with the gleaming knocker, was the only sign that someone actually lived in this pile of old bricks.
Helen dug her hands into her jacket pockets. Who lived in this house with Fay? There was only one doorbell so it couldn’t be bedsits. Did she live with friends? Did she have a social life? A boyfriend maybe? Kids? Or did she, like Helen, go out of her way to avoid sharing too much of herself with others?
Her sudden interest in Fay irritated her. She wasn’t meant to feel like that.
As she debated with herself whether to knock or not, the door creaked open. Instinctively she turned away and pretended to be walking past. A couple of doors down, she ducked behind the thick round pillar to the portico of another house in need of renovation.
A middle-aged woman shuffled down the steps bumping a tartan shopping bag on wheels behind her. She stopped at the foot of the stairs to catch her breath, then unfolded the telescopic handle of the trolley.
From her hiding place Helen watched her. Was it Fay or one of her house mates? Her question was answered when the woman pulled up her jacket collar. The gesture was both furtive and familiar, and a tingling ran down her spine when she remembered how the woman in the blue car had done the same.
She was standing only a few feet away from her mother’s murderer. Her stomach churned suddenly, and her hands went sweaty inside her pockets. Now that she was here, nothing seemed quite as simple as it had when she left India.
Fay headed towards the main road and Helen hung back for a minute or so then followed her at a safe distance.
Walking behind her, she made a mental note of every detail, the quirks and physical features, the clothes. Prison had taken its toll. Fay was dressed in a shapeless raincoat and sensible, flat shoes, and her hair, once a frizzy, brown mop, was sparse and nicotine-grey, limp and unstyled. She hadn’t quite shed her prison pallor and walked with a slight stoop as if she carried the burdens of many people, or maybe the sin of what she’d done.
I hope you burn in Hell, Helen thought.
When Fay reached the main road, Helen found it was easier to follow her without being spotted. Here she could hide behind other shoppers and various racks and rails spilling out of the local shops onto the pavement. She didn’t want to confront Fay yet, just needed to find out what sort of entity she was before …
Before what?
Before she killed her?
Joe had said something like that, but she’d swatted the thought away. Obviously Fay had to pay for what she’d done, but even after years of thinking about this moment, Helen didn’t have a plan. And now, watching her had made her curious. Fay had known her mother. In fact, she’d have been the same age if she’d lived. They were friends.
So what happened for Fay to stab Mimi in the throat?
Helen fingered a Swiss Army knife she always carried in her jacket pocket. No one else was about; it would be so easy to just unfold the blade, plunge it into Fay’s back, and then melt away. There would be a certain ironic justice in that.
‘An eye for an eye’ and all that.
No, there had to be another way. Fay would pay for what she had done, but not like that.
Shepherd’s Bush Market was an open-air market, running parallel to the railway line. Helen passed under a painted metal arch and into the middle of the throng. A stall holder selling CDs and vinyl records was playing dub reggae on a portable stereo, and everywhere in this happy, bustling chaos the Afro-Caribbean influence ran high. The atmosphere took her right back to some of the places she’d visited while travelling.
Fay was still ahead of her, at a greengrocer’s. Helen kept her distance and pretended to be interested in tea towels. A sudden awareness made her turn around and meet the gaze of the guy manning the record stall.
Young, maybe a little older than her, he was dressed in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, which showed he was no stranger to working out.
Helen dug her hands into her jacket pockets. Who lived in this house with Fay? There was only one doorbell so it couldn’t be bedsits. Did she live with friends? Did she have a social life? A boyfriend maybe? Kids? Or did she, like Helen, go out of her way to avoid sharing too much of herself with others?
Her sudden interest in Fay irritated her. She wasn’t meant to feel like that.
As she debated with herself whether to knock or not, the door creaked open. Instinctively she turned away and pretended to be walking past. A couple of doors down, she ducked behind the thick round pillar to the portico of another house in need of renovation.
A middle-aged woman shuffled down the steps bumping a tartan shopping bag on wheels behind her. She stopped at the foot of the stairs to catch her breath, then unfolded the telescopic handle of the trolley.
From her hiding place Helen watched her. Was it Fay or one of her house mates? Her question was answered when the woman pulled up her jacket collar. The gesture was both furtive and familiar, and a tingling ran down her spine when she remembered how the woman in the blue car had done the same.
She was standing only a few feet away from her mother’s murderer. Her stomach churned suddenly, and her hands went sweaty inside her pockets. Now that she was here, nothing seemed quite as simple as it had when she left India.
Fay headed towards the main road and Helen hung back for a minute or so then followed her at a safe distance.
Walking behind her, she made a mental note of every detail, the quirks and physical features, the clothes. Prison had taken its toll. Fay was dressed in a shapeless raincoat and sensible, flat shoes, and her hair, once a frizzy, brown mop, was sparse and nicotine-grey, limp and unstyled. She hadn’t quite shed her prison pallor and walked with a slight stoop as if she carried the burdens of many people, or maybe the sin of what she’d done.
I hope you burn in Hell, Helen thought.
When Fay reached the main road, Helen found it was easier to follow her without being spotted. Here she could hide behind other shoppers and various racks and rails spilling out of the local shops onto the pavement. She didn’t want to confront Fay yet, just needed to find out what sort of entity she was before …
Before what?
Before she killed her?
Joe had said something like that, but she’d swatted the thought away. Obviously Fay had to pay for what she’d done, but even after years of thinking about this moment, Helen didn’t have a plan. And now, watching her had made her curious. Fay had known her mother. In fact, she’d have been the same age if she’d lived. They were friends.
So what happened for Fay to stab Mimi in the throat?
Helen fingered a Swiss Army knife she always carried in her jacket pocket. No one else was about; it would be so easy to just unfold the blade, plunge it into Fay’s back, and then melt away. There would be a certain ironic justice in that.
‘An eye for an eye’ and all that.
No, there had to be another way. Fay would pay for what she had done, but not like that.
Shepherd’s Bush Market was an open-air market, running parallel to the railway line. Helen passed under a painted metal arch and into the middle of the throng. A stall holder selling CDs and vinyl records was playing dub reggae on a portable stereo, and everywhere in this happy, bustling chaos the Afro-Caribbean influence ran high. The atmosphere took her right back to some of the places she’d visited while travelling.
Fay was still ahead of her, at a greengrocer’s. Helen kept her distance and pretended to be interested in tea towels. A sudden awareness made her turn around and meet the gaze of the guy manning the record stall.
Young, maybe a little older than her, he was dressed in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, which showed he was no stranger to working out.
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