by Tim Weaver
‘This must be stopped now.’
‘Who the hell is this?’
The line glitched, buzzed.
‘Everything you love must be taken away.’
12
I didn’t get home until almost six-thirty, the sky a vast, markless sweep of mauve, the sun too low to be seen beyond the roofs of the city. I pulled into my driveway and got out, and as I removed my laptop and some files from the boot, I glimpsed my neighbours, both of them on their knees and tending to the same flower bed.
They were a couple in their thirties, Andrew and Nicola, and six months after they’d first moved in, we’d barely spoken. In their first week, I’d introduced myself, found out he worked for an Aston Martin dealership on Park Lane, while she had some kind of marketing job in the City. And that was it. In half a year, that was all I’d managed to get out of them. We’d talked a few times in between, but it was bland, vacuous stuff: the house, the weather, the London property market.
Most of the time, it didn’t bother me. I lived alone, I spent my working life the same way. But occasionally, I felt regret – even a sort of mourning – for the woman who’d lived there before. That had been Liz, the first person I’d fallen in love with after the death of my wife, and a woman I’d eventually had to let go.
I closed the boot, its dull thud not disturbing either of them from their gardening. Even as I made my way up the drive, they didn’t turn around, and by the time I saw Andrew glance across the fence, my front door had long since closed and I was inside the kitchen, looking out from the darkness of the house.
Opening it up – the windows, the rear doors – I started preparing some dinner, and once it was ready, I took my plate through to the back garden and sat on the decking with a bottle of beer, watching the sky burn out until it was black.
An hour later, the doorbell rang.
To begin with, I thought I was hearing things. I rarely got visitors at home – an indictment of my social life, of who I’d allowed myself to become – and as I turned in my chair on the back deck, a third empty beer bottle beside me, all I could hear was birdsong and the gentle crackle of a ceramic wood burner I’d bought the previous spring. Thinking I must have misheard, I watched the logs gently shift inside the burner, fire licking at them, embers spitting up and out of the chimney.
Then the doorbell sounded again.
I made my way through the house, turning on the interior lights, and opened up. The security lamp bathed the driveway in a lake of stark white light, washing out to where a Yaris was parked up, a woman about to get back inside.
‘Can I help you?’
She looked back at me, surprised.
It was Gemma.
I almost didn’t recognize her. At her daughter’s funeral three years before, she’d been dark-haired and thin, her green eyes revealing so much about her – her strength, her instinct for survival – even in the hours after Leanne’s casket had been lowered into the ground. Yet all that had changed. This version of her was flabby, inflated, the lines of her face hidden behind thick, black-rimmed glasses and untidy strands of brown hair. She swiped some of it away, her black roots spidering out, and took a couple of steps closer. I remembered her being three years older than Healy, which put her in her early fifties, and she now seemed to carry so much of that half-century. As I came down the front steps, she pulled her hair back from her eyes again and I saw how marbled they were, how blotchy and irritated her skin was, how recently she’d been crying.
‘Gemma.’
She pushed the door of the car shut. ‘David,’ she said, her voice quiet, eyes on the house. ‘When you didn’t answer, I figured you weren’t home.’
‘Sorry. I was in the back garden.’
She nodded.
‘Do you want to come in?’
A black handbag was wedged between her breast and the inside of her arm, and as she looked from me to the house and then back again, she seemed to press it closer to her. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding for a second time. ‘Thank you.’
I led her inside, the ghost-white glare from the security lamp replaced by the semi-darkness of the hallway. ‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’
‘Tea would be fine.’
I filled the kettle and set it boiling.
For a moment, we stood opposite one another in the kitchen, awkwardly, her hovering in the doorway uncertainly, me half perched on one of the stools.
‘I take it you got my message?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I did.’
‘I didn’t want you to have to drive all the way down here.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, eyes drifting to where steam was chugging out of the kettle and into the spaces above us. ‘I wanted to …’ Her eyes narrowed, as if she was first trying to form what she needed to say in her head. ‘I’d been thinking about calling you. I know this is kind of your … well, I guess this is what you do.’
‘I’m glad you came,’ I said.
A small smile: fleeting, fatigued.
I didn’t ask her anything else. Instead, I made her tea and led her through the house to the back deck. Gesturing for Gemma to take one of the chairs, we sat down either side of the burner, the brief silence filled with the pop of the wood. She laid her handbag on the floor, and then reached over to her tea, fingers lacing together around it.
‘How did you hear about Colm?’ she asked.
‘I know a few people at the Met.’
‘In Barnet?’
‘Not specifically, but I heard on the grapevine that you’d been there at the end of August. I’m conscious of stepping on any toes. But I wanted to call you.’
She nodded. ‘I’m really pleased you did.’
That was a good start. I wasn’t exactly sure how Gemma would view me, especially through the prism of the press – or perhaps through Healy himself. If she’d spoken to him on the phone in the moments after the two of us had fallen out, Healy would have ensured I’d come out looking second best. But Gemma was nothing if not battle-hardened: she’d been married to him for over twenty years, and that was a long time to get to know someone’s faults.
‘I don’t have any …’ She paused, looking down into her mug. ‘I don’t have much money, David. The boys are grown up, Colm’s gone. I don’t know how I –’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘You can’t do this for free.’
I smiled. ‘I’m not even sure what “this” is.’
She swallowed, put her tea down and went to her bag. After a few seconds, she brought out an envelope. It was creased, a little marked, a trace of a coffee stain on its edge. Taking it from her, I saw it was addressed to her in an untidy, wavering hand. It had been postmarked 21 August.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
Her eyes lingered on it, on the frayed corners of the envelope. It was clear she’d looked at it many times; taken it out and put it back. The flap was incapable of sticking any more, the adhesive long since worn out. ‘I think it might be …’
I waited, not interrupting.
‘I think it might be Colm’s suicide note.’
13
Something began to churn in the pit of my stomach as I opened the envelope and removed the letter. It was an ivory-coloured sheet of A4, thin stock, folded in half. On the side facing me, Healy had written GEMMA in uneven capital letters.
I glanced at her. She was leaning forward in her seat now, and I saw a flash in her eyes, the glow of the wood burner painting one side of her face. A second later, a tear welled, forming along the ridge of her lashes, and she lifted her glasses to wipe it away; but then another came in its place and this time she let it fall, a trail tracing the contours of her cheek. I wondered what could reduce her to this, a woman Healy had driven away, whom he’d wronged, hurt and betrayed, who no longer wore a wedding ring and was three years past caring what he did with his life.
But then I opened the letter.
It was in black ballpoint pen and barely legible in
places. Halfway in, I couldn’t understand what he had written, and had to retreat back to the previous line to try to get a sense of his meaning. But even if his words weren’t always clear, his intention was obvious: this was Healy at his most vulnerable, his most lucid. This was a man who could feel the walls closing in.
Dear Gemma,
This letter is long overdue. I have had a lot of time to think over the past months about how I treated people, particularly you and the boys. I did what I thought was best for you all, for Leanne too, our precious daughter, our baby, our beautiful girl, when she was alive. I miss her so much, some days it’s like I can’t breathe. I couldn’t get to her in time – another failure to add to all my others – but I’ve often wondered what things would be like if I had.
Do you think maybe if I’d saved her, that would have made it right with her? With Ciaran and Liam? With you? All the arguments we had, all the stupid, petty fights I instigated with you four, do you think maybe we could have all gone on together as a family if I’d been a different, better person? I suppose it’s impossible to answer, what’s done is done, but when I lie awake in this place at night, it’s all I can think about. Because I had my time again, and I screwed it up the same as before.
Still, at least here at the end, I can do something right. I’m sorry for everything, Gem. Tell the boys I love them.
Colm
x
I looked at Gemma, her face marked by tears, mascara smudged, her body small again, as if she’d suddenly lost all the weight she’d gained. I closed my eyes, trying to get my own head straight – because I could see what she’d meant now.
I understood.
It was a suicide note.
Trying to focus, I put the letter down, drew my notepad towards me and picked up my pen. But then reality kicked in: what was I going to write down?
What was there to say?
‘Do you think he’s dead?’ she asked.
I glanced at the letter, then at Gemma, her eyes flickering in the light from the burner. A faint breeze picked up and sent the envelope drifting across the table, like a boat being carried away in a storm. I stopped it and pulled it back to me, trying to figure out what the best response was. I had no idea if he was dead.
But, in this moment, it felt like it.
‘What does he mean here?’ I said, pointing to the end of the second paragraph. ‘ “Because I had my time again, and I screwed it up the same as before.” Did you two get back together at some point – was that what he meant by that?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘So do you know what he means there?’
She was still shaking her head, dabbing a finger to her eye. ‘No. Do you think maybe he’s talking about his work? You know, before he was fired. About being given that second chance, after his suspension, and how he messed it up.’
I reread that same passage again. ‘But he’s talking about you, the boys and Leanne. He’s talking about family here. This whole letter is about you four.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t think he’s referring to his time at the Met.’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, then.’
Because I had my time again, and I screwed it up the same as before. My eyes moved to the previous clause: when I lie awake in this place at night, it’s all I can think about. What place? A homeless shelter? A hostel? Emergency housing? It was unlikely he’d have been referring to a place he might be renting. Nothing in what he’d written suggested that. Back in January he was desperate, basically penniless, years away from being able to take money from his pension, his savings all but wiped out, whatever cash he’d had from the sale of his home in St Albans gone on child support, on university fees for the boys, on rent, on petrol, on booze. It seemed impossible he would have been back on his feet by the time he mailed the message to Gemma in August. This letter, these words, they were the endgame; they didn’t even sound like they were written by the same person I’d given up on at the end. There was an unexpected eloquence to them. No anger, just stark self-reflection; a glimpse of the ghosts that lay inside him, the ones Craw and I had continually tried to coax out.
‘What about this?’ I said to Gemma, placing a finger near the bottom of the note. ‘ “Still, at least here at the end, I can do something right.” What was he doing that was right – do you know?’
There was a sudden change in her expression, and she seemed to recover some of her poise. Wiping her eyes again, she took a sip from her tea, as if gathering her thoughts. ‘We’ve only talked once, David, you and I. But do you remember what we talked about that day at Leanne’s funeral?’
I eyed her. ‘We talked about Healy.’
She nodded. ‘On the day of my daughter’s funeral, we talked about her father. It feels like I spent the last ten years of my marriage talking about him. Not about the kids, about what they needed from us, the things we should have been worrying about as parents – but about him. Our entire lives were dictated by him. His anger, his stupidity, his selfishness.’
Her voice was still quiet, but her tone had solidified. I got the sense she knew exactly what Healy had meant in that line near the bottom, and it might not paint her in the best light – so she was going to make damn sure I understood her reasons.
‘In the early days it was different,’ she continued. ‘We all meant the world to him. The kids … they were everything to him. I know that sounds like an obvious thing to say, but he was so good with them. So good.’ She paused, turning her cup, the china chiming gently against the surface of the table. ‘But he found their teenage years much harder. The minute they became capable of doing their own thing, of having their own opinions, of answering back, it was like he began to drift away from them. The older they got, the worse it got. He preferred it when they were small. I think in a lot of ways, despite everything, Colm just needed to feel like he was wanted. Like he belonged to something. When they were small, they needed him, they couldn’t survive without him. As they got older, he couldn’t cope with the way they changed. I think he became lonely.’
Off the back of that, I thought I could see where this was going, and what Healy was referring to at the end of the letter – but I kept quiet, watching her.
‘Things began to change in the year before Leanne was killed,’ she said. ‘As he became more distant from the kids, he started doing longer hours. He’d sink himself into his work – and then he got that case. The twins. He really changed after that. That case got to him so quickly, and he just became more and more insular. He hardly talked to me, he never talked to the kids. I asked him to discuss it with me, because I could see him bottling it up, and I knew from bitter experience that the more he bottled something up, the worse the meltdown would be. But he didn’t. He became uncommunicative. He was like a stranger. It got so bad, I couldn’t think what to say to him. A man I’d spent twenty-six years with.’
I nodded. ‘He didn’t just send the letter to you, did he?’
She glanced at me, surprised that I’d been able to see where it was going. But it wasn’t so hard, and as her eyes lingered on me, tears welled in them again. I imagined these weren’t out of grief this time, but out of a sense of guilt, out of the responsibility she felt for what I held in my hands.
‘No,’ she said, pulling her fringe back from her face. ‘A year and a half ago, I went to see a solicitor about making things official.’
‘You mean getting a divorce?’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking at me like she expected me to say something. When I didn’t, she continued: ‘Colm and I … there was nothing left. There was too much water under the bridge by then. After we separated, we hardly even spoke. His work became everything to him. That case he had – the twins, their mother – it ruined him. At the time …’ A snaking strand of hair fell forward again but she didn’t bother addressing it. ‘Just before the start of that case, I … I stupidly started seeing someone else, someone to fill the gap he’d left behind at home …’
>
She paused again, looking at me, as if waiting for me to pass judgement. But I knew this part of her history already: how she’d drifted into the arms of another man – and how Healy had responded when he’d found out.
‘And a month into that case, he discovered what was going on,’ she said, ‘and that was when he really lost control.’
He’d only ever mentioned that incident to me once, right back when we’d first been drawn together. We’d been nursing drinks in a place near East India Dock Road, rain lashing against the window, and he’d asked me if I’d ever done anything I regretted. I hardly knew him back then, but he began to admit to what he’d done anyway, as if he needed it out in the open, even in front of a stranger. If I’d found out she was seeing someone else any other time, I would have thrown some furniture around. Put my foot through a door. I know I’ve got a temper. It’s who I am. I’m too old to change. But I found out when I was up to my neck with photographs of those twin girls. So when she told me … I totally lost it.
He’d hit her.
He’d hit her so hard, he’d put her in a neck brace for eight weeks. It was an unforgivable act, with nothing to justify it and no way to ever take it back. But I’d seen the remorse in his face enough times to know he hated himself for it, every single day, even if he’d found it hard – until this final letter – to articulate an apology.
‘My solicitor sent him divorce papers,’ she said, looking out on the gathering darkness, where even the birdsong seemed to have faded. ‘But he refused to sign them. July through to October last year, I tried again and again, explaining to him why it was for the best. But then, towards the end of last year, it became harder and harder to get hold of him, and eventually – in November – my solicitor found out he wasn’t even renting a place any more. We couldn’t trace him. He wasn’t using his mobile phone. Every time I called him, it just went to voicemail.’
‘He was living in a homeless shelter.’
She studied me like she was waiting for the punchline.
‘What?’
