bowl.
The act of eating seemed to wear her out and she curled up on the couch again, thinking about the soiled sheets and pillowcases she had stuffed beneath the bed, but lacking the strength to do anything about them. She turned on the television, and remembered the hang of Simon’s head, the sneer of the smile that was his and not his.
Stevie woke to the sound of Big Ben and the frantic jingle that announced the news. The headline story was of a cache of bomb-making material found in the home of a white supremacist somewhere in the Midlands. Stevie muted the sound, pulled her hair back, shoved her feet into her trainers and padded down to the shops beneath her apartment. It was cool outside. The stars were hidden by the sodium glow of the streetlamps but she thought she could feel their presence sharp and prickly in the firmament. She didn’t believe in God or an afterlife, but her mind was so full of Simon that it was as if she could feel him, standing just beyond her sightline, watching to see what she would do next.
‘I don’t fucking know what I’ll do,’ Stevie whispered, and then felt bad, though Simon would have laughed.
She bought a pint of milk, drank a glassful and went to bed in the spare room.
Stevie checked her mobile phone the next morning and discovered a screed of missed calls and texts. She spooled through them, wincing at the sight of Rachel the station producer’s number, repeated over and over like a warning. Then she curled up on the couch and turned on the television again. The bomb-making story had given way to an explosion in a fireworks factory somewhere in the Far East, the sound was too low for her to hear where. She worked her way through her messages, looking for Joanie’s name, wondering if her friend had mislaid yet another phone. Stevie wanted to tell Joanie about Simon, to dilute the shock of his death by saying it out loud.
The doorbell pealed, loud and insistent, ringing on longer than was polite. Stevie muttered, ‘Speak of the Devil and smell smoke.’ She padded through to the hallway, wondering how bad the apartment smelt and hoping Joanie didn’t have a bottle of Cava tucked in her bag. The bell rang again and she shouted, ‘I’m coming,’ in a voice that sounded torn.
The woman at the door was a little older than Stevie. She was dressed in a no-nonsense navy business suit and a frothy white blouse that made her look top-heavy.
‘I’m looking for Steven Flint.’
She held a large handbag, decorated with unnecessary gold chains and buckles and stamped with the Chanel logo, in front of her, as if preparing to ward off an attack, or perhaps launch one of her own.
Stevie took a step backwards, keeping a hand on the door, ready to close it. She said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t buy things on the doorstep,’ even though she instinctively knew the woman wasn’t out to sell her anything.
‘I’m not here to try and persuade you to change gas suppliers.’ The woman’s laugh was harsh and incredulous, but there was an edge to it that told Stevie she was nervous. ‘This is the right address?’ She took a piece of paper from her pocket and looked at it. ‘Steven Flint does live here?’
‘What do you want?’
The woman hesitated and an expression that might have been sympathy flitted across her face. ‘Are you his wife?’
‘I’m Stevie Flint.’
It wasn’t the first time her name had led people astray. When she was a journalist, before the Internet had closed the newspaper she was working for and made all but freelance work (and precious little of that) impossible, it had occasionally opened doors.
The woman looked confused. ‘I was expecting a man.’
‘No, Stephanie Flint, Stevie for short.’
The woman stared at her and Stevie was reminded of a computer rebooting after a tricky download.
‘I’m Julia Sharkey, Dr Julia Sharkey, Simon Sharkey’s cousin.’ She faltered again. ‘He asked me to give you something.’ And a single tear trickled
The act of eating seemed to wear her out and she curled up on the couch again, thinking about the soiled sheets and pillowcases she had stuffed beneath the bed, but lacking the strength to do anything about them. She turned on the television, and remembered the hang of Simon’s head, the sneer of the smile that was his and not his.
Stevie woke to the sound of Big Ben and the frantic jingle that announced the news. The headline story was of a cache of bomb-making material found in the home of a white supremacist somewhere in the Midlands. Stevie muted the sound, pulled her hair back, shoved her feet into her trainers and padded down to the shops beneath her apartment. It was cool outside. The stars were hidden by the sodium glow of the streetlamps but she thought she could feel their presence sharp and prickly in the firmament. She didn’t believe in God or an afterlife, but her mind was so full of Simon that it was as if she could feel him, standing just beyond her sightline, watching to see what she would do next.
‘I don’t fucking know what I’ll do,’ Stevie whispered, and then felt bad, though Simon would have laughed.
She bought a pint of milk, drank a glassful and went to bed in the spare room.
Stevie checked her mobile phone the next morning and discovered a screed of missed calls and texts. She spooled through them, wincing at the sight of Rachel the station producer’s number, repeated over and over like a warning. Then she curled up on the couch and turned on the television again. The bomb-making story had given way to an explosion in a fireworks factory somewhere in the Far East, the sound was too low for her to hear where. She worked her way through her messages, looking for Joanie’s name, wondering if her friend had mislaid yet another phone. Stevie wanted to tell Joanie about Simon, to dilute the shock of his death by saying it out loud.
The doorbell pealed, loud and insistent, ringing on longer than was polite. Stevie muttered, ‘Speak of the Devil and smell smoke.’ She padded through to the hallway, wondering how bad the apartment smelt and hoping Joanie didn’t have a bottle of Cava tucked in her bag. The bell rang again and she shouted, ‘I’m coming,’ in a voice that sounded torn.
The woman at the door was a little older than Stevie. She was dressed in a no-nonsense navy business suit and a frothy white blouse that made her look top-heavy.
‘I’m looking for Steven Flint.’
She held a large handbag, decorated with unnecessary gold chains and buckles and stamped with the Chanel logo, in front of her, as if preparing to ward off an attack, or perhaps launch one of her own.
Stevie took a step backwards, keeping a hand on the door, ready to close it. She said, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t buy things on the doorstep,’ even though she instinctively knew the woman wasn’t out to sell her anything.
‘I’m not here to try and persuade you to change gas suppliers.’ The woman’s laugh was harsh and incredulous, but there was an edge to it that told Stevie she was nervous. ‘This is the right address?’ She took a piece of paper from her pocket and looked at it. ‘Steven Flint does live here?’
‘What do you want?’
The woman hesitated and an expression that might have been sympathy flitted across her face. ‘Are you his wife?’
‘I’m Stevie Flint.’
It wasn’t the first time her name had led people astray. When she was a journalist, before the Internet had closed the newspaper she was working for and made all but freelance work (and precious little of that) impossible, it had occasionally opened doors.
The woman looked confused. ‘I was expecting a man.’
‘No, Stephanie Flint, Stevie for short.’
The woman stared at her and Stevie was reminded of a computer rebooting after a tricky download.
‘I’m Julia Sharkey, Dr Julia Sharkey, Simon Sharkey’s cousin.’ She faltered again. ‘He asked me to give you something.’ And a single tear trickled
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