Free Never Alone by Elizabeth Haynes Page B

back with a mug of tea and his guitar, sits cross-legged on the sofa with the guitar on his knee.
    The memories of it, what happened, surge up inside her, sour like vinegar. She thinks he doesn’t remember; he cannot, surely, because if he did it would all be too much to bear; and then he starts to play ‘Killing Me Softly’ and she realises he does.

Aiden
    At five past ten there is a knock at the door; Sarah is there, the wind tugging at her hair and the cardigan she’s wearing.
    ‘I’m sorry it’s late,’ she says.
    ‘Don’t worry. Is everything all right? Have you got a visitor?’
    You saw him crossing the yard, or, rather, loitering for a while in the barn as if he was trying to pluck up the courage to knock on the door. You watched him for a while, recognising him as the young man who’d been talking to Sophie in the pub. Finally he skirted the yard, keeping close to the wall of the workshop, and knocked on the front door of the house.
    ‘It’s only Will. He’s kind of homeless. I think he’s supposed to be house-sitting for someone in the village, but they’ve not left for their holiday yet. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.’
    You pour her a glass of wine without asking if she wants one – it feels too late for tea – and she takes it. She follows you to the living area, sits down with you.
    ‘If you’re worried about him being in the house with you, you can send him over here; he can always sleep on the sofa.’
    ‘No, it’s fine,’ she says. ‘I think he’s been sleeping rough for a few days. It’s only because it’s been raining that he came here. His clothes were all damp.’
    ‘You can stay here, if you like,’ you say. ‘I’ll have the sofa. Or I’ll go and sleep in the house.’
    ‘It’s not that,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s not that I mind. He’s stayed over before, lots of times.’
    ‘What, then?’
    ‘Something happened between him and Sophie.’
    You wait for her to continue. She is chewing gently on her lower lip, as if she is unsure of what to say. Sarah does not talk about her friends. She does not gossip. Or, at least, she never did when you knew her, all those years ago.
    ‘You know you can tell me, Sarah. Whatever it is. It’s just between us.’
    ‘She says she kissed him,’ she says. ‘After we left the pub, the other night.’
    As she says it she looks up at you again and there is something in her eyes, some distant hurt. You wonder about Jim. You wonder whether they went all those years being faithful to each other; whether their marriage was happy. You don’t feel you have the right to ask.
    ‘I’ve never seen her like that,’ she says. ‘She’s normally so measured, so careful. She seemed – I don’t know – thrilled by it, I suppose.’
    ‘And you don’t approve?’
    ‘It’s not that. George is – Christ, I shouldn’t be telling you all this; for God’s sake don’t repeat it – well, he’s never been faithful to her. I just didn’t think she would do the same to him.’
    ‘You think something else happened?’ you say.
    ‘We used to talk about everything,’ she says. ‘It did feel as though she wasn’t telling me the whole story. And I didn’t press her. I don’t know why I didn’t.’
    But then she puts a hand to her mouth, her fingers pressing against her lips.
    ‘You do know why,’ you say.
    ‘What?’
    ‘You know. You’re just not sure you want to tell me.’
    She laughs, a short bitter sound. ‘Why do you always have to be so bloody perceptive? Are you psychic?’
    ‘Yes,’ you say seriously. ‘Of course I am. I know you, Sarah. I know everything about you. I know exactly how your mind works.’
    She kicks you gently with the toe of her shoe. ‘Stop that.’
    You laugh to ease the tension. She thinks you’re teasing, which is fine with you. The truth is, you do know everything about her. Everything.
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘That’s just it, though. I haven’t been honest with her. There’s something I