When he walks into the house, Jackie’s voice reaches him immediately, but her words are not for him. She’s talking to one of her bears, probably Darcy, telling him what a pretty dress a little girl on the beach is wearing.
After two hours in the company of the imbeciles in the cycling club, he’s in no mood to listen to Jackie drone on about the bloated lobster-skinned tourists she’s watched on the live cams so he slips past the living-room door and heads upstairs. Jackie doesn’t come upstairs, even to sleep. What would be the point? Upstairs is where the bedrooms are that contain beds where people have sex, so she stays downstairs which suits them both. It means he has the place to himself.
Exchanging the stifling atmosphere of Jackie’s world of swirly carpets and a hundred hard stares for parquet flooring, white linen sheets and Venetian blinds feels like someone has slipped a mask over his mouth and blasted him with oxygen.
He lies down on his bed, hands behind his head, and takes a deep breath. Now he’s alone he can think about more important things. Like last night.
It was touch and go for a while. He had waited hours, wedged under the V of the wooden struts holding the quay up, gagging on the stench of algae and dead fish. There, he listened to her and the thug having sex, him grunting like a pig at mealtime, her in total silence. When it was over, the thug took her lack of enthusiasm as a sign she must be ‘getting it’ somewhere else. She denied it, but he said that if he found out she was seeing someone behind his back, he’d kill her.
He stormed off, and Simon seized his chance. She was pleased to see him and knew who he was immediately. She practically fell into his arms. She thought he’d come to help her.
Even as his hands curled around her neck and squeezed, he could tell she thought it was all part of some master plan. Stupid girl. She didn’t even struggle. They don’t always. It’s the shock. It was over in seconds although the best was yet to come.
He settles into the memory, like a warm blanket. His muscles relax and he drifts into a well-earned sleep, letting go of his mind, his thoughts taking on a life of their own.
He’s back on the quay, sitting on the low wall. The white CSI van pulls up in front of him and the CSI gets out, already wearing a forensic suit. She scoops up her frizzy dark hair and pins it to the back of her head. He’s staring at her, but she doesn’t notice him as she walks to the back of the van and opens the door. She disappears inside to retrieve her case, but she’s taking so long he gets up to see what’s happening. He leans on the door just as she reappears. She looks straight at him and throws her head back in laughter. Shock rips through him and his eyes spring apart and fix on the bedroom ceiling to force the image from his mind. It isn’t the CSI, it’s Danielle.