The New Woman Read Online Free

tonight,’ she said. ‘But I expect you’re rushing back to Owen, are you? Or did he meet you at the airport?’
    Kate thought about Owen’s place, and the bin bags with her things stuffed into them. He’d be hanging around like a moray eel under a rock, waiting for her to turn up so that he could play mind games. Suddenly she wanted to be at home again, wearing fluffy socks, drinking tea in the kitchen with her mum and chortling at Blackadder with her dad.
    ‘Um . . .’ she said. ‘I might come home tomorrow. I have to be there Sunday anyway, don’t I, when we plant Grandad’s tree? I’ll just arrive a day early.’
    ‘Terrific! Wonderful! And Owen too?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘He’s very welcome.’
    ‘He can’t get away from work.’
    Kate could hear her mother’s antennae whirling around. That woman had some weird telepathic gift. When Kate had first litup a cigarette, at the age of thirteen, she knew immediately. Kate had no idea how, because she’d gargled for about ten minutes with minty mouthwash, but Mum went ballistic and stopped her pocket money for a month. Her own father had died of lung cancer, so perhaps it was fair enough. When Kate was being bullied at school, she guessed that too, and went storming off to see the class teacher. It made things worse, but Kate appreciated her going into battle.
    ‘All well between you and Owen?’ Eilish asked now.
    ‘Sorry? The train’s coming in. Can’t hear a thing.’
    Eilish started bellowing like a foghorn. ‘CAN . . . YOU . . . HEAR . . . ME . . . NOW?’
    ‘It’s no good, I’ve lost you. I’ll phone tomorrow. Bye, Mum.’
    Bloody typical , Kate thought sourly as she lurched down the carriage, smacking people in the face with her backpack. Owen’s a saint in her eyes. He can do no wrong, even though he’s a total dildo.
    It was her last coherent thought before she fell asleep with her head on the shoulder of the Japanese tourist in the next seat.

Three
    Luke
    Rumbling. A train, passing beneath my feet. The keys were cutting into my fist. They were my certainty, in the darkness and rain. I needed them because everything was ready in the flat. I wasn’t afraid of dying, you see. I was afraid of living.
    I hadn’t got into that black cab. I’d let go of the door, stumbled out of the station and into the rain. Now I had no idea how long I’d been walking, and I didn’t care. What did time matter? I was non-existent in the bustle of humanity. I felt so much like a ghost that I accidentally collided with a group of city suits as they stood smoking, huddled under a dripping canopy outside one of the bars near the Barbican. Bless them, they were in a jovial weekend mood. They assumed I’d had one too many; they even offered me a cigarette.
    Indecision was tearing at me. I would shatter Eilish by my death or by telling her the truth. Either way, I would lose her. There were no other options. You might find that impossible to understand, but, believe me, there were none. I had twisted and turned and come to this final, inescapable conclusion.
    The pubs emptied; the traffic thinned. Blocked gutters became muddy streams through which I waded. People eyed me as I walked past, puzzled by my saturated clothes and aimlessness.My overnight bag was slung over one shoulder, my briefcase in the other hand. They felt more and more heavy. I thought of dumping the overnight bag into a skip, but there were things in it that I didn’t want to be found. If I was going to end my life tonight, I must dispose of them more carefully.
    It was long after midnight. There was a blister on my right heel, but I limped on. The night buses were carrying Friday-night revellers home, windscreen wipers flicking, when I turned into Thurso Lane.
    Well done! purred The Thought. Its voice was affectionate and understanding, as though coaxing a tired toddler on a long journey. Nearly there. Soon you can put down those things you’ve been carrying. You can let go of the tree, at long