Free The Missing Person's Guide to Love by Susanna Jones Page B

before coming to a rocking rest. I liked the patterns in the water, the whorls and pleats I could make with the oars. Even that day I couldn’t help but look. Then Owen stared at me with his black eyebrows furrowed. When I saw his face like this I knew he was still missing Julia. He never said how he felt but he used to go, with me and Kath, to the spot where she had vanished. We would stand there and look for clues – something that the police had missed – but we didn’t find anything. Perhaps we were seeking something clear, like a bump in the soil, a scrap of school uniform, a gap in the bushes, but I think we knew that if there was anything, it would be less tangible. It would be an understanding. By staring at the place, feeling it underfoot, knowing the changes in light and weather, we would lead ourselves to the point of knowing what had happened there. Of course, the place never changed enough and we were frustrated. Now Owen simply stared but hisexpression was not empty; it was full, brimming with something I didn’t quite recognize. What I know is that the fullness made me feel small. Somehow – I don’t remember how words led us to it – we concocted our plan.
    I often wonder how murderers who kill together find each other. How and when do they know that it is safe to tell the other one what is too terrible to share? There must be some conversation, some gentle play of words and gestures that builds up to a look or movement that says, I am like you. Tell me what you want to do and I ’ll understand. How does a lover confess and know that the other will not call the police? I still do not have the answer but, then, Owen and I were not murderers, or lovers. Our plan was to set fire to the supermarket, at night, when it would be empty. I remember one of us saying – it would have been me – that even if we were wrong about what Mr McCreadie had done to Julia it made no difference. He could have done it, might as well have done it, and what he had done in my head made him as good as a murderer.

    So now I was on the jetty with Owen’s friend from prison.
    ‘I hope I don’t push you off,’ he said.
    ‘I hope so too. Is it likely?’
    ‘It’s just something about being on a jetty, with water on three sides of you. The urge to push other people off is so strong. I can almost see my arms reaching forward and shoving you as soon as you turn your back. I’d never do it, but I canfeel it, tingling in my fingertips.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m not remotely dangerous.’
    We were walking along the wooden slats, heading for the far end. I wondered why he had been in prison. I did not plan to ask. It was up to him to tell me, if he wanted to.
    ‘Good. Right, then,’ I said to John. ‘Let’s go if we’re going. No time to waste.’
    He jumped ahead of me, selected a boat. Its name was Penelope.
    ‘Then help me get Penelope out.’
    We untied the rope. It slipped from my hands and fell into the lake. I reached in and pulled it out slowly, enjoying the water against my hands. I clambered into the boat and John followed me. I perched on the bench and took the oars. I liked the feeling – it had never gone away – the heaviness of the wood, the sense of movement about to begin.
    ‘Will we take it in turns? Can I row on the way back?’
    ‘Yes, of course you can.’ But already I had taken ownership of the oars and wouldn’t want to give them up easily. ‘What was Owen like when you first met him? I mean, was he depressed? Was he very friendly?’
    ‘I always felt sorry for the guy. Smoke? Oh, you haven’t got any hands. Have one on the way back.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    John took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He slid one out and lit it. I got a tiny breath of smoke before he moved the cigarette away and held it over the water’s edge.
    ‘This is cool. I like this. Nice ashtray, too. I haven’t had much fun in the last year. I moved to Leeds to be with my girlfriend, and a