‘Marc, are you OK?’
His normally friendly tone spits fire at me. ‘You’ve followed me.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’ My hand brushes his shoulder.
‘Go and speak to your colleagues. Leave me alone.’ There is no doubt that he means it. He thrusts his hand out towards the exit. ‘Go away.’ The train doors squeak and hiss open. He pushes me out of the way and jumps into the carriage, turning his back as the doors clunk closed.
This is not the Marc I know. Kind and generous Marc, the committed husband and father who possesses the ability to continually roll limericks off his tongue like a professional comedian. The guy who promotes moral excellence in all aspects of his life. He’s the type you see helping old ladies to their cars with their shopping, and crouching down to hand notes to the homeless. Flummoxed, I watch as the packed train picks up speed and disappears into the dark tunnel.
What the hell is going on?
I glance at my watch, turn around and retrace my steps back to the station with equal urgency.
Damn, I’m going to be late home. Again.
Marc and Sasha are happy, aren’t they? She’s never let on otherwise. I’ve only known them three years, but when I visit them with Jim, for his weekly physio sessions with Sasha, their busy, loving household has always led me to believe nothing but.
‘Tell me what that man said again,’ I say to Leo when I arrive back at the station. I walk behind the desk.
‘Best ask Turner for a full rundown. He took him into a room and had a chat with him, then logged the incident.’ He lifts his takeaway cup. ‘The best birthday present I’ve had.’ He continues talking while he taps away on his computer.
I keep quiet. Leo’s a trooper but talks far too much, and now’s not the time for idle conversation. He points to an entry on the screen. ‘Here you go; this is the discussion.’
I read the details but learn nothing more than what Leo already briefed me on earlier. It’s all there, clearly stated. Marc O’Sullivan is leaving home, and if anyone reports him missing, he doesn’t want to be found. He’s not at risk, no mental health issues, no previous reports of disappearing.
It doesn’t make sense.
‘Have a good evening,’ I say. ‘And have a beer for me.’
‘You haven’t changed your mind, then? I’ve reserved an outside table at the Elders.’
I shake my head.
‘Won’t be the same without you, Barnes.’
I wink at him and leave to hurry to my car, praying the traffic has eased. Taking my phone out of my bag, I start to text Jim that something has come up, and I’m going to be late, as a text arrives from Sasha.
I need your help. Please call me as soon as you can. X
She knows.
I insert the key in the ignition and sit for a few seconds, deciding what to do. Sasha’s house is on the way home. I could be there in ten minutes, twenty maybe with the traffic. Should I get involved? I could pretend I never saw Marc and let events unfold as they will, but Sasha doesn’t deserve that from me. I can’t lie to her. She’s like the sister I never had.
I finish my text to Jim, telling him that his physio session is cancelled tonight and that I’ll be home soon. Then I drop a text to Paula, who babysits on a Monday evening while I take Jim for his physio, to say we won’t be needing her tonight. I start the engine and turn the air conditioning to max.
Turning out of the station, I join the queues of exasperated drivers swearing along with me that London’s congestion is getting worse by the day. My phone beeps – another text from Sasha asking me to call her. The day is going from difficult to downright impossible. I can’t talk to her because I’ll have to lie. And that’s something I can’t do – not to people who matter anyway.
I divert my route to Sasha’s, stopping off at the supermarket to pick up a few items we need at home. Sasha lives in a small, private development – Napier Close, comprising of six moderate-sized detached houses, each fronted by well-pruned eucalyptus trees. On a good day, it’s less than a ten-minute journey from home. Attached to the side of each house is a studio annexe some of the residents use for small business purposes. Sasha runs her physiotherapy practice from hers. An attractive complex, especially for the area, it was built on an old factory site about twenty years ago. The new-millennium developer clearly had the foresight to understand children would be unable to afford to fly the nest and that there would be an increase in people working from home. A paved, double parking space fronts each studio, and at the rear of each property is a small courtyard garden.
Fake calmness fails to conceal the panic in her voice as Sasha appears from her studio. Her slender, athletic frame, dressed in white gym shoes, Lycra leggings and a white T-shirt with The Body and Back Clinic logo embossed across the back in emerald green, appears before I’ve switched off the engine. She’s such a pretty woman. Two soft dimples usually light up her face when she smiles, but today they are lost in the darkness of her troubles. I climb out of the car.
‘You got my texts then?’ she says, her voice shaking. Her long, shiny dark hair is dishevelled, and her face, filled with a nervous vulnerability, has lost its usual healthy glow. I’ve always been in awe of that glow. The way she always looks like
