Tom Bale - Skin and Bones

A glance to her left was all it took. A simple glance as she pushedopen the door to the village shop. If she had kept her eyes straightahead, or looked to the right instead, she might never have becomeinvolved. She might have been spared.

Her conscious mind, bruised by the experience of the past month,refused to believe what it had seen. But her subconscious knew andunderstood.

There was a dead man in the street.

It was the third Saturday of January, not quite eight in the morning.She parked outside her parents' cottage on the outskirts of the villageand decided to delay the day's grim task by a few minutes. The storewas no more than fifty or sixty yards away, tucked around a bend atthe foot of the High Street: a ludicrous name for a place with onlyone shop and one pub.

Julia was thirty-one, a tall slender woman with dark shoulder-lengthhair. She taught at a junior school in Newhaven, and like the bestteachers she had perfected a good-natured toughness that equippedher to cope with the worst that any ten-year-old could throw at her.In the past few weeks she had needed that resilience more than ever.

Her breath rose in clouds as she walked along the edge of thenarrow road. A clean shimmer of frost lay over the grass verge. Rooftiles sparkled in the late Downland sunrise. The air tasted clean andsharp, and made her wish she was out jogging. Made her wish shehad the day free to do as she chose.

It took her less than a minute to reach the shop. In that time shedidn't see or hear another soul. No traffic, no tradesmen, no walkersor cyclists. But it was a Saturday, she reasoned. It was January. It wascold.

At the point where she glanced to her left, she had a clear viewalong the High Street, all the way to the Green Man pub at the northend of the village. There was a Royal Mail van parked at the kerb upby the church, facing towards her. She vaguely noticed the rear doorswere open. If there was a body, it was lying in the road just beyondthe van, only the feet visible.

Telling herself she must be mistaken, Julia entered the shop.

A bell rang as she stepped inside. The air was deliciously warm, withan aroma that always prompted a smile: a cosy blend of bread rolls,sliced ham, newsprint and mailbags. The kind of smell you'd like tobottle for nostalgia. Essence of village store.

The shopkeeper, Moira Beaumont, was a small twitchy woman inher fifties. She pulled her baggy cardigan together in response to thedraught.

'Hello, love. You're an early bird. Don't tell me you stayedovernight?'

Julia's curt shake of her head disguised a shudder. 'I've just drivenhere,' she said, adding, 'I can't keep putting it off.'

Moira nodded sadly. 'It's Lewes where you live, isn't it?' She spokeas though the county town was some distant exotic locale, when infact it was less than ten miles away. But then Chilton was the sort ofplace where people still returned from Brighton, outraged by beggarsin the street and the brazen display of homosexual love.

Julia browsed the newspapers for a minute, aware of Moira's slyscrutiny. Trying to spot a crack in the facade. A couple of weeks agoit would have bothered her, but she was used to it by now. All thingsconsidered, she felt she was coping pretty well.

So why the body in the street? her subconscious piped up.Hallucinations were hardly a sign of robust mental health.

Pushing the thought aside, she picked up the Guardian, a cartonof semi-skimmed milk and on impulse a packet of chocolate biscuits.She had a long and difficult day ahead: she deserved a treat.

When she reached the counter Moira leaned over and grasped herhand. Even before she spoke, Julia knew she was going to use thegentle hushed tone that people reserve for the recently bereaved.

'I just want to say, I'm dreadfully sorry for what happened. Theywere such a lovely couple.'

Julia swallowed and nodded tersely. She had learned just how easilysuch expressions of sympathy could unlock the grief.

'Is your brother not coming to help clear the house?' Moira asked,taking Julia's five-pound note and prodding at the till.

'He offered, but it seems ridiculous when he's up in Cheshire.'

'I suppose so. What a shame you and Peter aren't still together,'said Moira, blithely unaware of her tactlessness. 'I know your motheralways thought you were made for each other.'

'So did I,' said Julia. Another subject she was keen to avoid.

'But you've a new feller now, haven't you? I can't remember hisname...'

'Steve.'

'That's it. Steve.' Moira gave a rather disdainful sniff. Probablyremembering Mum's verdict on him, Julia thought.

'I'm not sure it's got much future, to be honest,' she said.

Moira clicked her tongue. 'You've really been in the wars, haven'tyou?' There was a moment when Julia felt sure she was going to saysomething about bad news coming in threes, but perhaps thoughtbetter of it. Instead she puffed out a breath. 'I'd give you a hand myself,but Len's away to Leicester to watch the football. Time off for goodbehaviour,' she added wryly.

Julia grinned. 'I'll be fine. And if I don't get it finished today...well, there's no great hurry.'

'You'll feel better when it's done, believe me.' Moira pressed herhands together as if in prayer. 'In my experience, it's the most unexpectedthings that can catch you out. If they do, you know whereto find me.'

'Thanks.' Julia propped the biscuits under her arm and picked upthe milk. For the sake of conversation, she said, 'Quiet round herethis morning.'

Moira took a moment to consider. 'I suppose it is. I had a coupleof folk in when I opened at seven, Mrs Collins and Tom Bradburywith those ruddy dogs of his. But it's freezing out there. I bet everyone'sdecided to stay in bed, lucky beggars.'

'I expect that's it,' Julia agreed.

When she reached the door, Moira called, 'Keep in touch, won'tyou? Don't be a stranger!'