Читать книгу 99 Red Balloons: A chillingly clever psychological thriller with a stomach-flipping twist - Elisabeth Carpenter, Elisabeth Carpenter, Libby Carpenter - Страница 8

I don’t feel old enough for a shopping trolley, but I am. The handles on carrier bags these days cut my hands; they’re much too thin, too cheap. Monday means it’s meat and potato pie for tea, which means calling into the butcher’s, then the vegetable shop.

Everything aches, especially my knees. I’d spend all afternoon in the bath if I could, but I’m not sure I could get myself out of it. Besides, it’s my routine that keeps me from staring at the walls, the television, the photographs.

It’s raining – again. It’s always raining. Wearing my long raincoat and ridiculous matching hat I could be anyone. It’s like my invisible cloak.

‘Are you all right, Maggie?’

The voice makes me jump. I wish I were invisible. I look up, lifting the wide brim of my hat.

‘Oh, hello, Sandra. Didn’t see you there.’

She’s holding an enormous golfing umbrella that’s emblazoned with Benson & Hedges. Do they even sell those any more? A fat drip of rain from it lands on my hand and splats onto the top of my trolley.

‘I’m not surprised,’ she says, ‘with that thing you’re wearing.’ She regards my hat as though it smells of rotten eggs. She shouldn’t pull that expression; someone should tell her it makes her look even older. ‘And you didn’t hear me either. I’ve been shouting you for the past ten minutes.’

Sandra’s a big fan of hyperbole. I don’t reply; she doesn’t notice.

‘How are we this afternoon?’ she says, her head tilted to the side. ‘I said to my Peter, I know I’ll see Maggie this afternoon ’cos it’s Monday. And every Monday she—’

‘Got to run, Sandra.’ I pull the brim of my hat over my eyes and start walking. ‘I’ve got an important appointment later.’

I need a new routine. If I bump into her again I might actually scream in the street – or jump in front of a moving car.

After a few minutes of walking, I’ve left Sandra behind. She’s probably going to tell her Peter that I’m a miserable old crone, but I don’t care.

The rain pauses.

I hear Sarah’s voice.

I look up to see if the face matches the sound. From behind she has the same brown hair in a bob on her shoulders. I can’t stop myself. I walk faster until it’s a light jog. My shopping trolley trips over the cracks in the pavement. I haven’t run for at least ten years and it shows. I slow to a walk before my knees give up, and I’m only a few feet away from her.

She laughs.

It’s Sarah’s laugh. I can’t help myself, again.

‘Sarah,’ I shout.

A passing bus splashes a puddle that misses me by inches.

I tap her right shoulder.

She stops in front of me. She turns round slowly and I know before I see her face that it’s not her at all.

Her eyes meet mine; they’re blue. Sarah’s were brown.

‘Sorry. Wrong person,’ I say, before she says it for me, like others have before her. She looks at me kindly, whoever she is, and smiles. No doubt she sees me as the ridiculous old lady that I am.

‘That’s okay.’

She turns back round and crosses the road. Probably to get out of the path of the crazy woman. I might actually be crazy, I don’t know. Of course that wasn’t Sarah. It could never be Sarah, and I should know that by now. Sometimes I think I could die from this loneliness, but I carry on. It’s torture. It’s too hard being the only one left. Being happy seems such a faraway memory. Why did everyone leave me?

The rain starts again, which is a good job because I’ve reached the butcher’s. The water disguises my tears. It’ll never do to be crying in the street.