own hair and grunted with approval. One thing he had inherited off the old man that he could be thankful for, at least. Even if his hair had turned snow white by his late thirties, he had plenty of it.
As the forensics team donned their protective jumpsuits over their own clothes on the pavement below, van den Bergen walked away from the window in disgust. Sighed heavily.
‘Bloody Strietman. Again,’ he said.
But before van den Bergen could go into disgruntled overdrive, Marie looked up. Her eyes seemed to glitter. Her florid face was even more flushed than usual.
‘You’re not going to believe what’s been caught on this camera, boss,’ she said, breathless, wearing a crooked smile that was somewhere half way between bemusement and horror.
Stansted Express, East London, later
George gave a half-hearted smile for the camera. One of Ad’s arms territorially around her shoulder, one extended. His face pressed up against hers. She could feel his stubble burn against her cheek. He smelled of Aunty Sharon’s soap. Ad clicked the button on his phone, capturing the two of them in a selfie on the Stansted Express. Made to kiss her but she had already shuffled squarely into her seat, leaving more space between them than was strictly acceptable for lovers.
‘What do you think?’ he said, showing her his photographic efforts.
It was a photo that showed only hangdog disappointment in his brown eyes. Boredom in hers. ‘Yeah. Nice.’
‘Something to remember this trip by.’
In her head were layers of competing voices. Good George apologised profusely for what she knew must have been an utterly soul-destroying trip for her boyfriend, the highlight of which had been Aunty Sharon’s rum-laced fruitcake. Bad George just wanted to tell him to sod off. Sod off for turning up unannounced. Get lost for thinking she’d drop everything to play happy housewife. Shove it up his arse, if he thought he could demand sex at a time when she was utterly overworked, overwrought and so overexposed to the sex industry that all she had the inclination to do was masturbate furiously while thinking of someone she definitely shouldn’t have been thinking about.
‘You going to come over to see me soon?’ Ad asked, studying his ticket, as though her answer was written there.
‘When I get some money together. Yeah. Course.’ Van den Bergen’s name was on the tip of her tongue, as usual, but she was careful not to mention him. She eyed the table. It was covered in somebody else’s crumbs. Held her breath and counted to ten. There was nothing with which she could wipe the surface. ‘Let’s move to a clean table,’ she said.
‘No need,’ Ad said, taking a tissue out of his pocket and wiping the crumbs into the aisle. He remained silent for several uncomfortable beats, then asked, ‘Who were you speaking to in the middle of the night?’ Pushed his glasses up his nose.
It was inevitable. She didn’t like lying to Ad. Keeping quiet about the clandestine call would have been what Sally called ‘being economical with the truth’, but now he’d expressly asked… ‘Van den Bergen. He’s not well.’
‘I don’t like you putting so much energy into him,’ Ad said, thumping the table. The other passengers looked at the two of them, askance. ‘Sorry.’
George sucked her teeth. Shook her head. ‘You should be, mate. You telling me you never catch up with the Milkmaid when you’re back home? Seriously!’
Ad blushed. Opened his mouth once, twice. ‘Don’t start. That’s not what I meant.’
‘That’s exactly what you meant,’ she retorted. ‘You said the words now. Don’t act like you can just suck them up. Time travels forwards in the universe, Adrianus. Not back. Face it, you’re jealous. And what of? A forty-odd-year-old with a painkiller addiction? Van den Bergen’s my friend. I get him. He gets me. That’s all. A friend. My friend. How many times I have to tell you, for Christ’s sake?’
George looked out of the window – anger simmering, but just keeping a lid on it. The train to Stansted airport rattled and swayed through East London. Not George’s familiar turf but not dissimilar. Same disappointing back gardens, full of broken plastic kids’ climbing frames and slides. Washing on the line that had been forgotten. Dog shit lurking in the long grass, no doubt. Bare bulbs glowering out of single-glazed windows. A glimpse of high streets as they chugged through the postcodes, stopping only in Tottenham Hale. Tags spray-painted on the walls by gang members long since grown up or inside; once colourful, now faded and flaking. Cash your gold. Send money worldwide. Southern Fried chicken. Legal services: We speak Urdu, Gujarati and Punjabi – living in grand Victorian buildings that might have once been pubs, by the looks. Women wearing full burka, carrying bulging plastic bags with coriander hanging out the top. Small kids running on ahead in their puffa coats. Chatting shit like they hadn’t a care in the world on this dismal, pissy weekday in January.
George noticed it all in a bid to avoid looking at Ad. Every time he clasped her hand, she found a reason to let go. Scratching her nose. Fluffing up her curls. Pretending to wipe the window with her sleeve so she had a better view of the grey urban scene that was unfolding on either side of the train. But this really wasn’t the way she wanted his trip to end. In a bid to bridge the yawning chasm that was growing between them, she put her head on his shoulder for the rest of the journey.
The airport, still the most glamorous thing in that drab eastern England locale, was bustling with grey-suited businessmen, wheeling small overnighter suitcases with purpose and very shiny shoes. Kids with backpacks gazed up in awe or perhaps just bewilderment at the branches of the steel structural trees that supported the airy roof canopy. It was an airport George liked and loathed in equal measure. Happy when she was setting off for Amsterdam. Bereft, as she returned, leaving love far behind on the other side of the North Sea.
Beneath the ‘Departures’ sign that marked where the soulless lounge ended and where the inner sanctum of passport control began – with the promise of duty free Toblerone and a view of the planes beyond – Ad kissed George until his glasses steamed up. A passionate kiss that she couldn’t quite return with the same level of enthusiasm, though she tried.
‘I love you, you know that, don’t you?’ he said.
She nodded. Felt like a shit of the highest order. ‘I love you too. I really do.’ She said the words. They sounded correct. Looked into those eyes that had once all but electrified her.
‘You have to come. Seeing you every now and then, like this…’ He clutched her hands and kissed her knuckles tenderly. She stroked the stump where his index finger had once been. ‘It’s not enough. It’s tearing us apart. You’re here. I’m there.’
George blinked back a tear, though she wasn’t sure why it had appeared. Couldn’t articulate the grief she felt. ‘Ad, I’m in the middle of a bloody PhD. My research project… It’s groundbreaking. It’s going to make my name. I’ve got a job, however mundane. This is serious, man. This is my career. I can’t just drop it and come running.’
She rubbed an imaginary speck of dirt on his cheek. That beautiful pale olive skin. She had been so hot for it once. Ran her hand gently over his soft, shorn dark
