Page 61 of Close to You
I don’t know what to say. Five minutes ago, there was none of this in my mind – and now we’re talking about houses and children.
‘Where’s the money going to come from?’ I ask again.
‘It will work out.’
I move my weight from one foot to the other and the wooden bridge creaks ominously. The deer looks up, perhaps startled by the noise. Its ears are pricked high and then it turns and darts off into the trees. Perhaps that’s the omen? That should give me my answer.
‘What do you say?’ David asks.
‘I don’t know.’
Twenty-Nine
Two years, two months ago
I bluster through the door as the bell jangles above. Outside, the wind is howling as the hail blasts the pavement. If it was anyone other than Mother Nature, it would be common assault.
My inside-out umbrella has long since been abandoned to the bin, while my coat is so wet, that it’s more liquid than solid. I drip my way across the floor, apologising the entire way until I get to the counter. The glass cabinets are filled with various necklaces, rings and jewels; none of which are marked with prices. The man at the counter looks on somewhat disapprovingly as I continue to drip on his carpet.
‘I brought my watch in a few days ago,’ I say. ‘It had stopped working…’
He gulps and looks sideways to an empty space, as if hoping someone will come and save him.
‘I’m afraid there was a problem, Mrs Persephone,’ he says.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘It’s a bit of an, um,delicatematter…’
The television is playing in the background as I sit and stew on the sofa. I’ve not really been watching it, but the shows have scrolled around on a loop until the news came on. The lead story is about a one-punch murderer who’s been given a life sentence. It’s hard not to think of all the lives that have been destroyed. Not only the victim and his family – but the attacker, too. One stupid, momentary decision, if it can even be called a decision.
The door bangs behind me and David blusters his way in, followed by a few litres of rain. He slams the door behind him and then puts his soaking coat onto the rail next to mine. He offers a quick ‘need a wee’ and then dashes for the toilet, leaving a trail of water behind.
The news story has moved onto the mother of the victim. She’s devastated and struggling for words as she says that the attacker should never be released from prison.
I wait and I fume until David returns. He’s taken off his shoes and socks and has a towel around his neck. He heads towards the kitchen and then he stops still, turning to peer over his shoulder like a wronged cowboy in a Western.
I’ve never quite understood how emotions can bleed out into the surrounding atmosphere. As if feelings themselves can be so intense, so strong, that they can become something physical.
‘What’s wrong?’ David asks.
‘When we were at my mum’s last year, you gave me a watch for my birthday,’ I say.
‘I know…’
‘Where did you get it?’
He takes a small step backwards, but the counter is behind him and there’s nowhere to go. ‘I, um… don’t remember.’
‘It’s worth three grand. How can you not remember?’
I watch as his eyes flick to my wrist, surely noticing the empty space where it used to be. I hold my wrist up higher so that he can see clearly.
‘It’s gone,’ I say. ‘Why do you think that is?’
He slides around the counter, putting it between us as I stand and move towards him.
‘Where did you get it?’ I repeat.
