The Missing Marriage

by Sarah May

  Then the fire started on his hands and arms and he was screaming and by then the kid was screaming, and I tried to get the kid out the buggy but couldn’t work the straps, so I just picked it up with him in it still and pushed it down the garden away from the house. I ran then. It was an accident – an accident, Jamie. I never would of done it if he hadn’t been whistling . . .’

  It was then that Jamie saw Laviolette, and called out instinctively – not his name, just a sound. He heard the sound fill the air, shocked.

  They needed to run – Bryan and him – but Bryan was already running.

  Jamie ran after him, trying to close the gap between them – and the gap was closing – yelling, ‘Bryan!’ as he swung his arm towards his brother’s collar, hitting him on the side of the head and pulling him so forcefully towards him that Bryan lost balance and ended up trying to hold on.

  Up close, Bryan saw the horrible brightness of Jamie’s eyes – remembering now that they were blue – then they started to fall.

  Jamie had the sensation of falling before they actually started to fall.

  Holding onto each other as though they’d been wrestling like this for years, they carried on falling, anticipating a landing that never came as they fell over the edge of the Quayside into the sea.

  Bryan, disorientated, couldn’t hear anything any more – Jamie had hit him on the side of the head and he’d lost his hearing almost immediately then his leg got caught in the ropes belonging to one of the fishing trawlers and instead of landing, he carried on falling, hitting his head again on the side of the prow as he went down.

  It was dark and cold, and he was bearing a great weight.

  He’d heard his daughter’s voice – he was sure – calling out, but not for him; for his brother. How did she know Jamie, and why was it that her calling his name out like that – which was enough to bring any man back to shore – left him, Bryan, with nothing? The love and intimacy of the past fifteen years – an intense, wrenching sort of love – became incoherent and meaningless.

  He didn’t think to struggle. He was no longer thinking at all . . . not even about Martha.

  He was alone, and ceasing . . . he was nothing.

  Just before hitting the water, Jamie heard voices – he thought he recognised Martha’s – then the water closed over his head and he started to struggle to find a way out, quickly losing all sense of direction. He wanted, more than anything, to go up, but couldn’t be sure where up was. There was no light and nothing to hold onto even though he had been holding onto something, he was sure, before falling. He pushed his arms through the water, but the only thing they came into contact with was more water.

  Martha had seen her father and Jamie disappear over the edge. Without thinking, she’d thrown her bag to one side, yelling, ‘He can’t swim!’

  ‘Martha!’

  It was Anna’s voice.

  Turning round, she saw Anna running across the Quayside towards her. Her mother was there, just behind Anna, running as well, but not as fast – and Laviolette. Everybody was there. If only they would stop rushing about and stand still . . . they’d lost all sense of perspective, and with it their balance. They’d spent too long making happiness their goal when all they needed to do, was be. She’d tried showing them when she took the picture of Bryan in Cephalonia – that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that he was sad; it didn’t have to mean anything. It was just sadness, for a moment – terrifying, beautiful, real and true. Why did it have to be anything more than that? Why couldn’t they all just stop this rushing towards – what?

  Turning her back on them and their shouting with relief, feeling suddenly calm and full, she jumped into the dark messy water. The sense of emptiness that had kept step with her all her life had gone. She loved everybody – Laviolette, Anna and her mother (even her mother) on the Quayside above, and Jamie and her father down here in the water.

  When she broke the surface, the sea was washing noisily against the hulls of the trawlers moored there and the rigging on the masts sounded irate. She saw a head, briefly, about three metres away – then it disappeared beneath the surface. She swam instinctively towards it, hearing Anna’s voice again, a long way away now.

  Jamie flung out his arms, desperate to find something to hold onto, but there was nothing. After what felt like twenty years of falling, he wanted to land and come to a rest. Water was everywhere, rising above him, over him, entering him through every orifice it could find, filling him. His throat was burning and his eyes felt as though they were being pulled from their sockets. His insides were collapsing and he was still falling; it was like falling twice. If he didn’t find something to hold onto, he’d carry on falling like this forever.

  He had a short breathless memory of a girl in water, her hair moving around her and her costume black against white tiles. Tiles . . . the pool. His feet sought out the chipped edges of the pool’s tiles and touched something . . . there was a girl in the water.

  It was the hair – he thought it was Laura and tried to hold on. Then he remembered Laura had already tried to kill him once. Using her body to haul himself up and break the surface, he took in one last lungful of air before pulling her tightly to him and down with him this time.

  Anna wrenched off her trainers – she took off her trousers as well, but left on her running top – as Laviolette, standing beside her, slipped awkwardly out of his coat and suit jacket.

  Anna curled her toes over the edge of the Quayside. She could see what was happening and knew that if Martha managed to haul Jamie to the surface, he was going to struggle – uncontrollably – and probably drown her.

  ‘Who are you going for?’ Laviolette asked.

  ‘Martha.’

  Anna dived in at the same spot Martha had – it was a good spot – cleared the trawlers and their moorings, and surfaced, trying to swallow as little water as possible, which was difficult with waves this high. She saw them breaking now over the north harbour wall, crashing in from the open sea, then turned and swam back towards the trawlers, her arms already aching – as Jamie and Martha broke the surface, reaching them at the same time as Laviolette.

  As Jamie pulled Martha back under, she found herself momentarily alone in the water with him.

  ‘Get Martha away!’ he yelled.

  They went under.

  Below the surface there was only panic and silent struggle – any sense of individuality was lost. All Anna could make out was a mass of limbs, darkly clothed, indistinct, constantly moving. It felt as though they weren’t attached to anything; that there was nothing completely human in the water with her. In the end, it was Martha’s hair she managed to get hold of as the current brought it billowing slowly towards her. She took hold of as much of it as she could, filling her hands and kicking hard, pulling Martha backwards through the water towards her.

  She swam with her round the stern of a trawler – Flora’s Fancy, that had volunteered its services on the police search for Bryan after he disappeared. She watched Martha haul herself up the ladder on the harbour wall and onto the Quayside where she knelt, vomiting and choking as Laviolette struggled to keep Jamie above the surface long enough for him to grasp onto the ship’s ropes.

  Then Anna turned and scanned the harbour’s water, unsteady now with three-foot waves, but there was no sign of Bryan Deane.

  Anna surfaced then dived, surfaced then dived, frustrated that the waves made it impossible to check near the trawlers themselves where he’d gone down. After a while she noticed the surface of the whole sea was creeping down the harbour wall. The tide was going out and the current had a strong pull – she could feel it now – Bryan could have been carried out to sea. The waves were cresting and hitting the north harbour wall with such force on the side facing the open sea, it made a mockery of the man-made defences she was now starting to swim towards.

  The water felt thicker and greener near the harbour wall and it took her five attempts to haul herself up the ladder. She had to use her arms to pr
otect her head as the waves pushed her up against the wall and they pulled her back with such force that she didn’t have time to grasp the rungs properly and kept losing her grip. Twice, she managed to hold on, but the waves breaking over the harbour wall, filling the sky above with water, pushed her back under.

  Eventually, somehow managing to time it, she climbed exhausted to the top of the ladder, clung on as another wave washed over the wall then pushed herself up, got to her feet and ran. She had three minutes before the next big wave crested to run the length of the wall to where the old coal staithes were.

  She got to the wooden staithes as the final wave caught her, drenching her back, and lay along the wet moss-covered wood staring up at the wind turbines as the indifferent blades continued to turn.

  Her ears still full of the sea, she turned and saw the group of tiny figures on the Quayside, human in their attitudes but barely recognisable across what seemed like a vast stretch of churning water. For a moment she couldn’t remember who they were, and didn’t care. She saw her yellow Capri and the white transit van and behind them the windows of her apartment – and half expected to see herself.

  That’s where she should have been – behind glass, looking out – not lying stretched and shivering along a sea defence. She’d been in the water too long, looking for somebody who was already drowned. Her attention was taken again by the wind turbines, white against the grey sky – as she attempted to guess the immense intentions of these immense machines who knew nothing about Bryan Deane or the last twenty years of all their lives.

  Chapter 20

  It wasn’t the sight of Mary herself that made Anna cry, it was the small plastic bracelet that had been clipped round her wrist on admittance, with the name written on a piece of paper: MARY FAUST. She sat now with her eyes shut, listening to Mary’s breathing, and the machinery around her and, further away, like an undercurrent she knew she was going to have to face sooner or later, the rest of the world – shuffling, scuffling; waiting. After a while, she picked out a set of footsteps emerging from the undercurrent, approaching steadily with the light tread of hesitation. She knew who she wanted it to be.

  It was him.

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ he whispered.

  ‘You don’t have to whisper,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied, whispering still.

  They smiled at each other again then Anna turned and contemplated Mary. ‘She was Bryan’s alibi – that’s what was on the tape you never played me.’

  ‘The tape that’s gone missing,’ he pointed out.

  ‘She told me – she told me it all, I just wasn’t listening properly. She said – love hangs on strange threads.’

  He nodded, looking from Mary to Anna then said, quietly, ‘I want you to stay.’

  ‘You’re still whispering.’

  Laviolette coughed, attempting to pitch his voice, and said again, ‘I want you to stay.’

  ‘Nobody’s ever asked me to stay before.’

  Even though they’d been talking for the past five minutes – it was as if the silence had suddenly broken.

  Acknowledgements

  A heartfelt thank you, as always, to my agent Clare Alexander . . . and to my editor, Katie Espiner, haute couture tailors both.

  I would also like to thank Sgt Kelly Martin of the Durham Constabulary for the patience she has shown in answering my many questions about policing.

  This book would not have been possible without the faces, places and stories that peopled my childhood.

  About the Author

  Sarah May is an intimate observer of society. She is the author of six previous novels: The Rise and Fall of the Wonder Girls, The Rise and Fall of a Domestic Diva, The Rise and Fall of the Queen of Suburbia, The Nudist Colony, which was shortlisted for the Guardian First Book Award; Spanish City and The Internationals. She lives in London with her theatre director husband and their two children.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Praise for Sarah May’s novels:

  ‘This is writing at the level of myth: fully formed, recognisable, unique’

  Guardian

  ‘May’s shrewd sideways glance makes this a novel moving and menacing by turns. Her ensemble – aerobics-obsessed Linda, rebellious Dominique, the creepy Niemans – are often gruesome, but all too convincing’

  Observer

  ‘The narrative is beautifully observed, with the subtle touch of a writer who makes every action and mannerism feel plausible. Sarah May has a rare talent for melding the farcical with the tragic, and has produced a novel which – but for an ending worthy of Tom Sharpe – is a scathingly successful piece of social commentary’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Sarah May has brought the obsessions, ambitions and class paranoia of Thatcher’s Britain beautifully back to life. It’s a visceral read, but this is one book you’ll be happy to read in a rush’

  Daily Express

  ‘An observant and side-splittingly funny read’ Sun

  ‘Like Mike Leigh directing Desperate Housewives, a brilliantly 1980s suburban drama’

  Elle

  ‘Steeped in intrigue and comic detail’

  Woman

  ‘A witty and wicked soap opera about death, adultery and desperate housewives’

  Instyle Magazine

  ‘A fast-paced book that’s the perfect read to roll down your leg warmers and enjoy with a nice bottle of Blue Nun and a chicken Kiev’

  First Magazine

  ‘Full of hilarious pop-culture detail, this is a dizzying celebration of the 80s . . . Laugh-out-loud’

  Eve Magazine

  ‘Truly original chick-lit.’

  Heat

  By the same author

  The Rise and Fall of the Wonder Girls

  The Rise and Fall of a Domestic Diva

  The Rise and Fall of the Queen of Suburbia

  Nudist Colony

  Spanish City

  The Internationals

  Copyright

  Copyright © Sarah May 2011

  Sarah May asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-00-732211-4

  EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007352371

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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