The Killer Next Door(58)

She stands up again as a bus pulls in and her fellow travellers surge silently towards it. Feels the world start to tip and steadies herself against the shelter. When she takes her hand away, she sees that she’s left a smudge of blood on the glass panel. She closes her eyes and breathes. Not so far to Northbourne Junction, now. It’s just across the Common. Then it’s just up to the High Street and home.

The Nurofen doesn’t seem to be working. Her head pounds as if there’s something in there trying to get out. Her pace slows and slows as she limps up Station Road, weaves her way unsteadily past dog walkers and joggers and working mothers wheeling wailing toddlers to the Little Sunshine nursery. She stops by a waste bin and retches. Nothing comes up, not even the Fanta, but her mouth tastes like old tin cans. She can barely see from her right eye, drops her hoodie further down to hide the Halloween mask that is her face. Someone, she thinks. One of you must wonder. Don’t you wonder? No one in Liverpool would walk past someone that looked like me and pretend they haven’t seen.

But it’s not true, though, is it? If Liverpool was so great, if the chirpy-chappie, bravely suffering people of your hometown were so great, you wouldn’t be in London. It’s England, isn’t it? It’s people. They’ll only help you if they think you matter.

The High Street is still half-closed. Only Greggs and the greasy spoon and the Londis and the greengrocer show signs of life. The new shops – the posh shops – don’t open until ten. That’s the thing, if you have money, she thinks bitterly. Ladies who lunch do lunch because they’re never up for breakfast. She feels tearful, weak, despairing. Can feel the blood seeping down her legs and chafing the skin on her thighs. She’s sweating profusely, though she feels so cold she’s shivering. She wipes the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, stumbles blindly on and blunders into sturdy male body.

‘Sorry,’ she mutters, and tries to dodge sideways. Feels her balance go out from under her again and puts out a hand to catch the wall. ‘Sorry.’

‘Cher?’

She looks up. It’s Thomas Dunbar, Mr Chatty from the top flat: a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a copy of the Guardian under his arm. He’s gone as white as a sheet, his mouth open, ready to catch flies, his specs glinting in the early morning sunlight.

‘Oh, dear Christ, Cher,’ he says, and catches her by the arm as she begins to wobble. ‘What’s happened? What the hell’s happened to you?’





Chapter Twenty-Six


There’s a tap on the door. In the bed, Cher shifts and mutters, but doesn’t wake. Vesta puts her book down on the duvet and tiptoes across to open up.

It’s Thomas. He starts to speak and Vesta hushes him with a finger to her lips. Puts the door on the latch and steps out on to the landing, pulling it to behind her.

‘How is she?’

‘Asleep. Finally. Didn’t want to wake her.’

‘No,’ he says.

‘Couldn’t let her drop off properly. Not while we had to check her for concussion. Collette’s coming back up in a bit. She was up all night, poor girl. Didn’t get a wink.’

‘Right,’ he says.

‘So…’ she begins.

‘I understand,’ he says. ‘But I brought some stuff.’

‘Stuff?’

Thomas holds out a pink-and-white tube of cream. ‘It’s arnica. For bruises. It’s not new. I’ve used it. Sorry.’

She takes it and tries to read the back, but her specs are in the bedroom by her book, and she’s reduced to hopeless squinting. ‘It’s herbal,’ he says. ‘You just rub it in. It does help. I know you probably think it’s woo-woo, but it helps.’

‘Okay,’ she says, doubtfully, surprised that this clipped little man would be dabbling in the world of woo-woo.

‘And I got some vitamin C. It’s meant to help, too. I don’t know if it does, but it can’t do any harm, can it?’

Vesta gives him an encouraging smile. ‘I should think it’ll do her the world of good. Easier than making her eat a vegetable, anyway, eh?’

He laughs, more explosively than she expected. ‘I should say so. Is she…’ His face changes, goes suddenly rusty, like he’s been left out in the rain. She realises that he’s on the edge of tears. ‘Vesta, is she okay?’

Well, well, she thinks. You never know with people. It must have been a horrible shock for him, finding her like that. She gives his arm a tentative rub, then finds herself overtaken by the urge to give him a hug. His body is stiff against hers, as though the show of affection has come as a shock. It takes him a full five seconds to respond, then he wraps his arms around her like a teenager at a dance and practically crushes the breath from her. Vesta is suddenly filled with a powerful urge to fight him off. It feels so wrong, squashed against his body like this, smelling his nervous sweat. ‘It’s all right, lovey,’ she sputters. ‘It’s okay. You did brilliantly. She owes you, she really does.’