kind of quiet in the week, but go out on Friday and Saturday,’ he said.
Simon’s expression remained fixed and hostile. A mild panic ran through her. Was this a trap? Did these men lure young women in with the offer of a room, do away with them and stash their corpses under the floorboards? Perhaps her tea was drugged. Perhaps Simon kept his dead mother mummified in the basement. She’d seen Psycho.
Julia put down the mug. ‘You know, it’s lovely but … er … too far from the station.’
‘It’s a three-minute walk,’ Ewan said.
‘Thanks.’
Simon was still staring at her. Julia picked up her bag and ran out down the hall, towards the door.
‘Is it the mess? We’re thinking of getting a cleaner,’ Ewan called from the kitchen.
Julia slammed the door behind her and ran to the end of the road before turning back. She almost expected to see Simon racing from the house to hunt her down. The front door stayed shut. She walked around the corner and out of sight before stopping to catch her breath. As soon as her breathing had slowed down, she laughed out loud. Psycho – she was being ridiculous. People aren’t murdered in cosy commuter towns. Perhaps all Simon had wanted was to keep Ewan to himself. Perhaps he’d end up murdering Ewan in a fit of jealous rage. Again, Julia laughed. Her mother, Audrey, always told her she had an overactive imagination and it was possible that, for once, she was right.
Three more places were left on the list. One turned out to be more of a cupboard than a room, the other was next to an MOT servicing garage, open six days a week. By the time Julia headed towards the last potential room, she had scratched ‘clean’ and ‘near the station’ from her list. As long as there was no heavy machinery next door and it was free from homicidal maniacs, she’d take it.
Downs Avenue was a steep, winding road on the edge of town, further from the train station than was ideal. On one side of the road, houses of varying styles and sizes stood at the bottom of sharply sloped drives. On the other lay the open hillside of the Downs.
Julia had not seen them before, the low-rolling hills, covered with meadow flowers interrupted by clumps of trees, lusher and more inviting than the hills at home.
On reaching number 72, she thought she had made a mistake and rechecked the address. Downsview Villa, 72 Downs Avenue – it was the right place. The house was in a modern style, with a nod to Georgian, detached, double-fronted and set over three storeys. Far grander than anything she’d expected. Julia rang the bell and waited a moment before swathes of fabric floated across the frosted glass of the front door. A slender woman of medium height opened it. A classical beauty, with high rounded cheekbones and long curled eyelashes. Around Audrey’s age, Julia thought, fifty or so, but her mother would never dress like this. A printed silk scarf was wrapped around the woman’s head and fashioned into a turban and she wore a matching dress, long and flowing. Was she on the way to a fancy-dress party, or perhaps rehearsing for a play? Julia waited for her to speak, but the woman remained bolt upright at the door, one arm stretched across its frame.
‘Hi. I’m Julia. I’ve come about the room,’ she said, when it was clear the woman wasn’t going to speak first.
The woman’s spine relaxed a fraction and she looked Julia up and down for some moments before saying, ‘Julia? You don’t look like a Julia. My name is Genevieve.’
The retort, You don’t look like a Genevieve, would have been ill-applied. No one could look more like a Genevieve. Julia would have been very disappointed if she were named Mildred.
Unsure how to respond, Julia stayed silent, half expecting the woman to turn her away, but she said, ‘Come in,’ stepped back and flung her arm out to usher Julia inside 72 Downs Avenue.
The Georgian square I’m standing in, the small green, the autumn leaves, all feel distant. Someone is screaming at me.
‘You dozy cow! Look what you’ve done.’
I stare transfixed at the photo link on my phone.
‘It’s all over him. He could be scarred for life.’
I recognise those hills and those beech trees on my screen.
Someone grabs my arm and yanks me backwards.
‘Are you on drugs or something? I said you’ve scalded my son.’
A woman wearing a puffer jacket thrusts her face into mine. I pull away and look down. It’s the toddler from earlier, his red coat stained and dripping with coffee.
‘I … I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’
She still has hold of my arm.
‘I don’t think he’s hurt.’ It’s Paulo. He gently detaches me from the woman’s grip.
‘What – are you a doctor?’ she says.
Paulo kneels down to the boy. ‘Are you hurt, pal?’ he asks.
‘Wet,’ the boy says.
‘See, he’s just wet. No harm done, eh?’ Paulo says.
‘No thanks to her.’ She glowers at me. ‘Look – she doesn’t even care – high as a kite at eleven o’clock in the morning.’
‘Let me deal with this,’ Paulo says.
He picks up my coffee cup from the ground and pulls me onto the nearest bench. Some survival instinct impels me to place the phone face down on my lap. I sit there, shaking.
‘Bad news?’ Paulo asks.
He glances at the phone. I keep the screen downwards.
‘Yes. I mean no. It’s nothing.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Thank you. I’ll just sit for a moment.’
‘Sure.’ He looks concerned. ‘I’ll be over there if you need me.’ He points to his friend.
The mother’s still glaring at me, after he leaves. I think she’s going to come over, but the boy is pulling at her sleeve and pointing at a squirrel running up a tree and she turns away.
I flip the phone over in my lap and press on the link. It takes me to a news website.
Environmental Science students from the University of Surrey have discovered human remains while taking soil samples on the North Downs, just outside Guildford. Police have confirmed that the death is being treated as suspicious but refuse to speculate further.
No further information is being circulated at this time.
I knew this day would come. I always thought I’d face it with grim resolve and a rational, cool pragmatism. It feels like I’ve been hit by a train. My lungs won’t draw air, my limbs are weak and shaky.
I need to act normally. I’ve already been foolish. Paulo might remember this. Tactfully, he’s turned away from me and is talking to his friend. I have to pull myself together. I steady my hand, go to the phone settings and delete the message and browsing history.
Once I’ve managed to stop shaking and am able to breathe, I put the phone in my pocket and walk over to Paulo. He looks up as I approach.
‘Everything all right now?’ he asks.
‘Fine. Sorry about all the drama. Some family trouble, I over-reacted. It’s all good now.’
‘Great,’ he says. ‘See you back at