‘I definitely didn’t see her.’

There is a long pause, as though DI Currie is hoping that Roan might say something else. When he doesn’t, she smiles again, that unnerving smile of hers that is half Clinique consultant in Debenhams and half twisted primary school teacher. ‘Thank you again, so much, both of you. And as I say, we’re nearly done here. I reckon the cordon will come down in the next hour or two. You can get your street back!’

She puts her hands into the pockets of a very nice green woollen coat with big buttons, smiles one more time, and then she is gone.

Cate and Roan look at each other. He takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. ‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘I really need to get going.’ He drops another perfunctory kiss on Cate’s cheek and, moving very quickly, strides away from her, down the garden path and on to the pavement.

30

SAFFYRE

Last December was cold. Do you remember it? So cold. Or maybe I remember it that way because I spent so much of it outdoors.

It’s odd, I know. I had a home, a warm home – almost too warm, you know the way they heat these council buildings, no thermostat, central settings. I had Aaron taking care of me and nice food and a nice bedroom and yet … for some reason I really did not want to be there. Maybe it was because my granddad wasn’t there any more. Maybe it was that simple. But it felt more complicated than that to me, like I was turning into something else, something not entirely human.

I don’t know, maybe I read too much Harry Potter growing up, but I didn’t feel grounded up there on the eighth floor; I felt untethered, like there was no gravity up there. I needed my feet on solid ground. I needed the air on my skin. I needed trees and soil and damp and moonlight and daylight and sun and wind and pigeons and foxes. It was like I was becoming feral.

That’s an exaggeration. Obviously. I was still going to school every day. I was still showering, still making my hair look nice, wearing eyeliner, wearing clean underwear, you know; I wasn’t dirty feral. I was just outdoorsy. Any time I could be outdoors I took the opportunity.

I spent a lot of time in the building plot opposite Roan’s house. It was cool there. I could see all the comings and goings through the gaps in the hedges without any risk of being spotted. The fox came to see me often. I brought him other processed-meat gifts and he was always very grateful to me. And then there was the guy whose bedroom window faced out on to the land. I don’t know what his name was, but I called him Clive. I don’t know why, he just looked like a Clive.

He was kind of odd. And I say that as someone who is also kind of odd. If I stood on top of the JCB that was parked on the plot I could see right into his room through the gap in his curtains; it was like an old lady’s bedroom. He had this nylon counterpane thing over his lumpy little bed, and one of those clunky antique wooden wardrobes like they have in bad B & Bs with a mirror on the outside door and his manky little stripy dressing gown hanging off the back of his door and a painting of a rugged landscape in a crap frame. The room looked cold. He sat in it every night in an armchair with his headphones on and a laptop on a cardboard box in front of him and he looked at his stuff – I don’t know what stuff, I couldn’t see the screen. Not porn though, I know that, because I never saw him doing what men do when they look at porn.

Sometimes the woman would come in, the white-haired woman he lived with. I always saw him sigh and roll his eyes before he opened the door to her. She would have her arms wrapped round her waist and a sour look on her face and say something to him and he would say something to her and she would look even more sour, then go.

I felt sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be him. He looked old enough to be married with a kid or two. He was clearly doing something wrong to be living as he was living. I wondered if he was cross about being so lonely. I wondered about Clive a lot.

Our paths crossed about a week before Christmas. He was walking up the little hill that joins Roan’s road to the Finchley Road. It was late, about eleven o’clock. He looked a state. His hair was all over the place; his work bag was hanging off his shoulder, pulling his jacket down on one side. His shirt had a big stain on it and he was kind of stumbling along. He glanced at me and I saw that he was drunk. He smiled then and as we passed each other he said, ‘Merry Christmas!’ and I said, ‘And a Merry Christmas to you too, Clive.’

He stopped and said, ‘Clive?’

I smiled and said, ‘Nothing. Just kidding. Merry Christmas.’

‘Owen,’ he said. ‘My name’s Owen.’

‘Owen,’ I said. ‘I’m Jane.’

‘Merry Christmas, Jane.’

We shook hands. His was clammy and sticky.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘bit sweaty. Been dancing. A school disco. I’m a teacher though. Not a student. Obviously.’

He laughed. I laughed.

‘Night night, Jane.’

‘Night night, Owen.’

Then he went and I went and I thought, Owen, his name’s Owen.

Roan took Alicia out for dinner just before Christmas. He took her to the nice little French restaurant nestled below my block of flats. I’d followed them from the clinic, watched them go in. I took my paparazzi-style photos: click, click.

Alicia looked beautiful. She was beautiful. Much more beautiful than Roan’s wife. And she was getting more beautiful the longer her affair with Roan went on, like he was pumping her full of some magic elixir. She had her red hair down in long waves and was wearing a black coat and red Chelsea boots and a pink scarf and red lips and black tights. She couldn’t stop smiling. He looked more circumspect, held the door for her, as was his way, quick look over his shoulder as he went in.

I watched them being led to a table right at the back of the restaurant.

I wouldn’t be able to see them from where I was standing so I put my phone back in my pocket and went home.

Aaron was there. He’d bought a Christmas tree and that cheered me up. One good thing about Granddad going was that Aaron got to sleep in the bedroom now, not in the living room, and we could have a proper Christmas tree, not the funny little skinny space-saving one we’d been using for years, which sat on a tabletop. The tree smelled so good. I stood with my face buried inside its branches and breathed it in.

Aaron passed me the box of decorations from the cupboard in the hallway. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Girls’ work.’ He winked and I gave him a shove. Aaron’s not exactly a feminist but he’s no chauvinist either. He likes the idea of the world being run by women. He likes women.

I dressed the tree and stared from the window every now and then, down to the plaza below where the posh little restaurant was and as I stared I found myself wondering what I was doing, following Roan about the way I did, taking pictures of everything he did. I wondered where it was all heading. I wondered if I was mad, maybe. But I didn’t feel mad. I felt totally fine.

Aaron put our dinner on the table. He said, ‘It’s nice to have you here. For once.’

He said this with a smile because he wasn’t having a go at me. He meant it as it sounded.

‘You know,’ he said, spooning yellow rice on to his plate, glancing over my shoulder at the twinkling tree, ‘it feels kind of strange. First Christmas without my dad. If you want to talk about it …’

I just smiled and shook my head and said, ‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘I do worry about you, Saff. We all do.’

I threw him a questioning look.

‘The family. Me. Lee. Tana. The girls.’

‘Not much of a family really, is it?’ I said.

‘Oh. That’s harsh.’ He smiled. ‘It’s quality, not quantity, yeah?’

I smiled too. ‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘Just keep us in the loop, Saff, OK? Whatever it is that’s bothering you. Who ever it is that’s bothering you. We’re all here for you. Yeah?’

I looked up at him. ‘But what about you?’ I said. ‘Who’s here for you?’

He looked kind of abashed. ‘What do you mean?’

I said, ‘You’re nearly thirty. You work two jobs. You haven’t had a girlfriend since you were like twenty-four or something. Who’s worrying about you?’

Aaron put down his knife and fork and looked at me very sternly. Aaron looking stern, I should add, is not very stern at all. He has the face of an angel.

‘Saff,’ he said, ‘I don’t need worrying about, OK. Please God, don’t worry about me. Just focus on yourself. Focus on school, on these A-levels. Then focus on getting into university. Then focus on getting a good degree. And then, maybe then, I’ll let you worry about me. But until then, we’re good here, OK?’