Jack Culverhouse, man of logic, was sometimes entirely illogical. He had long wondered why he bothered to walk to the local shop and buy that day's copy of The Times at nine o'clock in the evening, almost a full twenty-four hours after the news was barely fresh in the first place. The BBC News website and a copy of Crossword Monthly would be an adequate replacement, but nothing could beat the creature comfort of a fresh newspaper in the evening.
He could feel the sweat and oils from his hands ruining the print on the front page as he unintentionally defaced the image of a smiling Michelle Obama. As he walked up the hill from the parade of shops and back onto the main road, Jack's heart skipped a beat.
The figure standing at the bus stop looked a little too familiar. A familiar stranger. On any other day, he would have walked past without even taking a second glance. But today, he knew, it must have been his brain playing tricks on him. It happened at this time every year, around the time of the anniversary. Calendars might be inert piles of paper, but they had an uncanny way of bringing back bad memories with alarming regularity. He told himself that she had been occupying his mind far too much recently; he was even starting to see her in the street.
It was impossible, though. The brain was a clever thing. He knew that. Perhaps this was how he wanted to imagine her: gaunt, drawn and a relic of her former self. Maybe he wished all these things on her as a punishment for walking out on him and taking their only child with her. She had no reason to be in Mildenheath. The last thing he heard was that she had briefly visited her parents in Cornwall before heading for the Southampton ferry barely days after having left him. He knew through his contacts that she hadn’t re-entered the country.
His mind was playing tricks on him, he decided, and picked up his pace as he walked on.
Shit. Had he seen her? She fucking hoped not. Stupid, stupid idea. She wanted desperately to speak to him, to have it out with him, but how was she ever going to do that if she couldn't even make eye contact with him without diving behind a bloody bus shelter?
The whole thing had been one stupid idea. She didn’t need to come back, so why had she? She’d trekked halfway across Europe without even knowing what she was going to do when she got there. She’d played out the scene a hundred times in her mind, but every time it happened differently. For her, it was just a case of putting the whole episode to bed. Once and for all.
She drew forcefully on her cigarette, the calming nicotine filling her lungs, her hands shaking and flicking ash over her jacket as she tried to hug herself warm. Mildenheath was always cold at night, no matter what time of the year it was. She’d not experienced cold evenings since she’d left. Something else she hadn’t missed.
A passing police car slowed before pulling into the bus stop. Great. Fucking great.
‘You all right, love?’ the officer in the passenger seat asked, having wound down his window.
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. Fine, thanks.’
‘Only buses don't run from here at this time of night.’
She cocked her head to the side and looked at the sodden timetable which adorned the bus shelter. Shit. The last bus was at 19:28. Half-past seven, not half-past nine.
‘Oh, right. Sorry. I misread the timetable. I thought there was another one at half past.’
‘You not from round here?’
‘Not any more, no,’ she replied.
The officer opened his door and got out of the car. ‘Mind if we take some details from you, love?’
‘Why? Misreading a bus timetable isn't an offence,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette under her shoe.
‘No, but we've had a lot of reports of… well, street-walkers around this area recently. We just need to take a few details. If everything matches up then it won’t be a problem.’
Street-walkers? This is what her life had come to: quivering in a bus stop with only a Marlboro Light for company, being mistaken for a prostitute. She knew one thing for sure: she couldn’t give them her real name. She couldn’t even give them her false name. Who knew how sophisticated the police computers were in the UK these days? It had been easy enough when she left, but things would be different now.
‘Listen, I’m not a hooker, all right? I misread the timetable.’
‘Where are you staying tonight?’ the other officer asked, having got out of the car and walked round to the pavement, his thumbs lodged in the sides of his vest.
‘With an old friend. I’m not back for long. Just catching up.’
‘They live local, your friend?’
‘Fairly local, yeah. Look, it’s fine. I’ll just have to walk there.’
‘Right, OK. Well be careful, all right? Lots of nasty sorts around here at this time of night,’ the first officer said, before beckoning his colleague back over towards the car.
She knew exactly what nasty sorts were around. Oh, she knew.