‘Was the underwear from you, too?’ I said, sounding as if I was being strangled.

He nodded proudly, blushing like a schoolboy. I closed my eyes. ‘Then – how – come – it was bought with myowncreditcard?’ The last words came out in a huge rush, because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to hear the answer.

He looked at the floor now, guilty again. ‘I just wanted you to have some nice things,’ he muttered. I noticed the way his eyelashes fell on his cheeks, lazily, softly. I think it was the eyelashes that made him seem like a little boy. And it was that feeling of power, dominance over him, which made me temporarily forget my fear, and allow anger, boiling and acid, to roll up inside me like vomit and spew out all over him. For about ten seconds I no longer cared if he was dangerous, or about the fact that he was five inches taller than me and probably much stronger. Right then, I could’ve crushed him like a bug.

‘Don’t tell me that I paid for these fucking clothes too,’ I hissed, sticking my face into his face, almost spitting at him with fury.

He stood up then, lifting one arm, appearing to tower above me. As quickly as it had risen, my rage vanished and fear washed back over me again.

‘I care about you, Siobhan’, he said, reaching out and drawing a soft line with his index finger down the left side of my face. ‘I want us to be friends. That’s why I sent you the card, and the lilies. I wanted you to know that I like you. I really do. I’m sorry if the card was a bit strong, you know, so soon, but I couldn’t help it. You’re so beautiful.’

I backed away from him, my knees trembling so hard that it took all my strength not to sit down, then and there, on the floor. It felt as if someone had removed my kneecaps.

‘Please leave. Now,’ I managed. ‘Or I’ll call the police.’ He looked scared at that but didn’t move.

‘GET OUT!’ I wanted to push him, but I still had this kneeless problem. We just stood staring at each other, hackles up, tails bushy. Then he seemed to droop.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, almost inaudibly. He turned and walked out of the room, and I heard the front door close quietly behind him.

Chapter 12

Alex

Friday evening

I had been so happy to see Siobhan in her new clothes – and I was right; they did suit her; they made her look like a princess, all in black, a princess of darkness? – that I thought it must be another sign. She had invited me back to her house. She was wearing my clothes. She might even have her new underwear on. I thought this was the silver lining to Kathy’s cloud.

But then...I pictured Siobhan’s angry face. She looked really sexy when she was angry, her neck and face flushed pink, pupils wide, the air around us crackling with tension. Anger is closely related to passion, after all. Oh god, I wonder how long it will take her to calm down.

What if she calls the police, like she threatened?

What if . . ?

Bang bang bang.

It was probably the police. A nice cop and a nasty cop, with suspicious eyes and minds and all sorts of questions.

And how did you come by these credit card details, sir? Where were you the night Kathy Noonan died?

It wasn’t the police. It was a girl, asking for Natalie:

‘Ah, hi. Have I got the right address?’

‘Who are you looking for?’

I wondered for a split-second if she might be a plainclothes policewoman – a honeytrap from the Met, sent to get me to ‘fess up. She was a little overweight to be a honeytrap, perhaps, but she wasn’t unattractive. Her eyes were blue and bright with amusement. She seemed a little flustered too – perhaps she’s one of those people who mirrors the actions of the person they’re talking to.

‘Natalie Sauvage.’

‘Oh no. I mean yes. Natalie does live here – sort of. Her boyfriend, um, does.’ I was having an attack of the Hugh Grants.

The girl smiled at me. Probably a Hugh Grant fan, then. ‘Is she in?’

‘No. She’s at work, I think.’

She looked at her watch. ‘Oh yes, of course. It’s just that I was in Camden and thought… well, anyway, can you tell her Emily called round?’

‘Emily. Okay.’

And she walked away, looking over her shoulder at me and smiling again before I closed the door.

I lay on my bed for a while, waiting for my heart to slow down. When I closed my eyes, Siobhan’s face swam up in front of my eyes.

I wanted to call her, talk to her. I needed to make her understand. I had a knot in my gut, a bubble of dread floating inside me. Had I screwed it all up? Helen had told me that if she was a woman she’d like to receive flowers and undies and so on – exactly as I suspected. I don’t pretend to understand to women but I know that. They like underwear as long as it isn’t scratchy and crotchless; they love all sorts of flowers; and they’re all totally obsessed with clothes. So why was Siobhan so angry? Sigh…maybe I should have sent her chocolates instead.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised – Siobhan isn’t like other women. She’s unique. Okay, I made her angry. I made some mistakes.

But there has to be some way to make it right. I need to know more about Siobhan, to really get inside her head, her most private spaces. That’s it. Once I’ve seen into her soul, I’ll know exactly how to win her heart.

Later

I’ve just got in after going out with Si and Nat. They came home at about seven this evening; I was asleep. Must have been worn out. Don’t think I dreamt about anything, though. Certainly nothing memorable. Simon knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink.

I said I wasn’t in the mood, but he insisted. ‘It’s time you came out of your bedroom, mate,’ he said. He doesn’t realise that every time I leave my room, something goes wrong. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Plus I had no alcohol left in the house and I needed a drink to quell the tremors that kept running through me.

We went to a pub behind Camden High Street, a favourite haunt of Simon and Natalie. It was a cosy, smoky place, the bar awash with fag ash and foam, the Irish barman’s political sympathies tattooed in green on his forearms.

We sat and drank our pints. I was worried that Si might start asking me how the job hunting was going, so I was tense. Plus I kept thinking about what happened the last time I visited a pub. Somebody died. Luckily though, we chatted about everything but job-hunting: football, telly, music, all the usual stuff that stops us having to talk about anything serious. It’s one of the reasons Si and I get on: we don’t ever go near weighty or emotional subjects.

Which was why I was so surprised when Simon started saying how he was worried about me.

‘Why? What do you mean?’

He and Nat exchanged a look.

‘Well, mate, you hardly come out any more, just sit in your room tapping away on the computer. You’ve lost weight, you’re smoking twice as much, you hardly talk to us any more. I was amazed when you said you’d come out tonight.’

‘I haven’t been able to come out because I haven’t got much money. I’ve been worrying about finding a job.’

‘How is that coming along?’ said Nat, but Simon raised a hand for her to shush. (He was quite drunk by now – he wouldn’t have dared shush her if he wasn’t.)

‘I know that, mate. But you were like this before you lost that shitty job. And it was a shitty job, wasn’t it? It used to depress me just seeing you come home after a day there. You’re an intelligent bloke. You should be doing something different, better. I mean look at me…’

He went into a speech about how important and well-paid he is, writing copy for dog food adverts and tag-lines for tampon commercials. Natalie nodded along. But beneath the waffle, he had a point. I knew that. I’ve spent the last ten years of my life drifting along, from crap job to crap job, going travelling when I could afford it, never having any money in the bank, approaching my thirties without a whiff of a career or a family. Not that I fucking want either of those things. I just want…well, what do I want?. The only answer to that question is ‘Siobhan’. She’s my only desire. Alright, there are other things I want – to write my book, have a little money, to not be so bored all the time. But if Siobhan and I get together, everything else will fall into place. She and I will be able to live together, writing our books, kind of like Iris Murdoch and her husband, but hopefully without the Alzheimer’s. Although if Siobhan did get sick I’d care for her. I’d like that, in fact. And I wouldn’t let anything go wrong like it did with Chips the hamster.