Strawberry Hill

By Andy Humphrey

I recognised him immediately. That’s why I turned my head away and tried to usher Vicky from the counter. She’d barely finished paying for her Guardian and Diet Coke and she rewarded me with a sudden frown. “What?”

I shrugged and grinned and kept my face to one side. But it was too late. He’d been standing at the sweet counter, taking his time, deliberating between Twixes and Mars Bars and Snickers. Now his head shot up. “Jeff? It is you, isn’t it?” Then he was barrelling towards us, chocolate forgotten. “Jeff Derbyshire, as I live and breathe. It must be twenty years.”

As I live and breathe? Jesus. I slotted a surprised grin into place and faced him. “Alan. I didn’t notice you there. Good to see you. After all this time.”

He extended his hand towards me and I shook it. It was less clammy than I’d expected. Vicky watched with amusement. “We’d better go outside,” she said. “I think we’re in the way.”

The three of us stood on the pavement outside the shop. Vicky and I had driven to Blakeney for the day. The coast had been clogged with holidaymakers so we'd parked near the town centre and were going to find somewhere to eat. It was mid-summer, hot, the streets made glossily perfect by the strong sun and flawless sky. Vicky slid her sunglasses on. Alan held a hand out towards her. “And you must be Mrs Derbyshire?” She took his hand and Alan kissed it. “It’s a pleasure. You’re far too good for this chump.” Chump? “But I expect you know that by now.”

“I’ve had my suspicions,” Vicky said, her smile mirroring Alan’s. “Jeff? Don’t be so rude. Are you going to introduce us?”

“What? Right. This is Alan Thompson. We went to school together.”

“Jeff, my dear fellow.” He turned to my wife. He really hadn’t changed at all. Short, overweight. Streaks of sweat leaking into his fair hair. Small, dark eyes that missed nothing. “He understates things, but then he always did. Your husband and I were friends. Firm friends. I was so sad that we lost touch.”

“Me to,” I said, fingers crossed. He put an arm around my shoulders. Despite the heat of the day he wore a suit and tie. In our school days he’d smelled of sweat and bad breath. Now he wore a deodorant or cologne that I didn’t recognise. It smelled classy, expensive.

“So what have you been up to,” Alan said. “Apart from marrying above yourself.”

I ran through the handful of jobs I’d had since leaving University. I did it as quickly as I could. I was hungry. I wanted lunch. I wanted Alan Thompson out of my life again. When I’d finished he waited politely for me to ask the same question. He’d still be waiting but Vicky stepped in. “Jeff. Don’t be so rude.”

I sighed. “So, Alan, what have you been up to?”

His expression became smug. “This and that. I’ve been in sales since I left school. Got a bit of a flair for it, apparently.” He nodded towards a crimson Jaguar parked nearby. “That’s my car over there.”

“Nice,” I said.

“I’m thinking of trading it in. Get something a bit nippier.” He looked at me. “No offence, but I thought you’d be some sort of big shot by now. Full of plans when we were at school, as far as I can recall.”

“I’m happy,” I said. Maybe I sounded defensive. Maybe I was defensive.

Vicky saw the look on my face, changed the subject. “Are you married, Alan?”

His expression changed again. “I was.” He glanced away from us. “She died, I’m afraid. A couple of years ago. Cancer.”

Vicky put a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“To be honest, in the end it was a merciful release.”

“You poor man,” Vicky said.

He patted her hand, absorbed her pity. He’d always been good at that, I remembered. “You’re very kind.” He looked at me again and I thought I caught a trace of calculation in his smile. “You’ve every right to be happy, Jeff. You’re a lucky man.”

“I know,” I said. Vicky simpered quietly. “I’m sorry about your wife,” I said. “That’s hard.”

He gave a small, martyred shrug. “Life goes on. Actually you knew her, Jeff.”

“I did?”

“I married Sheila Pascoe.”

I couldn’t keep the shock off my face or out of my voice. “Sheila Pascoe?”

“Is that so odd?”

“No. No, I just hadn’t heard, that’s all.”

“Well, University and all that. You rather lost touch with us plebs.”

“Not intentionally,” I lied. There was a different atmosphere between us now. “Anyway,” I said, “busy, busy. We must be off.” Alan and I shook hands again. “It was good to see you.”

He produced a business card from somewhere and offered it to me. Vicky took it. “That’s my home number, mobile, e-mail address. Don’t be strangers. I’d love to take the two of you for dinner somewhere. I don’t get out that much these days.”

I was about to mutter something suitably vague when Vicky said, “That would be wonderful. Have you a piece of paper, another card? I’ll give you our number. You can come to us. Next weekend maybe. I love to cook, but I rarely get the chance.” She gave me a dismissive glance. “Beyond spaghetti bolognaise and chilli con carne, that is.”

“Mr Cosmopolitan, that’s me,” I said.

“A home cooked meal? What a rare treat that would be,” Alan said. He kissed her cheek.

“Hey, no tongues,” I said. They both looked at me and I blushed. Alan walked to his car, opened it with the remote, waved again as he entered it.

We ate in a pub near the town centre. “We weren’t friends,” I said again.

Vicky extracted an olive from her lasagne and placed it on the side of her plate. “You were just jealous.”

“With some justification,” I said. We were still smiling more often than not and our voices were light.

“He’s sweet. And I felt so sorry for him, losing his wife like that. Imagine how you’d feel if that happened to me.”

“Don’t say that, Vicky. Don’t ever say that. Don’t joke about it.”

Her brown eyes were all innocence. She tucked a couple of honey-blond hairs behind an ear. “Who’s joking? These things happen. He seemed so lonely, that’s all. Maybe he needs a friend.”

“How many times? He was never…” I stopped, smiled to take the edge off my voice. “Look, Alan was an arsehole when we were at school and, in all probability, he’s an arsehole now. He can seem charming. He always could. He’d smarm his way into peoples lives, tag along without asking. He had money then, too. He’d use it. What friends he had, he bought. Not me, though. Nobody liked him. He smelled funny, he behaved…oddly. He was a creep, Vicky. I’m sorry he lost his wife, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“I see.” She looked at her plate, toyed with a chip, put it down again. “Maybe you’ve changed as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the last half hour. I’ve never heard you be unkind about anyone before. Nobody we knew, anyway. If I bitched about my sisters, my friends you’d defend them. You see the good in people, you don’t judge. I’ve always loved that about you.”

“I haven’t changed.”

“It doesn’t sound that way.”

“Alan always got under my skin. If you get to know him, you’ll feel the same.”

“I’d rather make my own mind up. I think we should put it to the test. Have him for dinner sometime.”

I looked at her face. She looked back without smiling. “You’re serious. Why does this matter to you? Maybe I should be jealous.”

“Don’t be silly.” She looked away from me, made a face. “We’re in a bit of a rut, aren’t we?” I said nothing. “A nice rut,” she said quickly. “But some different company wouldn’t hurt. And being charming isn’t a crime.” I drank some wine and still said nothing. “He was bullied, wasn’t he?”

“Not by me.”

“Because he was fat?”

“He’s still fat.”

“So?”

“So that makes me slightly less jealous.”

“Really?”

“I’m not proud of it, but, yes. And he wasn’t bullied because he was fat. He was bullied because he was a wanker.”

“Nicely put.”

“It’s the truth. He deserved it.”

“Nobody deserves to be bullied.”

“Well, I…” Then I remembered, stupidly, belatedly. “You didn’t, Vicky. Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

Her face was angled downwards, her hair shielding her expression. Then she tilted her head upwards and smiled suddenly, from nowhere, all white teeth and deep dimples and a tension that I hadn’t realised was there dissipated. “No, I’m sorry, giving you a hard time like this. I’m partly thinking of my sister, actually.”

“Mary?” I said, thrown. “What about her?”

“She’s been such a pain since David left. Alan’s single and lonely and loaded. Couldn’t hurt to give them a chance.”

Still off balance I said, “Yes it could.”

Her smile faltered. “It was just a thought.”

“Unthink it,” I said. “Really.” I shook my head, tried to clear it. “Do you want dessert?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” I said.

We walked to the beach and talked about other stuff. Things were soon fine again. They usually were. Married ten years we’d survived a seriously bad patch about three years earlier, the reasons for which neither of us could entirely discern. Since then we’d been…happy, to put it simply. No ambitions beyond the straightforward jobs we did and our unpretentious life together.

The day was still bright, hot, the sky squint inducing. It seemed false, somehow. The slick sheen of sunlight, the glossily perfect, blue-green sea. All surface, all charm. Like Alan. Peel the crust away and you’d find something else underneath.

Vicky picked up a pebble, hurled it in the direction of the sea. It fell a long way short.

“You throw like a girl,” I said.

“Guilty as charged.” She picked up another stone and threw it at me. Missed. “Bugger,” she said. Then, “Are you a bit miffed?”

“About what?”

“Alan. Big car. Loadsamoney. Presumably. Him being such a creep and all.”

“Compared to me you mean? Five year old Vectra, ex-council house. Swilling around the lower echelons of a local authority.”

“Do you know how bitter you sound?” Actually, I didn’t. I thought I was joking. “I didn’t mean it like that. You said he was a loser at school. It must seem odd that he’s done ok for himself.”

“I won’t lose any sleep over it.”

“Fair enough. And Sheila Pascoe?”

“What do you mean?”

“The look on your face when Alan said that he’d married her. Who was she? Did you go out with her or something?”

She was watching me, appraising. Vicky’s not complicated. She has no layers, no particular depths. If she thinks something, she says it. If she wants something, she acts. One of the reasons I love her. I kept my expression neutral. “I barely knew her. I suppose I wished that I did. Same as most of the boys in my class. She was two years above us. Different league, that’s all. Looks, money, a way of carrying herself. Probably an utter bitch. None of us got close enough to find out. Alan certainly didn’t. I wasn’t aware that he even spoke to her.”

“Well, he did at some point, presumably.”

“Presumably. I still find it hard to believe that she married him.”

“Perhaps he did change, Jeff. Perhaps she did.” She looked at the sea and her expression became wistful. “Perhaps we all do.”

Later we walked to Blakeney Quay and caught a ferry to the Point; cooed over the grey seals, watched Avocets and Plovers strut and feed. We spoke little. I tried not to think about Alan Thompson and Sheila Pascoe.

As the weeks passed I thought about what Vicky had said about being in a rut and in the autumn I took her to Paris for a surprise long weekend. It stretched my budget a little but it was worth it. I didn’t really take to the city but Vicky’s obvious enjoyment more than compensated.

Alan Thompson seemed forgotten, by Vicky at least. He lingered at the back of my mind, though, along with Sheila. But then they always had, always would, inextricably linked as they were. Whether they’d married or not.

One day in late November I went home early from work with a headache and spent the afternoon playing Championship Manager on our PC. Vicky came home a little later than usual. “Glad to see dinner’s ready,” she said.

“Busy,” I said. “Norwich are on the verge of winning the Premiership. I’ll get us a takeaway.”

She looked over my shoulder, knuckled the top of my head. “How old are you? Did you come home from work early?”

“How did you know?”

“Just call me Sherlock. Chocolate biscuits spread decoratively across the kitchen. Three different coffee mugs. It all adds up.”

“I had a bit of a headache.” I saved the game, turned the PC off. “Job’s starting to get on my tits, actually. Thought I might look for something else.”

She was in the kitchen again by now but I heard her groan clearly enough. “It’s been less than two years. I thought you were going to stick at this one.”

I joined her by the sink, slipped an arm around her waist. “You know me. Free spirit.”

She shrugged me off. “Translates as lazy sod.” She badly wanted to nag, I could tell, but she took a breath and said, “Anyway, I bumped into your friend today.”

“You’ll have to narrow it down,” I said, although I knew who she meant.

“Alan. Saw him in the bank. He said he was going to call but you gave him the impression that you’d rather he didn’t.”

“Surprisingly perceptive of him.”

“I felt awful. He was so sweet. Asking after us both.”

“I told you, Vicky. It’s all an act.”

“I said you’d phone him soon. If you don’t, I will.”

“Jesus. If it’ll make you happy I’ll give him a call at the weekend.”

“I’ll hold you to that. And he said something else. He said ask Jeff if he remembers Strawberry Hill.” I was standing by her side at the draining board, drying a mug. It was a Lord of the Rings mug. It had a picture of Frodo on the side of it. Vicky had bought it for me at Easter. I stared at it very hard and said nothing. “Jeff?”

“What?”

“Did you hear what I said? Strawberry Hill?”

“I heard. Means nothing to me. Fat old bugger must be cracking up.”

She studied my face for a long moment. “But you’ll phone him at the weekend?”

“Yes. If it means that much to you.”

But of course I didn’t.

“I left a message on his answerphone,” I said. “Not my fault if he hasn’t called me back.”

It was morning and we were on the verge of being late for work. “I don’t believe you, Jeff.”

“We’re both in a hurry. Can’t you just drop it?” She was standing in front of the hall mirror, fiddling with her make up. “You look fine. Do you want a lift or not?”

“I want to know what you’re hiding.” She still wasn’t nagging. Not quite. “And Strawberry Hill. Why so defensive? I’m not totally naïve. I know why people go there. What? Did you double date or something? It was years ago. It makes no difference to me.”

I breathed in deeply. I was close to anger now and that was rare for me. Being angry with Vicky was almost unheard of. Perhaps that’s why she kept pushing it. It’s possible to be too easy going, I suppose. “Told you. I haven’t got a clue. I see that printers on St Giles are looking for someone. I might try and get an interview.”

Her gaze snapped onto mine. “Printers? What’s the point of that? The money’ll be crap.”

I’d pissed her off, but at least I’d changed the subject. “Might not be. Have to see.” I brushed passed her, patted her bum, annoying her a fraction more. “Hurry up or you’re walking.”

She grabbed her coat and bag as she moaned at me. With Vicky distracted I could slip back into denial again. I felt happier already.

I saw him at lunchtime. I slid out of Logan’s deli, my hands full of a brie and salad baguette and a chocolate brownie. He was standing outside Lingards Games with his hands behind his back, gazing at something in the window. For a moment I thought I could slip away without him noticing but he turned his head, a smile already in place, and I knew he’d been waiting for me.

“Are you stalking me, Alan?”

“You don’t call, you don’t write, what’s a boy to do?”

“Yeah. Funny. Did you really think I’d ring you?”

He shrugged hugely, came up alongside me, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Frankly, no. But you should have done, though.”

“Is that a threat.”

“A threat?” A stupid false laugh, the pitch of which dragged me back twenty odd years. “My dear chap.”

“What do you want, Alan? Stirring Vicky up. All this crap about Strawberry Hill.”

“Crap?” Alan said. His tone changed, sharpened. “You haven’t faced it all, have you? Ever.”

“And you have?”

“Fuck, yes. I married it. I nursed it through two years of cancer. I’ve paid my dues.”

“And I haven’t?”

“What do you think? You haven’t told Vicky, have you?”

We were on Pottergate now. I had no idea where I was heading. “She doesn’t need to know.” I shot him a glance, hated the weakness that must have shown in my face. “Is that what all this is about? Blackmail?”

He snorted. “Jeff, you have nothing I want.” I hesitated and he glanced at me. “No, not even Vicky. Lovely as she is.”

“Jesus. You arrogant bastard. As if that was ever an option.”

He started to say something, stopped, satisfied himself with a slow, smug grin. The grin pulled me back, as well. To a warm dusk on an isolated hill, and two fifteen year olds, stifling giggles, stinking of sweat, huddled behind a cluster of bushes, each pushing the other in an attempt to get a better view. “You’ve got to pay your dues, Jeff. Draw a line.”

“And if I don’t?”

“It’s got to happen. For your own good.”

“Like you give a shit about me.”

“Fair enough. For Sheila, then. It’s about doing the right thing.”

“Spare me, Alan. How does telling Vicky help Sheila, you, anyone.”

“If she loves you it won’t make any difference.” He nudged my shoulder and headed for St Andrews. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I said. I stood and watched him go. On the way back to the office I dumped my food in a bin.

I thought maybe the dreams would start again, but they didn’t. The general, low-grade guilt that I always felt hummed along in the background, undisturbed. I slept well. I knew he’d be back at some point, somehow. I didn’t pretend to face it. I took life second by second, minute by minute and congratulated myself on my maturity.

Vicky saw him next. One Friday evening she’d been vague, distracted, quieter than usual.

“Do you want to tell me what’s up?” I said when Friends had finished.

She stared at the screen for a moment, chewing her lip. “I feel bad, Jeff. Guilty.”

I sat forward. Something in her tone made me. “Come on, love. It can’t be that bad.”

“Well, no. It’s not really.” She puffed her cheeks out. “I saw Alan today. For lunch.”

“Ok.”

“I called him. Arranged it behind your back. I’m sorry.”

“It was only lunch, after all.” I looked hard at her. “It was only lunch?”

“Yes.” Almost a shout. “Shit, Jeff. But you’re angry, aren’t you?”

I thought about it. “As it happens, yes. I mean, why did you want to see him, Vick?”

“Hazard a guess.”

Her gaze was cool, appraising. “You’ve lost me,” I said.

“Strawberry Hill. You. Him. Whatever the hell it is you’re hiding from me.”

“Jesus. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right. Mr Easy-going. Tossing and turning all night.”

“I sleep like a log.”

“Well, I bloody don’t. And you’re not eating. We don’t…and you’re so distracted. Your head’s not here half the time.”

“I’m fine. Same as I ever was.”

“No, Jeff. You’re not.”

I closed my eyes, took a long breath. “So, did he help? Mr Charm?”

“Yes, actually.” Her voice, her confidence, faltered. “Not how I expected, though. I ended up talking about my past, not yours. School. You know. Bad times.”

“You talked about that stuff with him?”

“He’s a nice man. He’s kind, he listens, seems to care.”

“Seems being the operative word.”

“And don’t look like that. I’m not attracted to him at all…”

“I didn’t think for a minute you were.”

“Right. And it helped. Talking to him. It was therapeutic.”

“But you can talk to me.” I tried to nudge the whine out of my voice, failed. “Those things are between us. At least I thought they were.”

She shrugged. “It helped. I’m sorry if that hurts you.”

“I’m not hurt,” I lied. “Just bewildered.”

“Me too.” Her voice became even, the defensiveness fled. “You were friends, weren’t you? Despite what you said.”

“Of sorts.”

“You were both misfits. Friends by default.”

“That’s stretching it a bit.” I stared at the television. Graham Norton was on. Christ knows what he was talking about. He seemed to find it funny, though. “Although maybe not that much. He was a creep. Maybe I was too. It was a long time ago. As you said, we all change. Thank God.”

“So why lie about it?”

“Why not? It’s ancient history. No use to anyone.” I felt her eyes on me. I hesitated then went on, “And I didn’t want you to know what I was. Jeff the creep. I’ve kind of airbrushed it out of my history. It was my mum’s fault, actually. She made me wear shorts on my first day at the Comprehensive.” I closed my eyes, remembering. “God, I was crucified. And that was all it took. After that I was a joke. So I worked hard, kept myself to myself.”

“And Strawberry Hill?”

“What about it?”

“Alan wouldn’t tell me. He said that was up to you.” Her voice was gentle now. Showing me a sympathy I didn’t want or deserve. “What did you do, Jeff?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Which was kind of the point, actually. “I was fifteen. We were fifteen.”

Vicky waited for me to continue. I didn’t. A little later we went to bed and made love. It felt as though a sheet of glass had been slid between us.

Sunday, just after lunch. I help Vicky wash up. I can’t stand the strained politeness, the miniscule differences, the inability to look each other in the eye. I toss the tea towel onto the draining board and make a phone call.

“Who was that?” Vicky says. Her hands are still wet, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up to the elbow.

I point at the kitchen. “Leave that. We’re going out.”

“Why?” she says. “Where?”

“You’ll see. Just humour me, Vicky. Afterwards…well, I haven’t got a clue about afterwards. If there will even be one.”

“You’re scaring me,” she says. But she doesn’t sound scared.

We drive to Alan’s house in silence. He’s waiting for us at the corner of his road. He’s wearing a lemon roll-neck and a burgundy fleece and stands out against the drabness of the day.

He slides onto our cramped back seat with surprising agility. “Hi, kids,” he says. The smell of him washes over us. Something warm, spicy, a hint of sandalwood in it. “How’s tricks?”

I say nothing. Vicky nods slightly then says to me. “You could just tell me. There’s no need for this.”

I know that she’s right so I keep my mouth shut and drive.

Alan tries to make small talk. It’s trite, predictable, but Vicky thaws a little anyway and I add this to my resentment. Then Vicky says, “Who was Sheila Pascoe? Really?”

“My wife,” Alan says.

“Before that,” Vicky says.

There’s a pause. I glance in the rear view mirror but Alan’s eyes are fixed on the roadside as the city gives way to hedgerows and fields. “She was the school bike,” I say at last.

“Nice,” Alan says.

“Jeff.”

“It’s true,” I say.

Eventually Alan nods and says, “It’s true. She worked her way through most of her year. Most of ours as well, actually. Except me and handsome, here. Wouldn’t touch us, would she?”

I said nothing. I felt my cheeks burn. Vicky says, “But you tried?”

“Of course we did. A couple of horny fifteen year olds? And God knows she encouraged us. Flirted. Teased.”

“She was good at that,” I say.

Vicky twists in her seat. “You did something to her, didn’t you? The pair of you…”

Alan says softly, “We didn’t rape her, Vicky.” Then, to me, “See, this will be easier than you thought.”

Vicky looks at me. I study the road. “Nearly there,” I say.

Strawberry Hill. Five miles from the city outskirts. A shallow hill coated with brief wooded areas, odd shaped meadows, secluded grassy banks shielded by shrubs and bushes. It attracted what you’d expect it to attract. Lovers, prostitutes and their charges, dog walkers, peeping toms.

I park the car and we walk up a mild incline. The day is cold, still, neutral. I remember Sheila at break time, leant over me, a hand on my shoulder, her mouth next to my ear. The smell of Juicy Fruit chewing gum and my eyes widening at her warm, wet breath as she described what she been up to the evening before. I didn’t understand most of the words she used, but I didn’t need to. The tone, the timbre of her voice did it, and the proximity of her lips, her tongue. She did the same to Alan. We’d talk about it, discuss what we’d like to do to her.

The going gets slightly harder now as the hill steepens. The path narrows. “Did you take her here?” Vicky says. Her eyes are wide.

“Someone took her here,” Alan says. “We followed.”

“Why?” Vicky says. She looks at me, but its Alan who speaks again, his voice even, unconcerned.

“She told us she had a hot date. With a real man. Someone older. She taunted us with it, as usual. Said they were coming out here, she’d tell us all about it later.” He looks at Vicky. “She was a real bitch.” Vicky looks away. “Yeah, we followed. We wanted to watch.”

“We got a lift with my dad,” I say. “He was on his way to Easton, for cricket practice. Told him it was something to do with a school project.”

Alan stops. “We’re close,” he says. He points at a copse. “There.”

We walk up to the copse. It hides a cluster of bushes, some trees, a small hollow.

“We followed them here and hid behind those bushes,” Alan says.

“And you watched them?” Vicky says. She looks puzzled. “That’s a bit sick. But…well, I thought it would be worse, somehow.” She almost smiles. I close my eyes.

When I open them Alan is looking at me. He looks younger, sad, vulnerable. For a moment I almost feel something for him. Almost. I remember the weather that day; the sky, a cloudless, static blue. The glossy, squint-inducing perfection of it. I don’t trust days like that. Scratch at the seams a little, peer beneath the surface, see what you find underneath.

“She was raped,” Alan says.

“What?” Vicky says. I look away.

“They were arguing when we first saw them. He was shouting, pushing her, she was close to tears.” He points to a large oak at the edge of the hollow. “He shoved her against that tree, slapped her face, pinned her against it. The first time was very quick and I don’t think we knew what was going on. But…”

“The first time?” Vicky says. “How many…”

“How many times?” Alan shrugs and looks at me nonchalantly and I hate him again. “Jeff? Want to come up with a figure? Ballpark?”

“Jesus, Alan.”

“Lost count, to be honest, Vicky. He was persistent and inventive and he had considerable stamina. It must have gone on for almost an hour.”

“And you just watched? Both of you?”

“We were fifteen,” I said, “he was…”

“Late thirties, forties maybe. But he wasn’t a big guy. And we weren’t small for our age. Don’t make excuses, Jeff.” He looks into my face but his eyes drop quickly from mine and I know that there’s something he won’t admit, despite his apparent frankness. It’s something that I’ll never say either; that we enjoyed it. The rawness of it, at least for a while, after the initial shock and until Sheila’s first screams had subsided to a series of low, racking, sobs that touched even me. Not enough that I actually did anything, though. But I had an erection most of the time we hid there and that night I masturbated repeatedly. I’d bet anything that Alan did the same. “We could have gone for help, at the very least,” Alan goes on. He takes a long breath. “But we didn’t. We crouched behind that bush and watched Sheila struggle and listened to her scream. And just before the end she saw us, looked us both in the eye. And gave up. A little later he left her there. So did we.”

“My dad picked us up. Bought us fish and chips on the way home. We didn’t report it and neither did Sheila. She was off school for a bit, the rumour was that she’d got herself pregnant.”

Vicky is crying now, her hands in front of her face. I make no effort to comfort her and neither does Alan. She rallies a little, stares at Alan’s face. I wonder if she finds him quite as charming now. “And yet she married you?” she says.

He makes a face, looks down into the hollow one last time then turns away. “She was ill when I met her. Bumped into her in a pub a few years back. She tried to ignore me at first.” He nods in my direction. “Much like you did when I saw you in that newsagents. It turned out she needed me. Maybe we needed each other. After school she…” He winces as he searches for the right words. “She had a hard life. She looked so old, worn, half dead already. She had no one. She needed my help. I was glad to give it, I found I came to terms with what I did. Rather, what I didn’t do. In the end we almost loved each other. I think.”

Vicky and I say nothing. She hasn’t looked at me for a long while now. Eventually she says, “Are we done?”

“Yes,” I say slowly.

“Can we go, then? I’m cold.”

“Go home?”

“Where else?” she says. Our eyes meet. Beneath the shock and the thin sheen of hurt I see reams of calculations unfolding. Vicky, who I‘d thought had no depths, no hidden layers, is working out the cost of things, sifting through the implications.

She turns and walks ahead. Alan comes alongside me and says, “See. I told you. If she loves you it’ll be ok.” His voice is at once warm and bitter. Quite a trick.

Vicky drives back to Norwich and none of us speak. We drop Alan near his home and Vicky accelerates away almost before he’s shut the car door. The last I see of him is his back and that shrinks quickly as Vicky slides through the gears.

END