I’ll leave you.’
I lowered the camera. ‘But—’
She turned and left the room.
I didn’t understand it. All I wanted was one photo, just something to put in my wallet and look at when she wasn’t around. Something to show other people, all the other people who kept asking about this new woman in my life.
I sighed. I was sure, in time, I could persuade her.
Then, one late autumn afternoon, everything changed.
It was a Friday. I came home from work early. I was worried about Marie. She had gone down with a virus earlier that week and had taken to her sick bed. I had tried to persuade her to go to the doctor, but she had insisted that she was all right. ‘I just need to rest,’ she said.
I pushed open the front door and trotted up the stairs. She wasn’t in bed. Perhaps she was asleep in the living room. I ran back down the stairs.
She was sitting on the sofa with her phone clutched tightly in her hand. It emitted a high-pitched beeping. Her eyes were pink and her face was streaked with tears. Her knuckles were white where she was gripping the phone so tightly.
‘Marie? What is it? What’s happened?’
‘It’s Andrew,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’
6
If it hadn’t been for Marie’s virus she would have been with Andrew when he was killed. She would probably be dead too.
Andrew had been on one of his trips to the far side of Kent to look at more crop circles and talk to a couple of farmers. The local press were barely interested. These days, crop circles were old news; the methods of the people who made them, using ropes and planks, had been revealed years ago. Or so I thought. Andrew and Marie still believed that some crop circles were created by aliens; that they were messages from the Chorus.
Andrew was something of a self-styled expert on crop circles. He had been all over the country to study them and had even written a couple of articles, and numerous pamphlets. He had phoned Marie that afternoon and told her that he was convinced these were the real thing. He knew a manmade crop circle when he saw one. He took some photographs and headed home in his car.
In his excitement, I guess he drove too fast. Maybe he wasn’t concentrating. Apparently, he was driving through some narrow country lanes, far too fast, and as he turned the corner he had swerved to avoid something – probably an animal – in the road. He went through a barbed wire fence and struck a tree. He was killed instantly.
Along with Marie’s grief came a comprehension that she was lucky to be alive and she spent the few days after Andrew’s death in a kind of stunned silence, contemplating her mortality, while I was filled with relief that I hadn’t lost her.
‘If I die,’ Marie said. ‘This is what I want you to do for me.’
‘Please don’t talk like that.’
‘I’m serious, Richard. This is what I want. Which is how I know it’s what Andrew would want.’
We had climbed back to the top of the East Hill, where I had first met Marie, and walked along to an area known as the Firehills. It was a beautiful spot, verdant yet rugged, with glorious views across the English Channel. On this late September evening, it was windy and chilly, and it would soon be dark.
There were five of us. Me, Marie, Fraser – who looked as queasy as the first night I’d met him – plus two young women I hadn’t met before, but who were members of Marie and Andrew’s little group. Melissa was a curvy brunette with trendy glasses and Katie was tall, slim and twitchy. Neither of them spoke much. They seemed as grief-stricken as Marie, and the whole group was solemn and quiet as we made our way towards the cliff edge.
Marie held a little urn in her hand. It contained Andrew’s ashes.
‘Perfect weather,’ Marie said, standing by the cliff, the wind whipping her hair. I was worried she might blow over, go flying into the sea, but she stood firm and strong.
‘Didn’t Andrew have any family?’ I had asked when Marie told
I lowered the camera. ‘But—’
She turned and left the room.
I didn’t understand it. All I wanted was one photo, just something to put in my wallet and look at when she wasn’t around. Something to show other people, all the other people who kept asking about this new woman in my life.
I sighed. I was sure, in time, I could persuade her.
Then, one late autumn afternoon, everything changed.
It was a Friday. I came home from work early. I was worried about Marie. She had gone down with a virus earlier that week and had taken to her sick bed. I had tried to persuade her to go to the doctor, but she had insisted that she was all right. ‘I just need to rest,’ she said.
I pushed open the front door and trotted up the stairs. She wasn’t in bed. Perhaps she was asleep in the living room. I ran back down the stairs.
She was sitting on the sofa with her phone clutched tightly in her hand. It emitted a high-pitched beeping. Her eyes were pink and her face was streaked with tears. Her knuckles were white where she was gripping the phone so tightly.
‘Marie? What is it? What’s happened?’
‘It’s Andrew,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’
6
If it hadn’t been for Marie’s virus she would have been with Andrew when he was killed. She would probably be dead too.
Andrew had been on one of his trips to the far side of Kent to look at more crop circles and talk to a couple of farmers. The local press were barely interested. These days, crop circles were old news; the methods of the people who made them, using ropes and planks, had been revealed years ago. Or so I thought. Andrew and Marie still believed that some crop circles were created by aliens; that they were messages from the Chorus.
Andrew was something of a self-styled expert on crop circles. He had been all over the country to study them and had even written a couple of articles, and numerous pamphlets. He had phoned Marie that afternoon and told her that he was convinced these were the real thing. He knew a manmade crop circle when he saw one. He took some photographs and headed home in his car.
In his excitement, I guess he drove too fast. Maybe he wasn’t concentrating. Apparently, he was driving through some narrow country lanes, far too fast, and as he turned the corner he had swerved to avoid something – probably an animal – in the road. He went through a barbed wire fence and struck a tree. He was killed instantly.
Along with Marie’s grief came a comprehension that she was lucky to be alive and she spent the few days after Andrew’s death in a kind of stunned silence, contemplating her mortality, while I was filled with relief that I hadn’t lost her.
‘If I die,’ Marie said. ‘This is what I want you to do for me.’
‘Please don’t talk like that.’
‘I’m serious, Richard. This is what I want. Which is how I know it’s what Andrew would want.’
We had climbed back to the top of the East Hill, where I had first met Marie, and walked along to an area known as the Firehills. It was a beautiful spot, verdant yet rugged, with glorious views across the English Channel. On this late September evening, it was windy and chilly, and it would soon be dark.
There were five of us. Me, Marie, Fraser – who looked as queasy as the first night I’d met him – plus two young women I hadn’t met before, but who were members of Marie and Andrew’s little group. Melissa was a curvy brunette with trendy glasses and Katie was tall, slim and twitchy. Neither of them spoke much. They seemed as grief-stricken as Marie, and the whole group was solemn and quiet as we made our way towards the cliff edge.
Marie held a little urn in her hand. It contained Andrew’s ashes.
‘Perfect weather,’ Marie said, standing by the cliff, the wind whipping her hair. I was worried she might blow over, go flying into the sea, but she stood firm and strong.
‘Didn’t Andrew have any family?’ I had asked when Marie told
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