I met Rachel in the summer of 1978, the year before they found the first body.
I was cycling home from Spar when my front wheel hit a stone. Flying over the handlebars, I landed on my back. Spilled milk and broken eggs. Dazed, I thought I was dead. I closed my eyes and then, when I opened them again, first one and then the other, seriously wondering if the next creature I saw would be an angel or a devil, there was a girl, staring down at me, red hair haloed by August light.
Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. Despite my almost fourteen years of sins and misdemeanours and the fact that most of my teachers thought I was stupid and my own mother said I was obtuse, I’d made it up to heaven.
The girl blinked down at me, chewing gum. ‘You all right?’
I grinned and then, I suppose since I was smiling, she shrugged and walked away, leaving me with a daydream.
That summer, the girl remained the girl. Occasionally I glimpsed her mooching along by the river, chewing her nails, bored and beautiful; walking about town, hands in the pockets of her grass-green dress, staring at shopfronts, or drinking from cans through a straw.
Alone, yet not lonely, she intrigued me. At the same time, I was certain she’d never be interested in someone like me.
I had no idea that one day we’d connect, like planets spinning and colliding in a starry constellation. That one day our fates would entwine.