The Girl You Left Behind

don’t know her number. But I know where she works.’
    Paul waits.
    ‘It’s a restaurant about ten
     minutes’ walk from here. Towards Blackfriars.’
    It’s midnight. Paul gazes at the
     clock. He is tired and his son is being dropped off at seven thirty tomorrow morning.
     But he cannot leave a drunk woman, who has plainly spent the best part of an hour trying
     not to cry, to walk the backstreets of the South Bank at midnight.
    ‘I’ll walk with you,’ he
     says.
    He catches her look of wariness, the way she
     prepares to decline. Greg touches her arm. ‘You’re okay, sweetheart.
     He’s an ex-cop.’
    Paul feels himself being reassessed. The
     woman’s makeup has smudged beneath one eye and he has to fight the urge to wipe
     it.
    ‘I can vouch for his good character.
     He’s genetically wired to do this, kind of like a St Bernard in human
     form.’
    ‘Yeah. Thanks, Greg.’
    She puts on her jacket. ‘If
     you’re sure you don’t mind, that would be really kind of you.’
    ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Paul.
     And good luck, Miss Liv. Hope it all gets sorted.’ Greg waits until they are some
     way down the road, then closes and locks the door.
    They walk briskly, their feet echoing in
     the empty cobbled streets, the sound bouncing off the silent buildings around them. It
     has begun to rain, and Paul rams his hands deep into his pockets, his neck hunched into
     his collar. They pass two young men in hoodies and he is conscious of her moving
     slightly closer to him.
    ‘Did you cancel your cards?’ he
     says.
    ‘Oh. No.’ The fresh air is
     hitting her hard. She looks despondent, and every now and then she stumbles a little. He
     would offer his arm but he doesn’t think she would take it. ‘I didn’t
     think of that.’
    ‘Can you remember what you
     have?’
    ‘One Mastercard, one
     Barclays.’
    ‘Hold on. I know someone who can
     help.’ He dials a number. ‘Sherrie? … Hi. It’s
     McCafferty … Yeah, fine, thanks. All good. You?’ He waits. ‘Listen
     – could you do me a favour? Text me the numbers for stolen bank cards? Mastercard and a
     Barclays. Friend’s just had her bag nicked … Yeah. Thanks, Sherrie. Say
     hi to the guys for me. And, yeah, see you soon.’
    He dials the texted numbers, hands her the
     phone. ‘Cops,’ he says. ‘Small world.’ And then walks silently
     as she explains the situation to the operator.
    ‘Thank you,’ she says, handing
     the phone back.
    ‘No problem.’
    ‘I’d be surprised if they manage
     to get any money out on them anyway.’ Liv smiles ruefully.
    They are at the restaurant, a Spanish place.
     The lights are off and the doors locked. He ducks into the doorway and she peers in
     through the window, as if willing it to show some distant sign of life.
    Paul consults his watch. ‘It’s a
     quarter past twelve. They’re probably done for the night.’
    Liv stands and bites her lip. She turns back
     to him. ‘Perhaps she’s at mine. Please can I borrow your phone again?’
     He hands it over, and she holds it up in the sodium light better to see the screen. He
     watches as she taps a number, then turns away, one hand rifling unconsciously through
     her hair. She glances behind her and gives him a brief, uncertain smile, then turns
     back. She types in another number, and a third.
    ‘Anyone else you can call?’
    ‘My dad. I just tried him.
     Nobody’s answering there either. Although it’s entirely possible he’s
     asleep. He sleeps like the dead.’ She looks completely lost.
    ‘Look – why don’t I book you a
     room in a hotel? You can pay me back when you get your cards.’
    She stands there, biting her lip.
Two
     hundred pounds.
He remembers the way she had said it, despairing. This was not
     someone who could afford a central London hotel room.
    The rain is falling more heavily now,
     splashing up their legs, water gurgling along the gutters in front of them. He speaks
     almost before he thinks: ‘You know what? It’s getting late. I live about
     twenty minutes’ walk away. You wantto think about it and
     decide when we get to mine? We can sort it all out from there if you like.’
    She hands him his phone. He watches some
     brief, internal struggle take place. Then she smiles, a little warily, and steps forward
     beside him. ‘Thank you. And sorry. I – I really didn’t set out to mess up
     someone else’s night too.’
    Liv grows progressively quieter as they
     approach his flat, and he