Читать книгу The Day I Died - Polly Courtney - Страница 16

She had walked for a couple of hours before Jo remembered to look in her pocket. When she did, despite her situation and despite her pulsating head, she smiled. It was an old five-pound note. Clearly Stuart had intended to use it to pay for his coffee. Across the front, in red biro, he had scribbled five words: ‘Dinner Thurs? The Grange, 8 p.m.’

Jo didn’t know whether to feel flattered by his chivalry or amused by the man’s presumptuousness. Clearly, Stuart was assuming that she’d accept the invitation. There was no phone number, no alternative, no information about where The Grange was or what type of place it was. The only thing Jo could glean from the note was a confirmation of something she had already suspected: Stuart was full of himself.

She stuffed the note in her wallet, then pulled out the envelope and transferred her week’s wages across. A hundred and eighty pounds. A hundred and eighty much-needed pounds. Jo still had over a hundred from Joe Simmons’ original stash, but she knew how quickly it would disappear if she couldn’t find somewhere cheap to live soon.

She massaged her temples, trying to alleviate the throbbing pain. She suspected the headache wasn’t just a result of yesterday’s drinking. The developments of the last few hours were also partly to blame. She was homeless and unemployed–again. Being constantly on the move, or constantly ready to be on the move, was tiring, and the uncertainty of her existence was beginning to wear her down.

In a way, she longed for the stability of a ‘normal’ life. Every once in a while–like now–she considered turning herself in and reverting to the life of Rebecca Ross. Every time–like now–she rejected the idea on the grounds that, for all she knew, Rebecca Ross’s life wasn’t ‘normal’ at all, and even if it had been ‘normal’, the turmoil of transplanting Jo Simmons back into it didn’t bear thinking about.

The houses petered out and she realised she was on a track that led to the turquoise lakes she had seen from Mrs Phillips’ guesthouse. Mrs Phillips. Jo cringed. Thinking back to the scene in the shop, she wondered whether she might have been a bit harsh on the old lady. Sure, Mrs P had been meddling in something that didn’t concern her, but still…Jo felt a twinge of guilt. Now she was sober, last night seemed like something of an over-reaction.

The lakes looked unnaturally blue, as though they’d been airbrushed for a holiday brochure. Jo guessed they were the flooded remains of a chalk quarry pit and her mind wandered to other possible industries in the area. What could she do for a living? Was she trained in anything useful? She wondered whether any skills she might have would still apply. If she could add up, could she do other things? Perhaps she was a qualified plumber, she thought, or a doctor or brain surgeon…Hmm. She could picture it now: walking into a hospital and offering her services as a neurologist. The irony almost made her smile.

The path veered away from the lakes and took her west in the direction of Abingdon. The sun was high in the sky now; it was probably nine, maybe ten o’clock. Maybe Stuart could help her get a job. He looked like a well-connected young man–if such things could be deduced from the cut of a man’s trousers or the whiteness of his teeth. You couldn’t own a convertible BMW 3 Series if you didn’t know a few people, could you?

The track brought her out on a single carriageway that she took to be the Abingdon ringroad. Jo found herself weaving through a suburban maze of estates punctuated by corner shops and miniature parks.

A group of young men about her age were kicking a ball about in a small patch of grass. Jo stopped by a tree and looked on. To call it football would have been an exaggeration; this was more like watching a bunch of apes jumping around on a giant pinball machine.

‘Sanjit, you fat bastard! You could’ve got that if you’d moved!’

The ball rolled past the goalie at a leisurely pace and came to rest a few metres from where Jo stood. The goalkeeper, a rounded young man with sloping shoulders and a Roman nose, lumbered towards it. Jo stepped forward, rolled the ball onto the top of her foot and flicked it back to the man.

It was a couple of seconds later, when the wolf-whistles from the small Asian guy in the England shirt had died down, that Jo stopped to think about what had happened. She had flicked the ball up and booted it back into the game, as if…as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Surely that wasn’t normal? Surely not everyone could do that–especially not many women?

A tall young man with a side parting and alarmingly short white shorts looked over. ‘Sorry about him,’ he shouted. ‘Doesn’t get out much.’ He rolled his eyes in a way that was clearly designed to make him look more mature than his friends. Unfortunately, at that exact moment the ball came plummeting down on his head.

‘Stop flirting, Henry,’ yelled England man, clearly pleased with the accuracy of his shot.

Finally the ball was controlled and the game of pinball resumed. Jo stayed put for a moment, contemplating her apparent skills. She had kicked the ball. But not just in a lucky, kick-it-and-see way. She had rolled it from stationary onto the top of her foot, lifted it into the air and launched it at exactly the angle she’d intended.

The haphazard game continued, the score-line developing as predictably as a lottery draw. Sanjit was hopelessly inept at stopping the ball, despite taking up most of the space between the two piles of jumpers. That didn’t matter much, though, because the guy at the other end, who was wearing what looked like a fisherman’s hat, was equally lacking in skills.

There was a small amount of talent on the pitch, thought Jo, admiring the man nearest her manoeuvre around the wolf-whistler with the relative skill of a professional. He was tall, like the well-spoken guy, but with less of a belly and–if the shorts were anything to go by–more of a sense of style. He dribbled the ball up the wing and sent it straight between the legs of the fisherman, who looked as though he was sitting on an invisible toilet.

‘Wanna play?’ asked the scorer, jogging halfway to where Jo was standing. He had spiky blond hair and chiselled features that were glistening slightly with sweat.

Jo hesitated. Running about seemed like a good hangover cure, but she still wasn’t convinced by her newfound ability. It could have been a fluke. A lucky kick. She wanted to test out her theory, but she wasn’t sure she wanted an audience while she did so–especially not this fit guy with his blue eyes and sexy smile.

‘Come on. We’re two against three.’

As he said this, the fisherman attempted a drop kick and managed to send the ball behind his head onto the main road.

Jo nodded. ‘All right then.’ She dumped the plastic bag under a tree and tied her hair in a ponytail. ‘I’m Jo.’

‘Matt,’ the fit guy replied. ‘You’re on my team, with Sanjit.’ He nodded at the rotund goalkeeper, who waved back like a clown. ‘On the other team there’s Raj–’ he pointed at England shirt–‘Henry–’ he motioned to the man in tight shorts who gave a little bow–‘and Kieran.’

Kieran came running back from the main road and attempted to head the ball back into the game. It was a reasonable effort, thought Jo, considering the hat.

‘OK, ready?’ yelled Raj, clearly keen to show off his footwork.

Jo found herself taking the left side of the pitch. Passing and dribbling, she and Matt worked together and quickly turned the game into an exercise of shooting practice against poor Kieran, who was still searching for a technique that worked. Henry and Raj darted about randomly, confounded by the new opposition but unable to bring themselves to admit that they were losing because of a girl.

It felt good–not just because Jo was running around, winning the ball from Raj, scoring goals and clapping hands with the gorgeous Matt. It felt good because it felt instinctive. She didn’t have to think about it. Despite not remembering the exact circumstances, Jo knew she had been here before. She’d been a midfielder. She’d been on a team she was proud of. Football had been a part of her life.

Eventually Raj held up his hand. ‘OK, next goal wins,’ he yelled, and proceeded to kick the ball straight past Sanjit’s stationary limbs. Jo looked across at Matt. He winked at her and smiled.

‘Bravo! Good game, all,’ cried Henry, clapping Raj on the back as they wandered round picking up goalposts.

Jo was nursing a blister on the sole of her foot–a consequence of playing in eight-pound Choice Buys plimsolls–when the questions started.

‘So, where d’you play usually?’ Matt rubbed his face with the fabric of his T-shirt, revealing a perfect six-pack underneath.

‘Er…left wing,’ she said, trying to stay focused.

‘No, I meant what club–where do you train?’

‘Oh, er, right.’ Jo shook her sock. It was a good question. ‘Well, I used to play for a team in London, but I’ve just moved here so I’m not really playing, er, properly.’

Henry gasped in mock offence. ‘What, you mean you don’t call this “proper”?’

Jo smiled and carefully pulled her sock back on. The pain shot up from the circle of exposed pink flesh.

‘Thanks for the game, anyway. Ow.’

‘Any time. It’s nice to have someone who scores.’

Raj looked a bit put out. ‘She didn’t score all the goals.’

‘Hey, you should swap numbers with one of us,’ suggested Matt. ‘We’re here most Saturdays, sometimes weeknights too.’

There was a rustling noise as all five young men reached for their mobile phones.

Jo smiled. ‘Actually, I don’t have a number at the moment.’

They all looked at her as though she’d claimed to be without arms.

‘I’m sort of…between numbers. Between houses…’

‘Between jobs?’ suggested Sanjit.

‘Yeah, as it happens.’

‘What field of work?’ asked Matt as they headed towards the edge of the park.

Shit. Again, she was unprepared. Jo tried to think up a plausible story that wouldn’t command too many follow-up questions. Using the actress line on these guys would be suicidal. Annoyingly, though, her brain was buzzing from the football and she could only think of silly responses like bull fighter and inventor and sky-diving instructor.

‘Instructor…’ she found herself mumbling. Then for some reason she added, ‘of kids.’

‘Isn’t there a name for that?’ quipped Raj. ‘Aren’t they called teachers?’

Jo rolled her eyes as though she heard that joke every time. ‘I’m not a teacher,’ she replied. ‘I kind of help children…do stuff.’

She was desperately trying to think of something else to say when Matt came to her rescue.

‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘You’re a support worker, aren’t you? A kind of mentor.’

‘Yes! Exactly.’ Jo nodded fervently, slightly concerned that Matt knew so much about her supposed career. ‘A mentor.’

‘I work at Dunston’s in Oxford,’ Matt explained. ‘I don’t actually work with the kids–I do the marketing and press and that.’

‘Saint Matt,’ muttered Raj under his breath.

Matt casually stuck his foot out and tripped him up. ‘And what is it you do these days?’

‘I’m an entrepreneur,’ Raj replied stiffly. ‘Anyway, see you next week.’

He cut down a side street at the edge of the park and disappeared with an impressively large swagger for someone so small. Matt laughed quietly.

Kieran stopped walking, all of a sudden, and stuck out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Jo.’

Jo shook it, surprised by the sudden formality. He seemed like quite a peculiar young man.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Matt. ‘We, er…we live together, don’t we?’

‘I need to buy some flowers,’ Kieran explained.

‘Flowers?’

‘Yes. I like flowers.’

Matt looked perplexed but didn’t push it. ‘OK. Well, see you later then. Jo, which way are you heading?’

Jo picked a direction at random, which by happy coincidence was the way Matt seemed to be going. They left Henry and Sanjit at a bus stop and set off up the road together.

‘So, how d’you all know each other?’ asked Jo, keen to keep the topic of conversation away from herself.

‘I went to school with Sanjit, who knew Kieran from uni. Raj is some sort of distant relative of Sanjit’s, and Henry…well, he just appeared one day and started poncing around. He’s all right. They call him Tim Nice But Dim.’

Jo smiled. For the first time since arriving in Oxfordshire, she was having a conversation with someone her own age–and not having to do too much lying. It might have been partly the exercise, but she felt almost relaxed around Matt.

‘Watch out for Henry,’ he warned. ‘He’s a real charmer. Got a way with the ladies…Or at least, that’s what he reckons.’

‘Mmm, must be those shorts.’ Jo laughed. Talking to Matt reminded her of something. Someone.

‘And Raj probably thinks he’s in there too. He’s the entrepreneur’

‘Oh yes,’ said Jo, straight-faced. ‘I’ve never met an entrepreneur before. Did you say he’s related to Sanjit?’

‘I don’t think they have many genes in common. Sanjit’s the laziest git in the world and Raj has ADHD. But then, Sanjit’s dad owns the patent to some sort of satellite widget that means he’ll never have to work in his life, so I guess that explains it.’

Matt reached into his pocket to pull out a set of keys, and with a sense of disappointment Jo realised they were standing outside his flat. Suddenly, the image crystallised and a scene started playing out in her mind.

She had seen fragments of it before, she realised: first when she’d run into the man outside the post office, then again when she’d gone drinking in Oxford. It could have been a daydream or some weird trick of the mind, but now she felt certain it wasn’t.

She was in somebody’s bedroom. Maybe hers. The details of the room weren’t clear but she knew she was sitting on a bed. A guy with blond hair was standing over her, looking at her, arguing. He was crying. She might have been crying too, Jo couldn’t tell. All she knew was that it was her fault. She was hurting him.

For several days now, Jo had tried to reassemble the scene, enhance the images, hear the words…but it was impossible. The memory wasn’t clear enough. It was like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle with only half the pieces. She didn’t know who the guy was, or why she was seeing him now, so clearly.

‘Where are you heading?’

Jo forced the blond guy out of her head.

‘Into Abingdon.’

It was the truth. She needed to find a place to stay, and a job. It was all very well messing about with footballs, but the fact remained she was in a pretty desperate situation.

‘You’re going off into the outskirts–you know that?’

‘Um…’ In a moment of rashness, Jo decided to come clean. Well, nearly clean. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit lost. I need to find a B&B for the night. I had a bit of a…a problem with the place where I was supposed to be staying.’

‘So you really are between houses?’

Jo nodded.

‘Tell me that’s not your worldly possessions in there?’ He nodded at the carrier bag, smiling.

‘Ha!’ Jo forced a laugh. ‘No. No, the rest is with…with a friend back in London. This is just, er, some stuff. Toothpaste, knickers, you know…’

‘Oh, right.’ He raised an eyebrow and Jo wished she hadn’t mentioned the knickers. ‘Well, I’m not too hot on B&Bs. If it was social housing you were after, I’d be full of ideas, but…’

Jo’s expression clearly revealed her ignorance.

‘Dunston’s,’ he explained. ‘That’s what we do. Get people off the streets and into housing.’

Jo closed her mouth. ‘Yes, obviously.’

‘Ooh, I know. What are you after, posh and expensive or cheap and cheerful?’

‘Cheap and cheerful,’ Jo replied quickly. She hoped she wasn’t coming across as too much of a loser.

‘Good. That means less of a walk.’

Matt led her up his road and along a perpendicular street where the purpose-built flats turned into tall, rambling Victorian houses that looked significantly more run-down. Jo’s attempts at thanking her guide were brushed aside.

‘I’m not missing much. I’d only be waiting for Kieran to come home and keep me amused with his flower arrangements.’

Jo laughed. ‘He seems quite, er…unique.’

‘He’s special, that’s for sure. Twenty-three, going on twelve.’ Matt slowed to a halt and led her through a set of white gateposts. ‘So, here we are. Don’t expect too much.’

The hostel turned out to be perfectly adequate. Run like a B&B but with none of the dusty ornaments or potpourri, it was basic but clean. The man in charge seemed to know Matt and offered Jo a discounted rate of twenty pounds a night.

‘D’you wanna take down my number, in case you’re bored enough to want another run-around next week?’

Jo shrugged casually, wondering whether Matt was single. Then she stopped her thoughts right there. There were so many reasons why she shouldn’t let herself fall for this guy. She didn’t know a thing about him, for a start, and he certainly didn’t know her. And if they did ever get close then she’d either have to tell him the truth–which was way too dangerous–or live a permanent lie. And it was too soon to be thinking like that, anyway–not to mention the fact that she was seeing another man in a few days.

‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the scrap of paper. ‘I’ll call you in the week.’