‘Yes.’ But he couldn’t move, or say more. A knot was forming inside him, a strong, hard knot of despair for this wasted night, for Marianne’s refusal to let him help her. It threatened to choke him, drove tears up into his eyes, and the worst thing was that it was happening in front of this tiny, serious policewoman. His loneliness, made visible to a stranger, pulling tighter around his stomach as he struggled for self-control.
‘Do you want a lift home?’ she said. He shook his head.
‘No, I insist, I can’t leave you alone like this. You live near the park, right? I know your wife, a little bit. I’m a regular at the library. Come on, the car’s parked on the other side of the alley.’ She kept talking as she walked away, so David followed her, amazed by how confidently she strode without looking back, as if she didn’t realise how tiny and vulnerable she looked to him.
Her name was Samantha, Sam for short. She was a community support officer. She had a way of talking that didn’t tire the ears, even though on the drive back David had not noticed a pause in the flow of her speech on subjects such as the traffic problems of the high street and how the town needed better lighting. It was not entertaining talk, but it was easy to listen to. He could have stayed in the car for hours without feeling any pressure to respond, and so at the end of the drive he accepted her invitation of a cup of coffee. It turned out she lived around the corner from him anyway. He must have seen her around before; that would explain why her face was so familiar, yet utterly unremarkable. He couldn’t have described it to anyone else, except to say that it was neither pretty nor ugly. And that, too, was a soothing thing about her. When he looked at her he was not reminded of Marianne’s beauty.
Sam’s lounge seemed odd to him. It was so different from the cream curtains and wooden flooring of his house. Here, the room seemed crowded by the dark squashy armchairs, the radiator painted red to match the bookshelves and the fringed lampshade. He took a seat in a rocking chair, of all things, next to the small television, and knew straight away that she lived alone. The décor was too individual, and a small cuddly toy, an owl with enormous yellow felt eyes that were peeling around the edges due to age, sat in one of the armchairs, looking proprietorial.
He listened to the sound of the kettle boiling, and waited. Eventually she came in carrying a circular silver tray, her stab jacket undone, her hat removed, but still there was powerful formality in the way she placed the tray down on the glass-topped coffee table and handed him one of the mugs.
‘I know your wife,’ she said. ‘She recommended some thrillers for me. She was really helpful. I’ve been thinking about what happened to her. That’s why I stopped by the library at the end of the shift tonight, just in case there was anyone there. The thought of it makes me sick, someone like that, prowling around the town, looking for a woman who won’t be able to stand up to him. This should be a safe place for people, for families.’ She sat down in the armchair opposite him, clutching her own mug, her face composed, even though her words had been strident. He couldn’t work her out.
‘I thought maybe it would be someone from the Swindon estates,’ he said. ‘Some of those are pretty rough, and we’re practically a satellite town for Swindon now, aren’t we?’
‘It’s kept its own personality,’ she said. ‘You’re not from here, originally, are you?’
‘My parents still live in Cheltenham, where I grew up. Marianne’s from Bassett. Her father’s always been here, mainly in The Cornerhouse.’
Sam raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.
‘Are you from here, then?’ he asked her.
‘No.’
He got the feeling he’d strayed into unwelcome territory. He said, ‘She’s gone to Skein Island. My wife.’
‘No men allowed, right? The feminist thing. She’ll soon be back, I’m sure.’
He nodded, but that way she said it made him think of his parents. He had stopped telling them things years ago because they always gave the same sort of kindly, unrealistic reaction to bad news. They lived in sheltered accommodation together, sharing a ground-floor flat that cost him a great deal of money, but their fragility demanded special care. His father had a tendency to forget where he’d put things, and his mother nurtured an obsession with old notes, from greeting cards to shopping lists, for no discernible reason. He never bothered them with the details of his life.
She sipped her coffee. ‘Maybe it’s post-traumatic stress. She’s been through a terrible experience, even if nothing happened. She was very brave at the time, but people fall to pieces afterwards, sometimes.’
‘Of course, I’ve thought of that, but I can’t help her through it when she’s on an island where no men are allowed.’
She stood up. ‘Do you want some more coffee?’
He checked his watch; it was past ten. ‘No, I should head off home. I—thanks. For the lift.’
‘No problem.’
She led the way through the hallway, which was painted in an oppressive dark green, with varnished wooden banisters that had red wool strung between them, each strand bearing rows of tiny brass bells. David brushed them with one hand as he walked past, and they tinkled.
‘Early warning system,’ she said. ‘In case someone broke in. I know, it’s stupid, but in my line of work it can be difficult to relax at night. Thoughts go round your head.’
‘Of course,’ he said. He pictured her lying in bed, listening for the tinkle of bells.
She opened the front door. ‘Listen, David.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Don’t hang around outside the library any more, okay? The police are handling it.’
He wondered what the difference was between a policewoman and a community support officer. The thought of her standing out there on her own, with nothing to protect her, not even a proper police rank, scared him.
‘I can help,’ he said.
She blinked. ‘It’s my job.’
‘He tried to attack my wife.’
‘Yes, I understand that. But you don’t want to get into a situation you can’t handle.’
He stepped past her, feeling her flinch away, and then did up his coat in the cold air. The walk would only take a few minutes, but the temperature had dropped further and the pavement was slippery underfoot. Sam was right; the estate did need better lighting at night.
‘The same goes for The Cornerhouse,’ Sam said. ‘That’s not a place I’d advise you spend any time in. You know where I am if you need anything. Goodnight.’ She shut the door.
David stared at it, then started taking small, careful steps home on the icy pavement. Her last warning made no sense to him. He turned it over in his mind, and as he did so he realised what had seemed wrong to him about her lounge. There had been no photographs in that otherwise homely space: no family, no friends, no scenes from holidays once taken. Didn’t women always love photographs? Marianne had covered their own house in them, all framed neatly, all hung in prominent places: the mantelpiece, the coffee table, every single wall.
There had been the bells, a warning for some possible future, but no photographs on show. He realised he had never met a woman before who didn’t, in some way, continually reference her own past, through her choice of friends, or through cherished cards, or photos. Maybe she was a different kind of woman altogether.
The thought excited him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Each stroke – the lift of the limb, the fall of drops on the surface of the water – is a soft, slow revelation of relaxation. I am swimming on my back, with my eyes open, devouring my delicious solitude.