Waiting for Wednesday

excuse to really ask for
help.’
    ‘That’s just Freudian rubbish.
You’re trying to catch me out.’
    ‘You’re not sleeping properly,
you’re not eating properly. There’s this.’ She gestured at the
kitchen.
    ‘That’s just a student
kitchen.’
    ‘I’ve seen student
kitchens,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ve lived in student kitchens. This is a bit
different. And, anyway, you’re – what? Twenty-five, twenty-six? I think
you’re slightly depressed and finding it difficult to admit to anyone or even
yourself.’
    Dunne went very red. ‘If it’s
subconscious and you think I don’t want to admit it even to myself, then how do I
disprove it?’
    ‘Just think about it,’ said
Frieda. ‘And you might want to talk to someone about it. Not to me.’
    There was another pause. Dunne picked up a
dirty spoon and tapped it against a stained mug. ‘What was the other thing?’
he said.
    ‘That story you told me.’
    ‘Which? The whole thing was a
story.’
    ‘No. About cutting your father’s
hair and feeling a mixture of tenderness and power.’
    ‘Oh, that.’
    ‘It felt distinct from everything
else, like an authentic memory.’
    ‘Sorry to disappoint you. It was just
something I said.’
    ‘It wasn’t your
memory?’
    ‘I learned it.’
    ‘Who told you to say
it?’’
    ‘It was in my pack – I don’t
know. Dr Bradshaw, maybe, or whoever made up our characters.’
    ‘Who actually gave you your
instructions?’
    ‘One of the other researchers. Oh –
you want his name?’
    ‘Yes, please.’
    ‘Why? So you can go and make him feel
guilty as well?’
    ‘Is that what I made you
feel?’
    ‘If you want to know, I felt really
nervous, coming to you like that. A bit sick. It wasn’t easy.’ He glared at
Frieda. ‘His name’s Duncan Bailey.’
    ‘Where does he live?’
    ‘You want his address as
well?’
    ‘If you have it.’
    Seamus Dunne muttered something, but then
tore off the top of an empty cereal box that was lying on the floor and scribbled on it
before handing it to Frieda.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘And remember what I said about talking to someone.’
    ‘Are you going now?’ Seamus
Dunne seemed taken aback.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You mean that’s the end of
it?’
    ‘I’m not quite sure it’s
the end, Seamus.’
    Jim Fearby had gone back through his files
to make sure he had all the facts in his head. He always made notes first in the
shorthand he had learned when he’d joined the local newspaper in Coventry as a
junior reporter, more than forty years ago. Nobody learned shorthand now, but he liked
the hieroglyphic squiggles, like a secret code. Then, on the same day if possible, he
would copy them into his notebook. Only later would he put it all on to his
computer.
    Hazel Barton had been strangled in July
2004; her body had been found lying by a roadside not many miles from where she lived.
Apparently she had been walking home from the bus stop, after the bus had failed to
arrive. She waseighteen years old, fresh-faced and pretty, with three
older brothers, and parents who had indulged and adored her. She had planned to become a
physiotherapist. Her face smiled radiantly from the newspapers and TV screens for weeks
after her death. George Conley had been seen standing over her body. He had been
arrested at once and charged soon after. He was the local weirdo, the blubbery,
unemployed, slow-witted loner, who lurked in parks and outside playgrounds: of course he
did it. And then he confessed and everyone was happy, except Jim Fearby, who was a
stickler for detail and never took anyone else’s word for things that happened. He
had to read the police reports, had to rake through the files, thumb through law
books.
    He was sitting in front of the TV, not
really watching it, when the phone rang.
    ‘Have you got a pen?’
    ‘Who is this?’
    ‘Philip Sidney.’
    Fearby fumbled for a pen.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Vanessa Dale,’ said the voice,
then gave a phone number and made Fearby read it back to him. Fearby started to ask
something but the line was already dead.
    Frieda poured two whiskies and handed one
to Josef. ‘How’s it going?’ she said.
    ‘The joist is good. It is strong. But
now after I take the floor up, I think it is better to do tiles. Tiles on the floor.
Then new floor make wall look old and bad. So maybe tiles for the wall as well. You
should choose.’
    Josef seemed to have forgotten about his
glass, so Frieda clinked hers against his to remind him. They both