Page 8 of Never a Hero

‘Well, that’s me done,’ Margie announced. ‘Going to take this lot to the charity.’

‘What?’ Joan said. Margie had only boxed up the meringues. And she and Margie always took the leftovers down together. ‘But we haven’t—’

‘Back in ten.’ Margie was already slipping the loop of her apron over her head. She turned her back to Nick and gave Joan an exaggerated wink.

‘Margie,’ Joan said. All she needed to say was: There’s more to box up. Margie wouldn’t question it; she’d stay. Joan opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her face felt like it was on fire. Margie’s grin widened. You’re welcome, she mouthed. And then she was walking out of the shop.

Nick met Joan’s eyes, and Joan was suddenly aware of his size: how he’d hunched a bit to make himself less imposing. He bit his lip, but he couldn’t hide his amusement. Margie hadn’t exactly been subtle. ‘Hi,’ he said again.

Joan’s chest constricted. She wasn’t used to these unshadowed smiles from him. ‘Hi,’ she said stupidly. His hair was curling a bit at the ends. ‘See anything you like?’

Nick blinked at her, and Joan gestured at the cakes.

‘Oh,’ he said, and for some reason, he flushed even redder. ‘Uh … I’m not sure. What can I get for ten pounds if … Well, there’s a lot of us at home.’

He could get plain iced buns for that, but Joan suddenly wanted him to have the really nice ones. ‘We’re doing chocolate-chip buns this week. For ten pounds, you can get ten.’ Not quite true, but Joan could add her own discount to the half off.

And then he was smiling again. And suddenly it hurt—this fantasy that they’d just met; that they might run into each other at school next week; that he’d come into the bakery again. That this could be the start of something rather than the end.

Joan concentrated on folding up a couple of cardboard boxes. In two minutes, he’d be on his way home. She could bear this feeling for two minutes—you could bear anything for two minutes, and then for two more minutes after that. She’d been learning that since getting home. Five sets of two, and then Margie would be back.

Joan put six buns into one box, and four into another. Then, knowing she shouldn’t, she added two mini Bakewell tarts to fill the space. ‘On the house,’ she said, not looking at him. She’d have done it for any customer, she told herself. They wouldn’t keep.

‘They’re my favourite.’ Nick sounded surprised and grateful.

I know, Joan thought. She knew he liked almonds and cherries. Just like she knew he’d want quantity over the big Bakewell tart in the window so that the kids would get a whole bun each. She knew him so well. Except that she didn’t. Not this Nick. This isn’t him, she reminded herself. He looks like him, but he isn’t him.

She could bear this. Nick would finish up school this year, and she would next year. Maybe he’d move away. She’d move away. She could handle this for a year. And then … maybe her feelings for him would eventually fade. Maybe, one day, she’d be able to think of him without this yearning.

Another notification flew up on Joan’s phone. She glanced down, expecting more messages from Margie and Chris, but it was a voice mail from Gran.

That was weird. Gran never left casual messages—not ever. Not even scrawled notes on the kitchen table. She always said: Don’t leave words lying around. The wrong people might find them.

The bakery door opened, bell jangling. Margie, Joan thought, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed that she and Nick had only had a moment alone. Relieved, she told herself firmly.

‘Did you forget your coat—’ Joan started to say, and then stopped.

It wasn’t Margie. The new arrival was a man of about thirty. He’d dropped a duffel bag outside, and now he stood just beyond the threshold like a vampire waiting for an invitation. He was tall, with narrow catlike eyes and hair the colour of burnt butter. His mustache was thin and sharp as a pencil mark—a shade darker than his hair. And there was something wrong about him. The cut of his suit; his hairstyle. He could have stepped out of a photo from the 1920s.

Or stepped out of the actual 1920s.

Joan’s heart thudded once; twice. He was a time traveller. A monster. She’d never seen a monster in Milton Keynes before. ‘What do you want?’ she said. It came out hard.

Nick looked puzzled as he registered Joan’s rudeness. And then his eyes narrowed, and he shifted between Joan and the man, instinctively protective.

‘You’ve been remarkably difficult to find,’ the man said to Joan. He frowned at Nick. ‘And you shouldn’t be here at all. We were told there’d be two girls alone.’ And that made Nick’s fists clench, still instinctive. The man stepped across the threshold, and Nick took a warning step of his own. The man sighed like someone who’d arrived to do a small job and found a bigger one waiting.

And then Nick was frowning too, as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. ‘What …’ His voice trailed off.

Something made Joan look again at the duffel bag.

It wasn’t a bag. Joan lurched forward. ‘Margie?’ Her voice came out strained and thin. ‘What did you do?’ she blurted to the man. ‘What did you do?’

Margie had fallen at an angle, legs tucked under her like she was curled up on the sofa at home. The boxes of meringues had fallen beside her, spilling out over the wet ground. Around her face, wisps of golden hair lifted in the breeze. The rain had stopped, but water dripped from the eaves, striking her face. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes were wide and blank.

‘Little butterfly of a thing,’ the man said contemptuously. ‘Guess she would have died in a few months anyway.’

Joan couldn’t take it in. She shook her head disbelievingly, picturing the man lifting his hand to Margie’s neck, and then siphoning all her life with one touch. ‘No,’ she breathed, as if by saying it she could make it untrue. That Margie would again just be walking up to the charity. That she’d be back in ten minutes.

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