The Jamaican trader was watching her with wry amusement. Helen drove her fists deep in her pockets before frustration got the better of her.
‘You sure I can’t help you with something today?’
‘No thanks.’ Swallowing her frustration, Helen headed in the direction of the main road. She figured Fay would have to go home at some point.
When she reached the market gate, she nearly collided with her prey and had to duck aside again to avoid being seen. Fay didn’t seem to notice, and Helen managed to stay behind her, stopping when Fay stopped to look at a shop window. Away from the buzz of the market Fay had somehow returned to what she’d been like before, just another hunched over, poor London pensioner. Helen almost felt sorry for her.
Almost, but not quite.
Turning into her own road, Fay was stopped by a beggar. Over the din of the traffic Helen could just about make out their exchange.
‘I don’t have much,’ said Fay, ‘but you can have a bag of apples.’
She handed him a brown paper bag from her shopping trolley and he smiled deliriously, like a small child who’d just been given a huge treat.
Fay left and Helen followed her again but was also stopped by the beggar. He was surprisingly young, perhaps about her own age, although life hadn’t been kind to him. His head bobbed up and down continuously and so did his right arm, which he was holding up like a dog begging at the table. Under the other he clutched the bag of apples, and he reeked of old dirt and urine. Helen drew back in disgust.
‘Spare some change, please?’
India had desensitised her to beggars because there were so many of them, and she’d developed an ability to see right through them as if they weren’t there, weren’t talking to her, weren’t suffering, but she wasn’t prepared for this guy.
How was it possible that someone could live like that in an affluent society? There was no dignity in begging wherever you were in the world. In a moment of kinship she realised that she too had swallowed her pride many times and accepted what others could offer. It didn’t matter whether it was food, shelter, or simply words of encouragement.
‘Sure,’ she said and found a pound coin in her purse. ‘Here, go get yourself a cup of tea.’
She watched him wobble along the pavement. Did giving him money make her a good person? And if it did, did it mean that Fay, who’d given him a bag of apples, was a good person too? Her mind couldn’t allow that. It simply wasn’t right.
Absent-mindedly she played with the knife in her pocket, unable to accept that Fay might be nice. That Fay might have been pushed into doing what she did by some desperate circumstance, just like this beggar had thrown himself at the feet of a stranger, shoving all integrity and self-respect aside, because he was desperate.
Her mind was conspiring against her with all these doubts.
Fay seemed to enjoy being outside on this mild spring morning. She stopped to stroke a cat sunning itself on a garden wall, picked up a stray crisp packet and put it in a plastic bag which hung from the handle of her shopping trolley.
She’s picking up litter now. Helen bit back an angry outburst. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Fay was doing it on purpose. To wind Helen up.
Suddenly, eyes narrowed, Fay swung around and manoeuvred the shopping trolley to create a shield between them. ‘What do you want?’
Adrenaline surged through Helen, and she took a step back. Fay might be old, but she was a killer. Dangerous.
‘You look familiar. Do I know you?’
Helen shook her head.
‘Then why are you following me?’
The way Fay was standing took Helen right back to the old nightmare. Crazy-haired and wild-eyed this woman had stuck a knife into her mother’s throat. Blood – sweet, dark, and life-giving – had ebbed away, splashing the inside of the car. Helen’s life plunged into darkness.
The terror of the memory almost paralysed her, but her rage was as fresh as ever, and her hand closed over the knife.
Bitch.
Murderer.
Something shifted in Fay’s eyes, and the demon who’d killed Helen’s mother was gone, replaced by an unremarkable middle-aged woman who just looked sad.
Helen eased her hand out of her pocket. Reality hit her with a thump. Even in a moment of rage, did she have what it took to kill another person? Did Fay, who gave apples to beggars?
What really happened that day?
For years she’d been so certain of what she’d seen, but she’d been five years old at the time and had suffered an epileptic fit. It occurred to her now this didn’t exactly make her a reliable witness.
‘Well?’ said Fay. ‘I’m waiting. Are you going to tell me what you want or do I call the police?’ She produced a mobile phone from her coat and held it like a weapon while directing her challenge at Helen.