done it.
Of course he had. But Marcus was going to get rid of the virus thing and after that she could just forget about it. Maybe one day Danny would grow up and it would all blow over. She’d been stupid to think she could have made it up with him so quickly.
She hurried home, among the first to leave, not wanting to have to share a bus with Danny. Darkness was falling and a breeze rustled in her ears. On the bus journey, she plugged in her iPod and immersed herself in the music.
Fifteen minutes later, as she turned into her street and approached her house, she could not help thinking of the spider on her laptop. She shuddered. The idea of someone, Danny, paying for a computer virus, just to frighten her with a spider, knowing she hated them, that was seriously sinister.
She stopped dead. How could she not have thought of this before? The flowers – the dead spider! Could
Danny
have sent the flowers? And put the spider in? If he could pay for a virus, he could pay for flowers. OK, he’d never bought her flowers when they’d been going out, but then he wasn’t a flowers kind of guy and to be honest she wasn’t a flowers kind of girl. But he was a spider kind of guy.
If Danny was responsible for Phiz and the flowers, then… Wasn’t that stalking or something? But how could she be sure it was him?
Because it couldn’t be anyone else, could it?
CHAPTER 18
THE WATCHER AGAIN
TWO WEEKS AHEAD: OCTOBER
THERE is a nasty acid feeling in his brain. He tries to stay calm, but the feeling will not go away. He looks out of the window, between the trees, into the darkness of early evening. He can see the street, the house, the black door.
Why can he not just get on with his project? It was supposed to make him feel better. He has got past the note-reading stage now and is well into the difficult part: finding the words for his memories. Expressing them.
But he had not expected that emotion would get in the way so much, that he would feel unable to control it. He had thought that he would simply be able to do what he set out to do. He had known that writing it all down would bring the past to the surface again but he had thought that it would feel cleansing. It was his ex-wife who had suggested it in the first place, that he should write down everything that had happened all those years ago.
And what did she know? Silly, misguided cow. Soft, sad and wrecked. Probably she should write her own memories down – she had enough of them to deal with. And yes, he still felt guilty about that. He was not a monster, after all. Which was why he still saw her sometimes. Because he did care about her. And they had loved each other once, until life – or death – had got in the way.
Perhaps he shouldn’t be writing his memoirs. He could have just carried on as before. He had been doing OK. No mortgage, his comfortable apartment and some money left to him by his parents; his war pension; a small income from his delivery job. No children to drain his finances.
Of course, the memories. And when Sheila had said he should write them down, it had seemed like a good idea. And then living within sight of the McPherson house, that was the constant reminder. The inspiration, almost. The memory trigger.
Seeing them every day, while dredging his mind for memories, that was hard to take. It was hard to stay focused, balanced. And now he also had Sheila to worry about. Her recent behaviour was … concerning. Ever since August.
Obsessed
would not be too strong a word. And now he was worried what she might do. She was unpredictable, at the very least. Though he had to confess she probably had more reason than many to behave unpredictably.
Worrying about her is not what he needs. He has his own worries, his own past to deal with. But he does care about her, can’t help it.
And then he’d come across Diana McPherson’s article while researching Gulf War syndrome, so that he would at least have the science at his fingertips. He’d phoned
Of course he had. But Marcus was going to get rid of the virus thing and after that she could just forget about it. Maybe one day Danny would grow up and it would all blow over. She’d been stupid to think she could have made it up with him so quickly.
She hurried home, among the first to leave, not wanting to have to share a bus with Danny. Darkness was falling and a breeze rustled in her ears. On the bus journey, she plugged in her iPod and immersed herself in the music.
Fifteen minutes later, as she turned into her street and approached her house, she could not help thinking of the spider on her laptop. She shuddered. The idea of someone, Danny, paying for a computer virus, just to frighten her with a spider, knowing she hated them, that was seriously sinister.
She stopped dead. How could she not have thought of this before? The flowers – the dead spider! Could
Danny
have sent the flowers? And put the spider in? If he could pay for a virus, he could pay for flowers. OK, he’d never bought her flowers when they’d been going out, but then he wasn’t a flowers kind of guy and to be honest she wasn’t a flowers kind of girl. But he was a spider kind of guy.
If Danny was responsible for Phiz and the flowers, then… Wasn’t that stalking or something? But how could she be sure it was him?
Because it couldn’t be anyone else, could it?
CHAPTER 18
THE WATCHER AGAIN
TWO WEEKS AHEAD: OCTOBER
THERE is a nasty acid feeling in his brain. He tries to stay calm, but the feeling will not go away. He looks out of the window, between the trees, into the darkness of early evening. He can see the street, the house, the black door.
Why can he not just get on with his project? It was supposed to make him feel better. He has got past the note-reading stage now and is well into the difficult part: finding the words for his memories. Expressing them.
But he had not expected that emotion would get in the way so much, that he would feel unable to control it. He had thought that he would simply be able to do what he set out to do. He had known that writing it all down would bring the past to the surface again but he had thought that it would feel cleansing. It was his ex-wife who had suggested it in the first place, that he should write down everything that had happened all those years ago.
And what did she know? Silly, misguided cow. Soft, sad and wrecked. Probably she should write her own memories down – she had enough of them to deal with. And yes, he still felt guilty about that. He was not a monster, after all. Which was why he still saw her sometimes. Because he did care about her. And they had loved each other once, until life – or death – had got in the way.
Perhaps he shouldn’t be writing his memoirs. He could have just carried on as before. He had been doing OK. No mortgage, his comfortable apartment and some money left to him by his parents; his war pension; a small income from his delivery job. No children to drain his finances.
Of course, the memories. And when Sheila had said he should write them down, it had seemed like a good idea. And then living within sight of the McPherson house, that was the constant reminder. The inspiration, almost. The memory trigger.
Seeing them every day, while dredging his mind for memories, that was hard to take. It was hard to stay focused, balanced. And now he also had Sheila to worry about. Her recent behaviour was … concerning. Ever since August.
Obsessed
would not be too strong a word. And now he was worried what she might do. She was unpredictable, at the very least. Though he had to confess she probably had more reason than many to behave unpredictably.
Worrying about her is not what he needs. He has his own worries, his own past to deal with. But he does care about her, can’t help it.
And then he’d come across Diana McPherson’s article while researching Gulf War syndrome, so that he would at least have the science at his fingertips. He’d phoned
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