I took my time answering. ‘Yes. Yes, he absolutely would. And it’s not the only thing that’s happened.’
I told Dylan about the man asking for the redhead, only noticing my trembling hands when he handed me some tea.
‘Wow.’ He ran fingers through his messy hair, face pale. ‘Have you told the police?’
‘They’re doing all they can.’
‘Which isn’t a lot.’
I shook my head.
‘Maybe you should think about not living on your own for a while?’ He cleared his throat. ‘You could stay with Perry.’
Except Perry knows nothing about this whole situation.
Sam had fallen asleep by the time we returned to the living room. I told Dylan we’d be fine if he left, but the closing of the flat door jolted Sam awake.
‘It’s fine, Sam. Just Dylan leaving.’
He lay back down. ‘Oh. He’s not bad for a priest.’
‘He’s not a priest.’
It was only then that it hit me. Dylan was a minister. Of a church. Churches met on Sunday mornings. I knew Grace Chapel met ten-thirty every Sunday morning because a great big sign outside the main door announced it every time I walked past.
Grace Church boasted about sixty members. They only had one minister.
Dylan had missed the church service to come and sit with Sam, a man he’d never met. Because I’d asked him to.
Perry had wanted me to go on a river cruise.
What a good job I had a heart of toughened leather. Otherwise, it wouldn’t stand a chance.
My first ten months in the big city were, to put it bluntly, horrific. Working in a just-about-legal bar and living in a decidedly non-legal bedsit taught me how to woman up. Inside, I was still beaten down, but I learned how to stand tall, watch my back and fight my corner.
I worked all the shifts I could get, smiled at men who made me sick to boost my tips, lived on little more than bar snacks, and counted every single penny. Eventually, I got a new job in a bar that required its staff to wear shirts and trousers over their underwear, and threw out the men who pawed our bodies, instead of giving them a prime position in front of the stage. Like incy wincy spider, I began my slow, slippery, determined climb back up. After a few more months, I scrimped enough deposit together to move into a one-room apartment. On the eleventh floor of a rundown, syringe-strewn, rat-infested block of flats. But I had my own toilet. I had a shower, a kitchen area with four cupboards, and a two-ring hob. I had something resembling a sanctuary and glorious privacy. A tiny smidge of security behind my locks and bolts and window bars.
I also had no friends, no self-worth and no peace. What about Sam? Where was he? In prison? Dead? Sober?
I thought about him every night as I lay on my wilting, blow-up bed, staring at the stains on the ceiling and listening to the gangs of boys laughing and brawling on the concrete beneath my window. Did he think about me?
After another four months, I plucked up the courage to call Grandma’s house. Bile rising in my throat, fingers barely able to hit the right keys.
‘Hello?’
‘Sam.’ I reeled back, slumping onto my bed with relief.
‘Faith? Where are you? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. I’m in London. How are you?’
‘Um. Yeah. I’m good.’ He took a moment to recover. ‘I’m an artist now. I paint.’
‘Wow. That’s great.’
‘Yeah. I’m doing all right. Not enough to make me rich, but it’s a living.’
‘So, is it just you, in the house?’
