Even as Terry crept closer, he still couldn’t be sure whether the woman by the water was his target – clouds had drifted in, obscuring the moon, and with her head between her knees like that it was difficult to be certain. His eyes were watering now, one of those bushes must have set off his hay fever, and he couldn’t help rubbing at them which just made it worse. He was feeling increasingly agitated – the longer he hung around here the more likely it was that he’d lose her if she had left, was with the group after all. His client would give him hell. He had to be quick. He moved a little closer. As if on cue, the moon came out and she lifted her head and looked up.
Shit! It wasn’t her. She must be with the others after all. He was going to lose her. He ducked away and legged it past the reed beds towards the bridge, his heart hammering in his ears.
Terry was relieved to find he was in luck – the women were moving so slowly, weighed down as they were by their picnic paraphernalia, that they were still on the path. As he got nearer he slackened his pace and edged along carefully, discreetly following them. The arguing had stopped but he could hear soft crying now, although he wasn’t sure from whom. No-one was speaking, and the fury in the air, even from a distance, felt tangible, like dust. They were almost at the bridge and he could see four of the women clearly, a good fifty yards from him still. Just as the first one made it onto the stone steps there was a noise: a thud and then a loud, undignified splash, resonating into the night. They stopped.
‘What was that?’ one of them asked, the timid one, Terry thought.
‘It must have been a bird,’ someone else said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, that wasn’t a bird,’ said a third voice. ‘It must have been her.’
They all stood still, weaving a little. There was silence, no splashing, just the dull thrum of the traffic along Kensington Gore. Precious seconds passed.
‘We need to go and look,’ the woman with the timid voice said, and she spread fear into the air.
They listened again, but it was quiet still.
‘It’s nothing, come on,’ said a voice, and it sounded impatient, panicked almost.
‘Maybe we should check.’
‘I’ve told you,’ said the second voice. ‘I’m not going back, I’m going home. She’ll be fine, I’m telling you. And I didn’t even hear anything if anyone asks me; ten more yards and we’d be up on the road with –’ Terry didn’t catch the name.
‘I can’t believe you!’ slurred a new voice.
‘Well, what are you going to do? Call the police?’
‘Yes, maybe I will.’
There was more silence then, as if they were all hesitating, not sure what to do next. Finally, one of the earlier voices spoke and said, ‘Well, I don’t think we can do anything now. It must have been nothing, we would have heard her screaming otherwise. Let’s go.’
And it was like an unspoken pact, a group brainwash, a decision made, and as if connected by a long, invisible rope, they slunk drunkenly up the steps together, heaving picnic baskets and rugs and chairs. Just before the last woman reached the road, she turned, seemed to stare in his direction – shit, had she seen him? – but then she shook her head and shuffled after the others into the night. The whole thing had taken less than a minute. Terry hesitated himself now, his instinct telling him to go towards the water – and then he thought of his client, of his client’s temper, of his, Terry’s, fee, and he came out from his hiding place, and he looked up and down the bank seeing no-one, nothing, just moonlit nothingness. He went to hurry away from The Serpentine, after the women, and then he remembered himself, someone could be drowning down there, and so he turned and ran back towards the water’s edge, and as he stared down into the stillness, willing himself to see something, a ripple, anything, he reached into his jacket pocket, for his mobile phone.