Chapter Forty-Four

I see the wheelchair as soon as I step on to the platform. Someone has parked it against the wall of the station, facing towards the exit, perhaps because a chill wind is sweeping through the draughty outside waiting areas. I can therefore only see her in profile, and that not clearly, because her face is half-hidden by a scarf and most of her body is obscured by the same cellular blanket that she was swathed in when first I met her. I know that it is she, nevertheless. She is wearing her navy-blue felt hat, for one thing, but even if she were not, the outline of her face itself would have enabled me to recognise her instantly and without doubt. There is no mistaking those fine, bird-like features, so exactly like Peter’s.

I know that she cannot be here alone. Someone must have accompanied her, must have helped her manoeuvre herself and the wheelchair into a taxi and out again, must have pushed the wheelchair containing her on to the platform. I scan the crowd of two dozen or so people who are waiting, trying to catch sight of a familiar face; trying to glimpse Jillian, in fact. Jillian must be here, somewhere. Peter has told me to watch out for her, above all.

I wonder why they are not at home. What can have impelled them to come to the station so early, on such a raw day? Perhaps they are planning a holiday. Perhaps the old lady is ill, and needs to see a doctor. Perhaps Jillian has a sixth sense, some inner warning mechanism that has told her of my impending visit.

Suddenly I am very angry. I realise that, but for this lucky chance sighting, my journey might have been in vain. I might have reached the house and found no-one there. As it is, I am going to have to act swiftly, and in a public place, too. I shall have to change my plan of execution completely. I shall have to improvise.

The obvious method would be to push her on to the track in front of a train. But I quail at the barbarity of it. I’m also not certain that I can pull it off: I imagine it is much more difficult to shove someone in a wheelchair on to the tracks than someone who is merely standing on the platform. Besides, the ostentatiousness of such a move repels me.

I scan the platform again. There seems to be an area beyond the building that is deserted. It would be possible to push her out of sight of onlookers and then strangle her. I contemplate the practicalities. I’ve never strangled anyone before. How difficult will it be? Will she scream, or put up a struggle? Will she make a fuss before I can remove her from view? I look across at her again. She is completely inert, though not, I think, asleep. I may be imagining it, but I’m sure that I see the gleam of a boot-button eye beneath the hat.

I decide to approach her. I’ll have to be quick, before Jillian returns. I decide that I will have more chance of abducting her if I creep up on her from behind. I walk past her on the platform, keeping as close to the edge as I can so that I am as far away as possible when I pass her. I turn on my heel, walk fast towards the building and position myself just a few yards from the rear of the wheelchair. She moves her head slightly, but does not turn round. I can smell her now, her old-lady smell, overlaid with the lavender toilet water that she uses.

I’m suddenly beset by doubt. How will I cope with taking a life, even a life as old and compromised as hers? Bryony and I took an old life when we were children and it has haunted me for more than forty years. I remember my promise to Peter, and stiffen my resolve. I edge closer to the wheelchair. I am within three feet of it now.

Two young girls are walking towards me, their arms linked. I dread to see their faces, but feel an irresistible compulsion to look. It is as I had feared: they are Kathryn and Bryony. They are giggling. They pass within a foot of me, without greeting me, without pausing in their chatter. They are closely followed by a spry older woman. This time I will not look. I refuse to meet her eye. I stare at the station building. “Aren’t you going to say hello, Hedley? After all these years?” I raise my head, again unable to resist. She has Doris’s face, but while I am still trying to meet her eye, it ripples, changes, and turns into Tirzah’s. I feel panic now. They are closing in on me. Closing in. My family.

I see with a sudden marvellous clarity that it is all about my family. Peter and his family are an irrelevance, they are nothing to do with me. If Peter needs to alter the situation within his family, he must do it himself. He has no business asking me. I have my own family to attend to. Besides, it would not be right.

I am shaken, and shaking. I might have done this poor woman in the wheelchair a great wrong. And I like her, as well. She has done nothing to deserve harm by my hand. I must ask her forgiveness.

I hasten to stand before her and drop to the ground. I feel for her hands beneath the covers, and fall sobbing on to her knees. She is alarmed, and tries to snatch away her hands, but I reassure her.

“I’m sorry,” I cry. “I am so, so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me, please.”

She is shouting for help. A man is running towards us. He is carrying a plastic cup of coffee, which he is spilling as he runs. When he reaches us, he yanks me to my feet.

“Who are you?” he shouts. “What are you trying to do to my wife?”

Two policemen appear. They are wearing lime-green waistcoats – gilets, I believe they are called. They are labelled: British Transport Police. They haven’t tried to pass themselves off as Ronald or Colin. I am suspicious.

“You’ve not played fair with me,” I say, the tears coursing down my cheeks. “You can’t get away with a straight bat now. I shall report you for deceiving me by wearing other people’s faces.”