Crying From One Eye

With the rucksack pulling on her shoulders and the handles of her shopping bag sculpting grooves into her hand, Beth trudged home. How, she wondered, did the bag always end up in her right hand? Once again, and with a grunt, she swung the bag over to her left hand. If her shopping was going to stretch her arms, she should at least try to make any increase equal. Her lips tightened into a grim smile. Most people already thought she was monster – to them, any deformity would be confirmation, yet also inadequate punishment.

Shaking out her right arm and flexing her fingers, she raised her eyes from the dusty pavement. Ahead was the mysterious roundabout, its centre containing an eye-catching display of well-tended shrubs, all delicately positioned and trimmed. She’d seen formal gardens that hadn’t received as much love and investment. But there were no sponsorship signs. Did the council really play favourites with traffic junctions? Beyond someone’s favourite roundabout sat The Midland Oak Park – an open space so small she could stroll around it in ten minutes. In the nearest corner, in the shade of an oak tree, a plaque lay on a plinth.

I’ll take a breather once I get there, she promised herself, shifting the rucksack on her shoulders, trying to make the weight less uncomfortable.

By the time she had crossed the road, the supermarket Bag for Life had somehow reappeared in her right hand. Shaking her head in wonderment, she approached the brick plinth and the shaped granite slab it supported. You, she thought, it was you that brought me to Leamington Spa. Her sigh turned into a puffed-cheek exhalation. It didn’t seem right. She was twenty-two and this structure was the nearest she had to a friend.

Has to be this way though. Safer for everyone.

Her back complained as she lowered her shopping bag to the pavement. She knew she should have packed the bottles better. It would be her own fault if she returned home with a sodden bag full of broken glass. She didn’t dare remove her rucksack though – she didn’t think she’d have the strength, or the courage, to heave it back onto her shoulders.

This, she vowed, taking a deep breath, would be her last rest before home. The air tasted as though someone else had already breathed it.

She rolled her shoulders. The rucksack hung lopsided and annoying, dragging her bra strap off. Irritation buzzed inside her, threatening to escalate into something worse. The back of her T-shirt felt saturated with sweat. In the supermarket she had been confident that, despite the sweltering August day, it would be easy to carry everything home in a rucksack – and then she’d found herself in the wine and spirits aisle. Her lack of willpower infuriated her.

Trying to relax, and counting to ten as she curled and uncurled her fingers, she stared at the plaque. She still thought it looked lost and lonely, as if banished from the town centre. She’d been disappointed when she’d first seen it. A year ago, the day she’d moved into her flat, she’d ventured out to find what had pulled her to the Midlands. Her initial impression of the granite slab was that it looked like a mushroom cloud. It wasn’t, of course, it just shaped as a stylised tree, with a thick trunk rising up to a scalloped misshapen mass. It looked nothing like the oak tree growing behind it, whose branches overshadowed both plaque and plinth.

She’d paused here so many times over the past twelve months she knew the wording by heart. The slab, according to the inscription, ‘commemorates the MIDLAND OAK, which for centuries grew close to this plaque and was reputed to be at the CENTRE OF ENGLAND’. This claim was what had caught her eye on Google Maps, and what had attracted her to Leamington Spa – being about as far as possible from any coast.

According to the inscription, the oak tree that shaded the plinth was a descendant of the original Midland Oak. The locals called it ‘Son of Oak’.

Typical, she thought. Not ‘Child of Oak’ or ‘Offspring of Oak’. Not even ‘Chip Off the Old Oak’. But ‘Son of Oak’. It was never going to be ‘Daughter of Oak’.

That day, when she had first seen the plaque, Beth had been horrified at the other official signs, positioned around the park like sentries. On each were printed the words ‘Important Hazard Notice’ above a large yellow triangle, inside which was an illustration of what looked like someone standing on a cliff edge, peering into water lapping below. Under the triangles were the words ‘Danger’ and ‘Deep Water’. On some of the signs, the ‘W’ was capitalised, on others not. She noticed things like that, thanks to her work. Trembling, she had stared at the signs, fearing someone had already recognised her and put them up for her benefit. Ridiculous of course. Besides, she knew from experience that water didn’t need to be deep to drown someone. A half-filled paddling pool would do. Especially if that someone had a knife embedded in their chest.

When she had managed to release her breath she had been relieved to see no water at all, just a grassy hollow fringed with rushes and reeds. This part of the park, it appeared, was used for flood defences; run-off rainwater was collected here, and could pool so deep that warning notices were required. There appeared to be no sturdy fence though. It was as if the council thought well-intentioned signs would suffice.

Today, there was no danger of drowning: the summer had left everything a sickly yellow-brown, the colour of a fading bruise.

Beth sucked in another deep breath and grimaced at the taste, it was like used cooking oil. She wiped a hand over her forehead. It came away wet and glistening, and her grim smile returned. For someone in hiding, a fine sheen of perspiration was not much of a disguise.

She gave her arm one final shake, flicking off her sweat, and once again pulled her bra strap into place. A groan escaped her as she stretched her back and shoulders before shrugging her rucksack into a less uncomfortable position. There was a muffled clink. She pressed her hand to the bottom of the rucksack. It was okay, unlike her back it was dry.

Inhaling, hoping to find some oxygen, she bent at the knees and grabbed the handle of her shopping bag. She exhaled as she straightened her legs, and then began the final slog home, feeling the heat bouncing off the ground. Any hotter and the tarmac would become sticky. An oncoming cyclist caught her eye and raised his eyebrows, as if in recognition of their mutual madness at being outside in this heat. She looked away, to her right, as if something had caught her attention in the park.

She waited until the cyclist was behind her before looking ahead. Another roundabout sat about a hundred metres ahead. This one she could relate to. Compared with the Midland Oak roundabout this smaller one was unloved: it was covered with straggly, unmown, yellowing grass. Beth intended to follow the pavement to the right here so that, in about fifteen minutes, she would be opening the door to her flat. The first thing she would do, she told herself, was christen the tumbler she’d just bought. Maybe, if she could finish her work, she’d have a gin and a slice. She licked her lips again.

From behind her, the distinctive sound of a bus grew louder. The bus – a number 68 –passed her, then pulled in at a bus stop. It could, she knew, take her almost all the way home. In fact, she could even have caught a number 68 in the town centre. She sighed, checking out the passengers. It wasn’t full but there were enough people aboard to confirm walking home had been the sensible decision: on board they were safe from her, and she was protected from them. She wondered what they would do if they knew who was watching them. Nothing good, that’s for sure.

The bus pulled away, leaving a woman at the stop, adjusting her own shopping bags. She began walking parallel to Beth, a few metres ahead, then turned to check for traffic. Beth looked away and accelerated. If the woman crossed, Beth wanted to be in front, where the woman couldn’t see her face.

A pulse of cars came from behind and passed, forcing the woman to wait. Beth recognised the lead car, and the driver who turned towards her.

No. Please.

The vehicle signalled right and Beth prayed it would take the right-hand exit. It didn’t. It circled the scrubby-grassed roundabout and returned towards her. Her heart thumped hard as it plummeted. The car began slowing, drawing in to the kerb, stopping ahead of her. It was huge and tall and painted a shade of red that screamed ‘look at me’. Bull bars, polished to a shine that made Beth squint, protruded from the bonnet. Yeah, like they were a necessity in a royal spa town. It was the sort of car that would have Ryan, her brother, salivating. Mum and Dad, therefore, would have loved it. Ryan had six years over Beth, with the consequence that as children his knowledge of the world appeared encyclopaedic. Also, thanks to childhood passion for toy cars, she recognised the triangular Mitsubishi logo; it reminded her of a radiation warning sign.

The passenger window slid down. Beth accelerated, striding past without looking. A male voice hailed her. ‘Hi there.’

She continued walking, increasing her speed. Her heart hammered harder, and not only at the extra exertion. Once, when she’d been recognised, a housemate had ended up in hospital. Poor Jackie. Life-threatening burns the doctor had said. The car reversed a few metres and stopped ahead her again. It was, she thought, a dangerous manoeuvre.

The woman from the bus was now crossing and watching this encounter with undisguised interest, as if it were a scene from a soap opera.

The driver leant over the passenger seat, smiling. ‘Hi. Look, I’ve seen you about. We haven’t been introduced. I’m Jacob. Well, Jake. I’ve just moved into the flat below yours. You look as if you might need a hand. Can I give you a lift? I’m going back home. Jump in.’

Beth halted. She wasn’t going to get away, and knew she couldn’t afford to bring any more attention to herself. Once again, she lowered her bag. She didn’t have to bend much to peer into this bright red beast, just enough to make her back ache from the weight of her rucksack. She looked in at the driver, as if expecting something to jump out. Jake had an open, round face, the sort that made it obvious how he had looked as a boy. It was also several shades too pink, as if someone had tweaked the colour settings. She’d seen him unloading his things from this car over the last few days and, while it would have been neighbourly to take him a cool drink, and maybe a hat and sun cream, she hadn’t.

His fair hair was so fine it just had to be thinning already; she thought she could see his pinkish scalp through the wispy strands. She put him in his early thirties, maybe a couple of years older than her brother.

She glanced up the road, not so much looking for traffic as for an excuse. She couldn’t see either. She touched her cheek, pulling away a strand of damp hair that had come loose from her ponytail.

Oh God, would he see that as flirtatious?

Flustered, she calculated what would attract least attention or curiosity: accepting a lift from a neighbour, albeit a relative stranger, or insisting on struggling home? And the woman from the bus was closing in, curiosity growing with each step.

‘It’s up to you,’ Jake said with a shrug. ‘I just thought, your bags… you know, like, they look heavy.’

At their mention, Beth felt the full weight on her shoulders. It was still almost a mile to walk and it was blisteringly hot. And yet …

‘Sorry,’ she said, shaking her head as if she’d just awoken, trying to sound normal. ‘I’m Liz.’

She was trying the name for size. She’d already used Ellie, Lizzie and once even Betty, along with some even more ill-fitting names, all now discarded, like worn-out clothes, in previous towns.

‘Pleased to meet you, Liz.’ He leaned across and opened the passenger door; it was as if by him using her name she had given her acceptance.

Beth stared into the car as Jake picked a couple of things from the passenger seat and threw them into the back – an extension lead with a four-way adapter, and a hammer.

‘You know what it’s like,’ Jake’s laugh sounded genuine, ‘a new place and never enough sockets. Never picture hooks where you want them.’

She knew all right.

Beth was silent for a second. But a second, she knew, was a long time. He was waiting and she couldn’t get out of this now. Not without causing a scene. And she couldn’t face yet another relocation.

She took a decisive step forward and opened the rear door. With great care, she heaved her shopping bag onto the back seat, and then, with difficulty, shrugged off the rucksack. The hot sweat running down her back cooled in an instant; she shivered. The rucksack joined her other bag, again with little tell-tale clinking, and she wanted to cheer at this. Instead, she climbed in next to Jake. The passenger seat was higher than she expected and she stiffened, feeling vulnerable, as if on display. A shudder rocked her as the air con chilled her perspiration, but she couldn’t lean back for fear of her sodden T-shirt staining the upholstery.

‘Day off today?’ Jake asked while she reached for her seatbelt. She couldn’t tell whether his perkiness was an act.

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s a Wednesday. I thought you’d be at work. I’ve got the week off while I move in.’

‘I work from home.’ She hoped her tone made it clear: so I don’t have to deal with people.

‘No commuting, then. Nice. Is that why you don’t drive?’ he glanced across, checking she was buckled in.

Another shiver ran through her. ‘Sort of.’ I wouldn’t trust me with a car.

‘So,’ he asked when she offered nothing more, ‘what do you do when you’re working from home?’

She stopped herself from saying: I mind my own business, as should you. ‘I’m self-employed,’ she said. ‘What about you?’ She wanted to move the conversation away from herself.

He shot her another glance before putting the car into gear and checking the mirror. She could see his mind considering possibilities – how does a single woman working from home make money? ‘A freelance copy-editor,’ she added before he reached any wrong conclusions. ‘And you?’

‘On anything I might know?’

‘Probably not. Academic books and journals. What about you?’

He nodded, considering. ‘I’m not sure I could cope with working from home.’ He smiled. ‘I’d never get up in the morning.’ A soft clicking came from the car’s indicator and he pulled into the right-hand lane.

‘It’s something you get used to. Besides, if you don’t work you, like, starve.’

‘Isn’t it lonely? I’d miss the people in an office. I’m a software developer,’ he said it as if it was something he’d won. ‘Leamspa Games. You know, one of the many games companies around here. Leamington isn’t known as Silicon Spa for nothing.’

‘Computer games?’ She shook her head. ‘Too techy for me.’

They approached the well-loved roundabout with its secret benefactor.

‘You mean nerdy?’ His smile broadened, showing there was no offence.

‘I never said that. Besides, I work on stuff like the Journal of Chinese Economics and Business Studies. That’s, like, niche. I think I can out-nerd someone in the games industry. Games are popular.’

They circled the roundabout, and headed towards home. He glanced at her. ‘You a gamer?’

She shook her head. ‘Working from home, if it’s a choice between making money and wasting time then…’ Immediately she regretted her words. ‘I’ve got a few games,’ she said, trying to be placatory. ‘For my laptop. But I guess they’re pretty old now. I don’t play much these days.’

‘Yeah? What did you play?’

‘I don’t like shoot ‘em ups.’ She folded her arms. ‘Or anything that involves too much killing.’ She saw his expression and knew he’d misunderstood.

‘Yeah?’ he contemplated her answer. ‘Okay,’ he nodded, then spoke as if offering a secret. ‘Sometimes though, sometimes a shoot-em up is just what I need. A safe way to deal with life’s frustrations, if you know what I mean. They’re – the good ones, that is – cathartic. I can save the world without actually having to, you know, compromise. I can be brave. So… what? You prefer puzzles, role-playing? Strategy? Exploring open worlds rather than killing their inhabitants?’

If only you knew, she thought, and a memory slipped free: Owen’s blood slicking her hand. She felt the urge to wipe it away even though there was nothing there.

‘Something like that.’ A small part of her ached to tell him. Just to see if telling someone, anyone, would reduce the burden. I’m a killer – no, I’m a murderer. Everyone, but everyone – from the Youth Offending Team to the appointed psychiatrist and even Mum and Dad – said I must be honest with myself. I’m a murderer. I’m dangerous. I can’t be responsible for hurting anyone else. I just can’t.

She looked back, trying to see her only friend, the Midland Oak plaque, before it passed from sight.