together and gave David a wink. ‘You’d better watch this time, see how it goes.’
‘What?’
‘The game,’ his father-in-law said, as if that explained everything. Mags opened the box, and took out four small painted cubes, one red, one blue, one yellow, one green. She placed them on the bar. David glanced back at Arnie; he was leaning forward, his attention fixed on the cubes. Mags stood back, her hands on her hips. Her expression was difficult to read. There was pleasure there, David thought, but she was trying to hide it under a veneer of watchful superiority. She was in charge, that much was obvious. The men did not move from their seats, but they were all hooked to the cubes, their eyes glued to the wooden sides, lined up in a row.
David felt Mags’s attention on him once more. ‘You in?’ she said.
He shrugged.
‘Not good enough. Come back when you’re in.’
‘He’s with me,’ said Arnie.
‘Not good enough.’
‘It’s okay,’ David said. ‘I should go, anyway. I’ve got a teleconference in the morning.’
Arnie pulled a face. ‘Right, well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?’
‘Will you let me know if she rings again?’
‘Course.’ But Arnie wouldn’t look at him. David picked up his leather jacket and put it on, feeling the men around him wishing him gone. Mags had turned back to the cubes, tapping them with a purple fingernail, one at a time, the noise like the tick-tock of a metronome, counting out the seconds until he left.
He walked to the door, stepped outside, pulled it shut behind him. He started a brisk walk back to his empty house, then gave in to temptation, and headed instead for the library.
David crouched and waited.
Blame was an organism. It grew, and stretched, and multiplied in unexpected directions. Although it had a pinpoint-sharp focus on the unknown attacker, its outer edges also encompassed Marianne’s father, and the other women she worked with who had left her alone to close up. He hated himself for letting her leave. He should have leapt out of bed when he first spotted the open wardrobe door and the absence of her suitcase. He imagined, nightly, living that moment of realisation again, acting fast, throwing himself in front of their car.
The library was a small, grey, one-storey building, rectangular with a porch area into which the main doorway had been set. The outside light above the doorway was operated by motion sensor; every time David shifted position it clicked on to throw a sickly bluish glow over the path and the privet where he hid, and when it clicked off again it left David with the temporary illusion of absolute, icy darkness, blanket thick.
And, of course, nobody came.
There was another reason to be here. It made him feel closer to Marianne. She loved her job: the smell and the feel of well-used books, the joy of recommending a tense thriller or a slushy romance to her customers.
He shifted his weight on to his left buttock and stuck out his right leg, flexing his foot. The exterior light clicked on as he worked out the cramp in his calf with his fingers. Agonising, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. In The Cornerhouse, ten minutes’ walk away, Arnie would be drinking and watching television, playing the game with the cubes. David wondered what the prize was; it had to be good, to have captured everyone’s attention so completely. Or maybe they had nothing else to live for.
He heard the light footsteps behind him only a moment before he heard the voice.
‘Stand up.’
It was a woman. Hope leapt in him, but an instant later evaporated. It wasn’t Marianne. It was too harsh a voice, too confident.
David did as he was told. The woman must have come from the far side of the library, working her way along the small, gravel path that ran along the back of the building, where the bins were kept.
‘Put your hands behind your head,’ she said. He linked his gloved fingers around the back of his neck. She sounded so calm. He guessed she was a policewoman, maybe, but still, his major concern was that he didn’t move too quickly and frighten her.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Can I ask what you’re doing here?’
It was too complicated to explain. ‘Can I turn around?’ He didn’t know why, but he thought seeing her face might help.
There was a pause. Then she said, ‘Yes, all right. But keep your hands up, okay?’
The politeness of it was surprising. He moved around to face her. She was standing underneath the exterior light, eyes hidden in the shadow thrown by the brim of her neat hat, mouth straight. How petite she was, short and slim but with a wide stance, her feet planted in sensible black shoes.
‘My wife was working here last night, and she was approached by an assailant. I just thought I’d see if he was hanging around.’
She lifted her chin and gave him a view of her eyes. There was recognition in them. Did he know her? He felt certain he didn’t.
‘You’re Mr Percival?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got ID on you?’
‘Yes, in my pocket. Can I…?’ He lowered his hands and reached into his coat pocket to bring forth his wallet. She came closer, just a few steps, and held out her free hand in a precise, direct manner, as if she was in charge. Which, now he thought about it, she was. The sensation of her gaze on his driver’s licence, then on his face, wasn’t unpleasant. He risked a small smile, which she returned. ‘I had the same thought,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d just have a quick check round. Sometimes men like that come back to the same haunts.’
So it hadn’t been ridiculous after all. David nodded, trying to keep either vindication or disappointment from his expression.
‘How’s your wife?’ she said.
‘She’s gone away for a few days.’
She snapped his wallet shut and handed it back. She didn’t seem surprised, but maybe that was the training she received, to be calm in the face of all situations. He envied her. ‘I think you should probably go home now.’