by Adam Croft
I jam my eyelids shut, but I can’t close them anywhere near enough. The blood pulses at my temples and the back of my neck hurts.
The woman continues. ‘Stephen, do you recognise that this is a reality you created?’
I say nothing. I barely hear anything.
The man speaks again. ‘Anya never existed, did she, Stephen? You wanted her to. Of course. We get that. But you tried to get this escort, Robyn Marshall, to become her. And when she refused, you carried on regardless. You told your family and your colleagues you had a girlfriend called Anya. You bought women’s clothes and stored them in your wardrobe. You set up a Facebook profile in her name. You created this entire reality. But why Anya, Stephen? Why a Polish woman? Of all the personas to create, why that one?’
I feel my eyes misting, and it’s not just that I don’t say anything, but rather that there are no words I could possibly speak.
‘Stephen, will you tell us what happened to your parents? Their neighbours told us that your parents spoke about the fact you had a girlfriend. They were happy for you. But they were concerned that they’d never met her. Stephen, did your parents confront you over Anya’s existence? Did they challenge the reality you’d created? Did you feel like you were losing control? Is that why you killed them?’
Control. He has no idea what that word means. What it truly means. My chest heaves as I feel the first tears start to drop from my eyes.
9
This makes no sense. None of it makes any sense. Hovis Thick-Sliced Granary. Does it go with the other Hovis breads? Does it fuck. What about the other granaries? Nope. Next to the Warburton’s Thick-Sliced? Hell no. It goes between the Tesco own-brand wholemeal and the Warburton’s white. Of course it does.
I look at my watch for the thousandth time that day. I reckon I can just about get away with going up for my break now. I grab hold of the stock trolley and push it.
I see you.
You see me.
Everything changes.
I apologise profusely. I didn’t see you there.
You smile and tell me it’s fine.
I hear the hint of an accent. It’s beautiful.
You’re beautiful.
I ask you your name.
You tell me it’s Anya.
I tell you I’m Steve.
I ask you if you’d like to come over to my house for dinner. Maybe some drinks.
You smile again, this time awkwardly.
It’s too soon. Fuck. Shit. I know it’s too soon.
You tell me you’re sorry, you can’t. You walk past me, past my trolley, and turn the corner.
You don’t look back.
Neither do I.
We must never look back.