Elle （Past）
ELLE
PAST
Gradually, the furor surrounding Brett Parker’s death died down but with my court case pending—DC Moss had warned me I could be facing a prison sentence—I knew it was only a matter of time before it started up again.
Two months had passed but I still couldn’t sleep and spent most of my time in a trancelike state, as if my mind couldn’t compute what had happened.
It terrified me that Brett Parker was dead—dead, how could he be dead?
—because of me. I couldn’t equate that my good intentions—trying to get justice for Bryony—had resulted in something so violent, so terminal.
The stalker label the press had thrust upon me bewildered me; it wasn’t true, how could it be?
Stalkers were threatening, evil people, and I was neither of those things.
If I wasn’t thinking about Brett Parker, I was thinking of his family.
Because of me, his wife no longer had a husband.
Because of me, his son no longer had a father.
Although I’d tried to ignore any articles or news bulletins about him, it had somehow infiltrated my consciousness that the elderly man in the wheelchair was Brett Parker’s father and that he had Parkinson’s.
Whenever I thought about the toll his death must have had on those close to him, my brain would shut down, as if it couldn’t cope with the stark and painful truth that not only had I destroyed his life that day, but also the lives of several others.
I became a recluse, not daring to go out in case I was recognized.
“This has got to stop,” Jaz said sternly one day. “You need to move on.”
He had been brilliant since Brett Parker had died, never once reproaching me for what had happened, never asking that I leave. But now my heart lurched.
“You want me to go?”
“You can’t hide yourself away forever.”
I swallowed painfully. “Can I stay here until my case comes to court? There’s nowhere really I can go. I’ll make myself useful,” I added, suddenly aware that I hadn’t been pulling my weight either financially or chore-wise.
His face softened. Despite everything, he still cared about me, not as a partner but as a friend. “If you do the cleaning and the cooking, you can stay until your court case.” He paused. “You can also do the shopping.”
“The shopping?”
He held my gaze. “Yes. That’s my offer, take it or leave it.”
I knew that the real motive behind his last request was to get me out in the world again.
So I began to venture out, hurrying along the pavements with my head down, shopping in supermarkets far from the flat rather than at our local, where I risked being recognized.
Gradually, I began to feel more confident, until the day I was waiting to cross at a busy intersection, a laden shopping bag in each hand, when someone bumped into me from behind and sent me flying into the road.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a red bus approaching and the sudden screech of brakes and cries of alarm brought Brett Parker’s death back in startling clarity.
Accepting that karma was at play—a life for a life—I made no effort to save myself, just closed my eyes and waited for the bus to hit me.
But hands had grabbed at me and pulled me onto the pavement, hauling me upright.
The doors of the bus swished open. “Stupid woman!” the driver yelled. “Be more careful next time!”
“Someone knocked me,” I stuttered, as shock set in.
A taxi behind the bus sounded its horn, a sign to the driver to stop blocking the road.
Others joined in and the ensuing cacophony made me clap my hands over my ears, unable to cope with the sensory overload after the fright I’d just had.
The bus moved off, squashing a carton of tomato puree that had fallen from my bag under its wheels, staining the road bloodred.
“Are you okay, love?” a woman asked, as the people around me began to cross the road, jostling me and almost sweeping me along with them.
I lowered my hands, blinking back tears of fright. “I—I think so.”
“Let me help you.” The woman bent down and began retrieving what she could of my shopping while a new wave of people waiting to cross muttered under their breaths.
“It’s fine, I don’t want it.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m afraid your eggs and the milk are gone and the tomato puree, but the rest seems fine.” The woman handed me the hastily repacked bags and as the pedestrian light turned to green, she gripped my elbow and propelled me across the road.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“I never stand right at the edge of the pavement when I’m waiting to cross. Too many mad people around.” The woman began to move off. “Take care of yourself.”
Caught in a flow of people on the pavement, I moved back and slumped in a shop doorway.
My heart felt as if it would burst from my chest and I desperately needed to catch my breath but the woman’s words—Too many mad people around—made it impossible.
Dark thoughts swirled in my mind. Had I been pushed into the road on purpose?
Had someone recognized me? Because I hadn’t been knocked into the road, I realized, I had definitely been pushed.