The Casual Vacancy

and awful. She pictured herself, forced back against a wall, one leg propped up, a dress pushed up to her waist and that strong dark boy with his jeans round his knees, thrusting in and out of her…

With a lurch in the pit of her stomach that was almost like happiness, she heard the car turning back into the drive and the beams of the headlights swung around the dark sitting room.

She fumbled with the controls to turn over to the news, which took her much longer than it ought to have done; she shoved the empty wine bottle under the sofa and clutched her almost empty glass as a prop. The front door opened and closed. Miles entered the room behind her.

‘Why are you sitting here in the dark?’

He turned on a lamp and she glanced up at him. He was as well groomed as he had been when he left, except for the raindrops on the shoulders of his jacket.

‘How was dinner?’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You were missed. Aubrey and Julia were sorry you couldn’t make it.’

‘Oh, I’m sure. And I’ll bet your mother cried with disappointment.’

He sat down in an armchair at right angles to her, staring at her. She pushed her hair out of her eyes.

‘What’s this all about, Sam?’

‘If you don’t know, Miles—’

But she was not sure herself; or at least, she did not know how to condense this sprawling sense of ill- usage into a coherent accusation.

‘I can’t see how me standing for the Parish Council—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Miles!’ she shouted, and was then slightly taken aback by how loud her voice was.

‘Explain to me, please,’ he said, ‘what possible difference it can make to you?’

She glared at him, struggling to articulate it for his pedantic legal mind, which was like a fiddling pair of tweezers in the way that it seized on poor choices of word, yet so often failed to grasp the bigger picture. What could she say that he would understand? That she found Howard and Shirley’s endless talk about the council boring as hell? That he was quite tedious enough already, with his endlessly retold anecdotes about the good old days back at the rugby club and his self-congratulatory stories about work, without adding pontifications about the Fields?

‘Well, I was under the impression,’ said Samantha, in their dimly lit sitting room, ‘that we had other plans.’

‘Like what?’ said Miles. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘We said,’ Samantha articulated carefully over the rim of her trembling glass, ‘that once the girls were out of school, we’d go travelling. We promised each other that, remember?’

The formless rage and misery that had consumed her since Miles announced his intention to stand for the council had not once led her to mourn the year’s travelling she had missed, but at this moment it seemed to her that that was the real problem; or at least, that it came closest to expressing both the antagonism and the yearning inside her.

Miles seemed completely bewildered.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘When I got pregnant with Lexie,’ Samantha said loudly, ‘and we couldn’t go travelling, and your bloody mother made us get married in double-quick time, and your father got you a job with Edward Collins, you said, we agreed, that we’d do it when the girls were grown up; we said we’d go away and do all the things we missed out on.’

He shook his head slowly.

‘This is news to me,’ he said. ‘Where the hell has this come from?’

‘Miles, we were in the Black Canon. I told you I was pregnant, and you said – for Christ’s sake, Miles – I told you I was pregnant, and you promised me, you promised—’

‘You want a holiday?’ said Miles. ‘Is that it? You want a holiday?’

‘No, Miles, I don’t want a bloody holiday, I want – don’t you remember? We said we’d take a year out and do it later, when the kids were grown up!’

‘Fine, then.’ He seemed unnerved, determined to brush her aside. ‘Fine. When Libby’s eighteen; in four years’ time, we’ll talk about it again. I don’t see how me becoming a councillor affects any of this.’

‘Well, apart from the bloody boredom of listening to you and your parents whining about the Fields for the rest of our natural lives—’

‘Our natural lives?’ he smirked. ‘As opposed to—?’

‘Piss off,’ she spat. ‘Don’t be such a bloody smartarse, Miles, it might impress your mother—’

‘Well, frankly, I still don’t see what the problem—’

‘The problem,’ she shouted, ‘is that this is about our future, Miles. Our future. And I don’t want to bloody talk about it in four years’ time, I want to talk about it now!’

‘I think you’d better eat something,’ said Miles. He got to his feet. ‘You’ve had enough to drink.’

‘Screw you, Miles!’

‘Sorry, if you’re going to be abusive…’

He turned and walked out of the room. She barely stopped herself throwing her wine glass after him.

The council: if he got on it, he would never get off; he would never renounce his seat, the chance to be a proper Pagford big shot, like Howard. He was committing himself anew to Pagford, retaking his vows to the town of his birth, to a future quite different from the one he had promised his distraught new fiancee as she sat sobbing on his bed.

When had they last talked about travelling the world? She was not sure. Years and years ago, perhaps, but tonight Samantha decided that she, at least, had never changed her mind. Yes, she had always expected that some day they would pack up and leave, in search of heat and freedom, half the globe away from Pagford, Shirley, Mollison and Lowe, the rain, the pettiness and the sameness. Perhaps she had not thought of the white sands of Australia and Singapore with longing for many years, but she would rather be there, even with her heavy thighs and her stretch marks, than here, trapped in Pagford, forced to watch as Miles turned slowly into Howard.

She slumped back down on the sofa, groped for the controls, and switched back to Libby’s DVD. The band, now in black and white, was walking slowly along a long empty beach, singing. The broad-shouldered boy’s shirt was flapping open in the breeze. A fine trail of hair led from his navel down into his jeans.

V

Alison Jenkins, the journalist from the Yarvil and District Gazette, had at last established which of the many Weedon households in Yarvil housed Krystal. It had been difficult: nobody was registered to vote at the address and no landline number was listed for the property. Alison visited Foley Road in person on Sunday, but Krystal was out, and Terri, suspicious and antagonistic, refused to say when she would be back or confirm that she lived there.

Krystal arrived home a mere twenty minutes after the journalist had departed in her car, and she and her mother had another row.

‘Why din’t ya tell her to wait? She was gonna interview me abou’ the Fields an’ stuff!’

‘Interview you? Fuck off. Wha’ the fuck for?’

The argument escalated and Krystal walked out again, off to Nikki’s, with Terri’s mobile in her tracksuit bottoms. She frequently made off with this phone; many rows were triggered by her mother demanding it back and Krystal pretending that she didn’t know where it was. Dimly, Krystal hoped that the journalist might know the number somehow and call her directly.

She was in a crowded, jangling cafe in the shopping centre, telling Nikki and Leanne all about the journalist, when the mobile rang.

‘’Oo? Are you the journalist, like?’

‘…o’s ’at… ’erri?’