Broadchurch: Old Friends (Story 3): A Series Two Original Short Story by Erin Kelly, Chris Chibnall Page B

They never entered each other’s homes.
    Over time Jocelyn’s unspoken role became to give an official stamp to the milestones of their relationship. When Simon was born, Jocelyn temporarily put aside her atheism to be his godmother. And it was to Jocelyn that Jack turned, years later, after the terrible accident – the dark, wet road, the shattered windscreen – that cost Rowena her looks and Simon his life.
    It was seven months later that she met him. They dined as a pair for the first time. By horrible coincidence, they were seated at a table set for three.
    ‘She doesn’t want me in the house,’ he said to his plate. ‘She says she can’t bear to be in the same room as me, that she thinks I blame her.’
    ‘And do you?’
    His mouth set into a hard line, which is as close as he would get to answering her. Even in tragedy, he would not hear a word against his beloved wife, let alone utter one.
    ‘I’m too old to start again. Where can I go?’ He repeated the question, his voice cracking. ‘Where can I go?’
    Where do you go when life is over?
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Jocelyn sadly. ‘I’m so sorry, Jack. I just don’t know.’
    The following evening, in her weekly call to her mother, Jocelyn learned that the woman who ran the little newsagents down in Broadchurch harbour was retiring, and the business was up for sale.
    Jocelyn purposely lets Jack settle in by himself. She’s never been one for holding people’s hands, not even clients who become dear friends. And besides, she doesn’t want anyone to link his arrival in Broadchurch with her. She’s in the middle of a case and it’s a flying visit; she’ll be catching the first train back to London tomorrow.
    For the first time, Jocelyn is glad she isn’t in touch with Maggie Radcliffe any more. If anyone could sniff out the connection, it’s her.
    It’s warm for autumn, and afternoon fades gently into early evening. Jocelyn walks the perimeter of Broadchurch harbour, in flat shoes and her father’s old Barbour. Around her are the childhood sounds of calling gulls, the gentle tap and clank of moored boats. The noise calls her like a bell, summoning something long-buried inside her. If there’s one thing she does miss about London, it’s not being able to fish. She’s been catching her own since she was a teenager. In a rare moment of projection, she has a glimpse of herself, a grey old lady, fishing for her supper. For the first time, she realises, she is thinking not in terms of if but when .
    When Jocelyn sees the newsagent, her heart lurches in her chest; she has made a terrible mistake. When she heard newsagent , she instinctively thought of the tobacconists opposite the Old Bailey; the grown-up necessities of newspapers, cigarettes and travelcards, the anonymous stream of commuters and transients. This place is a toyshop. It is September but the remnants of summer stock are outside the shop; buckets and spades and shrimping nets for those brave enough to walk the beach in the autumn. What will it be like in the summer? For a few minutes, she watches in horror. No child seems able to pass the shop without tugging on a parent’s sleeve and begging for sugar. Jocelyn is not used to feeling shame but she burns with it now. She has sent Jack Marshall to grieve for his son, and come to terms with the end of his marriage, in a place that is steeped in family and childhood. What was she thinking ? This is worse than insensitive, this is professionally dangerous. If she lets herself become insulated by her privileged London life, if she loses her empathy, she’s finished. She peers through the window into the gloomy interior.
    ‘Is that you?’
    Jack Marshall emerges from a back entrance. Jocelyn swallows a gasp. He looks twenty years older than when last she saw him. Rowena and Simon had kept him looking young; it is as though their loss has drained him of something vital.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think. I didn’t think it