Oh, Christ, thought Zelda, here we go again. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure,” she said. “Every little bit helps. I just got some bad news from my doctor, and I could do with a pick-me-up, as well as someone to talk to. You can commiserate with me.”

“White wine?” He edged closer. “Nothing too serious, I hope?” A note of caution crept into his voice.

Zelda spoke between sniffles. “He says the penicillin should get rid of it, but in the meantime it hurts like hell every time I have to take a piss.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said, got up and hurried off.

When he was far enough away, Zelda knocked back the remainder of her drink, smiled to herself, then stood up, straightened her shoulders and headed back to her room. Trial run successful, she decided. Tomorrow, she hoped, it would be time for the real thing.

Chapter 9

9

LISA BARTLETT’S HOUSE WAS ON ELMET COURT, A RESIDENTIAL street branching off about halfway down Elmet Hill and winding its way south. Though smaller than the Myers’s house on Elmet Close, the houses there were Georgian-style semis with bay windows and tiny lawns enclosed by privet hedges. Most had driveways and garages, so there were very few vehicles parked in the narrow street.

Gerry had known Lisa only in the wake of her sexual assault, so she had no idea what she had been like before. Now, several weeks later, she still appeared very much affected by her experience—eyes dull, hair lackluster, generally fidgety, anxious and unable to look people in the eye. That Saturday morning, she sat slumped on the sofa, legs curled under her, wearing ice-blue jeans and a big woolly sweater whose sleeves covered her hands. Her mother sat beside her, stiff and straight, hands clasped on her lap. Mrs. Bartlett was an attractive woman of about forty, Gerry guessed, though the strain of family upheaval was starting to show in tension lines around her eyes and mouth. Though it was a warm day, the electric fire blazed away and Gerry felt herself stifling.

“Lisa hasn’t been out by herself since the incident,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “We’ve had to talk to the school and put off her GCSEs until next year. Even poor Jason’s having a difficult time concentrating on his A-levels. Can I get you a cup of tea or anything?”

Gerry sensed that Mrs. Bartlett was reluctant to leave her daughter’s side, though she still felt the need to be hospitable. “No, thanks,” she said. “Nothing for me.”

“I can’t imagine what you want to ask her. We’ve been over it all time and time again.”