by C J Parsons
And then it returned to her: that first, fleeting impression that she’d seen him somewhere before.
But where? She closed her eyes, trying to pin it down. But the memory stayed maddeningly out of reach, like a fish that slipped through her fingers as she reached for it.
She shook her head. ‘I have an impression that I met you at some point before the abduction, but I can’t recall when or where.’
He slung an arm across the sofa-back and smiled. What kind of smile was that, she wondered. Warm? Scornful? Disappointed? She wished she could tell.
‘Innovative Design of the Year.’
Carrie tilted her head, puzzled by the sudden reference to an award she’d won . . . what, two months ago now? The trophy was in her office drawer: a sloping glass rectangle mounted on a bronze cube, her name etched across the front. But how did . . .
Then, at last, a bubble of memory popped to the surface. Of course. She had it now.
‘You presented the award.’
‘Yes. My magazine sponsors the competition.’
Osman, her boss, had nominated her design and insisted that she attend the ceremony. It was the sort of social situation of which Carrie’s nightmares were made: sitting rigidly at a big table, the air filled with other people’s words and laughter. She remembered the surprise of her name being called and Osman’s voice whispering that she should ‘say something’ as she got up to collect her prize. So she had said: ‘I am very pleased to have won this award.’
More must have been expected, because there was a long silence as she stood on the stage, stomach twisting, a sea of faces aimed her way. Then came one or two isolated claps before the rest of the room joined in to make proper applause.
An excruciating evening from start to finish. But every now and then, when she was alone in the office, Carrie would take the trophy out of her drawer and feel a small glow at the sight of her name there: proof that, for once, she had been chosen.
‘We shook hands,’ she recalled. Now that she had matched his face to the award presenter, details were rushing back. ‘You congratulated me.’
‘I did. I thought your work was inspired. I had hoped to talk to you about it at the post-ceremony drinks, but you disappeared before I had the chance. The way you incorporated those shop facades . . . Brilliant. Simply brilliant.’ He took a sip of coffee, watching her over the cup’s rim. ‘But, as I recall, not everyone agreed. At least, not at the beginning.’
‘That’s right.’ She remembered the arguments she’d had – with her boss, with the client – when she’d said she wanted to preserve the little row of Victorian shop fronts running through the middle of the leisure centre site, with their quaint signs (‘Sweets and Sundries’, ‘Tripe House’, ‘Books, Typewriters, Adding Machines’). ‘They wanted to knock them all down.’
‘But you stood your ground.’
‘Yes.’ She picked up her cup and sat back, taking a drink.
‘I’d love to hear about your process, how you arrived at the final design. That is . . . if you don’t mind talking about it?’
‘No, I don’t mind talking.’ And for once, it was true. Carrie explained, step-by-step, how she’d integrated the shop facades into a covered courtyard so that their freshly sanded facades lined one side: the Victorian past facing into the sleek, glass-ceiling present, all of it steeped in natural light.
She hadn’t realised how much time had passed until she took another sip of coffee and found that it had grown cold. She became conscious of herself again, aware of the words that had been flowing from her, without the usual jolts and stalls. It was easily the longest conversation she’d had since the breakup with Simon. And even back then, it had never been like this. With Simon, the gaps had been filled by his endless supply of chatter. With Josh, there were simply no gaps to fill.
He must have edged towards her along the sofa while they were talking, because now he was just a few inches away, entering the outer edge of her personal space. His eyes looked straight into hers and she felt something shift, as though her stomach was filled with loose shards, tumbling against each other, creating friction.
She cleared her throat. ‘Would you like more coffee? I can—’
‘Mummy?’
She turned towards her daughter’s voice. Sofia was standing halfway down the stairs in her pyjamas, staring at Josh with a delighted smile.
‘There she is! Just the girl I was looking for.’ He picked up the pink gift bag from the floor and took out a box wrapped in silver paper, placing it on the coffee table. ‘I brought you something.’
Sofia raced down the stairs and knelt on the floor beside it, fingers fidgeting against the wrapped borders.
‘Mummy, can I open it now?’
Carrie got as far as ‘Yes, if you . . .’ before the gift was torn open in a flurry of silver scraps. When Sofia saw what was inside the box, her mouth made an O shape.
‘This looks like . . . no way!’ Her voice turned shrill with excitement. ‘It is!’
She lifted the purple plastic case from its box. Carrie recognised it at once: a container filled with the ‘Lolly Pets’ that were all the rage at Sofia’s school. And not just any container: the ‘Pet Vet’ – a collectible case containing multiple animal figures and their accessories, outrageously overpriced at sixty pounds. But it was popular. So popular, in fact, that the Pet Vet had sold out across London. Carrie knew this because she’d tried unsuccessfully to buy one ahead of Sofia’s birthday.
‘Wow!’
‘Say thank you,’ Carrie said. Funny, how she always remembered to prompt her daughter to say the things she herself so often forgot to say – especially in situations where she couldn’t understand the logic behind them (‘How are you?’ ‘Very well, thank you.’ That one baffled her. Were you giving someone else credit for your own state of health?).
Sofia looked up at Josh, face rapt.
‘Thank you!’
‘Where did you find it?’ Carrie asked. ‘I’ve been hunting for one online for the last month.’
‘When I decide I want something, I don’t give up until I get it.’ His eyes stayed on hers as he said this.
Sofia climbed up onto the sofa between them, flinging her arms around Josh’s neck.
‘This is the best present ever in the universe!’
He ruffled her hair. ‘Well, the two of us have shared a big adventure. And you were so brave. I thought bravery like that deserved a prize.’
There was a beeping sound from the kitchen: the oven timer.
‘Bread. For our breakfast,’ Carrie explained, before striding towards it.
Now Josh would be socially obligated to leave so as not to delay their meal. She was surprised by a pang of disappointment. Normally it would have made her uncomfortable, having someone she barely knew in the house. She took out the baking tin and placed it on the stove before returning to the living area, intending to escort him to the door.
‘Why doesn’t Josh have breakfast with us, Mummy?’ asked Sofia, still nestled beside him on the sofa. She turned and looked up at him. ‘You can stay, can’t you? Pleeease?’ She clasped her hands together as though in prayer.
He laughed. ‘How could I possibly say no to an invitation like that? Unless—’ His gaze moved to Carrie. ‘Is that OK with you? Maybe you’d prefer some alone time with Sofia? And, of course, you probably haven’t made enough food for a last-minute interloper . . .’
‘No, I baked a whole loaf. And there’s plenty of cheese and jam.’
He rubbed his hands together.
‘Well, in that case, I would be delighted to join you. But only on the condition that you let me take the two of you out for a meal next time.’ He directed his next words at Sofia. ‘Have you heard of the Rainforest Café?’
Her eyes seemed to double in size.
‘I’ve never been, but Kathy from Yea
r Two went for a birthday party and says it’s just like being in a real jungle with robot gorillas hitting their own chests and birds squawking and scary storms with thunder and lightning!’
‘Not too scary for you, I hope?’
Sofia shook her head firmly. ‘No way. I’m brave.’
‘That is certainly true. In fact, maybe you’re too brave for the Rainforest Café. Maybe it would be boring for you.’ He gave Carrie a wink. She was fairly sure it was the conspiratorial kind, like a shared joke, so she took a chance and winked back. That must have been right, because he smiled at her.
‘So what do you think, Carrie?’ Josh asked, as she sat back down on the other side of her daughter. ‘Are you willing to brave the Rainforest of Piccadilly?’
Sofia hugged Carrie’s nearest arm with both of hers.
‘Please say yes, Mummy, pleeease?’
She looked down into the pleading brown eyes. Of course she was going to say yes. She would do anything for her daughter right now, even if it meant placing herself in a complex social situation. She looked over the top of Sofia’s head at Josh and was surprised by the realisation that she actually wanted to go. That she felt pleased to have been invited.
‘Yes.’
She was about to tack on one of those phrases people used in these situations (‘That would be lovely’ or ‘It’s kind of you to ask’), but before she had the chance, Josh clapped his hands together and said: ‘Excellent! It’s a date.’
‘Yay!’ Sofia cheered. And Carrie formed her mouth into the shape of a smile, so he could see how she felt inside.
This man held his daughter captive and sliced open her skin with a knife.
Juliet had to keep reminding herself of this fact. Because she was having trouble reconciling it with the man now seated across from her, hands clasped in his lap, an untouched glass of water on the interview-room table in front of him. She had known, of course, that Sofia’s father would be lucid; Clearbrook wouldn’t have released him otherwise. But what she hadn’t anticipated was the sheer charisma of the man. Simon Ryder was warm, likeable and articulate: everything that Carrie was not.
‘Do you see why I wanted to bring this piece of information to your attention?’ he was saying now. Ryder’s gaze shifted from her to Alistair and back again, pausing to establish eye contact with each of them. ‘Can you see why I believe it’s significant?’
Juliet tilted her head as she considered Ryder’s theory and the information he’d built it on. It could mean something . . . or nothing at all.
‘I agree that this may be very significant. On the other hand, it might just be a coincidence. But you can rest assured that we have taken it on board and will pursue every line of enquiry.’
Simon gave her a long, probing look, and she had the sense that he was searching her face for clues, trying to work out whether or not she was humouring him. He must have been satisfied with what he found, because he sagged back against the interview-room chair with a sigh, looking relieved. He’d probably been worried they wouldn’t take his theory seriously, given his mental health history.
‘Good.’ He scrubbed his face with his palms. ‘Thank you.’
Alistair leaned forwards, parking his elbows on the table, and Juliet caught a sour whiff of BO. The room’s air conditioner was on full, but it was waging a losing battle against the heatwave. June was less than a week behind them and already it was thirty-four degrees outside. It didn’t feel right; Britain wasn’t built for this sort of heat.
‘When did you and Carrie first meet?’ Alistair asked.
‘I guess it would have been . . . about a year and a half before Sofia was born,’ Simon said. Then he crossed his arms, frowning. ‘I don’t understand, though; how could my romantic history with Carrie possibly be relevant, given that the relationship ended more than two years ago?’
Alistair folded his hands on the table. ‘At this point, we can’t say what is and isn’t relevant, so you’ll just have to bear with us.’ Irritation tinged the words. Unlike Juliet, he clearly hadn’t warmed to Ryder. Which didn’t surprise her; the DI came from a staunchly working-class background, and she’d noticed the way he soured in the face of posh accents and Oxbridge educations.
Juliet gave Ryder a smile. ‘The fuller the picture we can build of past and current patterns, habits and associations, the better.’
He sighed, dragging fingers through his hair. ‘OK then. My relationship with Carrie began six months before she got pregnant with Sofia. We met at a clinic, I asked her out for a drink and we just . . . clicked.’
‘Clicked?’ Juliet echoed. ‘Really?’
He side-smiled. ‘I know you may find that hard to believe. But it’s true. She wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met before. It’s what I loved about her.’ He paused, eyes becoming distant. ‘Love about her. She is caring and sensitive and passionate. The fact that those things stay hidden beneath the surface . . . for me, that just made them more special. Other women seem melodramatic and self-indulgent by comparison. Exhibitionists, parading their emotions for all the world to see. Fake too: full of platitudes and meaningless bullshit. Telling everyone to “have a good day”. As if someone might have been planning to have a shit day, but now that you’ve told them not to, they’re going to change course and opt for a good one instead.’ Juliet shifted self-consciously in her seat. She had said those very words on her way into the station, to a couple of PCs leaving after the nightshift. Ryder was right. The exchange was pointless and empty: a meaningless word-swap. ‘I don’t say stuff like that any more,’ he continued. ‘Because of Carrie. She is the truest person I have ever known.’ He tugged the collar of his heat-damp T-shirt, letting air underneath. Juliet considered the Cambridge University logo across the front. Ryder had graduated more than a decade ago. It seemed a little odd that he was still wearing it.
Alistair picked up Ryder’s file and flipped through it. ‘So you and Carrie had only been together six months when she got pregnant.’
‘Yes. It wasn’t planned. There was a . . . a condom malfunction.’
‘How did you feel about the pregnancy?’
‘I was happy about it . . . once I’d had a chance to get used to the idea. Carrie was less sure, because of her condition. And my . . . episodes. But I convinced her it could work.’ His voice softened. ‘And Sofia was the result.’
‘Did the three of you live together?’
‘Not at first, though I was at her place all the time, so we might as well have been. I gave up my flat and officially moved in after Carrie’s maternity leave ended, when Sofia had just turned one. I worked in the evenings so was able to handle childcare during the day.’
‘And that living arrangement went on for . . .’ Alistair flipped over the page in his hand, scanning the words on the back. ‘Two years and three months. Would you say it was successful?’
‘Yes . . . Well, it was for the first year and a half or so. I was taking my meds, my relationship with Carrie was in a good place and I like to think that I’m a good dad.’ His eyes dropped to his lap. ‘Was. I was a good dad.’
‘You’re really struggling with your tenses today, aren’t you?’ Alistair said, putting down the page. ‘Loved – love. Am – was.’ He sat back, interlacing his fingers on top of his head. ‘Do you find grammar complicated?’
Simon gave him a tired smile. ‘I find life complicated.’
Juliet picked up the page Alistair had discarded, eyes moving down it to the section entitled ‘Employment History’.
‘London Walks,’ she read aloud. ‘I gather that was the evening work you mentioned?’
‘Yeah. I led historical tours of the city. I wore a Jack the Ripper costume and showed people round murder scenes in Whitechapel.’
Alistair lifted an eyebrow ‘And this . . . serial killer tribute act paid enough to cover the bills?’
‘No. I did some bartendi
ng too. Occasional research gigs – historical research – on a freelance basis.’
‘Right.’ Alistair made no attempt to hide his scorn. ‘In other words, Carrie was the main bread winner.’
‘Yeah.’ A sigh passed through Simon’s body like a storm swell, lifting his shoulders then dropping them back down again, leaving him lower than before. Smaller. Juliet’s eyes returned to the wash-worn Cambridge T-shirt. Maybe he’d held on to it for so long because it reminded him of the last time he’d felt successful, back when his future had shimmered on the horizon, warm and beckoning,
And watching Ryder’s face, seeing the defeat there, she knew, in a flash of instinct, that this was what had broken them.
Alistair opened his mouth to fire off another question, but she jumped in first.
‘Why did you and Carrie split up?’
There was a long pause. Ryder seemed to suddenly notice the glass of water on the table in front of him. He picked it up.
‘I was an arsehole.’ He took a sip of water. Then gave Juliet a tired smile. ‘I’m guessing you’ll want me to elaborate, since we arseholes are an eclectic breed.’
‘Elaboration would be helpful, yes.’
He took a longer sip of water then wiped his lips with the side of a finger.
‘I blamed her for my lack of success: the fact that I was taking care of a baby instead of building a career. Which was a steaming pile of shite. I was the one who’d insisted on being a stay-at-home dad. We could just as easily have put Sofia in a nursery. But at that point my old uni chums were scaling a dizzying array of ladders to success while I was heading off to work dressed up in a costume like a sprog at Halloween. I felt like a loser and I needed someone to blame. So I blamed her, blindsiding her with my guilt-trips and self-pity. I’d promised to always translate my facial expressions and body language into words for her, but I stopped doing that, leaving her lost and bewildered. Until the relationship broke down completely. At the time, she assumed it was her fault. That things fell apart because of her condition.’ The glass returned to the table with a loud clack. ‘But it was all on me.’
