Page 24 of 56 Days
56 Days Ago
“Go ahead,” are the first words he ever says to her.
They are both on the cusp of joining the line for theself-servicecheckouts in Tesco. It’s Friday lunchtime and his fifth time this week stopping in for a sandwich, because he comes in here every weekday around about now and has, almost without fail, since he started working at the firm across the street.
It’s also his fifth time this week seeingherin here, doing the same thing.
Seemingly.
He might not have noticed her at all if it weren’t for the bag: a little swingy canvas thing with a picture of a space shuttle on it. It was the bag that initially caught his eye, on Monday. Come Tuesday, he saw it again. When he saw it on Wednesday, he wondered if it was odd that he would see it—her—three days in a row and, on Thursday, he concluded that it definitely was.
That’s when he noted the way she carried the bag: by its handles, swinging by her side, even though it was clearly empty and would be until she made her way through the checkouts. Why not just keep it folded in her hand, or tucked under her arm, or put away in the little bag with a strap she wore over one shoulder until she was in need of it?
It was almost like shewantedpeople to see her carrying it.
Or, perhaps, just for him to.
That’s what had started the wheels turning. He wondered: Why had he never seen any otherblue-lanyard-wearing employees in these aisles? Like all good tech companies, they probably had free food in their building,goodfree food, like fresh sushi and anin-housebarista, so why would one of their employees line up for a bland, soggy,plastic-wrappedsupermarket sandwich that they had to pay for?
Maybe he had and he just hadn’t noticed them.
But then how was it that even though he took his lunch at a slightly different time every day, leaving his desk only when there was a natural break in his work, she always happened to be in here at the exact same time as him?
Five days in arow?
Today, he’d spotted her standing by the drinks fridge just inside the entrance, waiting patiently for a twentysomething guy in aspray-onblue shirt to make his selection so she could step in and make hers.
He saw the bag first, swinging empty as it always was, and then the green winter coat she seems to be in every day.
All this week, he’s been logging details.
Just in case.
She’s shorter than him by a foot, about the same age, slim but not skinny; there’s a softness to her cheeks and the line of her jaw. Attractive in a quiet way. Her hair is light brown and cut bluntly at the ends, so the two sides swish like curtains against her shoulders as she moves. Her lanyard hangs from abright-blueribbon and displays a barcode, a small passport photo, and the logo of a tech company with acloud-computingarm whose European HQ occupies an entire building just a couple of minutes’ walk from here. There’s a couple of lines of text on it he hasn’t gotten close enough to read.
He’s never caught her looking at him, but that’s neither here nor there. She could be not looking at him on purpose, or just really good at doing it surreptitiously.
Or this could all be pure paranoia on his part.
He’d walked past her and made his way to the very back of the store, where he’d waited his turn at the deli counter to order his usual: chicken, stuffing, and mayo on rye, no butter. To stop himself from scanning the aisles foremerald-greenwool, he’d taken out his phone and focused intently on the latest headlines in a news app. Then he made his way to the checkouts where he saw that she was just about to join the line—perfect timing, but whose?—and he’d hung back so she’d have to do it in front of him, and that’s when she’d stopped and looked up and their eyes had met.
A flash of something—surprise? Recognition?—crosses her face just as he thinks to himself,I’ve seen her somewhere before.
Somewhere else, in different circumstances.
But where?
When?
“It’s okay,” she mumbles, waving the bottle of water she’s holding in her right hand. She takes a step back. “I’ve just realized I’ve got the wrong one.”
She turns on her heel and hurries off in the opposite direction.
And now he thinks,Gotcha.
He knew coming back to Ireland would be a risk, but he had presumed that enough time had passed for him to be yesterday’s news. Besides, anyone interested in exposing him would have to find him first. He goes by his mother’s maiden name now. He’s severed all contact with anyone he knew or had known on the day he left London, save for two people: his brother, who can be trusted, and Dan, who is professionally obligated to be. Oliver has a better cover story now and is more practiced in sticking to it. He doesn’t take risks. Hewon’ttake them.
There can’t be a repeat of what happened in London.
