paying attention.
Not like now.
Chapter 3
IF EVER THERE was a day for calling in sick, that Tuesday was it. I sat in my car and checked my appearance in the rear-view mirror, noting the greenish pallor and heavy shadows under my eyes, the result of seriously disturbed sleep. I had slept badly, waking every hour or so to stare into the dark with wide eyes. The events of the previous evening seemed so unreal when the alarm woke me up that I had actually gone to the cupboard in my room to check the pocket of my jacket, and didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when my fingers touched the little rectangle of card with DS Blake’s contact details on it. And I had watched the morning news as I choked down some cereal, seeing the Shepherds, as yet unidentified by the media, as they went in the pale dawn to see where their daughter’s body had lain. Mrs Shepherd’s hair was all over the place, straggling in strawberry-blonde rats’ tails rather than the sleek bob I remembered. As they reached the edge of the woods, Michael Shepherd looked back over his shoulder, straight into the camera, with red-rimmed, haunted eyes. I put my cereal bowl down, suddenly nauseated.
In the rear-view mirror, my eyes were red too. I definitely looked sick. But staying at home was even less appealing than going to work. Last night Mum had been asleep when I had come home, and hadn’t surfaced while I was getting up. But it couldn’t last. If I stayed, I’d have to see her sometime. Speak to her, even.
I started the car and put it into reverse, but then sat, immobile, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles bleached white. I couldn’t go to school, but I had to, and in the end I said aloud, ‘Fuck it. Fuck everything,’ and let the handbrake off, letting the car roll down towards the road. The next second I jammed on the brakes, as a motorbike roared past me with a loud, indignant blast on the horn. I hadn’t even seen him. I hadn’t even looked. My heart pounded and I felt weak as I pulled out on to the main road, checking obsessively that I wasn’t endangering anyone else. Get a grip … come on, don’t fall apart …
What made it worse – what made it absolutely bloody intolerable – was that I knew exactly who the motorcyclist was: Danny Keane, who had been Charlie’s best friend. I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t lived across the road from us. He might as well have lived on the moon. We were well beyond the point where I could start up a friendly conversation with him; I avoided him deliberately, and he knew it, and it was a long time since he’d smiled or nodded in my direction or indicated in any way that he knew of my existence. It wasn’t his fault that I associated him with some of the worst moments of my life, that I wasn’t able to break the connection in my head between Danny Keane and despair. I usually left early and got home late; our paths rarely crossed, but I still knew him, and he would remember me. Knocking him off his bike would have been a pretty bad way to start making friends again.
The roads were busy and traffic was slow, much slower than usual. Cars were queuing at all the junctions, backing up the side roads, and I wondered what was going on. Human nature at work, it turned out. All along the main road, skirting the woods, the verges were rutted and scarred where the wheels of the news vans had bitten into the soft earth. Their roof-mounted satellite dishes were beaming the Shepherds’ misfortune all over the world. Each van had its little group of attendants, a cameraman, soundman and reporter. It was the other side of what I had been watching on my television at breakfast. It was also Surrey’s latest tourist attraction. The drivers slowed down to a crawl. It was better than a car crash; there was a chance of seeing genuine celebrities in the shape of one or two of the better-known reporters. There was even the possibility that a panning cameraman might catch a
Not like now.
Chapter 3
IF EVER THERE was a day for calling in sick, that Tuesday was it. I sat in my car and checked my appearance in the rear-view mirror, noting the greenish pallor and heavy shadows under my eyes, the result of seriously disturbed sleep. I had slept badly, waking every hour or so to stare into the dark with wide eyes. The events of the previous evening seemed so unreal when the alarm woke me up that I had actually gone to the cupboard in my room to check the pocket of my jacket, and didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when my fingers touched the little rectangle of card with DS Blake’s contact details on it. And I had watched the morning news as I choked down some cereal, seeing the Shepherds, as yet unidentified by the media, as they went in the pale dawn to see where their daughter’s body had lain. Mrs Shepherd’s hair was all over the place, straggling in strawberry-blonde rats’ tails rather than the sleek bob I remembered. As they reached the edge of the woods, Michael Shepherd looked back over his shoulder, straight into the camera, with red-rimmed, haunted eyes. I put my cereal bowl down, suddenly nauseated.
In the rear-view mirror, my eyes were red too. I definitely looked sick. But staying at home was even less appealing than going to work. Last night Mum had been asleep when I had come home, and hadn’t surfaced while I was getting up. But it couldn’t last. If I stayed, I’d have to see her sometime. Speak to her, even.
I started the car and put it into reverse, but then sat, immobile, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles bleached white. I couldn’t go to school, but I had to, and in the end I said aloud, ‘Fuck it. Fuck everything,’ and let the handbrake off, letting the car roll down towards the road. The next second I jammed on the brakes, as a motorbike roared past me with a loud, indignant blast on the horn. I hadn’t even seen him. I hadn’t even looked. My heart pounded and I felt weak as I pulled out on to the main road, checking obsessively that I wasn’t endangering anyone else. Get a grip … come on, don’t fall apart …
What made it worse – what made it absolutely bloody intolerable – was that I knew exactly who the motorcyclist was: Danny Keane, who had been Charlie’s best friend. I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t lived across the road from us. He might as well have lived on the moon. We were well beyond the point where I could start up a friendly conversation with him; I avoided him deliberately, and he knew it, and it was a long time since he’d smiled or nodded in my direction or indicated in any way that he knew of my existence. It wasn’t his fault that I associated him with some of the worst moments of my life, that I wasn’t able to break the connection in my head between Danny Keane and despair. I usually left early and got home late; our paths rarely crossed, but I still knew him, and he would remember me. Knocking him off his bike would have been a pretty bad way to start making friends again.
The roads were busy and traffic was slow, much slower than usual. Cars were queuing at all the junctions, backing up the side roads, and I wondered what was going on. Human nature at work, it turned out. All along the main road, skirting the woods, the verges were rutted and scarred where the wheels of the news vans had bitten into the soft earth. Their roof-mounted satellite dishes were beaming the Shepherds’ misfortune all over the world. Each van had its little group of attendants, a cameraman, soundman and reporter. It was the other side of what I had been watching on my television at breakfast. It was also Surrey’s latest tourist attraction. The drivers slowed down to a crawl. It was better than a car crash; there was a chance of seeing genuine celebrities in the shape of one or two of the better-known reporters. There was even the possibility that a panning cameraman might catch a
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