was back then. Spiteful and rebellious.’ She looked up at Proctor. ‘Now, I’m just spiteful.’
‘Martin Douglas would have got another seat, Stephanie.’
‘Maybe …’
‘The flight was almost full but not every place was taken. If you’d been on board, he’d have sat somewhere else and the death toll would have been greater by one.’
‘How old was he?’
‘If my memory serves me correctly, he was thirty-three.’
‘Married?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
Stephanie wondered whether those in row 49 had survived the first blast. Or even the second blast. And then she hoped that they hadn’t when she thought about the speed at which the flaming remains of flight NE027 had fallen towards the sea. At an impact speed of around five hundred miles an hour, the gentle waves below might as well have been made of granite.
This is my last cigarette. I draw the flame to the tip and inhale deeply. Proctor looks cross, as he always does when I smoke, but then he doesn’t know that I’m giving up. It’s a secret that will gradually betray itself, hour by hour and day by day.
It is almost exactly a month since Proctor collected me from Warren Street Underground station. I have lived with him since that night and I have started to change. Giving up cigarettes is a part of that process. A symptom.
I can’t pretend that I am any easier than I ever was but Proctor has earned some trust from me. He has allowed me to stay with him. He has not asked me to contribute to my keep. He has not made a move on me. He has not got angry at my continued reluctance to trace the bomber of flight NE027; he cannot understand my unwillingness, but he accepts that it is a fact. In truth, I cannot fully understand it myself.
I have not seen much of Proctor in the last month and his investigation into the crash has not advanced at all. Being a freelance journalist, he has no organization behind him to help finance his research. Instead, he writes travel articles for newspapers and magazines. At the moment, this is his only source of income. He tends to cram several trips together, if he can, thereby allowing himself uncluttered months in-between. Since I came to stay here, he has been to Israel for a week and to Indonesia for a fortnight. And today, he returns from a long weekend in Miami. He hates the work but he needs the money.
Within this flat – and the immediate area surrounding it – I have learned to feel safe. That is something new. When I stray beyond the confines of the Edgware Road or Lisson Grove, however, I begin to feel anxious. I think of Dean West, of Barry Green. I think of how I was when Proctor walked into my room on Brewer Street and how I regarded him as just another punter prepared to rent me for sex.
Then I think about how I regard him now and I am confused. He has resurrected my family but he has resolved nothing. Perhaps the reasons for my reluctance to seek answers are not so unusual. Perhaps I feel safer with the uncertainty than with the truth. What if the truth is worse than ignorance? I can cope without answers. It is more important to me not to be undermined. I do not want to relapse.
I have taken no drugs since I have been here. I am drinking less, too. I finished Proctor’s spirits within three days and he did not replace them. I could have bought replacements myself but felt too ashamed to. Ashamed. Given all that I have done in the last two years it seems strange to me that I should feel like that. But I did and, consequently, I adapted. Proctor himself rarely drinks and my habits have fallen into line with his. If he has a glass of wine and offers me one, I’ll accept. If he chooses not to, I won’t drink either.
Since I got here, there has been only one serious lapse.
Stephanie dialled the code and another three numbers before replacing the receiver, replicating the same action for the fourth time in five minutes. Her hand hovered over the phone. She knew she would see it through eventually because, until she did, the matter would continue to haunt her. Half an hour later, she dialled 1–4–1, followed by the entire number, and then pressed the phone to her ear. When it began to ring, she hoped there would be no reply. But there was.
‘Hello?’
Her vocal cords were paralysed.
‘Hello?’
This time, she managed a response. ‘Chris?’
‘Speaking.’
He was waiting for her to introduce herself. His voice had been instantly recognizable to her. If he’d cold-called her, she would have known straight away that it was him. But he had no idea who she was and the significance of that was not lost on her.
‘It’s Steph.’
The pause was as predictable as it was lengthy. ‘Steph?’
‘Yes.’
His voice dropped from a deep boom to a whisper. ‘I don’t believe it. Is it really you?’
‘Yes.’
‘My God. How long’s it been? How are you? Where are you? What are you doing?’
Stephanie closed her eyes and saw him clearly. Six foot two, dark hair that was thinning, unlike his waistline, which was expanding. That was how she remembered him. A sense of dress that followed the seasons without imagination. Today, since it was the weekend and he was home, he would be wearing blue jeans, a check shirt, a thick jersey – probably navy – and a pair of sturdy shoes. She felt the wind clawing at their farmhouse, which overlooked the small Northumbrian village of West Woodburn, not far from where they had all been raised. It was a bleak and beautiful place, sparsely populated. On the lower ground there were farms, while the higher ground was fit for nothing but grazing sheep.
‘Are you okay, Steph?’
‘I’m fine. How about you?’
‘I’m well.’
‘And Jane, how’s she?’
‘She’s well, too.’
‘What about Polly and James?’
Polly was her three-year-old niece. James, her nephew, was fourteen months old. Christopher said, ‘They’re both great. Polly’s been a bit feisty over the last six months, just like Mum always said you were at that age.’
Stephanie was aware of the pounding in her heart. ‘I just wanted to hear how you were, you know?’
‘It’s been a hell of a long time …’
‘I know.’
‘We lost track of you after you left that place in Holborn. What was her name? Smith?’
‘Karen
