Human Remains

won’t kill me,’ I said, cheerfully, setting off across the car park, through the puddles, in the direction that Colin had taken. And I was a little bit mad, I thought to myself. But Sam knew that all along, didn’t he?
    I glanced back at him. He was following me, jogging to catch up.
    ‘Annabel,’ he said, breathless, ‘just hold on a sec. Stop.’
    I stopped. We were on the ramp leading up to the arcade of shops, the entrance to the Co-op around the corner. I had already spotted a bench outside where I could sit and wait.
    ‘I’m going to look in the Co-op and just make sure he’s in there,’ he said. ‘After that I’ll come out and wait in one of the other shops where I can see you. Just in case he takes you somewhere on foot. Alright?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said, surprised at the wave of relief. ‘Thanks. Don’t…’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Just don’t interfere.’
    I left him then and plonked myself down on the bench. It was tempting to watch Sam to see where he went, but now I was in full view of the Co-op and if – just if – Colin had caught sight of me, I didn’t want to ruin this enterprise before it had even started. I kept my head bent low but chanced a brief glimpse up, at the door.
    For this to work, I had to look right. The rain was helping a good deal, soaking my hair already and plastering it to the sides of my head. I’d left my coat in Sam’s car and I was sitting on the bench in my blouse and cardigan. I looked down at the wool and saw the rain settling on the fibres, tiny droplets that sparkled in the light from the shop window. I closed my eyes slowly and opened them again, and when I raised my eyes I saw the automatic exit doors of the supermarket slide open, and the figure I recognised as Sam coming through. He walked past me and if he acknowledged me I didn’t see it, just his legs, his stride purposeful. He went out of my line of vision. I thought of the CCTV footage, of the camera that was positioned somewhere behind me and to my left, no doubt pointing in another direction. I thought of the way I’d looked. I let my shoulders sag.
    I listened to the people, the conversations going on, snatches of voices. I could smell the fish and chip shop. My face still, my eyes opening and closing slowly. Waiting. Even this, even this feeling, trying to fake it now but actually it was easy to do: the loneliness, people all around me but even so I might as well not exist. Sitting here on a wet wooden bench in the rain wearing my cardigan, the rain soaking my hair and my clothes, and nobody looked at me, nobody stopped. Feet walking past. Schoolkids laughing and pushing each other around. I didn’t look at them. I didn’t look up. It was this – inertia – this waiting, waiting for something to happen, for something to act upon me so that I didn’t need to act myself.
    I remembered then how it felt, waiting for him.
    After a while I almost forgot to look up. It was such a strange feeling. Quiet, cold, waiting.
    I saw a pair of feet walking directly towards me and I almost thought to myself, at last, someone is going to ask me if I’m alright, and I nearly raised my head. Then I remembered what I was doing, and why, and I kept still, my eyes looking down at my knees.
    He stood directly in front of me. I found myself looking at a pair of brown brogues, obviously coated in some kind of water-repellent suede protector spray, because there were small bubbles of water on them that hadn’t soaked in. Dark blue jeans, with a crease down the shin where they’d been ironed.
    ‘Annabel?’
    I recognised the voice and for a moment I was afraid, a shuddering fear that was oddly accompanied by the same jolt of relief I’d felt when I’d thought he was an angel. His voice was so calm, quiet; so soothing.
    ‘Annabel?’ he said again, and this time I looked up, slowly, raising my head and blinking as though I wasn’t sure of anything, where I was, what I was doing.
    He was looking at me with concern. And then he looked left and right, as though he was worried someone might be playing some kind of cruel trick on him. He looked at the bench and brushed the raindrops off it with his hand, shooting the water off and on to my feet, down my legs. Then he sat down next to me.
    I lowered my head again. What was I supposed to say? This was difficult – I could get this wrong, so wrong…
    ‘You’re – you are… Ed?’
    ‘That’s right,’ he said, his tone even. ‘You remember.’ He was leaning