The day greys over as the clouds roll in. The air cools, becomes chill. Laura types, deletes, types again. It’s no good. She can’t change it.
‘Still at it? You’ve been here all day.’
She jumps and turns round.
It’s David trying hard to be patient. ‘I’ve made tea.’
‘Thanks.’ She isn’t hungry, but… ‘Thanks.’
He’s made egg and chips. The chips lie pale and limp on the plate. The yolk of the egg trembles under its translucent membrane. She cuts the chips into small pieces, pushes them into the egg, watching the bright yellow spill and spread over her plate.
‘Egg and chips not good enough for you anymore?’ He’s angry again. He’s made the effort and she doesn’t appreciate it – doesn’t appreciate him.
She can’t explain. She can’t tell him. ‘It’s fine. Egg and chips is fine. I’m just not hungry, that’s all.’
He grunts, but doesn’t say anything. He’s trying. He’s making the effort. He shakes the sauce bottle over his plate. Smack as he hits the base with the flat of his hand. She watches red spatter over the mountain of chips.
‘Ketchup?’
She shakes her head. ‘Did you get a paper? Is there any more about…?’ About the murder.
‘No. Stupid cow, though. What did she expect, out on her own at that time?’
What had she expected? She sees the wine spilled on the supermarket floor, the drip, drip from the shelves, the bright red of the splashes. David lifts a chip to his mouth. Ketchup drops on to the table, splat.
She has to get back.
The dark footprints cross the paving stones of the alleyway, prints that look black and shiny in the moonlight, growing fainter and fainter with each step until they fade to nothing.
It is starting to rain. The drops make black marks on the dry flags. The drops are big and heavy, splashing up as the rain falls harder and harder. The footsteps begin to blur, and a darker colour trickles across the ground with the rain that starts to run across the path, across the alleyway, running into a black pool that gleams in the shadows. And the puddles cloud as dark streaks mingle with the clear water, running thick and black then clearer and faster, into the gutters, the drains and away.
The next morning, the sky is Mediterranean blue. The sun blazes down, scorching away the freshness of the storm. The air is hot and dry. Laura’s fingers fly across the keys.
David is the doorway. ‘It’s been on the radio,’ he says. His voice has the lift of excitement. ‘There’s been another.’
‘I know.’ She types, the words spilling out of her fingers. She can’t stop now, she mustn’t stop… and the rainwater ran across the paving stones…
‘Not the supermarket.’ David wants her attention. He has information to pass on, exciting news, and he can’t wait to tell her. ‘In the alleyway, Laura. They found her in the alleyway. Right behind our house! Last night.’
I know. But she can’t say it.
Three a.m. Something wakes her. She lies very still and listens. Silence. The wind whips the clouds across the moon. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. The curtains are pulled back and the trees in the garden make caves of shadow. They rock and sway. The branches of the cotoneaster scrape across the window. Tap. Tap. Tap. The alleyway is full of night.
David has been out all day, comes back to find Laura at her desk, the dishes unwashed, the fridge empty.
He looks at the screen. ‘Nothing. You’ve done nothing. Sitting there all day. I can’t do it all.’
Sorry. I’m sorry. But she can’t say it. Her eyes move towards the window, where the buddleia flowers droop over the high fence. A sudden breeze makes them lift their heads. A piece of tape, yellow and black, dances through the air and wraps itself round the stems, then hangs still. All day. She’s heard them there all day, behind the garden, in the alley.
Later, David relents. ‘I’ve made you a sandwich.’
She can’t choke it down.
‘There’s no pleasing you!’
She flinches as his hand brushes against hers.
His eyes are cold. ‘Out. I’m going out. If you want to know.’
She can’t worry about that now, can’t let it distract her. She has to get back to her desk, back to her screen. Nothing else matters.
In the distance, she hears the door slam.
Laura sits in her study. The rain started falling hours ago. She reads the words that fill the screen. She scrolls down, reads on. Her fingers tap tap on the desk. She looks through her window. Now, it is dark outside, the back garden, and the fence, and the alleyway all in shadow, empty now and silent.
She has to bring him back, back behind the screen, behind the words, behind the flowers and butterflies, safe and secure. He doesn’t want that. he is enjoying his freedom.
But there is a way.
She goes out into the corridor and opens the hall cupboard. The corridor is painted white, the walls satin, the doors gloss. The floor is polished. The light reflects into her eyes.
She opens the cupboard. She drums her fingers, tap, tap against the door. She takes off her slippers, and puts on a pair of black shoes, strappy, with very high heels. She has to fiddle with the fastenings for a few minutes. She stands up, tall and straight. She puts on her coat, a mac, light and summery. It will be no protection against the rain. She throws a scarf, a summer scarf, thin and gauzy, round her neck. Then she walks to the door. Her heels tap, tap, tap on the lino.
I’m coming.
The street is long and straight, with pools of light under the streetlamps, light that glints off the water as it runs down the gutters. And between the lights, only shadows. The rain drips off the trees. Dark and then light. Dark and then light.
I can’t find you anymore!
I can’t find you anymore!
She walks on. She knows he will come. He has to.
Her feet tap tap on the pavement, moving quickly from light to light. And then she hears it. The sound of soft footsteps behind her, moving fast, moving closer.
Something glints in the darkness. Something blows in the wind, gauze and butterflies and flowers.
David gets home late. As he comes through the gate, he sees a curtain twitch in the house next door. He hesitates, then walks up the path. His own front door is open. He can hear it banging as the wind blows. What the…? He catches it before it can swing shut again, stands for a moment, listening. ‘Laura?’ he calls, and again, more loudly. ‘Laura?’ Then he closes the door quietly behind him.
The house is silent.
He goes to Laura’s study. The screen flickers, the flowers and butterflies locked in their perpetual dance. He banishes them with a touch, and looks at the screen, looks at what Laura was writing, looks at the words that scroll down the screen.
The street was long and straight, with pools of light under the streetlamps, light that glinted off the water as it ran down the gutters. And between the lights, only shadows. The rain dripped off the trees. Dark and then light. Dark and then light.
I can’t find you anymore!
And then, over and over: No, no, no, no… down the screen. Down and down, no, no way, no way, no way. No..w no..w now now now.
Now!
He reaches out and presses a key. The writing jumps, fades, is gone.
The black screen faces him.
the end