eyes, he couldnât have been much older than fourteen years of age. Something in his despairing expression tugged at her. She sensed his loneliness, his bleak isolation. She knew of old that he was a potential victim of crime statistic. As she slowed down, Martin pulled at her sleeve.
âIâll be back,â she called over her shoulder to the boy as Martin bundled her away.
âWhat do you mean?â Martin said, confounded.
âWonât take a second,â she said, absently scanning the shop-fronts. âHere, this will do,â she said, darting into a bakery.
âYou canât be serious,â he said, half of him appalled, the other fascinated.
She ordered a meat pie, one cheese and onion pasty, and asked for both of them to be heated. She asked for a carton of hot vegetable soup and two rounds of sandwiches, one cheese and tomato, the other ham and salad.
âAnd Iâll have two of those iced buns and a doughnut,â she said. âYou can stay here, if you want,â she said to Martin mildly, as she offered a crisp ten pound note to the shop assistant.
âYou must be joking. Iâm coming with you. He might turn funny and demand money with menaces.â
But he didnât. He looked astonished and grateful.
As they walked hurriedly away, Martin said in bewildered tones, âIâve never been with anyone whoâs done that before.â
âNo big deal,â she said dismissively. âHad I given him cash, he might have spent it on drugs.â
âThatâs not really what I meant,â Martin said, slowing down. âYou really feel, donât you?â
âFeel what?â
âOther peopleâs pain.â
She gave a puzzled shrug. âJust being a decent human being, thatâs all.â
Martin stopped and turned towards her. He put both hands on her shoulders. âAre you afraid to be happy, Helen?â
She smiled awkwardly.
âAre you?â His eyes were so darkly penetrating they wiped the smile from her face.
âNo,â she whispered, feeling the denial catch in her throat.
âIs this about Adam?â
âNo,â she said, fiercely this time. Itâs about me, she thought.
âAnd are you happy?â
She sighed, touched his face with her fingers, her heart clenching with sadness because she knew she couldnât tell him the truth. She knew it wasnât his fault, but hers.
Even though she decided sheâd nothing to wear, Helen eventually settled for a claret-coloured dress with long, slinky sleeves, and a flattering neckline. She dug out a pair of black stilettos â the heels could fell a male at thirty paces â and strapped them on with the same precision as if she were carrying an undercover weapon. With a swish of muted grey eye shadow over the lids, red on her lips, the vampish look was complete. Then it was on with her coat and off into the freezing night air. Sheâd arranged for a taxi. It took less than ten minutes door to door.
Jenâs annexe echoed with music, loud but not deafening, a constant burble of voices, odd guffaws of laughter, the chinking of glass. The open-plan living room, enveloped in a non-politically correct nicotine haze, was awash with people, bright-eyed, their faces sheened with warmth, alcohol and lust. Helen knew most of them by sight if not by name.
The car-dealer fraternity gathered in two tightly delineated groups: Jaguar versus BMW. Then there were the petrol-heads and the type of thrusting young-bloods who regularly appeared, along with the great and the good, on the back page of the Birmingham Post for the grip and grin shots, as Helen termed them.
Helen slipped off her coat and chucked it on the pile on Jenâs bed. As she helped herself to some white wine, she heard her name being shouted. She turned and recognised one of Jenâs work colleagues, a guy called Mark Horton. Holding court on the other side of the room, he had the
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