Rita stood in the middle of Connie's kitchen, her coffee cup left on the side. She had taken a sip but the it was much too strong. She didn't want to drink something that would undoubtedly keep her awake when all she wanted was the anonymity of sleep.
Instead she looked about herself. The kitchen was silent except for the low hum of what she assumed to be the fridge freezer standing there in the corner, a long sleek black appliance with a front so glossy that It showed her own reflection right back at her as though it were a full length mirror. She could see the smudge of her mascara and the limp blonde hair that stuck to her head with sweat despite the cold.
She folded her arms across her chest and moved away so that she could no longer see herself. She found herself moving slowly, taking in everything, the solid stone worktops, the hardwood floors without one creaking board...
She stopped in front of a door that was pulled to, she pushed on it, the room beyond was dark and she stepped in, feeling for the light switch and flicking it on.
It was a small room, the walls were lined with white painted shelves that were packed so full of books that if Rita hadn't noticed the glimpse of paint in one corner near the skirting board, she would never have known that the room was painted a pale sage green.
The only furniture in the room was a desk, an overly large piece made of dark knotted wood with a top that was inset with dark red leather studded all around the edge with gold, she assumed it must be an antique, or perhaps a family heir loom.
She approached it, there was a chair set before it, set slightly to one angle as if Connie had got up and left and forgotten to return. An A4 notebook was left open, a simple black BIC Biro lay on top, and right in the corner of the paper was a scribble from where Connie had been trying to get the pen to work. A large wine glass was set to the left of the notepad, the stain of red wine left right at the bottom, and as Rita looked closer she could see the soft pink imprint of Connie's bottom lip left against the rim of the glass.
Rita placed her hand over the open page, she imagined Connie sitting here in the evenings after work, paper work stacked up, glass of wine in hand, frustrated by this temperamental black Biro.
She must have been sitting here last night, she realised. She ran her hand across the arm of the chair where Connie must have reclined, feeling some odd, unexplainable comfort in the fact that she was touching the cool wood of the chair where last night Connie's body against it would have left it warm.
She exhaled, her breath sounding loud. It was all too normal, too painful. The Connie that was here last night had no idea that the following evening she would be held down and...
She found she couldn't even bring herself to think the words in her own head. Instead she backed away from the room as though she had been scalded by it's innocence. If she hadn't asked Connie to meet her after work then none of this would have happened, Connie wouldn't have put herself through that, just for her.
For a moment, standing back in the kitchen, she thought about that. Connie had sacrificed herself so that Rita was left unharmed, and thought she was so painfully grateful, she couldn't begin to imagine why she had done it. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. It was past midnight, she could see the reflection of the clock behind her in the fridge. She forced herself to leave the kitchen to find the guest room. She made sure to take the stairs slowly, careful not to make a noise.
Once on the landing she glanced at the array of doors, all identical, all white except for one in the far corner, left slightly open, and Rita made her way to it, pushing open the door.
Inside the room was illuminated by a bedside lamp. It was a pale, pretty room, everything was white, except for the dark wood flooring, and the bed in the centre took up most of the room, with only a small night stand and a wardrobe to match.
The bed was high, she touched her fingers to the clothes Connie had set out on the bed. The jumper, she remembered that jumper. She remembered Connie berating her whilst she wore it, and still she had thought how beautiful she had looked in it. She touched it, it was soft beneath her fingertips, and all of a sudden she wanted to take a pair of scissors to it. She wanted to cut through the fading of colour and shred it, leaving it as a crumpled mass of fraying wool on the floor.
She drew in a breath. She wanted to cry. A lump ached so painfully in her throat. She wished Connie were here, wearing that jumper, standing before her. She wished she could fall into her arms and just understand...
She cleared her throat and blinked against the blur of tears. She turned her attention to the pyjamas, picking them up, she remembered Connie saying how her room would be next to the bathroom. She held the pyjamas against her chest and made her way next door, turning on the light in the small bathroom.
She wondered briefly where Connie slept, and whether or not from wherever she was she was listening to Rita moving about in her house. She wondered if she could sleep, if she was crying, or if she was laying in bed, feeling that same fear as she felt herself.
Standing in front of the sink she set the pyjamas on the windowsill and stripped herself free of her clothes. She ignored the mirror, instead she used one of the clean, white flannels to wash herself with. She rinsed her arms and chest, her face and she ran her wet fingers through her hair, smoothing it free from her face, picking out the bits of a dead twig that she found right at the back of her head.
Finally she squeezed out the water from the flannel and hung it over the tap to dry before pulling on the pyjamas, she smiled as she stepped into the trousers, they were too long, but when she pulled the shirt about her body and began to button it up, she paused. She could smell her. The pyjamas smelled unmistakeably of Connie, not the woman she knew at work, the crisp smell of her perfume, the floral smell of her shampoo or the sweet powdery scent of make up...the pyjamas smelled of all of those things, but they were masked by the scent of something else, of wine laced on Connie's breath, of sleepless late nights where she had tossed and turned in the heat, unable to do anything but stare into the darkness, wishing for sleep.
Rita bought the collar of the shirt she wore up to her nose so that she could breathe in the smell even deeper. This was the Connie that nobody saw.
She buttoned the shirt up and shifted slightly, settling into the silk and hoping it would soon warm up, and gathering her things she made her way back to the guest room.
Connie hadn't drawn the curtains she realised, she made her way over to the window, and before she closed them she looked out. She could barely make out the trees, and the blink of a car in the distance. She raised her eyes to the sky, and noticed the dim light from above her. So that's where she was, directly above, she realised, watching the light against the sky that came from Connie's bedroom.
The faraway sound of heels caught her attention and she lowered her gaze back down to the street, watching as a woman walked by, her coat pulled tightly around her, her footsteps hurried, her face lowered.
The only people out at this hour were ones who couldn't sleep, those haunted by one thing or another: love thwarted, love lost, love thrown away. They were the sort of people who didn't want to be noticed, who wanted to slip through shadows, be alone with their despair, and Rita thought briefly how if it wasn't for Connie, up there all by herself, then she too would have probably preferred to be wandering the streets now, looking for answers.
But she couldn't leave, the thought of leaving Connie in this house on her own after what she had endured made her stomach ache and for a moment she thought she might throw up.
Instead she took a deep breath and pulled the curtains closed before turning back to face the bed.
She would find them, she vowed as she crawled into bed, pushing her feet down beneath the duvet. She would find out who those men were who had forced Connie down onto her knees.
She would find them, and she would make them pay for what they had done.