relax as a trickle of blood ran down her back.
‘Again.’
Where was this going to end? He couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew for certain was that this woman wanted to bleed.
25
‘Tell me again what happened’.
Amy shut her eyes and hung her head. Charlie seemed like a nice person and had handled her with kid gloves, but why did she have to do this? Since she’d been released from police custody, she had tried anything and everything to stop thinking about it. Her mother had followed her around like a bloodhound to begin with, but had backed off after Amy had flipped out. Momentarily free of her shadow, she’d hunted out left-over party booze and her mum’s ‘secret’ stash of Valium, and when they didn’t work resorted to her dad’s sleeping pills. Big mistake. In her dreams – nightmares – Sam was ever present. Smiling at her. Laughing. It was unbearable and she’d woken up screaming – to find herself by the front door rattling the chain, desperately trying to escape. She’d decided there and then to stay awake for the rest of her life – never giving in to sleep – and to avoid all human contact. But here were the police again, reminding her of her horrific betrayal.
‘You were hitching. It was raining. A van pulled up.’
Amy nodded mutely.
‘Describe the van to me.’
‘I’ve already made a statement, I –’
‘Please.’
A heavy, breathless sigh. A feeling of suffocation. And suddenly tears were springing up again – Amy forced them down.
‘It was a Transit van.’
‘What make?’
‘Ford? Vauxhall? Something like that. It was white.’
‘What did she say to you? Exact words, please.’
Amy paused, unwillingly climbing back inside the memory.
‘“You need rescuing?” – that’s what she said. “You need rescuing?” Then she opened the passenger door, there was space enough for three in the cab, so we got in. I wish to fuck we hadn’t.’
And this time she did cry. Charlie let her for a second, before handing her a tissue.
‘Did she have an accent?’
‘Southern.’
‘Any more specific than that?’
Amy shook her head.
‘Then what did she say?’
Amy went through it again, beat by beat. The woman had said she was a heating engineer on her way home from an emergency call-out. Amy didn’t remember seeing a logo or name on the van, perhaps there had been, she wasn’t looking. She’d talked about her husband – who was useless at all things practical – and her kids – two of them. She asked them where they were going on a cold winter’s night then offered them a drink.
‘What words did she use?’
‘She noticed I was shivering a bit and said, “You could do with warming up.” That was it. Then she offered us her flask.’
‘Was the drink hot? What did it smell of?’
‘It smelt like what it was. Coffee.’
‘And the taste?’
‘Fine.’
‘What did she look like?’
When would this end?
‘She had short blonde hair. She wore mirror sunglasses on her head. Overalls. Stud earrings, I think. Short, grimy nails. I could see them on the wheel. Dirty hands. Only saw her face from the side. Strong nose, fullish lips. No make-up. Height, average. She looked normal. Completely fucking normal, ok?’
And with that Amy walked out of the sitting room and straight upstairs, choking with tears, struggling to breathe. Assailed by the most awful guilt, she allowed herself a flash of anger. Sam had got it easy. He was dead. His suffering was over. But hers would endure. She would never be allowed to forget what she’d done. Looking down to the paving stones below from her attic bedroom window, Amy wondered if Sam would welcome her if she decided to join him. Suddenly she was seized by the idea and tugged at the handle, but the window lock was on and the key had vanished. Even her family were torturing her now.
26
‘What did she look like?’
Peter Brightston shivered. Ever since they’d picked him up, he’d been shivering. His whole
‘Again.’
Where was this going to end? He couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew for certain was that this woman wanted to bleed.
25
‘Tell me again what happened’.
Amy shut her eyes and hung her head. Charlie seemed like a nice person and had handled her with kid gloves, but why did she have to do this? Since she’d been released from police custody, she had tried anything and everything to stop thinking about it. Her mother had followed her around like a bloodhound to begin with, but had backed off after Amy had flipped out. Momentarily free of her shadow, she’d hunted out left-over party booze and her mum’s ‘secret’ stash of Valium, and when they didn’t work resorted to her dad’s sleeping pills. Big mistake. In her dreams – nightmares – Sam was ever present. Smiling at her. Laughing. It was unbearable and she’d woken up screaming – to find herself by the front door rattling the chain, desperately trying to escape. She’d decided there and then to stay awake for the rest of her life – never giving in to sleep – and to avoid all human contact. But here were the police again, reminding her of her horrific betrayal.
‘You were hitching. It was raining. A van pulled up.’
Amy nodded mutely.
‘Describe the van to me.’
‘I’ve already made a statement, I –’
‘Please.’
A heavy, breathless sigh. A feeling of suffocation. And suddenly tears were springing up again – Amy forced them down.
‘It was a Transit van.’
‘What make?’
‘Ford? Vauxhall? Something like that. It was white.’
‘What did she say to you? Exact words, please.’
Amy paused, unwillingly climbing back inside the memory.
‘“You need rescuing?” – that’s what she said. “You need rescuing?” Then she opened the passenger door, there was space enough for three in the cab, so we got in. I wish to fuck we hadn’t.’
And this time she did cry. Charlie let her for a second, before handing her a tissue.
‘Did she have an accent?’
‘Southern.’
‘Any more specific than that?’
Amy shook her head.
‘Then what did she say?’
Amy went through it again, beat by beat. The woman had said she was a heating engineer on her way home from an emergency call-out. Amy didn’t remember seeing a logo or name on the van, perhaps there had been, she wasn’t looking. She’d talked about her husband – who was useless at all things practical – and her kids – two of them. She asked them where they were going on a cold winter’s night then offered them a drink.
‘What words did she use?’
‘She noticed I was shivering a bit and said, “You could do with warming up.” That was it. Then she offered us her flask.’
‘Was the drink hot? What did it smell of?’
‘It smelt like what it was. Coffee.’
‘And the taste?’
‘Fine.’
‘What did she look like?’
When would this end?
‘She had short blonde hair. She wore mirror sunglasses on her head. Overalls. Stud earrings, I think. Short, grimy nails. I could see them on the wheel. Dirty hands. Only saw her face from the side. Strong nose, fullish lips. No make-up. Height, average. She looked normal. Completely fucking normal, ok?’
And with that Amy walked out of the sitting room and straight upstairs, choking with tears, struggling to breathe. Assailed by the most awful guilt, she allowed herself a flash of anger. Sam had got it easy. He was dead. His suffering was over. But hers would endure. She would never be allowed to forget what she’d done. Looking down to the paving stones below from her attic bedroom window, Amy wondered if Sam would welcome her if she decided to join him. Suddenly she was seized by the idea and tugged at the handle, but the window lock was on and the key had vanished. Even her family were torturing her now.
26
‘What did she look like?’
Peter Brightston shivered. Ever since they’d picked him up, he’d been shivering. His whole
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