“But it was in the papers.” She said.
“What papers?” He asked.
“The usual ones.” She glanced at the table.
“Oh, yes, those rags are always so accurate.” He rolled his eyes.
“And it was on the TV.” Another tear escaped.
He wiped it away. “Look, just tell them we were together.”
“But we weren't.” The words spilled out despite her attempt to stop them.
“We were, we were here and in bed.” He took her hand gently, “Where we could be right now. I could show you, remind you, exactly what we did.” He stood, smiling, and pulled her into his arms. “Come on. You know you want to.”
Turning, he led her upstairs. With no enthusiasm or resistance, she followed.
A knock on the door, well-timed.
He fastened the trousers he'd just put on and grabbed his t-shirt; heading towards the door while pulling it over his head. He turned, hand on doorknob. “Just like Tuesday”, he said firmly, then, softening, “You get dressed, I'll get the door. Love you.”
Just outside the room, he paused again, his eyes searching hers. “You know that.” He gazed into her eyes looking for something, then, seemingly satisfied, he headed downstairs.
“Ah, here she is. This is my girlfriend, Amanda's friend, Rosie.” He stood and waved her to sit in the vacated space. He sat on the arm of the chair, one hand draped across the back, the other holding her hand.
Holding her hand tightly.
“May we call you Rosie?” One of the men asked.
“Of course.” She said quickly, eyes cast down, as her captive hand was squashed hard.
“Rosie, we're from the police, I assume you heard about Amanda?”
The tears came again. She nodded.
“We're sorry, but we have some questions, you and Amanda were best friends, is that right?”
Again he tightened his hand round hers.
She looked at him.
He nodded encouragingly, but she saw tension round his eyes and mouth. She saw him as Amanda had always seen him.
She wished they hadn't argued about it.
She wished she hadn't come home upset.
She wished she hadn't given in and told him why.
“I'm sorry, Amanda, I should have listened to you.” She whispered.
“What are you doing?” He demanded.
She squeezed his hand and turned to the officers. Head up, through the tears, she said confidently. “He did it. He killed Amanda.”
She released his now limp hand, stood, and walked to the other side of the room.
“She deserved better, and – as she told me often enough – so do I.”
“What papers?” He asked.
“The usual ones.” She glanced at the table.
“Oh, yes, those rags are always so accurate.” He rolled his eyes.
“And it was on the TV.” Another tear escaped.
He wiped it away. “Look, just tell them we were together.”
“But we weren't.” The words spilled out despite her attempt to stop them.
“We were, we were here and in bed.” He took her hand gently, “Where we could be right now. I could show you, remind you, exactly what we did.” He stood, smiling, and pulled her into his arms. “Come on. You know you want to.”
Turning, he led her upstairs. With no enthusiasm or resistance, she followed.
A knock on the door, well-timed.
He fastened the trousers he'd just put on and grabbed his t-shirt; heading towards the door while pulling it over his head. He turned, hand on doorknob. “Just like Tuesday”, he said firmly, then, softening, “You get dressed, I'll get the door. Love you.”
Just outside the room, he paused again, his eyes searching hers. “You know that.” He gazed into her eyes looking for something, then, seemingly satisfied, he headed downstairs.
“Ah, here she is. This is my girlfriend, Amanda's friend, Rosie.” He stood and waved her to sit in the vacated space. He sat on the arm of the chair, one hand draped across the back, the other holding her hand.
Holding her hand tightly.
“May we call you Rosie?” One of the men asked.
“Of course.” She said quickly, eyes cast down, as her captive hand was squashed hard.
“Rosie, we're from the police, I assume you heard about Amanda?”
The tears came again. She nodded.
“We're sorry, but we have some questions, you and Amanda were best friends, is that right?”
Again he tightened his hand round hers.
She looked at him.
He nodded encouragingly, but she saw tension round his eyes and mouth. She saw him as Amanda had always seen him.
She wished they hadn't argued about it.
She wished she hadn't come home upset.
She wished she hadn't given in and told him why.
“I'm sorry, Amanda, I should have listened to you.” She whispered.
“What are you doing?” He demanded.
She squeezed his hand and turned to the officers. Head up, through the tears, she said confidently. “He did it. He killed Amanda.”
She released his now limp hand, stood, and walked to the other side of the room.
“She deserved better, and – as she told me often enough – so do I.”
