The next morning, my sheets were soaked in sweat.
I had a temperature. Mum made a fuss, feeding me oranges, sponging my forehead, calling the doctor who pronounced mumps.
The last two weeks of my summer were spent in bed. A few days before I was due back at school, I recovered enough to get up. I went out on my bike wearing a balaclava I’d found at the back of the shed and Dad’s old donkey jacket.
The press had descended on the neighbourhood. Reporters were hanging about and talking to people, taking photos. A police car had parked at the entrance to the orchard and a few men with cameras had set up camp close by. I slowed as I passed the cafe. It was full of the usual builders and locals and some policemen.
Further along, outside the newsagent’s, I stopped to read the headlines. They were all about the dead woman, speculating motive and method. I rode on, not daring to go into the orchard. Instead, I crossed the road and took a detour into the estate, heading for Rachel’s house.
A cluster of reporters had spilled onto these streets too. One man with a camera had wandered into Rachel’s road. Whilst I was watching, a car drew up. The woman with Farah Fawcett hair got out and leaned into the back seat to retrieve her son.
‘Got a minute?’ the man shouted.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘And I told you that last time.’
‘Did you see anything?’ he persisted.
‘What am I supposed to have seen? I said that last time too.’
‘Anyone behaving suspiciously?’
She rolled her eyes and shook her head.
The door to Rachel’s house opened and Mr Wright stepped out in his shirtsleeves. He surveyed the scene.
‘Looks like the lady doesn’t want to speak to you,’ he said. ‘So I suggest you move on.’
For such a big man he had a surprisingly melodic voice. His neighbour was gazing at him adoringly and my heart lifted. My dad might have done a bunk but Rachel’s was right here, right now, a comic-book hero, an avenger, taking care of not only his daughter, but the people on the estate.
Another grateful smile and the woman took her son inside. Mr Wright on the other hand stayed put. Slowly and deliberately, he rolled up one sleeve of his checked shirt and then the other.
‘All right, mate,’ said the man. ‘Calm down.’
Mr Wright blinked a few times, flexed his fingers and cracked them together.
Undeterred, the man levelled his camera. Mr Wright moved across, stuck out his hand and covered the lens.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
I held my breath, watching the scene play out.
‘Take it easy.’ The man edged away.
Mr Wright watched him go. I left quickly before he noticed me.
On the first day of term, even though two weeks had passed, the corridors buzzed with the news of the murder.
In assembly, a community officer called PC Newman came to talk to us. He stood on the stage with Mr Lee and spoke about how there was no need to panic, but we should avoid going around on our own, or hanging about late at night.
The atmosphere changed as people exchanged glances. Debra shifted, pushing her bony body close to mine. There was a stir of nervousness mixed with excitement. Already people were inventing new stories, moving on from the macabre description of the woman’s death to speculation about what kind of person had done the deed. A psychopath, a serial killer, a man with a grudge, someone she had known.
When I thought of my own theories, my heart hammered. If I was right and the victim was the woman I’d come across that day, then I might have seen her murderer. Should I tell PC Newman, put up my hand right now and confess to being a witness?
But what was I a witness to? I hadn’t actually seen anything untoward. I couldn’t even be sure the two women were the same.
I slumped in my seat, my mind slack with indecision. Rachel sat a few rows ahead of me, next to Karl. I distracted myself: staring at the back of his neck; imagining firing poisonous darts into his flesh.
Mr Lee’s booming voice made me jump. PC Newman had finished his speech, but Mr Lee was saying how he’d be available at the school all day in case anyone wanted to speak to him.
The rest of the morning passed slowly. We had double physics followed by the worst lesson of the week – swimming. Only the most confident of girls enjoyed those moments in the changing room. The rest of us, whether big like me or flat-chested like Debra, or painfully thin like some of the others, found it agony.
We were the last to get changed, Debra and me. Balancing on one leg, I thrust the other into my costume, while doing my best to cover myself with an inadequate pink towel. Debra didn’t bother to hide and I could see quite clearly the bruises on the tops of her legs, and she was scratching, raking her arms with her fingernails.
Splashing through the foot bath onto the pool side, I asked her where the bruises had come from.
‘Don’t remember,’ she said.
I didn’t believe her. So many bruises, every day, it was obvious – Frank was knocking her about. Dad said that half the men in The Dog and Duck hit their wives and kids. I felt guilty because I’d been so absorbed with Dad leaving and trying to be friends with Rachel and worrying about a dead woman, I hadn’t been looking out for my friend. I waited until she was in a race, losing catastrophically, and then I told the teacher.
By lunchtime, Debra had gone. John said he’d seen her crying outside the sick room. Had I been too hasty? No. I’d seen the bruises. I’d done the right thing.
On the way home, I stopped at the cafe.
It was practically empty, although dirty crockery littered the tables. A policeman with a thin moustache leaned at the counter chatting. When Maggie stopped to serve me, he moved across to sit with his mate at a table.
‘Vultures,’ said Maggie, handing me a Chelsea bun.
I glanced at the retreating policeman.
‘Not him. New customers. A woman dies and they pick away at all the gory details.’
I offered to help clear away and she was grateful.
While we were busy, Mrs Joseph appeared in a swirl of multi-coloured scarves and shopping.
‘Pilchards,’ she said. The bag clattered with tins as she set it on the floor. ‘Victor prefers salmon, but they’re all out in Spar.’
‘I’ve got some,’ said Maggie. She turned to me. ‘Would you mind, Elizabeth? Kitchen, middle cupboard.’
I put down my cloth.
The stairs to the flat led up from the messy storeroom out the back. The flat itself was warm and smelled of joss sticks and was full of interesting things: tapestries, candles, dream catchers. There were shelves of books too. When I was small, Maggie used to read to me. I recognised the myths and legends, the interpretations of portents and symbols. But there were other books about witchcraft and paganism and spirits. I shivered, running my finger across their spines.
I found the salmon and then mooched about, wasting more time.
The kitchen had painted orange cupboards and swirly green and yellow curtains. There was a pile of CND leaflets on the table, a framed poster of Che Guevara on the wall. Another leaflet for an anti-racist march in London.
I wandered to the window and then immediately stepped back. Rachel and Karl were in the street. Walking, not touching, but so close they might as well be. I practised spotting Karl’s aura, narrowing my eyes and looking for signs of bad character, but nothing changed, whereas when I examined Rachel, her aura was shiny and sparkling. With a hint of something else. Some faded darkness. Or was it my imagination?
They crossed the road and stopped at the entrance to the estate. Karl was talking, leaning close to Rachel, who stood with her head bowed, listening. She lifted her head and my stomach flipped seeing the smile she gave him.
Stupid bitch.
I wouldn’t forgive what he’d said even if Rachel did.
Across the street, Karl spoke again and she threw back her head and laughed.
My anger morphed into misery. She preferred Karl. The time we’d spent together in the orchard had made no difference. The two of us were as unalike as any two people could be. Her poise versus my clumsiness. Her beauty versus my ordinariness. Her lovability versus my unlovability. I was inventing words.
Karl pushed his hand through his new wavy hair and I had to admit I could see why Rachel liked him.
A moment more and they separated, Rachel heading to the estate and Karl going back the way they’d come. I watched him sauntering, hands in pockets.
A car passed. I visualised it veering onto the pavement and knocking Karl down. Blinking, I saved him, conjuring up a giant eagle that swooped and lifted him to safety. I congratulated myself on showing mercy. At the same time, I sent him a silent message that if he hurt Rachel, things would go differently.
When I got downstairs, Mrs Joseph had moved on to the subject of the murder. She was talking about the woman’s husband. I went back to wiping tables.
‘They lived by the river – well, he still does, I suppose, in one of those expensive houses with the lovely gardens that stretch down to the water. He reported her missing nine months ago – though some say theirs wasn’t a happy marriage. Not at all.’
I carried a tray of crockery to the storeroom and missed Maggie’s reply, but on my return, Mrs Joseph was talking about the husband’s reputation. ‘He’s been in prison apparently, burglary with assault, and his wife was having an affair. A string of affairs by all accounts. According to the husband anyway. The police are asking for these men to come forward, to give an account of their whereabouts.’
‘Gossip.’ Maggie went to the till and opened the drawer, shaking her head as if she couldn’t quite believe the amount of money there was inside. She handed me some coins. ‘Wages,’ she said. ‘Come again.’
I thanked her and replied that I would.
She winked at me. ‘And now maybe you could help Mrs Joseph home with her bags.’
On the way, Mrs Joseph complained about the building work. She talked about the action group she’d set up, Residents Against Estates, and asked if my mother would like to join. I doubted it, but I said I’d check anyway.
She invited me into her house, offered me a drink and deposited me in the front room.
Like every other time I had visited, I was struck first by the rancid smell and then by the sound of flapping and twittering. There were three bird cages set about the room. Seven canaries behind bars.
The room was lit by a standing lamp and the glow of the gas fire. The TV was on with no sound. Victor was watching from the same old chair in his usual burgundy cardigan and burgundy slippers.
I said hello and wandered across to the bookshelf: Hardy, Austen, Hugo, Poe. So many novels. Adult books, serious books that I was yet to discover.
I picked out Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Scanning the first pages, I stopped at the description of Tess. The style was dense, but I had already read Jude the Obscure and knew that I liked Hardy and I thought Tess was someone I wanted to know.
Mrs Joseph came in and set down the tray. ‘Found the books then.’
‘Are they yours?’
She shook her head. ‘Victor’s. You know, before.’
Poor Victor. I pictured him falling from that crane, arms spread like a bird. One moment and everything lost. Now Victor was shut away. Trapped like the canaries.
Mrs Joseph said that I was welcome to borrow the books any time.
‘Really?’ I could hardly believe my luck. So many other worlds to inhabit.
‘And if you wanted to,’ she added, ‘you could read to Victor from time to time. It would be nice to hear a young voice in the house.’
She glanced at a photo of a boy in shorts. It was next to a picture of a quiet-looking man smoking a pipe. Her son and husband, I guessed.
The news came on. Mrs Joseph turned up the volume. More about the local murder. Margaret Montague had worked at a place called Trim – a hairdresser’s in town. The reporter stood at the entrance to the orchard speaking into a microphone. From time to time the camera panned the watching crowd.
‘Hey now. Would you believe it? Look who it is,’ said Mrs Joseph.
I peered at the screen. ‘Who?’
‘Beatrice Collingdale,’ she said, pointing. ‘Works in Spar.’
The reporter was interviewing a middle-aged woman with a blue rinse. ‘How do you feel about the murder?’ he was asking.
‘Shocked,’ she replied. ‘Everyone does. This is a quiet area. We’re quiet people. Nothing ever happens here.’
The reporter nodded knowingly and again the camera panned the crowd. I leaned closer, recognising a teacher from school, and was that Mr Evans coming along with Nip? And there in the corner, almost out of shot, was Dave. A little apart, hands in his pockets.
The camera focused briefly and then zoomed across the orchard through the trees, crossing to the place where I’d seen the couple and then beyond to the wasteland and back again to the barn.
Had it really been Margaret that day? What if the man she had been with had killed her only hours, minutes, moments after I’d run away?
Or what if there had been someone else as I’d suspected, watching too? Maybe the watcher had waited until she was alone and then killed her.
Maybe he had seen me and thought I had seen him too.
What if, now, he was after me?