by Beth Thomas
Downstairs, the kitchen is empty, save for a collection of breakfast items on the draining board. I glance at the clock and find that it’s around eight forty-five, so assume everyone has already left for Ikea. I stretch and yawn in the warmth of the sunlight beaming in through the windows, and make myself a coffee. There’s no sign of Ripper anywhere – probably still in hiding, recovering from the terror of everyone having breakfast. While I wait for the kettle, I flip open my laptop on the table and Google Linton again. As I click through the photos, I wonder if I could take a little trip up there, see if I just happen to spot someone who looks and acts suspiciously like a bastard, playing pooh sticks off the stone bridge or catching fish from the stepping stones across the Wharfe. Or more likely dumping toxic waste in the river. Maybe I could rent a sweet little cottage for a week or so, have a really good look around. How much could that possibly cost? I open another tab and Google hotels in Linton, and find the Mopane Bush Lodge, located on the Mapesu Nature Reserve. Wow, it looks lovely. It has a swimming pool next to the bar, fire pit for outdoor eating, and you can go on a wildlife and bird watch … Ah, wait. That can’t be right, can it? I think that’s the wrong country. It doesn’t say exactly which country it is, but I don’t think North Yorkshire is known for its game drives. Damn you, Google. I go back to my original search, and this time I put North Yorkshire into the criteria. Ah, that’s better. There are plenty, all looking like they’d be right at home in the north of England. Not a bongo drum or mosquito net in sight. There’s a very nice one called Linton Lodge which looks like a listed building, so I click on it and go to the ‘book now’ page. Well of course it’s completely booked up already, it’s absolutely gorgeous. And incredibly expensive, so no doubt full of runaway husbands with pockets full of used notes from secret safe stashes. I go back and find a Travelodge. Fifty-six pounds a night, loads of availability. Right, I’m going to book it, just to go and have a look. A few days away from here exploring a secluded and picturesque part of northern England is just what I need right now. I reach for my handbag and rummage around for my purse, buzzing with a feeling of spontaneity and complete freedom. If I want to go to Linton, I damn well will. Who’s gonna stop me? I can do what I want, go where I want, move as far away from here as I want, or just live with my parents if I want. Absolutely everything in my life is up to me to decide now, and I’m loving it. As my fingertips touch my purse, my hands brush against the three envelopes I picked up from our doormat yesterday, and everything screeches to a halt.
Like a hole ripped in the side of an aeroplane, I am abruptly and violently sucked out of the false security of my childhood home and back into the terrifying freefall of my real life. Back there, in Maple Avenue, my life as an adult, as Adam’s wife, is continuing, even though my marriage apparently isn’t. Back there, I have responsibilities that still exist even if I remove myself from them. Coming here hasn’t wiped out everything there, and these letters are a rather unpleasant reminder of that. I pull them out, leaving my purse where it is. That will have to wait. These three envelopes might be important. They’re all addressed to Adam, of course, but I’m used to that. What I’m not used to is opening and dealing with any post.
I put two of the envelopes down and turn the last one over to tear open, but my mobile rings suddenly, making me jump. It’s right there, on the counter next to the kettle. I drop the envelope onto the table and get up to go and grab the phone. It’s Matt calling.
‘Why good morrow, good sir. And what will be your pleasure this day?’
‘Grace, they’ve found a body.’
It swoops into me, picking me up and dropping me again from a great height. The ground slams into my feet and rises up to meet my face and suddenly the floor tiles are inches away from my nose. I sit up but nausea overwhelms me and a roaring blackness presses in around me. I think I might be going to faint. I close my eyes and press my head against the cold floor, which helps me to feel more stable. ‘They …?’
‘They’re on their way round to see you right now,’ a deep voice in my ear says. Distractedly I remember that Matt is on the phone. ‘What was that noise? Gracie? Are you still there?’
I nod and the room swims, so I turn my head so that my forehead is against the tile. ‘Yes. Here.’
‘Are you OK? I’m worried about you. Have you fallen over?’
I shake my head, but then realise that the floor tile is against my forehead, so I open my eyes and find myself lying prone on the kitchen floor. I close my eyes again. ‘Oh. Yes. I think … so.’
‘Are you OK? Shall I come over? I’m coming over. Shall I?’
‘I … I don’t know.’
‘OK, concentrate, Gracie. Focus on your body. Is anything hurting? Can you see any blood? Check your head.’
I lift my head gently and look down at myself, concentrating on each part of me in turn. Nothing seems to be bleeding and the only pain I can feel is in my hip, presumably where I hit the ground. I run my hand gingerly over my head but it’s dry and free of gushing wounds. ‘No. Think I’m all right.’
I hear a long breath being released. ‘OK, good. Can you get up? They’ll be there in a minute.’
‘OK.’ I draw my knees up and roll over onto them, then slowly get to my feet. I still feel not quite there, and a bit shaky, but it’s easing off a bit. I keep my eyes closed and lean heavily against the counter. ‘I’m up.’
‘Fantastic. Go and sit in a chair for a bit. You probably just fainted briefly. It’s the shock, lowers your blood pressure. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.’
‘OK.’
‘Listen, Grace, try not to worry too much. The fact that they’ve found a male body of the right sort of age and build doesn’t mean it’s definitely Adam. Does it? I mean, if you can, try to take some comfort from what Melissa said yesterday. He’s alive, OK?’
‘Well, you’re right about one thing, anyway.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That was yesterday.’
When Linda Patterson shows up a few minutes later, she takes me into the kitchen and makes me sit down before telling me the dreadful news. A male body, just like Matt had said, right sort of age, right sort of build. There was no ID, no wallet, no driving licence, nothing to give it a name, so it needs officially identifying, before they can be sure …
‘Do I have to do that?’ I whisper. Oh please God say no, please say no, spare me from that horrific job.
‘There’s no need,’ she says, patting my arm. ‘Adam’s parents have already volunteered.’
‘Oh, right.’ My shoulders slump with relief and I let out a breath, but then realise that Julia and Ray must have been informed about this before me. How is that right? I’m the wife, for God’s sake, I’m the next of kin. Potentially.
‘It’s just geography,’ Linda says, reading my mind. ‘Someone went there, I came here. My colleagues got there first, just because Gladstone Road is nearer to the station. Mr Moorfield – Ray, is it? – offered to go back with the officers and identify …’
‘Oh. OK. When is he doing it?’
She glances at her watch. ‘Not long. He went straight there.’
‘So are they going to tell you straight away …?’
She nods.
We sit and stare at each other for a few moments.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
She puts her hand over mine. ‘No, I’m fine, but let me make you one?’
‘Oh, no thanks.’
We fall into silence again, just waiting for the phone to ring or Linda’s radio to crackle, I suppose. Or will someone turn up here, to tell me? I have no idea. And how am I meant to feel, if it does turn out to be him? Destroyed? Maybe. Shocked? Undoubtedly. Tearful? Wretched? Desperate? Relieved? Wait, what? How did that one get in there? Relieved? That my husband is dead? No, definitely not. Of course not. I love him, don’t I? But relieved that my waiting was finally at an end? Maybe. At least I would know, one way or another, what happened to him, I suppose. At le
ast I could start trying to cope with it. I wish I could Google ‘wife’s reaction on learning of husband’s death’. I bet that’s interesting. There’s bound to be a ton of personal experience stories on there, with melodramatic accounts of fainting or vomiting or collapsing into arms or screaming and raising fists to the sky shouting, ‘Why?!’ And even if they don’t give me any pointers of how to behave around Linda, to convince her I’m not guilty, it would at least help to pass the time.
Something occurs to me. ‘Do you know how he died?’
‘Not yet, Grace. We’ve got to wait for the post mortem.’
Is it my imagination, or do her eyes narrow at me a bit? Maybe my reaction is all wrong.
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Adam’s body, on a slab, with an electric saw cutting off the top of his head. I close my eyes but that only makes it more vivid so I open them again. Linda’s face is there in front of me, staring at me interestedly. I wonder for a second how I must appear to her, in white hotpants and tight blue top. ‘Do you know where he was found?’
‘Um, yes. It was by the side of a road, in the industrial estate.’
‘In Linton?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, no, that’s the main reason why we don’t really expect it to be your husband. It was the industrial estate here, only three miles from his home.’
It’s another whooshing sensation, and I quickly put my head down on the table before the dizziness takes over.
‘Are you OK, Grace?’
I lift my head. ‘Yes, sorry. Thought I might pass out.’
‘Do you want some water?’
‘No. Why was he here? Why is his car in Linton, but his body is here?’
She puts a hand over mine. ‘It might not be him, Grace. Try to remember that.’
I nod. ‘Oh, yes, yes. Of course.’
But what if it is him? How can he possibly be back here if his car is in Linton? Why did he go to Linton in the first place? Or did he even leave? Was the car stolen? Did he go to meet someone? Or was he kidnapped for some reason and managed to escape? Oh God, maybe he’s been trying all this week to get back to me, and just as he was within a few miles of home, the person, or people, who were pursuing him caught up with him and …
‘What are these?’
I open my eyes and find Linda has picked up the three envelopes that I left lying on the table. ‘It’s post. Arrived, I don’t know, yesterday maybe.’ I reach out my hand. ‘I was just about to open them.’
‘Oh, right. OK. Well, could I ask that you let me know what they are, when you do? No need to do it now, of course. I wouldn’t expect … But if and when you do, just drop me a line, would you? Let me know. It might be evidential, if it does turn out to be Adam.’
I suspect, if it does turn out to be Adam, that that is something I will probably forget to do. ‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘Thank you.’
She puts the envelopes, still frustratingly unopened, back down on the table and we lapse back into silence. I want to phone Ginger. I want to speak to Matt. I need my mum.
My phone makes us both jump by ringing again. As I pick it up, Linda says, ‘Who is it?’
I frown at her but don’t answer. Nosey bitch. It’s Ginger, so I stand up and go out to the hallway. ‘Hi Ginge.’
‘Don’t you “Hi Ginge” me, you awful person. Where have you been the past couple of days? I haven’t heard a thing from you, I’ve been waiting and wondering and not knowing and you’re all blasé and calm and “Hi Ginge” and I’ve been going out of my mind. What’s going on? Is Adam back? Is that why I haven’t heard from you? He’s come back, hasn’t he, all “please forgive me” and “it won’t happen again”, and you’ve welcomed him home with open legs and spent the past two days in bed?’
I shake my head silently, and unexpectedly my eyes heat up with tears. Right at this moment, I wish more than anything that I could tell her she was right. ‘No, he’s not back,’ I whisper. I can see Linda fixedly staring at me in the kitchen, and no doubt listening to every word, so I move further away and sit on the bottom of the stairs. ‘Ginge, they’ve found a body.’
There’s a moment’s shocked silence. Then, ‘On my way.’
She arrives ten minutes later dressed as Elvis. She’s obviously come straight from the shop, and has definitely been exceeding the speed limit. She bursts in through the front door, already talking, and hugs me fiercely.
‘Oh my life, I must have been doing over a hundred on the bypass, thank God I didn’t get clocked. Whose Clio is that outside? Oh Gracie, how are you doing, hun? Any news yet? Matt says you’re looking for a safe? What’s up? Why are you …?’ Eventually she shuts up, even though I’ve been making cutting motions across my neck to silence her the entire time. She gets it finally, and glances over my shoulder at the silent police officer watching us from the kitchen. ‘Oh, hi there!’
Linda nods. ‘Morning.’
Ginge looks back at me. ‘Looking for a safe … place to stay,’ she says, quick as lightning. ‘Understandable, given the circumstances.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
She leans in close. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had company?’ she hisses.
There’s the sound of a throat clearing in the kitchen.
I roll my eyes. ‘Didn’t exactly give me a chance, did you?’
‘OK, OK. So. Is there any news?’ She looks at me appraisingly. ‘You look amazing, by the way.’
I wonder for a second what she means. Amazing, for someone wondering if the body that’s turned up is her dead missing husband? Then I remember the hotpants. ‘Thanks, Elvis. No news. Only that they’ve found a body, male, right age, right build.’
‘Shit.’ She whispers it. ‘OK. Well, it’s not him, is it? Bound not to be. He’s in Linton, isn’t he?’
‘His car is in Linton. Or was. This man, whoever he is, was found here, near the industrial estate.’
She nods, as if this isn’t a massive surprise. ‘Well, it’s definitely not him then.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘It’s obvious. Why would anyone go to all the trouble of secretly disappearing on the pretext of getting take-away, then drive all the way to North Yorkshire, abandon the car, and come all the way back?’
As she finishes speaking, there’s a crackle in the kitchen and we both jump and turn instantly in that direction. Linda glances at me, then stands up and tilts her head to the radio, turning her back to us in the hallway. She listens for a few seconds while we stare at her back, and I feel the reassuring pressure of Ginger’s hand on my arm. Thank God she’s here.
Eventually, the radio voice falls silent, and Linda acknowledges it, then turns back to us.
‘It’s all right, Grace. It’s been confirmed. It’s not Adam.’
ELEVEN
Madly, the first thought that goes through my head is, Well, well, Melissa was right after all. But then in a sickening rush I realise that an unspeakable horror has just brushed past me, and I sink down onto the bottom stair, all my breath gone. There’s a roaring in my head that feels like spinning, like I’ve just jumped out of a plane. I can’t get a grip on a single coherent thought and I drop my head into my hands to stop it from breaking up.
Then, like a dam bursting, thoughts of our wedding flood into my head in a disordered surge. The proposal, at that very posh restaurant, in the dress I borrowed from Lauren, which was a size too small and meant I had to sit up straight and take very shallow breaths the whole time. I remember Adam asking me, ‘Will you?’, but it’s a blurry, indistinct memory, eclipsed by the awful bloated, breathless feeling I endured all evening. Then the wedding preparations, how easy it was for me with Adam taking the lead in organising, even the honeymoon in the Cotswolds. In my head, a muddle of images whirls around, each leading to the next, confused, crowded, chaotic – trying on the dress, the drive to the hotel, coming home afterwards, Mr and Mrs Littleton – and as I sit there in the hallway with this swirl of images spinning past, I see myself
as a tiny, fragile doll caught up in the tornado that was Adam. Picked up, spun round and round for three years with no control, no power over where I was going and what I was doing, simply spinning; and then dropped, panting, by the roadside. Amazed to be still intact.
‘Grace,’ Ginger is saying, her hand pressing my arm. ‘Come and have a cup of tea. You’re in shock.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m OK.’
Linda is there, looking at me, eyebrows together. She’s flicked open her mental notebook and is jotting something down. I sway a little.
‘Actually, maybe I will have a drink.’
Ginger sits me at the table in the kitchen and makes me a sugary tea, then starts ringing everyone up to tell them. ‘Come home,’ she says simply, when they answer. Mum, Dad, Lauren, Robbie. ‘Yes,’ she says to them. ‘Please. As soon as you can.’
And so, an hour later, they return from Ikea and rush into the kitchen to see me, hugging and crying and not believing it and finding it all such a relief but also terrible and awful.
‘I’m all right, actually,’ I tell them. My eyes have been smarting a lot and I feel a heavy shroud of sadness draped over me, but I don’t feel like I’m going to flip out. In fact I’m quite calm now. Linda has gone, thankfully, which means I can finally examine how I’m really feeling about this, and stop trying to act like I think she thinks I ought to be acting. I’m shocked, undoubtedly. Someone has died. But not someone I was married to. Not even anyone I knew. Which sounds so cold and hard-hearted, but in the end it’s what it comes down to. As sad as it is to see a bridge collapse in some far-flung place, and know that dozens will have lost their lives, they’re not lives that we will miss. Mostly, it’s made me think about Adam, and realise how intensely, how utterly, I want him to be OK. Even though I’ve had doubts about my feelings for him. Maybe even because of those doubts.
‘Oh God,’ Mum keeps saying, blotting her eyes. ‘That poor man, whoever he was. I wonder what on earth can have happened to him? Oh God, Gracie, this is so terrible for you, I’m so, so sorry, darling.’
