His Other Life

by Beth Thomas

  ‘Hi, Gracie,’ he says with a smile as I open the door.

  ‘Hi, Matt.’

  I expect him to go on, with something like ‘I’ve just heard that Adam’s been spotted getting on a bus to Cartagena’, but he just looks at me, smiling expectantly. We play chicken like that for a few seconds while each waits for the other to speak. Eventually it becomes evident that he’s not going to volunteer anything, so I have to ask.

  ‘Um, do you have some news?’

  His face changes dramatically, dropping like a punctured beach ball. ‘Oh, God, no, I’m so sorry, of course that’s what you would be expecting, I just didn’t … I didn’t think.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I was just passing on my way to … and I thought I’d just pop in, see how you are.’

  I lean a bit nearer. ‘Sorry? On your way where?’

  ‘Oh, um, no, I was just, you know, going to the … I was just passing. Thought you could maybe do with seeing a friendly face today.’ A smile appears briefly, but disappears again.

  I frown. ‘Is there a reason why I might need to see a friendly face today?’

  ‘No, no, God, sorry, I didn’t mean … There’s no …’ He stops. Takes a breath. ‘Well, there is … one small …’ He stares at me a moment, I guess wondering whether or not to tell me the thing. From the quick succession of expressions on his face, it’s clear he’s undergoing some kind of internal struggle. Frown; smile; glance down; look up. Then he releases a breath. ‘The only news there is, that I’ve heard, is that the CCTV pictures from the motorway …’ He tails off and glances to the side. I don’t need to see her to know that Pam’s cleaning her spare room window again. He looks back at me. ‘Should I … come in? Maybe?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, sorry. Come in.’

  He steps across the threshold and I close the door behind him, then turn to face him and wait.

  He smiles. Then looks away. Then presses his lips together. Looks back at me. I want to slap him. ‘Um, sorry, Grace, do you mind if we …?’ He looks towards the kitchen door. ‘I’m just … I just … don’t think I should give you this information …’ he glances around, ‘in the hallway.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘I think … sitting down would be best.’

  I don’t want to sit down. I don’t want to stand up though. I feel like I might suddenly fly apart in all directions, or implode, shrivel up to nothing and blink out. But I hold it all in, keeping it together, and walk calmly into the kitchen. I busy myself with the standard response to a police officer turning up at your home unexpectedly, five days after your husband mysteriously disappears: I put the kettle on. I don’t want to. I just want him to tell me what he knows. But Matt stays resolutely silent as he watches me make us both a drink. He leans against various cupboards, being repeatedly moved along by me needing mugs, then spoons, then tea bags, then milk.

  ‘Sorry, I’m a bit in the way, aren’t I?’

  I don’t want to lie, so I stay silent. It’s already half past twelve. I need to know what he knows. It’s almost become a pain, like a toothache, nagging at me, needing to be extracted. And beyond that, I want to ring Mum, finish packing and hightail it out of here. Whatever it is he’s got to tell me, I’m sure seeing my family will help. Or at least, being out of this house will help.

  When the tea’s made, I lead us back into the living room and we sit down. I stare meaningfully at Matt; he stares into his mug like a fortune teller.

  ‘Are you going to tell me my fortune?’ I ask him.

  He raises his head. ‘What? Sorry, what?’ He glances down at the tea. ‘Oh, you mean …? Ah, I see what you … Sorry Gracie. This is one of the things about this job I don’t like.’ He looks steadily into my eyes. ‘I mean, I love my job. I absolutely love it. I love helping people and being someone they know they can rely on, and sorting out the good from the bad, then grabbing bad by the collar and shoving it into the back of the car – carefully, I hasten to add. It’s all very health and safety these days.’ He gives an enigmatic smile and I wonder whether he’s glad about the strict behaviour code, or resents it for getting in the way of ‘real policing’. Probably likes it. He’s very young, never known it any other way. Madly, an image of an innocent person going down for something they didn’t do because of a corrupt copper flashes into my mind. Shouting ‘It wasn’t me! I’m innocent!’ as they’re led away, struggling. Shunning their friends and family. Refusing all visitors. Launching unsuccessful appeal after unsuccessful appeal. Descending into depression, madness and, ultimately, suicide. Bile rises a little as I realise that, in my vision, that person is me.

  ‘Innocent until proven guilty, you mean?’ I say, to remind him that I didn’t kill Adam. My voice is barely above a whisper.

  He nods. ‘Oh, yeah, definitely that. But also, you know, being very careful with people. Good and bad. Regardless of what they’ve done, you still have to look after them. Still have to treat them with respect and dignity.’ Another meaningful look comes my way.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Even though a lot of them don’t deserve it.’

  ‘I’d imagine.’

  He nods. ‘Even though sometimes, you think that those people, the bad people, get far more than they deserve, and never really appreciate it.’

  I’m not sure I understand what he’s going on about, so I just nod slowly, even though what I really want to do is yell at him, Just tell me! Preferably while beating my fists against his chest. We both take a sip. The watch on my wrist is screaming to be looked at, but it always seems so rude to check the time when someone is doing something nice for you.

  ‘So,’ I say, to hurry things along a bit. ‘This is an aspect of your job you don’t like?’

  He nods again. ‘Yes, it is. Same for everyone in this job.’ He puts his tea down on the floor and scoots forward on his chair a bit, looking at me the whole time. ‘It’s giving people bad news.’ He gets a panicky look immediately and shakes his head, putting a hand up towards me. ‘No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m not saying I’ve got bad news for you, please don’t think that. It’s not bad news. But it’s still … it’s news. Probably not the news you want, although it isn’t the worst possible news, I mean, no one’s dead or anything.’ He stops. Collects himself a bit. Starts again. ‘It’s about the CCTV pictures from the motorway.’

  I know this from what he said at the door. Also I was already convinced no one was dead. ‘OK.’

  Matt rubs the back of his head as he struggles to find the right words to tell me something I already know. ‘The pictures show very clearly Adam in the driving seat, driving himself.’ He pauses. ‘No one else was in the car.’

  ‘Oh.’ I take a moment to absorb this. In my head I can picture the grainy black and white image from the CCTV camera of Adam sitting at the wheel. He’s smiling. Laughing actually. Thinking what an idiot his wife is, for being so gullible. Congratulating himself for having everything his way. Relaxing and enjoying the drive as he appreciates how cleanly he’s managed to get away. Gradually, I can feel the muscles in my body start to tense and my breathing speeds up. A small flame of anger sparks inside me with a ‘whoomf’ like the boiler coming on, and the heat from it starts to spread out through my veins.

  Then a sudden thought occurs to me and the rising rage subsides. There was no one else in the car. He was alone. That means there was no woman in the passenger seat. So he wasn’t eloping, then. He didn’t leave my side and drive off with some other dozy cow to embark on a new web of silence and reserve with her. So why did he leave? I feel myself frowning and when I look up I find Matt’s eyes on me. He squints a bit. ‘You understand what this means?’ he says softly. ‘He wasn’t coerced or threatened or abducted …’

  ‘Yes, I get it.’

  He presses his lips together. ‘And you know what the implications are?’

  I nod. ‘Adam’s left me, yes, I get it.’ It’s surprisingly easy to say. Maybe because it’s not a surprise.

  ‘Righ
t.’ He nods thoughtfully. ‘You just seem pretty calm about it.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not really. I mean, my husband left me, voluntarily, for reasons unknown. That makes me bloody furious. I mean totally, incredibly, absolutely, screamingly livid. And hurt, and frustrated, and let down, and abandoned, and unloved. But mostly explosively, homicidally enraged.’ His eyebrows go up. ‘No, no, not homicidally. Obviously.’ Must remember that series of cataclysmic mistakes that leads to me in prison.

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But, you know, at the same time, he was alone. And in a way that’s a good thing.’

  ‘How is that a good thing?’

  ‘Because there was no other woman in the car with him.’

  He stares at me. ‘Of course.’

  I shrug. ‘I’m his wife, Matt. Of course I don’t want to find out that he has some other life somewhere.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Although … I suppose the fact that she wasn’t in the car with him doesn’t mean that she doesn’t exist …’

  He puts his hands up. ‘No, no, don’t go down that road. That way sadness lies.’

  I offer him a weak smile. ‘I just don’t know what to think. It’s so … confusing.’

  ‘Confusing? That certainly wasn’t what I was expecting.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, don’t forget that I remember when you were seventeen and Blue went on a hiatus.’ He smiles wistfully. ‘You were pretty severely upset about that.’

  ‘Oh my God, I was, wasn’t I?’ I find a smile coming as I remember Ginger and my ridiculous histrionics over that piece of news. ‘I think we sobbed on Ginger’s bed for three hours straight.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Four and a half.’

  ‘Oh God! Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. When you eventually came downstairs, you looked so sad, shuffling around like you had this terrible burden, all white and delicate-looking, like a broken little flower.’

  ‘Well they are the greatest English R and B group that ever lived.’

  ‘Hm, that’s debatable.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He smiles broadly. ‘We’re debating it now. Ergo, it’s debatable.’

  ‘Ergo? Matthew Blake, you’ve changed.’

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  ‘Oh, yes, loads. I remember you back then, too, don’t forget.’

  ‘You do?’ He grins delightedly.

  ‘Yeah. You were this skinny little kid who never said anything to anyone. All moody and sulky, stomping around with your pierced nose and your Doc Martens.’

  His grin falters a little. ‘Oh God, don’t remember that, pleeease!’

  Now I’m grinning. ‘Don’t worry, that’s pretty much all I do remember. You stayed out of our way most of the time, didn’t you, so you didn’t really make any impact. Apart from that hideous nose ring.’

  ‘It was awful, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Terrible. Like a bull. I mean, what possessed you?’

  He smiles and shakes his head. He’s a bit more subdued now. ‘Don’t know really. Wanting to be different, I suppose.’

  The mood seems to have changed suddenly. We’ve gone from playful laughing to wistful sadness in the space of two seconds. I nod. ‘I get that.’

  ‘It wasn’t real, anyway. Not pierced. It was just a clip thing.’

  ‘Was it really? I didn’t know that. How funny.’

  ‘Yeah. I was too scared of the pain to get it actually pushed through, so it just pinched my septum extremely hard all day, every day. Excruciating!’

  ‘Ha ha! The things we do for … I was going to say beauty, but it was the opposite of that, really. The things we do to be different. To stand out.’

  He nods. ‘Yeah. And it doesn’t work anyway, does it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, we still get overlooked and unnoticed, don’t we?’

  He’s staring at me intensely and I feel sure that I’m missing something. ‘Oh. Well, I suppose …’

  ‘I’d best be off,’ he says suddenly, standing up. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Oh, right. OK. Well, thanks for coming, Matt. I appreciate it.’

  ‘No problem. You’ll get the official notification soon enough anyway, I should think.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We go in silence to the hallway and, once there, he turns to me and pulls out his wallet. ‘Look, Gracie, if you need anything, anything at all—’

  ‘Matt, no, I’m fine. Seriously.’ I absolutely will not accept money from him; that would be mortifying.

  ‘—here’s my number.’ He hands me a small white card with his name and mobile number on it.

  ‘Oh. Thanks. I thought you were going to …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, nothing. Forget it.’

  ‘OK. Well, give me a call. I mean it. Anything you need, any time, don’t worry about it, just call me. OK?’

  ‘Thanks, Matt. I will.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiles, maintains eye contact for just half a second longer than necessary, then opens the door. Standing there on the step is Linda Patterson, the police liaison officer.

  ‘Shit,’ I say, before I can stop myself. Pam’s window beyond the fence steams up instantly.

  Linda blinks and I can practically feel the handcuffs going on. ‘Oh, Grace, sorry, is it convenient?’

  Matt’s in uniform, so they nod to each other in vague recognition, but it’s obvious they don’t really know each other. He steps round her then turns back to me briefly. ‘Bye Gracie.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Linda turns and watches him leave, then looks back at me with a bemused smile. ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘A friend. Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Hmm. Oh, yes, if you’ve got a moment.’

  I pull the door wider and she steps in. ‘I’m going to see my parents this afternoon, so I don’t have very long.’

  She looks at me, still with that odd smile. ‘No, I understand, that’s fine. We don’t always have time for everything that’s important, do we? One of life’s great frustrations. But I’ll only take a few minutes.’

  She’s starting to remind me of Columbo now and it’s making me act all suspiciously. I even feel guilty, as if I have something to hide. I know I was coming across as a bit odd during her earlier visit, when Ginger was still asleep on the sofa.

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. Of course I’ve got time. Let’s go and sit down.’

  I lead her into the living room without offering a cup of tea. She glances around the room before sitting on the edge of the sofa. ‘Friend not here any more, then?’ It’s as if she doesn’t believe Ginger was ever here in the first place.

  I look around too. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’ She’s making me act suspiciously, I can’t even help it.

  She nods. ‘Well, I’ve got a little bit of news for you, about Adam.’

  ‘Right.’

  I realise, too late, that I haven’t given the correct reaction again. Linda is watching me closely, no doubt mentally scrawling in her mental notebook something like ‘Grace acting suspiciously, apparently disinterested in news of husband.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, a bit more urgently. ‘Have they found something? Or him? Has he been found? I mean, has he turned up somewhere?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, sorry Grace, it’s nothing like that. I should have made that clear from the outset.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ At this point I remember that she said this morning that she would warn me with a phone call from the car every time she was coming to visit, so that I wouldn’t worry when I saw a police uniform at the door. She didn’t do that, only a few hours later, and it makes me wonder why. Trying to catch me out? Hoping to walk in and find me in the middle of burning some clothing?

  ‘No, all it is, is the CCTV footage of Adam’s car driving off. We’ve got numerous different sightings of it, all heading north, and he’s the only person in the car.’r />
  I nod. ‘Right.’

  She blinks slowly. ‘So … you understand what that implies?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he wasn’t coerced or threatened or abducted.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Which means that he’s probably just left me, for some reason.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  It occurs to me now that she’s not breaking this to me very gently, given that it’s my darling husband we’re talking about. We’ve only been married a year, we’re supposed to be blissfully deep in the honeymoon phase. We still could be, as far as she knows. Why isn’t she being a bit kinder? Again, I suspect I’m not giving the expected reaction, and my apparent lack of distress is going down in that mental notebook, and building a nice little stack of evidence against me.

  Oh what am I thinking? Of course she’s not building evidence against me. There isn’t any.

  Yes, but if she thinks I’m acting suspiciously and not reacting how one would expect in these circumstances, she’s going to suspect me and start actively digging around for evidence against me.

  Doesn’t matter, she won’t find any.

  I think about the smashed cabinet upstairs, and the silver key round my neck. I don’t want to tell her about that, I want to look into it myself first, I want to try to regain something I feel I’ve lost. Power? Control? Self-esteem? I don’t know. All I do know is that my marriage and Adam’s disappearance have taken something from me, and I want it back. But if Linda somehow finds out about it, she might well think I had tried to hide it from her. And she’d be right, of course, because that’s exactly what I have done. But what she thinks are my reasons for keeping it to myself will no doubt be something else added to the stack in that mental notebook of hers. And, of course, if whatever the silver key unlocks reveals something about Adam’s disappearance, it will be very difficult convincing anyone that I hadn’t kept it secret to prevent that information from being discovered.