Guilty Conscious, Oliver Davies [small books to read TXT] 📗

She had a concerned look on her face, a frown between her brows that vanished with a smile when she looked at me. I grabbed my bag, slipping it over my shoulder and looked towards the door.

“We can arrange to drive you home,” she offered, joining me in looking out at the dreary rain.

“That’s okay,” I told her quickly. “I can get the bus.”

There was a stop across the road. It went to my street or close enough to it, anyway. I’d decided that one time sitting in the back of a police car was one too many. The constable nodded, opening the door and giving me a sad smile as I walked head, ducking my head against the rain and ran across the road to shelter under the bus stop. I could feel eyes on me as I sat down on the bench and waited, making sure I didn’t get up and leg it, I supposed, since I was a murderer now, apparently.

That was new. I kicked myself, stupid not to have told them about Edward. Or the studio. Christ, I hadn’t thought about that place for so long, not without wanting to vomit, anyway. Dug myself a nice little hole, perfect for them to bury me in.

Although they didn’t seem all that keen on throwing me in jail and tossing away the key. DCI Thatcher had been nice to me from the start, always patient, always looking at me with that understanding look on his face. Something had changed their mind about me. Stella’s trophy. I clamped my mouth shut, trying to keep the bile from rising in my throat and blinked my eyes, trying to stop tears from coming out. Crying on the bus wasn’t a good look.

I might not have killed Edward, but whoever did that to my Stella’s trophy would get a right foul kick in the guts. I should have gone back for it, should never have taken it there in the first place. I wondered how they found it, who else knew about the studio. Edward hadn’t wanted anyone to know, the handsome little coward.

The bus rolled down the street, and I hopped up, flagging the driver down and rooting my bus pass from my pocket. The driver gave me a nod as I walked down to a lonely chair near the back, huddling up against the window, driving away from the station. Leaving dad there. Maybe I should have stayed, not that I would be much use to him. He’d made that clear often enough. I pressed my head against the cold glass, staring out through the streaks of rain as the city blurred around behind me. It hadn’t been long ago that Stella was sitting next to me, smiling at a baby sitting a few streets away, humming under her breath. I let the pain wash over me, barely even noticing it anymore, and kept my eyes open, refusing to cry.

We rattled along the street, and I jumped off early, walking through the rain down to my street, heading straight for the café’s door. It was quiet inside, only a few regular faces seated about. I looked around, looking for Agnes. She was over at the counter, wiping up some crumbs, and she looked up as the door swung shut, her eyes widening as she looked at me.

She dropped her cleaning cloth and hurried around the counter, and I let the tears fall as I walked towards her, into her outstretched arms.

“Oh, Billie,” she murmured, stroking my hair back from my face, a hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. She held me there for ages, letting me cry against her chest, and once I got my breathing back under control, she pulled away slightly, wiping at my face with a napkin, her face full of sympathy.

“I’m okay,” I said, trying out a fake smile.

“No, you are not. Go home, love,” she said, looking up towards my flat. “We’ll manage without you for the afternoon.”

I shook my head. “No, I’d rather work. Keep my mind busy. If I go home, I’ll just pace around or stare at the wall.”

Agnes frowned, looking uncertain, but she tucked a piece of hair back from my face and nodded. “If that’s what you want. But you say the word, and I’ll let you go home, alright?”

“Thanks, Agnes. I’m going to change, clean myself up a bit.”

“Take your time, love,” she said, brows furrowed with concern as I pulled away with another smile and walked back outside, through the alley and up the shabby metal stairs to the flat.

The flowers outside were wilting, they had been Stella’s, and I’d been bad at remembering to water them. I skirted around the pots, letting myself in through the front door, turned off the alarm and walked into the living room, dropping my bag on the armchair and stood there, staring at nothing. Nothing in here had changed, not on the surface. Everything was colourful, as per Stella’s request. The living room walls were painted pale pink, the sofa green, the armchair blue. We’d collected art from charity shops and car boot sales to fill up the walls, pictures of us scattered around, some of mum, even a few of dad, back when he was clean shaved and fresh-faced and only drank in the pub when the game was on.

As I stood there, trying to understand everything that had just happened to me, the cat came along, rubbing against my legs. I picked her up, cradling her against my chest, burying my face in the thick ginger fur and shivered slightly. It felt vaguely like a dream, like a wired fever dream from eating too much cheese at night or something. I could still smell the station, like stale coffee and printer ink, it had been warm too, except in that cold room with the uncomfortable plastic chairs, the photographs strewn across the table, Stella’s face, my face, Edward’s face, all staring up at me like some horrid “this