Meeting Across The River. 1975.

Newark. 1978.

He always called me Cherry. ‘My name’s Cheryl’, I’d say to him, particularly when I was angry, but he never got it right. I think he reckoned it was the only part of our relationship he had some control over.

That night, I’d locked him out. Three chains, two bolts and a big chest of drawers just to make sure. It was about two in the morning, two-thirty. Bang! Bang! The knocking woke me. I knew it was him. I got up, walked over to the door, moved the chest out of the way, took all the chains off, undid the bolts, opened it. He had a huge smile on his face, waved a big wad of cash in his hand. ‘Done it darlin’. Me and Eddie done it. Twenty-five grand!’ He threw himself at me, hugged me, pushed me back into the room, onto the bed. I was angry with him and I was proud of him. He put the money on the bedside locker, kissed me, kissed me again. I couldn’t believe he’d got it right, couldn’t believe he’d saved us. We fucked and we dozed and then we fucked again and it was morning.

The sun was bright, bright for November. He kissed me, said ‘I’m going to get some cigarettes.’ I smiled, watched him get up, get dressed. Just before he shut the door behind him, he turned and winked at me. ‘I love you,’ he said.

I heard his footsteps echo down the hallway. I closed my eyes, listened to the traffic outside. I was happy. Maybe he was OK. Maybe we would be OK. I smiled again and then I heard the screech of brakes and a silence and a woman’s scream. I knew what had happened, straight away.