The owner of the parked Peugeot into which the victims’ Fiat plunged came out of her house in time to see a dark-coloured car – possibly a VW or Audi – turning in the distance, but was too far away to identify the model or registration. Her own car was written off in the incident. ‘That’s nothing compared to what this poor family is going through,’ said Lisa Singh, a GP who has in the past petitioned without success for the introduction of speed cameras on Silver Road. ‘It’s a rat run during morning rush hour,’ she added.
A spokesman for the Met Police said, ‘The dark-coloured car did not stop at the scene and we are currently working to trace its identity and whereabouts.’
My first thought: a dark-coloured VW or Audi – I’d been seen and was going to jail. My life was over. It took a superhuman effort to conceal my urge to roar with terror at this, to reason with myself that there’d been no definitive recognition, only an approximation. How many hundreds of thousands of dark VWs and Audis were there on the British roads? Black was, I knew, one of the most popular colours.
Then (and, I’m ashamed to say, only then): fighting for their lives – what did that mean? I prayed it was the standard exaggeration of local news reporting, the reality being closer to some serious bruising and a broken rib or two.
Back to: galling that the Toyota had not been mentioned – but wait, wasn’t that also good news? Were this other guy to be apprehended, he would be able to identify not only the model of my car but also my face. Far better that he stayed out of the frame.
Then: what about cameras? Great, so there were none on Silver Road, but we were led by the media to believe they were on virtually every corner, that we were under constant surveillance by the authorities, not to mention on a more accidental basis by one another. After fleeing the scene, I’d zigzagged through more residential streets before eventually heading back to Alder Rise, and I was fairly sure I hadn’t passed any shops or public buildings that might have had security cameras. Did bus shelters have them? And what about private residences? Could the police access satellites?
No, that was foolish. I was being paranoid.
Then I thought about forensics. Might there be something on my car, tiny bits of paint or dust from the wrecked Fiat that could incriminate me? If I took the car to a car wash would that signal guilt? Did car washes have CCTV? Likely, yes. If I hosed it myself, neighbours would remember, even note it as unusual (‘Well, some of the guys would be out washing their cars at the weekend, but never him before.’). Detectives looked for anomalies, didn’t they? Breaks in routine.
All this in a matter of minutes. I could see it was going to be very easy to lose my mind.
‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:00:14
I remember the Sunday of that weekend well, but not for anything related to Bram. Having returned from Brighton on Saturday evening and gone straight to bed with a book, I made the morning Pilates class at the gym behind the Parade for the first time in years. Walking in with my kitbag and water bottle, I felt like an actress playing the role of a child-free mistress of her own destiny. I imagined myself recalling the class to younger female colleagues on Monday; ones like Clara, whose smile had occasionally drooped when I recounted my weekend schedule with the boys.
On my way out, I saw a familiar figure through the glass wall that divided the reception area from one of the fitness studios: Merle. A yoga class was beginning and she’d arrived a little late, scanning the room for a space to unroll her mat. I thought of her as the most self-confident woman I knew and yet she looked in that moment so . . . so defenceless.
Not so long ago, we’d enjoyed mocking the yoga bunnies and fitness freaks of Alder Rise. Didn’t they have anything better to do? we’d said; had Emmeline Pankhurst given two hoots about muscle tone?
Now look at us. Not so immune to the virus of middle-aged insecurity as we’d thought.
Yes, that was probably my big epiphany of that whole period: we’re getting old – whether we like it or not!
Seriously, talk about navel-gazing.
Bram, Word document
When Fi arrived home on Sunday at noon to relieve me of the boys, I barely said two words before heading straight to the station to catch a train to Croydon. I found a scruffy, half-forgotten internet café on a shopping parade and quickly learned the additional details released that morning regarding the condition of the two people in the Fiat.
It was far worse than I’d hoped: both had sustained head, chest and pelvic injuries and it was believed that one of them had also suffered a cardiac arrest. Neither was reported to have yet regained consciousness.
Their names had not been published, for which I was grateful. Nameless, faceless, they were somehow less human to me, not so much flesh-and-blood victims as symbols of a more generalized injustice. As for the perpetrator, nothing new had come to light and he – he was referenced without exception in the male singular – had ‘not yet been apprehended’.
I looked up the address of the hospital – not far from West Croydon station – and headed there without clearly knowing why (to send healing vibes through the walls? To whisper anonymous apologies?). But approaching the main entrance, I spotted the CCTV cameras by the doors and turned on my heel.
Instead, I took the northbound hopper bus that served Silver Road, grimly pleased to get a window seat on the right side for viewing the accident site. Both the Fiat and the Peugeot had been removed, but the drive was still cordoned off by the police. The gate post had been obliterated, shrubbery flattened and two of the windows in the front bay boarded up, presumably shattered in the impact. A police board stood nearby – WITNESS APPEAL. A SERIOUS COLLISION OCCURRED HERE FRI 16/09 6 P.M.–6.15 P.M. – with a phone number to call with information.
It was 6.05, I thought. I’d noticed the time on my dashboard clock as I fled the scene.
Near the shrubbery lay a collection of bouquets, most still in their supermarket wrappings. You could see that each separate bunch had been placed in its spot with care.
15
Friday, 13 January 2017
London, 1.45 p.m.
Two days off, Bram’s boss Neil is saying. It wasn’t ideal, so soon into the New Year, but to be honest he hasn’t been himself since . . . well, since his marital troubles began. But anyway, they haven’t seen him since mid-afternoon on Wednesday and don’t expect him back until Monday.
‘I thought he was helping his mum put some stuff in storage?’ he says from his mobile, voice loud and bright. She can hear the Friday lunchtime laughter of a restaurant or bar in the background.
‘No, he’s definitely not with her,’ Fi says. She doesn’t tell him about the decorating ruse Bram used on Tina. The idea of storage can’t be a coincidence, though: if not Tina’s things, then surely theirs?
‘Hang about,’ Neil says, and exhales in a low whistle. ‘He hasn’t gone and checked himself into rehab, has he?’
‘Of course not!’ Even through the fog of shock, she’s taken aback by this suggestion.
‘Good, because that would be a hell of a lot longer than a couple of days. He’ll turn up, Fi. You of all people know what he’s like.’
But what if she doesn’t, she thinks, hanging up. What if she doesn’t know what he’s like? Not anymore.
‘They haven’t seen him either,’ she tells Lucy Vaughan, who is back at her kettle in a renewed attempt to civilize Fi with tea. Fi can tell from the subtle alteration to her manner since the business with the school that she thinks she might be dealing with someone of unsound mind. Not amnesiac, but psychotic. She is humouring Fi, managing her as best she can until backup arrives in the form of her husband, en route with the second van. She’s no doubt regretting telling the removals guys they can grab a coffee on the Parade while they wait.
In fact, Fi is managing herself better now. She must be because she’s started noticing details, like the fact that Lucy has a chrome kettle where hers is black, white mugs where hers are sage green, an oak-topped table instead of the industrial-style
steel one Alison helped Fi choose. All items that have, like the rest of her Trinity Avenue reality, evaporated.
‘When was the last time you actually saw Bram?’ Lucy asks, pouring steaming water into the mugs and dropping the squeezed teabags into a Sainsbury’s carrier, her makeshift moving-day bin.
‘Sunday,’ Fi says. ‘But I spoke to him yesterday and Wednesday.’
The gulf between the innocent arrangements of the last few days and the nameless mysteries of today already feels unbreachable. Bram was leaving work after lunch on Wednesday to pick up the boys from school and allow Fi her early start to her two-night break, which was also supposed to involve a leisurely return this evening and an overnighter in the flat. She wasn’t due to relieve Bram of the boys until Saturday morning, a departure from their usual bird’s nest routine, but normal service was to be resumed the following week. Had she not needed to dash back for her laptop, or had she left it in the flat and not here, she wouldn’t have known the boys were at their grandmother’s; she wouldn’t have known the Vaughans were in her house. Not yet. She’d be in a state of grace.
Lucy unpacks a carton of milk and adds a dash to each mug. ‘Here, finally.’ She hands Fi hers with an air of it being a leap of faith on her part to expect that Fi will not throw it back at her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be back in touch soon and we’ll sort this misunderstanding out.’
She keeps using that word – misunderstanding – as if it’s some farcical mix-up, like when Merle’s Biscuiteers delivery went to Alison’s house and the Osborne kids ate them without checking the card. Easily solved, quickly forgiven.
Fi stares past Lucy, out to the garden. This, at least, is exactly as she left it, every plant rooted loyally to its spot. The goal net. The swing. The slide snaking from the roof of the playhouse to the patch of lawn worn to dirt.
‘I was planning on taking a sledgehammer to that playhouse,’ she says, ‘when the kids grow out of it.’
Lucy tries to conceal a look of shock, licks dry lips. As if pre-empting further violent impulses, she tries another helpful suggestion: ‘Should we phone the school and let them know the boys have been located? You probably gave them quite a scare.’
‘Oh yes, I should do that . . .’ Startled from her reverie and unable to locate her phone immediately, Fi starts to shower the table with the contents of her handbag before remembering the phone is in her pocket. Having redialled the school, she goes through to voicemail and leaves Mrs Emery a garbled apology.
Hanging up, she sees that Lucy’s attention is fixed on the items spilled from her bag, specifically on a slim box of pills lodged in its mouth. Her face is that of someone whose worst suspicions have just been confirmed.
‘They’re not mine,’ Fi tells her and she stuffs everything back into her bag, keeping the phone in front of her.
‘Right.’ Pity crosses Lucy’s eyes, followed by redoubled wariness. Perhaps she suspects that Fi has a personality disorder and has somehow appropriated the name of the former owner, presenting herself here in some dissociative state. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but is the medication new? Did the doctor warn you about side effects? Maybe short-term memory loss or something . . .’
‘I just told you, it’s not mine!’ Fi can feel her expression distorting, struggles to straighten it. She can’t predict her emotions any more than she can control the way they express themselves.
Lucy nods. ‘My mistake. Oh!’ At the sound of the doorbell, relief floods her face and she springs to her feet in near joy. ‘They’re here!’
She hurries to the door and soon Fi hears two new voices, one male, belonging to one of the removals team or perhaps Lucy’s husband, the other immediately identifiable as Merle’s.
Merle! She was at the window, watching. She must have waited until the second van arrived and then decided she could delay intervening no longer. She’ll be on Fi’s side, won’t she? See this as Fi does, know that Lucy is the deluded one, not her.
Lucy returns first, newly emboldened: ‘Right, now David’s here, I suggest we both try to get hold of our solicitors.’
Before Fi can protest that she doesn’t have one, because she hasn’t sold her house, Merle bursts in, all but forcing Lucy against the kitchen counter to take command of the space.
‘Have you invited these people to move in, Fi?’ Ardent with indignation, her scarlet top billowing, Merle is like a guru, her energy magical, transformative.
‘No,’ Fi says, with a surge of spirit, ‘definitely not. I don’t know who they are or why their things are here. This is all completely against my will.’
As Lucy begins to object, Merle silences her with a raised palm inches from her nose. ‘In that case, this is illegal occupation and harassment.’ (Merle worked years ago as a housing officer, which is always worth remembering.) ‘And I’m reporting them to the police!’
Geneva, 2.45 p.m.
He’s hungry, though it takes him a minute or two to recognize the sensation, because it’s without urgency or anticipation. It’s simply a variation on the new constant: rawest anguish. Grief. Loss.
But you have to eat, even if it is going to remind you of all the times you doled out sausages to ravenous boys, coaxed broccoli into their mouths while privately agreeing it was food fit for the devil. Or maybe it will remind you of a face across the table at La Mouette, the best restaurant in Alder Rise, back when the face still smiled at you, back when the woman the smile belonged to still believed in you. Wanted to know your story, defend your frailties. When you all lived together in the house the woman loved and to which both the boys came home from the maternity ward.
Stop, he thinks. You have no right to be sentimental. Or self-pitying.
He leaves the bar, the first he’d come to on exiting the hotel, and follows signs to the nearest restaurant. He finds himself climbing through a building in a lift, which makes him think of Saskia and Neil and of the resignation email that will be sent to them automatically on Monday at 9 a.m. The request that Fi be sent his remaining salary payments – for what it’s worth.
The top-floor restaurant has windows facing the airport and from his table he has a clear view of the planes coming in, touching down as if toys controlled by some capricious child. Everyone around him has the disengaged air of those in transit: too early to check in or too tired on arrival to make anything of the day. Might as well have some lunch.
He orders something with potatoes and cheese. Swiss mountain food. The glass of red wine doesn’t help the anxiety any more than the beer did, but at least the action of drinking it is familiar. He supposes he should be grateful for every last minute of this borrowed time, grateful it didn’t end at airport immigration when he negotiated passport control. Somehow, his impersonation of old Bram, family holidaymaker and occasional business traveller, had satisfied both the human officer and the thermal camera that scanned arriving passengers for fever and virus (though not, as he’d feared, guilt), and he’d been waved through.
Crazy, but even after he’d cleared baggage reclaim and customs and was out among the general public, he still expected to be approached and asked to step aside.
To be asked if the name on his passport was really his own.
16
‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:01:36
Have I considered alternative theories about Bram’s disappearance? Believe me, I’ve considered everything. Even the police acknowledge that his continued absence might be owing to circumstances unrelated to the house fraud, that he might never have got as far as being a fugitive from the law. He might have been killed in a brawl and his body hidden, or he might have gone on a drinking binge and fallen into the river – you wouldn’t last five minutes in the Thames in January temperatures. We’re talking about someone with a volatile temperament here; we’re talking about a heavy drinker.
I know it sounds awful, but when the police ask me what Bram was like, really like, what made him tick, the first thing I think of is the boozing. I don’t remember a day when he didn�
��t drink. Mind you, that didn’t make him unique on Trinity Avenue. There were men – and women – who would come home from work and within an hour have inhaled a bottle of wine. I used to think it was pure luck that their fix of choice happened to be a socially acceptable one, but then I realized it was their fix of choice because it was socially acceptable.
(I say ‘their’ but I mean ‘our’: it’s not like I’m teetotal myself.)
One of Bram’s little quirks was that he disliked lime; he joked that it was an allergy and that this was where Leo got his allergies from, but in fact it was to do with some epic tequila session when he was a student. He mocked alcohol-free lager, he mocked Dry January, he mocked mocktails; he mocked anything that didn’t have alcohol in it.
I realize I’m using the past tense, which I shouldn’t do. But you see why I’m so certain that if he is dead then he won’t have died sober?
*
I know now that September was a significant time for Bram and his misdemeanours, but my own crime-related concerns during this period were about the wave of incidents that had suddenly swept Trinity Avenue.
First, one of the tenants in the flats on the corner of Wyndham Gardens returned from holiday to discover his place ransacked by people renting it in his absence through some Airbnb-type website. Though avid in our interest, we all agreed he probably shouldn’t have been subletting in the first place.
Deeper sympathies were extended to Matt and Kirsty Roper soon after when they were burgled in broad daylight. Kirsty was one of us, hers a misfortune we could get on board with: a side gate left on the latch while the family nipped out to the garden centre; the alarm not activated (they were only going to be gone twenty minutes); a Stonehenge of laptops and other devices left enticingly on the kitchen table; a barking spaniel that the neighbours had been trained to ignore – it was a perfect storm of elements that might have broken over any of us.
‘The police think he must have been watching the house,’ Kirsty told us. ‘In a way, that’s the most upsetting bit.’
Our House Page 8
