The Cost of Living

by Rachel Ward

  ‘I’m here two out of four Thursdays, anyway.’

  ‘You don’t have to sign up. It’s a drop-in.’

  ‘Maybe, then.’ She’d finished ringing through the shopping. ‘That’s £9.35. Do you have a Bonus Card?’

  There were small queues building up now. By the time Zumba Woman had paid and gathered up her stuff, the next one was loaded up and waiting. Bea glanced sideways, but Cute Suit Guy had gone. She started processing the shopping. A bunch of bananas, an individual pizza, a bar of dark chocolate and a bottle of gin.

  ‘Got all your major food groups covered there,’ Bea said.

  Her customer, a tired-looking woman in her thirties, gave her a wan smile.

  ‘Yeah. Bridget bloody Jones, me.’

  ‘I love that film,’ said Bea.

  ‘Me too.’

  Later, when she’d received the regulation bollocking from Neville about leaving her station for ‘unapproved reasons’, Bea set off for home. She’d bought Queenie a box of Maltesers (normal price £2, reduced to £1) to make up for an evening alone. It was a twenty-minute walk through the streets and alleys she’d known her whole life. This morning’s rain was long gone, and the wind had died down. She walked briskly along the wet pavements, thinking about the day’s events, priming some stories in her head to amuse her mum. She might tell her about Dot’s mysterious appearance this evening, and she’d definitely mention Ant getting drenched this morning and his run-in with Neville and Big Gav, but she’d keep Cute Suit Guy to herself. You need a bit of space if you’re twenty-one and still living at home. And after all, it was nothing anyway.

  She turned into the alleyway that led from the High Street to the estate. Halfway along she heard footsteps behind her. The words ‘Kingsleigh Stalker’ came into her head.

  She tried to push them away. I’ve got every right to walk here without feeling frightened, she thought. I live here. These are my streets as much as anyone’s.

  The noise seemed to be getting closer. She picked up her pace. If I look round now, she thought, they’ll know I’m nervous. It’ll just make things worse. All her attention was behind her, on the unseen, the unknown. The skin on her neck and back was crawling at the thought of a stranger’s touch.

  This was silly. Just look. It was probably another woman, walking home from work like her. Don’t look. Don’t show any weakness, any sign of nerves. The end of the alleyway was twenty metres ahead.

  Sod it. She clutched her handbag closer to her body and started to run.

  She clattered out of the alleyway and turned right to skirt around the edge of the recreation ground. She carried on running for a while. Normally she’d go straight across, but it was exposed out there, lonely. She’d stay near the houses that led onto the green. She could run up to a front door, if she needed to.

  Finally, with the breath painful in her lungs and sweat beading under her arms and between her shoulder blades, she slowed to a walk and allowed herself to look behind. The end of the alleyway was poorly lit. Did she see a shadow disappearing back into the alley? Something more solid, someone’s back? Or was it nothing after all?

  Fool, she told herself. Overactive imagination playing tricks again. She followed the path round to the other side of the park and then walked through the estate roads to the small 1960s terraced house she shared with Queenie. She let herself into the kitchen by the back door, which was unlocked as usual.

  ‘All right, Queenie, it’s only me,’ she called out.

  Her mum was in the front room, with the television on. News at Ten boomed out at a ridiculous volume. Without taking her coat off, Bea walked through.

  ‘Oh,’ her mum said, looking up as she entered the room. ‘I didn’t hear you come back.’

  ‘I’m not surprised with that thing blaring out.’ Bea grabbed the remote and turned down the sound a few notches. She was surprised to find her hand shaking. ‘Here, these are for you.’ She took the Maltesers out of her bag and handed them over. Her copy of the Bugle fell onto the floor. She picked it up and put it on the coffee table.

  Her mum put her box of chocolates down and held Bea’s hand in hers.

  ‘What’s up, love? You’re trembling.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I’m fine.’ But she wasn’t. She was overcome with relief at being back at home. It was all she could do not to cry.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Queenie and drew her down onto the sofa next to her and put her arms round her. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Really. Big, fat nothing. I’m being silly.’ She should keep it buttoned. Her mum’s view of the outside world was skewed enough without her adding to it. But she couldn’t help herself. It all came blurting out. ‘I thought I was being followed home, but I wasn’t. Just gave myself a scare, that’s all.’

  ‘You were followed?’

  ‘No. No, I just thought I was but I wasn’t. I thought I heard someone, but when I turned around there wasn’t anyone, or they’d gone the other way. It’s all good, Mum, honestly.’

  ‘You weren’t walking down the alley?’

  The Bugle was right side up on the table in front of them.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I’ve told you and told you not to walk there. Not after dark. Not anytime.’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right. I walk there every day. I’m okay, aren’t I? I’ve got as much right to walk there as anyone—’

  ‘Yes, you have, but there are a lot of nasty people out there, my lovely. It’s all on the news – muggers, thieves, stalkers, rapists. This country’s not like it was when I was your age.’

  ‘It is, though, Mum. That’s the point. It’s exactly the same, it’s just that every little thing gets reported. And that’s what you see. All the bad stuff on the telly. They don’t report the 99 per cent of people who are just going about their business, no trouble to anyone.’

  Her mum shook her head and pulled Bea a little closer.

  ‘Bless you, you’re still so naïve. It’s a nightmare out there, baby girl. It’s not safe.’

  She hugged her close and they stayed like that for a minute or two. When Bea got up she picked up the paper from the table and tucked it under her arm.

  ‘Oh, is that this week’s Bugle?’ said Queenie.

  ‘Yeah, but there’s nothing in it. I’ll put it in the recycling box.’

  Queenie looked confused. ‘Aren’t you going to give me a chance to read it? Don’t be daft. Hand it over.’ She held out her hand.

  Bea gave it to her and winced as Queenie unfolded it and spread it out on her knees.

  ‘What’s this?’ Queenie said. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘It’s not really anything, though, when you read it. A few isolated incidents. It might not even be one person.’

  Queenie was scanning the article, her face creased with concern.

  ‘Bea,’ she said, ‘do you think it was him just now?’

  ‘No,’ said Bea. ‘I don’t even know if it was anyone. It might have been someone walking their dog, or nipping to the shops.’

  ‘But they ducked back when they thought you might see them.’

  ‘Maybe they ducked back when they realised their dog had done its business or they’d forgotten their money. It probably wasn’t anything.’

  Feeling calmer now and convinced that she’d imagined the whole thing, Bea disentangled herself and went into the kitchen to make their evening cups of tea. They watched the end of the news together and a documentary about pest control staff in inner-city London, then went to bed.

  As she tried to sleep, Bea heard a droning in the distance which soon turned into the distinctive noise of the police helicopter. It was almost overhead, then moved away and circled back again. Probably after joyriders, Bea thought.

  The noise seemed to go on for hours. In the end, Bea fired up her phone and looked at her Twitter feed. There were a couple of tweets complaining about the noise, but no explanation. She quickly typed a tweet: ‘Whassup Kingsleigh? Why the chopper?’


  She kept scrolling and refreshing and a few minutes later the first answer came through.

  ‘3 cop cars at Westrope Avenue. Somethins kicking off.’

  Westrope was only a few streets away.

  Before long there was an official tweet from the regional police: ‘Police helicopter assisting with a serious incident in Kingsleigh.’

  Serious incident. She tried searching elsewhere on the Internet, but Twitter was the only place there was any news, and there wasn’t much substance to any of it. Bea stayed awake until the noise overhead finally faded away. Somewhere between being asleep and awake, she remembered where she’d seen Cute Suit Guy before. The knowledge gave her a dull sinking feeling in her stomach, but she was too tired to be angry. That came when she woke up the next morning. It was the first thing she thought after she’d reached blindly for her alarm and switched it off. Cute Suit Guy wasn’t so cute after all. And he had a name. Dave. It was his photograph in Julie’s purse, the woman who had lost her wedding ring.

  Bea groaned. ‘I should have known. What a loser.’ Though she wasn’t quite sure whether the loser was her for fancying him or him for turning up at Costsave’s date night with his bananas at the ready. Not classy, mate, she thought, even if your bananas are organic.

  Dot caught up with her in the High Street. Despite the October gloom, she was wearing sunglasses. ‘You all right, babe? I texted you this morning but you didn’t reply.’

  ‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Girl got attacked up your way last night.’

  Bea stopped walking and put her hand on Dot’s arm. ‘Oh shit. Is that what it was? I heard the helicopter.’

  ‘It was on the local news this morning. Westrope Avenue, that’s near you, isn’t it? They didn’t get anyone for it though. Not yet.’

  ‘Do you know what time?’

  ‘’Bout half ten, they said.’

  Bea felt her mouth go dry. ‘Fuckin’ ’ell.’

  ‘I know. Looks like that stalker story was real. Shocking, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not just that, Dot. I was followed last night, walking home. I heard someone and then I thought perhaps I’d imagined it, but now . . . ’

  ‘God, Bea. Did you see him?’

  ‘Not really. Maybe a glimpse of the back of him, disappearing back into the alley.’

  ‘The alley? Oh, Bea!’ Dot gave Bea a quick hug and they started walking again, arms linked.

  They crossed the car park and headed round the side of the store to the staff entrance, then made straight for the ladies’ locker room. They hung up their coats and put on their uniforms; polo shirts and branded nylon tabards over the top. Bea swapped her heavy flat boots for a pair of black ballet pumps. Then she got out her make-up bag and set it down by the mirror. Dot was there before her. With her dark glasses removed, she looked pretty rough.

  ‘Blimey, what happened to you?’ asked Bea.

  ‘Up too late. Too much wine. The usual, love,’ Dot said, rummaging in her make-up bag. Bea wondered if now was the time to admit she’d spotted her in store last night, but there was something defiant about the way Dot was dabbing concealer under her eyes. Better to leave it. They went into the staffroom, which was abuzz with news of the attack.

  ‘Apparently it was a girl called Emma,’ Dean from Stores said, tucking a length of greasy hair behind his ear. It was unusual for him to venture into the staffroom – he usually preferred to keep to himself in the loading bay or storage area, nibbling his home-made sandwiches and drinking tea from a flask. Seems like gossip had lured him in today, though.

  ‘Emma Crosby?’ Bea said.

  ‘Yeah, think so,’ he said.

  ‘I know her. She was two years above me at school. God, I’m sure she was in the store yesterday. Is she . . . I mean, what actually . . . ’

  ‘Assault is what they’re saying. Sexual assault.’ Dean seemed to linger on the word ‘sexual’ emphasising each of its three syllables in turn. Bea shivered.

  ‘There are some nutters out there,’ said Ant, walking into the room. ‘Disgusting. Tell you what, though, two coppers in uniform just came round the back into the store. I let them in. They were asking for Big Gav.’

  A ripple of excitement spread around the room.

  ‘Big Gav?’

  ‘Ha! They’ve caught up with him at last!’

  ‘Shut up, that’s not even funny.’

  ‘What do they want with him?’

  Neville appeared in the doorway. He was holding his clipboard in one hand and the store keys in the other.

  ‘Five minutes, everyone,’ he said, like the stage manager warning of curtain up. ‘To your posts, please.’

  ‘Hey, Neville,’ said Bea. ‘How come you’re opening up?’

  ‘Mr Howells is in a meeting at the moment. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘Helping the police with their enquiries,’ said Bea. ‘That’s what they call it, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, that’s when they’ve got them down the station. Trust me, I know. I think they’re just having a chat,’ said Ant. ‘God, I’m parched. I’ll just grab some water.’ He squeezed past Dot to get to the sink. ‘All right?’ he said quietly to her.

  Dot didn’t look at him, but she seemed to colour up a little under her thick layer of make-up. ‘All right,’ Dot said back, and quickly moved towards the door. ‘You coming?’ she said to Bea.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bea said back. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  There was a copy of the Bugle on the coffee table. Bea went over and looked at the front page again. She felt cold inside, sure now that she’d had a near miss.

  She took a couple of deep breaths and headed into the corridor. Ant was walking a little way in front, whistling. Bea couldn’t place the tune. She was about to follow him down the stairs when she stopped. She should tell the police about what had happened last night.

  Emma had been attacked. It could have been her.

  3

  Bea stood nervously outside Big Gav’s office door. Her guts were achy and churning. She was just debating taking refuge in the toilet when the door opened.

  ‘Did you want something, Bea?’ Big Gav was looking pale and flustered.

  ‘No. I mean, yes. I’ve got something to tell the police.’ She looked past him to the two uniformed officers who were sitting at his desk with their backs to the door. Hearing her voice, one of them turned around. Bea recognised his freckly face and blue eyes. It was Tom Barnes, who had been to her primary school until his family moved to the other side of Bristol in year six. She’d always rather liked him. He was one of those nice, shy boys – the ones who don’t call you names or pull your hair. He wouldn’t remember her, though, would he? He smiled and stood up.

  ‘Beatrice,’ he said.

  His companion, an older woman with neat short mousey hair, groaned and stood up too.

  ‘Do you know everyone round here?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Just the troublemakers.’

  He took two steps across the room and held his hand out to Bea. He towered above her, which she wasn’t expecting as they’d been about the same height back in the day. A bit discombobulated, but not wanting to be rude, her hand met his. His handshake was firm, his hand large and strong, warm but not clammy.

  ‘Beatrice,’ he said again. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me. Saint Stephen’s in Cow Lane.’ He smiled and his sandy skin crinkled at the outside corners of his eyes.

  ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘Course I do. And it’s Bea these days. Everyone calls me Bea.’

  ‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘You wanted to see us. Do come in. This is Shaz,’ he said, indicating the other officer.

  ‘We can use this office for a while, can’t we?’ Shaz said to Gavin, who was lingering in the doorway.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He made no sign of leaving.

  ‘Thank you, Sir. We’ll let you know when we’ve finished.’ She stepped smartly over to the door and closed it firmly as Tom ushered Bea into
Gavin’s chair.

  Bea felt a little thrill to be sitting at Big Gav’s desk. It was neat and tidy, as you’d expect, almost sparse with only a lamp, a PC and keyboard, a phone and a framed photograph of Gavin’s wife, Stephanie. His chair was disappointingly rickety and oddly uncomfortable. Good old Costsave, she thought. Cheap to the top.

  ‘So, Bea, what did you want to tell us?’

  Her nerves had dissipated with the unexpected pleasure of seeing Tom again, but now they came back.

  ‘It’s probably nothing. I don’t know, and I didn’t see anything but—’ She paused, suddenly feeling foolish. She really did have very little to tell.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Shaz encouraged. ‘Anything you can tell us about last night, big or small, may help us.’

  So she told them – about the alley and the footsteps, and not quite seeing who it was. If it was anyone. They questioned her closely about the time, which, as a creature of routine, she was able to pinpoint.

  ‘Okay, that’s really helpful. Emma was attacked about ten minutes after that.’

  ‘She’d been to Costsave, hadn’t she?’

  ‘We can’t discuss the details. You understand.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘We’d better not keep you any longer.’

  She felt herself dismissed, but on the way out Tom said, ‘Don’t walk down that alley on your own. Better to keep safe. It was good to see you again, Bea.’

  ‘Yeah. Likewise.’

  When Bea opened the door, Gavin was lurking outside. He was sweating and he ran his finger between his collar and neck.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Back to work, then.’

  Bea walked downstairs and opened up her checkout. She was thinking about the walk home, the footsteps, her panic. She was thinking about PC Tom, too; how tall he was, his crinkly smile.

  ‘You all right, doll? Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Just told those coppers about being followed.’

  ‘Oh, good idea. They tell you anything?’