came round.”
“Nancy that’s ludicrous. Simon isn’t here. I only wish he were. That way he could tell you he had nothing to do with Amy’s death.”
There, she had said it. For the first time since her row with Simon on the night he’d disappeared, she believed it herself, and along with the realisation came a wash of guilt and enormous relief.
“Then why has he disappeared? If he’s got nothing to hide, why isn’t he here?”
“He’s angry with me, that’s all. We had a row; I said some hurtful things to him. He’s punishing me.” Anna felt herself choke, “He knows I can’t bear to have him out of my sight.” Nancy stared at her. For a second the two women connected on a level that they both understood, then Nancy’s anger kicked in again.
“What things did you say to him? That he’s a murderer? That he dragged Amy across the common that night and strangled her? No wonder your poor little boy’s feelings were hurt. He knew mummy was telling the truth.”
Something snapped inside Anna’s head. Now that she had accepted how absurd it had been of her to suspect Simon of that heinous crime, it appalled her to hear someone else accuse her son of such brutality.
“That’s not true! Get out! Get out of my shop!” she said as her own anger mounted.
Nancy stood, defiant, looking as though she wanted to spit. Or strike out. For several moments, both women glared at each other, neither willing to back down.
Then, suddenly, Anna felt ashamed; she was afraid of losing what she loved most. Nancy already had. In a kinder tone, she said, “Please. Just leave. Simon isn’t here.” Her eyes met Nancy’s and registered only anger. Then Nancy turned her back and stumbled out the door.
Tears blurred Nancy’s departure. Anna locked the door behind her and bent to straighten the mat. At that moment she remembered the flyer that she had picked up earlier and pulled it, crumpled, from her pocket. It was not a flyer. It was from Simon.
* * *
Minutes after her row with Anna Foster, Nancy Hill was stricken with regret. She had stumbled angrily out of the shop and onto the pavement, turning instinctively in the direction of her own shop, a little way up the Long hill. Richard had left a sign on the door saying, ‘closed due to family bereavement,’ and Nancy stared at it numbly before remembering that she was the one bereaved.
The shop’s gloomy interior absorbed her misery. The heating had been off for days, and an aching cold seemed to seep out of the walls into Nancy’s bones. Without turning on the lights, or taking much note of the tidy little shop she had been so proud of, Nancy made straight for her ‘office’ at the back, where she sat down and howled, safe in the knowledge that no one could hear her.
Anna Foster was her friend. Her son was missing, a murder suspect. If the victim had been anyone else but Amy, Nancy would have been consoling her friend, taking her side, supporting her, refusing to believe that Simon could be guilty of such a terrible crime. But the victim had been Amy. Her child; and that was the reason Simon had vanished, or so it seemed. Nancy moaned aloud; she wanted so badly to have someone to blame.
* * *
The following morning, Nancy pretended to be asleep until she heard the garage door creak shut, followed by the sound of Richard’s car revving up and pulling out of her drive. Just before he left the house, he’d come upstairs and crept over to the bed to kiss her lightly on the forehead and whisper goodbye. Perhaps he really had believed she was still asleep, but she didn’t think so.
They had rowed again last night. Round and round in a circle of denial and disappointment, Richard asking her to open up to him, she insisting that she had nothing to conceal, until they were both too exhausted to care.
Perhaps later she would call at his workshop and watch him work. It was relaxing to watch him smooth a piece of timber lovingly with his hand plane. Richard had
“Nancy that’s ludicrous. Simon isn’t here. I only wish he were. That way he could tell you he had nothing to do with Amy’s death.”
There, she had said it. For the first time since her row with Simon on the night he’d disappeared, she believed it herself, and along with the realisation came a wash of guilt and enormous relief.
“Then why has he disappeared? If he’s got nothing to hide, why isn’t he here?”
“He’s angry with me, that’s all. We had a row; I said some hurtful things to him. He’s punishing me.” Anna felt herself choke, “He knows I can’t bear to have him out of my sight.” Nancy stared at her. For a second the two women connected on a level that they both understood, then Nancy’s anger kicked in again.
“What things did you say to him? That he’s a murderer? That he dragged Amy across the common that night and strangled her? No wonder your poor little boy’s feelings were hurt. He knew mummy was telling the truth.”
Something snapped inside Anna’s head. Now that she had accepted how absurd it had been of her to suspect Simon of that heinous crime, it appalled her to hear someone else accuse her son of such brutality.
“That’s not true! Get out! Get out of my shop!” she said as her own anger mounted.
Nancy stood, defiant, looking as though she wanted to spit. Or strike out. For several moments, both women glared at each other, neither willing to back down.
Then, suddenly, Anna felt ashamed; she was afraid of losing what she loved most. Nancy already had. In a kinder tone, she said, “Please. Just leave. Simon isn’t here.” Her eyes met Nancy’s and registered only anger. Then Nancy turned her back and stumbled out the door.
Tears blurred Nancy’s departure. Anna locked the door behind her and bent to straighten the mat. At that moment she remembered the flyer that she had picked up earlier and pulled it, crumpled, from her pocket. It was not a flyer. It was from Simon.
* * *
Minutes after her row with Anna Foster, Nancy Hill was stricken with regret. She had stumbled angrily out of the shop and onto the pavement, turning instinctively in the direction of her own shop, a little way up the Long hill. Richard had left a sign on the door saying, ‘closed due to family bereavement,’ and Nancy stared at it numbly before remembering that she was the one bereaved.
The shop’s gloomy interior absorbed her misery. The heating had been off for days, and an aching cold seemed to seep out of the walls into Nancy’s bones. Without turning on the lights, or taking much note of the tidy little shop she had been so proud of, Nancy made straight for her ‘office’ at the back, where she sat down and howled, safe in the knowledge that no one could hear her.
Anna Foster was her friend. Her son was missing, a murder suspect. If the victim had been anyone else but Amy, Nancy would have been consoling her friend, taking her side, supporting her, refusing to believe that Simon could be guilty of such a terrible crime. But the victim had been Amy. Her child; and that was the reason Simon had vanished, or so it seemed. Nancy moaned aloud; she wanted so badly to have someone to blame.
* * *
The following morning, Nancy pretended to be asleep until she heard the garage door creak shut, followed by the sound of Richard’s car revving up and pulling out of her drive. Just before he left the house, he’d come upstairs and crept over to the bed to kiss her lightly on the forehead and whisper goodbye. Perhaps he really had believed she was still asleep, but she didn’t think so.
They had rowed again last night. Round and round in a circle of denial and disappointment, Richard asking her to open up to him, she insisting that she had nothing to conceal, until they were both too exhausted to care.
Perhaps later she would call at his workshop and watch him work. It was relaxing to watch him smooth a piece of timber lovingly with his hand plane. Richard had
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