‘That only happens in the movies, Mum.’ I laughed. I knew that was ridiculous. ‘Don’t you think he’d have told the police if he had information?’
I dig my bitten-down fingernails into my palms.
Not everyone calls the police when something bad happens.
And then that morning is in my head, boiling me from the inside out. I was lying on my bed – hating myself, hating everything in my life, feeling wretched and dirty – and then I was at my window, drawn by the sound of the front door opening and closing. I wanted to see who had gone out.
Below, Dad went out of the front gate, walking off down the road and seeming in no particular hurry. Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.
In a flash decision, I went after him.
But only because I’d wanted answers.
‘When did I last see my dad?’ Tom asks, repeating my question. He thinks hard, sucking in breath. ‘If I’m honest, it was quite a while ago. He’s so busy with work. But that’s not unusual—’
‘When, Tom?’
‘I think it was when he dropped me off at my accommodation last September. He was in Qatar over Christmas, but that’s not unusual either. Mum’s always busy with the hotel and—’
‘Has he written to you? Called you? Emailed you? Sent texts?’ I grab him by the arm, more roughly than I intended, but he doesn’t pull away.
‘What’s with the inquisition?’
I hate doing this, but I need to know how much contact he’s had. His face is honest and puzzled all at the same time. The same expression he wore when he left the audition to answer my call last autumn.
‘Please, answer me.’
‘Yes, of course. He’s done all of those things except send letters. It’s Mum who writes to me.’
There’s another griping pain in my stomach as I remember.
‘Why, Hannah? I don’t understand.’
‘Phone your dad,’ I say.
‘Sure . . . if it helps,’ he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. ‘But he’ll be mad as hell. He’s in Seattle right now and the time’s way behind us.’ He looks at his watch. ‘It’s about four a.m. there and—’
‘Better still, video-call him.’
I think of Mum, tell myself I’m doing this for her. For Jacob.
‘Fine,’ Tom says, mystified. ‘Whatever helps you.’ He taps his phone, opening up FaceTime.
I pull back, making certain I’m out of shot. I want it to look as though Tom’s alone. I listen as the line connects, turning into a shrill ringtone.
It rings for ages, but no one answers.
‘He’ll be asleep,’ he says, hanging up.
‘Try again.’
Tom sighs, redialling, but there’s still no reply.
‘Hannah, if you’d just explain, I might be able to help. Why do you want to speak to my dad? What am I supposed to say when he asks why I’ve woken him?’
‘I . . . I don’t really . . .’ I stop, clenching my stomach.
‘Han, are you OK?’ Tom puts the phone on the arm of the sofa, wrapping his arm round me. ‘You look pale. Do you want some water?’
‘Yes please,’ I say, nodding. ‘It’s just this bug . . . sorry.’
I put my head down as he leaves the room, fighting against the nausea and the dizziness. But a moment later a familiar sound makes me whip it up again. Tom’s phone is right next to me – ringing, vibrating.
The words Dad and FaceTime glow brightly beneath a generic image of blue sky and clouds. My hand reaches out as if it’s not even part of me, as if my entire life is detached from the rotting person I’ve become inside.
My finger hovers over the answer button.
I take a deep breath and accept the call.
‘Tom?’ I hear, though it’s crackly and muffled. ‘It’s Dad . . .’ The picture breaks in and out with a bright flare behind. ‘Can you see me?’
No, I think, I can’t. But then I suddenly realise that he can see me. Quickly, I put my finger over the camera.
‘What’s happened? The screen’s gone all blank . . .’
I stare at the black silhouette of Tom’s father, holding him out at arm’s length, unable to move.
‘Are you there?’ he says, sounding impatient and agitated.
I don’t say a word, though I’m worried he’ll hear my fast breathing, work out that it’s not his son calling.
‘Is everything OK? Hello . . . ?’
I force myself to end the call just as Tom comes back with a glass of water. I toss the phone on to the sofa, screwing up my eyes, wondering if that was the man who killed my brother. The pain in my stomach has passed, but I pretend it’s the reason why I’m doubled up, unable to move.
‘Thanks.’ I take the glass.
He sits down beside me, letting out a little sigh when I rest my head on his shoulder. He puts his arm round me. I’m so confused. So scared.
‘Tom . . .’ I begin, but I stop. I have no idea how to tell him that behind his dad on the screen it wasn’t night-time at all. That wherever he was, it was broad daylight.
Gina
Rick packed up his old car and left the day after our picnic. He didn’t look back as I stood and waved him off, but I knew it was still a wrench for him. His eyes bulged with tears and his heart beat out a sad tune as we hugged. For all the world it seemed as though he didn’t want to go, that he was fighting an internal battle. I simply didn’t understand, though it wasn’t in my nature to beg or force him to change his mind. If Rick had things to work out, then it was best he did it in his own way, in his own time.
‘It’s for the best, Gina,’ he told me with leaden eyes. Then a final kiss.
I only half believed him as he juddered away, a trail of black smoke the only thing left of him as he disappeared out of sight.
We wrote, of course, me sending about ten letters to his one sporadic postcard perhaps at Christmas or on my birthday. He never mentioned much about what he was doing, how his studies were going, or if I could come and visit. Rather he divulged odd snippets of his heart as if to keep me going, to keep me on hold – clippings of our love, taking the form of poetry, or crude sketches he said he’d done for me on the bus, and once or twice he sent a photograph.
I tried to eke out meaning from the little contact I got, reading between the lines, desperate for hidden clues in the photos. A couple of times, I thought I saw the same bright-faced girl in the background, laughing with a group of friends, gazing in Rick’s direction as he snapped the Polaroid. But in the end, the only thing I figured out for certain was that the distance between us was too great to be bridged by what we once had. Eventually, communication from him all but dried up. I missed him terribly.
It was two years before I saw him again. He turned up unannounced at the tiny flat I was renting in south-east Oxford. I hadn’t left the city, even though my parents begged me to come home and forget about him. Deep down I was hoping that one day he’d return. And if I wasn’t still there, amongst the same circle of friends, I was afraid he wouldn’t find me.
I answered the door of the wonky, top-floor two-roomed place I shared with a girlfriend. I was wearing Jimmy’s T-shirt and it barely covered me. I pulled it down as I struggled with the stiff lock.
Meg and I had a deal – if we knew the other was home but the door was locked, we’d knock twice then go and get a coffee downstairs for half an hour. To allow the other to finish off. We lived above a café, and we were both dating.
Jimmy and I had been lying there, just talking, as it happened, so when I opened the door, I was expecting to see Meg. She was working a late shift that night and I knew she’d want to shower and change before going back out.
‘Fuck!’ I said, stretching down the T-shirt even more. ‘Rick!’
‘Hello, Gina,’ he said, holding his arms open. There was a bag at his feet. A broad grin.
‘You’ve got stubble’ was all I could think of to say.
Then his eyes flicked behind me. I heard t
he floorboards creak, a door close. Jimmy must have gone for a pee.
‘Is this a good time?’ Rick said, looking back at me.
‘Not really.’
He eased himself past me anyway.
‘This is nice,’ he said, holding open his arms and spinning back round to face me. He could virtually touch each wall.
‘It’s not that great,’ I replied. ‘But it’s all I can afford.’ I shut the door. ‘What do you want, Rick?’
Jimmy was standing behind him now, though Rick didn’t know. My turn to glance behind him. Then Jimmy did the right thing and went back into the bedroom.
‘You?’
I sat him down, told him that I was going to dress. I never thought I’d feel cross if and when he finally came back, but, inexplicably, I was. In fact, I was livid. I explained to Jimmy that an old friend had turned up, how he was more like a brother than anything, that he’d just returned from Edinburgh and needed my advice. It was probably the truth anyway.
Jimmy left, touching a kiss on my neck, promising to come round that evening. I never saw him again.
‘So,’ I said to Rick. He was even more handsome than when he’d left two years earlier and I hated him for it. That rugged grin contouring his face even though he was only twenty-five. His Gallagher-esque haircut was clearly no accident, even though he wore it as if it was.
‘So.’
‘Did she dump you?’ It was a wild guess. I knew nothing of what he’d been up to.
He looked away.
‘She moved, actually.’
My stomach tightened. I told myself that he’d only said it because he’d just seen Jimmy heading for my bathroom, bare-chested, hopping into jeans.
‘South, by any chance?’ I wanted to ask if he still loved her, but lit a cigarette instead. I chucked the packet at him, not really wanting to know where she was, if that was why he’d come back to the area.
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘Answer my question,’ I said as he lit one.
‘Yeah, she moved down south again. Not too much choice from Edinburgh.’ Stony-faced, he blew smoke towards me. I decided I wouldn’t ask for more details – that it was degrading and intrusive, and besides, I figured that what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.
Having sex with two men in one day was both delicious and confusing, but from then on, Rick was the only man for me. It brought back everything we’d lost, making me realise I’d never love anyone as much as I loved him. Since he’d left, my life had been made up of glued-together fragments with bits falling off me here and there. Friends had picked them up, helped me stick them back on as I’d worked the same dead-end job, pining and wondering what to do with the rest of my days. I was a patchwork mess with holes all over the place, none of which had ever been filled by anyone else while Rick was away.
We lay on my crumpled bed together, the late-afternoon sunlight spreading across our knotted legs. He handed me his half-smoked cigarette.
‘I won’t leave you again,’ he promised, sliding on top of me. He was sweaty and heavy, swallowing me up.
I held the cigarette at arm’s length, dangling it over the edge of the bed as he kissed me.
‘I’ve got things figured out now. I know what I’m doing, what I want.’ His breath was a whisper above my face. ‘How to get it.’
I’d never heard Rick sound so positive, so determined, so together. From the slightly arrogant rich kid who’d shunned his background by going on every student march possible just to annoy his parents, by escaping to Edinburgh for postgrad studies that had never materialised – leaving him working in bars at night and mowing lawns by day – Rick had returned a different man. He’d grown up.
Whoever she was, I silently thanked her.
I slid the cigarette into his mouth as he slid into me.
Three weeks later I discovered I was pregnant.
Happiness had only been a train ride away all that time.
‘Hannah?’
I sit up. I swear I heard a noise. I must have fallen asleep.
I get up, pulling the door open quickly to catch anyone lurking. The corridor is empty apart from a couple right at the other end pulling along two suitcases.
I close the door again, leaning back against it, sliding my hands down my face. I sweep back my hair and rub my neck, knowing if I don’t find a way to relax soon, the stress inside me is going to burst out in ways I won’t be able to handle.
The minibar has been replenished, so I take out a small bottle of wine, cracking the top. But then I stop, putting it down on the table. Instead, I look out of the window at the beautiful scenery surrounding the hotel. The air hangs thick with cloud and drizzle, but through the grey I see nothing but calm and serenity.
The moment is still. The moment is mine.
I won’t leave you again . . .
I open the window and inhale the country air. It’s sweet, scented with wet oak and dragging clouds.
I lean on the sill, my chin resting in my hands.
Who and what have I become?
Would the old me – a devoted wife, a loving mother – ever have guessed that one day she’d be hiding a drinking habit? As she changed nappies, drove to play dates, held down a job, did she ever think that one day her son would be dead, her husband gone?
Four down to two.
Please don’t let us become one.
A shudder runs through me, so I grab my cardigan off the bed, shrugging into it. I put the wine back in the fridge and pull on my trainers, yanking the laces tight.
In the bathroom, I repair my face as best I can, but with so little sleep and all the crying, it’s pretty much a lost cause. I thread a brush through my hair, pulling it back into a loose ponytail. It will have to do.
Then I slide my phone into my pocket along with the key card. I need to get some answers.
Gina
The air is humid and warm, the sound dulled by the expanse of water. A single body cuts through the blue in a clean streak of flesh colour and black.
I watch her for a few minutes, her arms rhythmically pulling through the pool, powering her forward. Her legs flash behind in a quick-time kick. A tumble turn at each end.
My eyes smart from the chlorine fumes.
Susan’s breathing is steady yet brisk, punctuated by each arm stroke. Her style is fluid and graceful, while her darkened goggles and swept-back hair make her seem wasp-like. She stops at my end of the pool, resting her arms on the edge, and her chin on her arms. She blows out, spraying water and effort. Her wet cheeks glow as she lifts her goggles on top of her head.
It’s then that she sees me.
‘Gina, hi.’ She smiles, radiant even in the water. Her skin is dewy and muscular, her swimsuit showing off how fit and strong she is as she hauls herself out on to the edge in one swift move.
‘Are you coming in for a swim?’ Her smile is broad, yet I suddenly feel immune to it.
She reaches out for a towel draped over the end of a lounger.
‘I always try to do a hundred lengths or so.’
Water splashes on me as she rubs herself down.
‘Susan . . .’ I twist away, catching sight of the real world outside the tall windows at the end of the pool. Fox Court doesn’t seem so inviting any more. ‘Susan, about the car in the garage . . .’
I don’t know how to say it, don’t know how to ask her if there was any possibility that it was her husband who killed my son.
‘Yes?’ She drops her head forward, rubbing vigorously at her hair. Then she tosses it back in a sleek arc. Her broad smile tells me she doesn’t have a clue about my pain.
Nothing comes out.
‘By the way, I sent my maintenance man out to see if he could see any sign of kittens. He didn’t find anything. Maybe you heard a stray passing through?’
Susan wraps the towel around her shoulders.
‘Most likely,’ I say. ‘It’s just that the car—’
‘Come with me while I get changed,’ she says, tou
ching my arm. ‘We’ll talk.’
I tread carefully on the slippery tiles, following her into the changing area.
‘I’m listening. Tell me what’s on your mind, Gina.’
Susan disappears behind the short shower curtain. The water comes on, and then she drops her swimsuit outside the cubicle. I wonder whether to pick it up for her, wring it out. But I don’t. Instead I sit awkwardly on the slatted wooden bench opposite, watching Susan’s narrow feet with their scarlet-painted nails turning and stepping beneath the water.
‘Your husband’s car has made me think,’ I call out, though I’m not sure she hears me. ‘It’s the same as . . . The police said that a dark green Range Rover hit Jacob.’
Another woman comes into the changing room, opens a locker and whips out a towel. She casts me a quick look before leaving.
‘You understand that every time I see one, I get a bit, well, upset.’ Nervously, I start picking my nails. ‘Susan?’
Lavender-smelling soap froths and foams around Susan’s feet. I hear vigorous lathering, then rinsing, and she calls out for me to hang on, that she’ll be out in a moment.
I should go. I need to get back to the room and tell Hannah we’re leaving. Instinct tells me to pack up our stuff, get out, and tell Kath Lane everything.
But I don’t. Instead I sit frozen to the bench.
A hand comes out of the cubicle, feeling about for the towel, and then Susan emerges wearing it around her body. It’s short, barely covering her. She has the type of body I’ve always been resigned to never quite having.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, giving me her full attention. ‘Do say that again.’
Nervously, I repeat myself.
Susan is silent for a moment. ‘I understand why the car would make you upset, but I assure you, Phil isn’t a reckless driver. And if there’d been an accident, he’d have reported it.’
She rubs her body, seeming ever so slightly affronted, allowing the towel to slide off her as she dries her legs and feet, putting each up on the bench in turn. I look away.
‘It’s just that Phil’s car has a dent in the bodywork. It’s in the spot the police said hit Jacob and—’
In Too Deep Page 24
