come at a budget price. I know the twisting streets with their stacked-up houses, the gardens seeming to spill from one into the other. I know the people; some stumbling through life as best they can, others boiling with anger at the injustice of it all.
I slip my phone from my pocket, run a quick check on Facebook. There was a time when you would have assumed that people of the Myricks’ age, approaching fifty, childless, would have sooner climbed Everest than set up a Facebook account. But times are changing. I find Morris first. His account is unprotected, open for anyone to read. In his profile picture he is standing in his garden – I assume it’s his garden – bare-chested, face that looks like it’s been flattened by a shovel, pulled into a wide grin. I study it for a second. Not an attractive man: small eyes that are far too close together, a nose that looks like it has been broken more than once. He is, however, powerfully built, even though in his photo he is sucking in his stomach so hard it’s probably sticking out through his spine. It would have had to be someone pretty strong to get one over on Morris. Or someone he wasn’t expecting. I scroll through his posts. A bunch of comedy – or should I say ‘comedy’ – videos, adverts for a car he was selling. Nothing personal. Nothing that would give any answers. Then I try Sian’s. Her profile shot is different, more at a distance. She wears sunglasses and looks uncomfortable, like she would rather there wasn’t a camera pointing at her right now. Her account is more personal, a window into her life, new status added most days. I look for Saturday: BBQ with neighbours. Let’s hope the rain stays away. LOL.
There are pictures, a knot of people gathered around a tin-can barbecue. A table thick with bottles – vodka, Stella, a cheap white wine. A picture of Sian and Morris, arms around one another, their gazes slack, unfocused. Sian and a woman – thin, a hook-shaped nose – raising a glass to the camera. I sneak a look to my right, trying to be subtle. It is her – the woman beside me sniffing into a tissue. I glance back at the photo, at the dark eye make-up, the cerise lipstick. She looks different now: no make-up that I can see, her black hair pulled up into a rough ponytail. Her eyes are swollen, face puffy from crying. Bingo!
She looks at me, her attention pulled by the intensity of my gaze. I never have been great at subtle. I smile carefully. She stares for a moment, then bites her lip, the flood of tears starting anew. I look away. There is time.
Terrible. That is the word floating on the air. It is muttered by the elderly woman with the coiffured hair, the cherry-red lipstick. It comes from the mother, a slack-jawed baby on her hip, no more than seventeen or so herself. It comes from the man beside me, his breath loaded with Strongbow.
‘Well,’ mutters the elderly lady in a voice that carries, ‘you just wonder who it was that could do such a thing. I mean …’ A meaningful pause. ‘It could be anybody, when you come right down to it.’
Her words ripple through the crowd, feet shifting, as they absorb the implications of that, heads turning, everyone wondering if it is the person standing next to them who is the killer. The woman beside me lets out a quiet sob.
‘The thing is, it’s not really a surprise, is it?’ says the elderly woman.
I wonder who it is that she is talking to? Is she looking for answers from us, or the universe in general?
‘I mean, you know Morris. Lovely boy, salt of the earth. But he did like to hang around with some unscrupulous people. I know, I’ve said to him before, “Now you mind, Morris-boy. You’ll get yourself into trouble hanging round with the likes of those.”’
I make a note on my phone, through force of habit rather than any real danger that I’ll forget. Check Morris’s criminal history, convictions. Who were the unscrupulous people? I look back at the elderly woman, wonder if
I slip my phone from my pocket, run a quick check on Facebook. There was a time when you would have assumed that people of the Myricks’ age, approaching fifty, childless, would have sooner climbed Everest than set up a Facebook account. But times are changing. I find Morris first. His account is unprotected, open for anyone to read. In his profile picture he is standing in his garden – I assume it’s his garden – bare-chested, face that looks like it’s been flattened by a shovel, pulled into a wide grin. I study it for a second. Not an attractive man: small eyes that are far too close together, a nose that looks like it has been broken more than once. He is, however, powerfully built, even though in his photo he is sucking in his stomach so hard it’s probably sticking out through his spine. It would have had to be someone pretty strong to get one over on Morris. Or someone he wasn’t expecting. I scroll through his posts. A bunch of comedy – or should I say ‘comedy’ – videos, adverts for a car he was selling. Nothing personal. Nothing that would give any answers. Then I try Sian’s. Her profile shot is different, more at a distance. She wears sunglasses and looks uncomfortable, like she would rather there wasn’t a camera pointing at her right now. Her account is more personal, a window into her life, new status added most days. I look for Saturday: BBQ with neighbours. Let’s hope the rain stays away. LOL.
There are pictures, a knot of people gathered around a tin-can barbecue. A table thick with bottles – vodka, Stella, a cheap white wine. A picture of Sian and Morris, arms around one another, their gazes slack, unfocused. Sian and a woman – thin, a hook-shaped nose – raising a glass to the camera. I sneak a look to my right, trying to be subtle. It is her – the woman beside me sniffing into a tissue. I glance back at the photo, at the dark eye make-up, the cerise lipstick. She looks different now: no make-up that I can see, her black hair pulled up into a rough ponytail. Her eyes are swollen, face puffy from crying. Bingo!
She looks at me, her attention pulled by the intensity of my gaze. I never have been great at subtle. I smile carefully. She stares for a moment, then bites her lip, the flood of tears starting anew. I look away. There is time.
Terrible. That is the word floating on the air. It is muttered by the elderly woman with the coiffured hair, the cherry-red lipstick. It comes from the mother, a slack-jawed baby on her hip, no more than seventeen or so herself. It comes from the man beside me, his breath loaded with Strongbow.
‘Well,’ mutters the elderly lady in a voice that carries, ‘you just wonder who it was that could do such a thing. I mean …’ A meaningful pause. ‘It could be anybody, when you come right down to it.’
Her words ripple through the crowd, feet shifting, as they absorb the implications of that, heads turning, everyone wondering if it is the person standing next to them who is the killer. The woman beside me lets out a quiet sob.
‘The thing is, it’s not really a surprise, is it?’ says the elderly woman.
I wonder who it is that she is talking to? Is she looking for answers from us, or the universe in general?
‘I mean, you know Morris. Lovely boy, salt of the earth. But he did like to hang around with some unscrupulous people. I know, I’ve said to him before, “Now you mind, Morris-boy. You’ll get yourself into trouble hanging round with the likes of those.”’
I make a note on my phone, through force of habit rather than any real danger that I’ll forget. Check Morris’s criminal history, convictions. Who were the unscrupulous people? I look back at the elderly woman, wonder if
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