Set in Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page A

and laughed, showing stained teeth and a tongue turned green from the cocktail she was drinking.
    ‘Moira’s just jealous,’ Sandra had said. ‘The only ones who ever ask her up have usually spent all day queuing to renew their bus pass.’
    Moira couldn’t have heard the remark, but she stared anyway, as if sensing some slight against her.
    ‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Sandra said now.
    ‘I’ll come with you.’
    Sandra nodded her agreement. Clarke had promised:you won’t be out of my sight for a second. They lifted their bags from the floor and started pushing their way through the throng.
    The loo wasn’t much emptier, but at least it was cool, and the door helped muffle the sound system. Clarke felt a dullness in her ears, and her throat was raw from cigarette smoke and shouting. While Sandra queued for a cubicle, Clarke made for the washbasins. She examined herself in the mirror. She didn’t normally wear make-up, and was surprised to see her face so changed. The eyeliner and mascara made her eyes look hard rather than alluring. She tugged at one of her shoulder straps. Now that she was standing up, the hem of her dress was at her knees. But when she sat, it threatened to ride up to her stomach. She’d worn it only twice before: a wedding and a dinner party. Couldn’t recall the same problem. Was she getting fat in the bum, was that it? She half-turned, tried to see, then turned her attention to her hair. Short: she liked the cut. It made her face longer. A woman bumped against her in the rush for the hand-drier. Loud snorts from one of the cubicles: someone doing a line? Conversations in the toilet queue: off-colour remarks about tonight’s talent, who had the nicest bum. Which was preferable: a bulging crotch or a bulging wallet? Sandra had disappeared into one of the cubicles. Clarke folded her arms and waited. Someone stood in front of her.
    ‘Are you the condom attendant or what?’
    Laughter from the queue. She saw that she was standing beside the wall dispenser, moved slightly so the woman could drop a couple of coins into the slot. Clarke focused on the woman’s right hand. Liver spots, sagging skin. The left hand went to the tray: her wedding finger was still marked from where she’d removed her ring. It was probably in her bag. Her face was machine-tanned, hopeful but hardened by experience. She winked.
    ‘You never know.’
    Clarke forced a smile. Back at the station, she’d heardSingles Night at the Marina called all sorts of things: Jurassic Park, Grab-a-Granny. The usual bloke jokes. She found it depressing, but couldn’t have said why. She didn’t frequent nightclubs, not when she could help it. Even when she’d been younger – school and college years – she’d avoided them. Too noisy, too much smoke and drink and stupidity. But it couldn’t just be that. These days, she followed Hibernian football club, and the terraces were full of cigarette smoke and testosterone. But there was a difference between the crowd in a stadium and the crowd at a place like the Marina: not many sexual predators chose to do their hunting in the midst of a football crowd. She felt safe at Easter Road; even attended away matches when she could. Same seat at every home game . . . she knew the faces around her. And afterwards . . . afterwards she melted into the streets, part of the anonymous mass. Nobody ’d ever tried to chat her up. That wasn’t why they were there, and she knew it, hugging the knowledge to her on cold winter afternoons when the floodlights were needed from kick-off.
    The cubicle bolt slid back and Sandra emerged.
    ‘About bleedin’ time,’ someone called out. ‘Thought you’d a fellah in there with you.’
    ‘Only to wipe my backside on,’ Sandra said. The voice – all tough, casual humour – was forced. Sandra started fixing her make-up at the mirror. She’d been crying. There were fresh veins of red in the corners of her eyes.
    ‘All right?’ Clarke asked