It takes me several minutes of trawling the internet to find any mention of the death in Perthshire and that’s only because I search the local news there. Are there that many murders and stabbings that they’re not newsworthy anymore? It’s as if no one cares about Robert. I cared. I’d cared too much. I scan the article to see if the police have any leads, but it seems as though they don’t even know his true identity.
Shit! His passport and work phone. My stomach churns and my armpits prickle like heat rash. I hid them in my glove box in the car. Thank God he kept the phone turned off and just checked it occasionally. I’ll have to get rid of them fast. But where?
I could throw them in Mum’s rubbish bin but what if a bin man spots them? No. Burning and burying is the only answer. I’ll get some matches, go for a walk in the woods and find a quiet spot for a little bonfire. I also have to dispose of the pay-as-you-go phone I’d used to communicate with Robert. I’ll bury that while I’m there too.
A man with dark curly hair and a large nose is studying the titles on a bookcase nearby. Is he watching me? I’m certain he keeps looking across. Shit. Maybe the police have discovered who Robert is and stopped the name going to the press so as not to alert me? Have they tracked me down? Is this a plain-clothed policeman? I ignore him and scan the jobs page, determined not to look up again in case he sees the anxiety that must be etched on my face. I try to focus on the adverts instead of him.
I need to find employment that pays weekly. I’ve only got a few pounds in the bank and I doubt Mum has much. At least there are plenty of jobs around here, far more than up north. Tesco and Sainsbury’s are looking for customer assistants. I’ll call them later. I rummage in my bag for a pen but can’t find one. I glance around at the tall bookcases, relieved there’s no sign of the dark-haired man, and spot the main desk. A woman with tiny, liver-spotted hands and a neat grey bob is frowning at a screen.
‘Hi, could I possibly borrow a pen?’ I ask.
The woman looks up, her pale eyes disappearing amidst folds of skin as she smiles.
‘Of course. Anything else I can help you with?’
I look around at the rows of books and my heart lifts. Books have always been my escape. To lose myself in someone else’s dangerous situation, feel a frisson of fear then find myself in the relative safety of my warm bed is a pleasure I never tire of.
‘I’d like to join, please, and where are your psychological thrillers?’
The woman points to an aisle and I’m halfway there when I have a thought and go back to her desk.
‘I don’t suppose there are any jobs going in the library?’
‘We’re looking for volunteers. Could you spare a couple of afternoons a week?’
I leave my muddy shoes at the lounge door rather than the back door. I refuse to walk in my socks on this disgusting kitchen floor. Mum is back on the sofa watching an inane reality show. I stomp across the room and switch it off.
‘Hey, I was watching that.’
‘Come on. We’ve got a house to clean. I can’t live in this dirt and mess.’
‘No one’s asking you to bloody live here.’ Mum looks at me like a teenager who’s been grounded.
When did I become the parent? I sigh deeply. ‘It won’t take long if we both do it. I’ve bought cleaning stuff and some food for dinner.’
Mum grasps the arm of the sofa and hauls herself up. She wobbles slightly and I look around the room. Has she started drinking already? I straighten the cushion, exposing the vodka bottle.
‘Jesus. Drinking out of the bottle now?’
Mum sniffs then moves another cushion to expose her favourite glass tumbler. She glares at me with pursed lips then turns and shuffles out of the room.
‘Well, that’s all right then,’ I call after her. ‘We wouldn’t want your standards to slip.’
Once I’ve managed to motivate Mum into getting the hoover out, I tackle the washing-up and clean the bathroom. With the floor swept and mopped, rubbish taken out and my washing hung on the clothes airer, the place is beginning to look and smell better. The stains on my jeans haven’t quite washed out but I’m short of clothes so they’ll have to do. The marks will fade the more I wash them. I make us both a cup of tea and switch the television back on.
‘Where did you get so muddy?’ Mum asks, eyeing my footwear by the door.
‘I went for a walk in the woods to clear my head.’
She looks at me and frowns. ‘Who hurt you this time, Sarah?’
‘No one you know and don’t worry; I won’t be seeing him again.’ I slump into the chair and my thoughts turn to Dad. ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Do you think I choose the wrong men because of the way Dad treated me?’
Her gaze slides away. She’s always avoided difficult conversations. ‘He was just disciplining you, love. You were too cheeky.’
‘Rubbish. He was always aggressive and cold. How can you make excuses for him? Why did we stay with a man who didn’t love us?’
Mum gets up and fetches her vodka, waving the glass at me. ‘You’re driving me to drink with your incessant questions.’
‘I’m not driving you anywhere. You arrived there a long time ago and it wasn’t my doing. Blame Dad, if you want to blame someone.’
‘He didn’t intend to kill Colin. It was only one punch.’
I jump to my feet.
