Tideline

by Penny Hancock

  There’s the intermittent shoosh of waves on the shore each time a launch passes out on the river. The occasional flare of light on the wall. As I shift from my side onto my back, releasing the lock of his hair I’ve taken into my mouth, I notice that the doorbell on the river side is going. I go rigid, my knee between his legs. It rings again, and doesn’t stop. If it continues, Jez will wake up, find me here. He might shout out, which, in the silence of the night, may be audible from below. I haul myself from the warm fug of the duvet, pick up my boots and tiptoe across the room. I lock the door, hurry downstairs and across the hall. Someone taps sharply on the window in the living room. A voice calls, ‘Sonia, Sonia, please open up! I’ve nowhere else to go!’

  Across the courtyard to the door in the wall. The sulphuric scent of mud off the riverbed is overpowering. The tide must be out. There’s a brisk wind that stirs an eddy of rubbish on the path. I shiver.

  ‘Helen! What is it? Keep your voice down, will you!’ I hold the door close to me. She’s distraught. Her face in the orange glow of the lamplight is crumpled. She must have continued to drink after I left her.

  ‘I walked in on them!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me in, will you?’

  Instinct tells me it’ll be easier to comply than refuse, given the state she’s in. I let her follow me across the courtyard and into the kitchen. I sit her on the bench, and pour her a glass of wine.

  ‘We must keep our voices down, Helen,’ I say. ‘Neighbours, and so on.’

  She doesn’t query this, just rests her forehead in one hand, groans and starts to talk, quietly at first.

  ‘I had a good think in the pub after you left. Decided I had to talk to my sister. Mick’s never going to discuss it.’

  She knocks back half the red wine I’ve poured her.

  ‘It’s about ten thirty by the time I get home. All quiet. I go up to see if Maria’s gone to bed. Push open the door – and they’re in there together. On the bed. Her son’s missing. And she’s with my husband on Jez’s bed. Give me another drink, Sonia. God, I need it.’

  ‘What about the family liaison person?’

  ‘Eh?’ she looks up, dragging a fist angrily across her cheek, boxing away tears.

  ‘You said he was helpful. He told you Mick’s behaviour was typical under the circumstances. To let it float over you.’

  ‘Ah ha. Yes. Where was he when I needed him? He’d gone to sleep at the Clarendon Hotel. So, and I only said it because I was a bit pissed, you know how you say things you don’t mean. I said, “That’s it. I’m off.” And Mick says, and he’s half-dressed, Sonia, sitting there on Jez’s bed in the Calvin Klein tartan boxers I bought him last Christmas, his arm round my sister, he says, “Fine by me because I’m sick of your drinking.” I mean, I wouldn’t be drinking if it wasn’t for the way he’s been lately. But he says, “Half the time you wouldn’t notice if the boys went out and never came back. It’s no bloody wonder Jez has disappeared from under your nose.” How dare he say that? He was raving. It was horrible, Sonia. Complete character assassination.’

  ‘Helen, shhh,’ I say. ‘You’re upset. But you mustn’t get hysterical.’

  Jez might hear, he might call out. I feel ill, as if I might be sick, and I remember that I hardly slept last night, that my nerves are ragged.

  ‘I feel like it,’ she wails. ‘I feel like howling! What am I going to do? Where am I going to go? He’s being so, so . . .’

  ‘Here.’ I pour her some more wine, to quieten her.

  ‘Feeble. How can he be so weak Sonia? He won’t stand up for me. I’m his wife, for Christ’s sake! He thinks that because the police have been questioning me, I might actually be guilty. That Maria’s the only one who deserves any sympathy.’ She scrapes her fingers down her blotchy cheeks. ‘Or has he always had a thing for her? They say only bad relationships crack under strain. So maybe this was coming anyway and I was too stupid to notice!’

  She slumps against the back of the bench. The wine’s gone in a couple of large swigs.

  ‘I’ve got nothing left. My kids are dropouts, my husband’s unfaithful, my nephew’s gone missing and might be dead. They all think it’s my fault!’

  ‘They don’t, Helen. They can’t. Not Mick. Not your sister.’

  ‘They do. I can see it in their eyes. I can’t tell them where I was that morning, Sonia, it’s too humiliating. But it has nothing to do with Jez. You believe me, don’t you? I know it must seem crazy. Better that they think I’ve been drinking than that I’ve something worse to hide. Maybe I’ll come clean. What do you think? Have I been too proud?’

  She stops and shifts back in her chair, her eyes fixed on something under the table. She stoops down, then points. I follow her gaze. Jez’s Tim Buckley badge, the one with the image from his album cover, ‘Works in Progress’, that matches the T-shirt Alicia was wearing today, lies face up on the floor. It must’ve fallen off his hoodie when I rolled up his sleeves earlier this afternoon. Helen’s mouth drops open. She looks at me. I stare back at her, rigid, unable to speak or move.

  ‘What the . . .’ she says, looking at me, then back at the badge. ‘The motif, it’s the same one Alicia was wearing on her T-shirt. The one she got with Jez from that internet site.’

  My mouth’s dry, my face set. Jesus, don’t let her click.

  ‘I should know, I was there, they did it on my computer. The other day. Where did it come from? We must tell the police. It’s Jez’s. I’m sure it’s Jez’s. What on earth is it doing here?’

  I swallow. Suck my cheeks, try to get some saliva working in my mouth.

  ‘Kit. Picked it up on the river path.’

  I get up and move across to the wine rack with Helen’s empty glass. I take down another bottle, lean against the sink for a moment and close my eyes. Count, I tell myself. Breathe. I keep my back to her. My hands have lost all feeling. At last I manage to get a grip on the corkscrew. Why didn’t I pick a screw-top bottle? I manage to extract the cork and slosh the wine into her glass. Hope she won’t notice the slug of whisky I add. Or the Rohypnol.

  I steady myself before turning back to her. I sit down, hand her the wine, and brush a stray hair from my cheek.

  ‘You didn’t tell the police?’ she says.

  ‘It didn’t occur to us to. Why would we?’

  ‘It’s got that Tim Buckley thing on it.’

  ‘Tim Buckley?’ I say. ‘I had no idea.’

  She leans forward, is about to pick it up and stops.

  ‘Sonia, we must put it in a plastic bag for the forensics. It’s crucial evidence! Don’t touch it.’

  ‘As I say, Kit picked it up, said she wondered if Harry wanted it, he didn’t – hadn’t heard of . . . what’s his name?’

  ‘It’s all extremely odd,’ she says. She looks up at me as I hand her the glass. Is she fitting a jigsaw together in her head, even through the mists of the alcohol?

  ‘It’s not odd, Helen,’ I say, my voice sharp. ‘We had no idea it might be Jez’s.’

  ‘But think! A roach on the river path, the one Alicia found. Now this! Where did Kit find it? The police must be told. Hey Sonia, I’m a sleuth! I’m gonna solve this mystery. I’m going to find my nephew. I have a feeling I’m close to solving this. Lemme think. I know. He was going to call in here for some Tim Buckley music, wasn’t he? Did he come here? Sonia!’

  ‘No he didn’t,’ I hiss.

  ‘No need to get upset!’ She’s gazing at me over her glass as she drinks. ‘Why didn’t you make the connection, Sonia? Kit finds a Tim Buckley badge, Jez was supposed to come here for a Buckley album. You’re my friend. If you know anything, anything about Jez, I’m here for you. But you have to tell me. Do you? Do you know anything? Did you see him that day? Did Kit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have to phone the police.’ Her words have begun to slur. She stands up and wobbles a little. ‘Where’s my bag? I’ll use my mobile.’

  ‘Helen, it’s after midnight,’ I say
as gently as I can manage. ‘The police won’t thank us for ringing them at this time about a badge! If you’re sure it’s Jez’s we’ll tell them tomorrow.’

  ‘If he came along the river path, if he came here, they need to know.’

  I notice with relief that her voice is losing strength, she’s articulating each word as if it’s a huge effort.

  ‘You’re distressed,’ I say. ‘We need to deal with you. Does Mick know where you are? Do the boys?’ My thoughts soar, buoyed by urgency. ‘The boys’ll be beside themselves after everything that’s happened lately. Did you tell them you were leaving?’

  ‘Fuck. I feel completely plastered. I need to lie down. The phone. Oh my God. When I rang here earlier this afternoon, I imagined I heard Jez’s voice. But . . . no, that’s mad. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Completely.’

  She stares at me, her eyes bloodshot, her face reddened by drink. I can see doubt in her eyes. She’s begun to click, despite the alcohol and, now, the drug. I stare back at her. Why has she put me in this position? She’s already standing up, edging along the bench, aiming for the living room. She won’t let the police idea drop.

  ‘Gimme the phone,’ she says, flopping onto the sofa. She’s struggling to keep her eyes open. ‘The police . . .’

  ‘Stop worrying.’

  ‘It’s urgent,’ she says. ‘It can’t wait.’

  Her eyelids are drooping. In a few moments more she’s asleep. I stand and stare down at her. The world is collapsing about me. When she wakes up the first thing she’ll demand to do is phone the police about that bloody badge and the voice she thinks she heard on the phone. Helen’s forced me into this position and I have no choice. I pick up the feather cushion on the sofa next to me. I place it gently over her face. Then I press. She starts to wriggle. When she phones, they’ll want to have another look in the music room and I can’t move Jez again. He’s too ill.

  I push the cushion harder over her nose and mouth. They’ll find him upstairs.

  My eye catches sight of my mother’s pile of haberdashery with the darning mushroom lying on top. I reach for it with one hand whilst the other holds the cushion.

  They’ll take him away from me.

  I force the cushion into Helen’s now gaping mouth with the handle of the darning mushroom while my other hand holds the rest of the cushion over her nose.

  They’ll tear us apart and I’m not ready for it. I couldn’t bear it.

  Living near the river, you get to know the variety of ways there are to cross. There’s no bridge on this stretch so the choices are on the water or under. There are no U-turns. You are committed to your destination. Even the Blackwall Tunnel refuses to let you turn around once you’ve entered its toxic bowels. Sometimes when driving through, I have the urge to go back, gripped by a fear of passing beneath the mass of dark river. But the traffic before you and behind hustles you onwards. You can’t stop. You have to plough on, through the grime until you emerge amongst the towering blocks on the other side. I think of this as I lean upon the pillow and know I can’t go back. There are no U-turns. I’m committed to my destination.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday morning

  Sonia

  How do you know when it’s over? Helen’s hands open and close and claw at my sleeves. Her legs twitch. I’d prefer it if this weren’t happening in the living room. But I had no choice. I hold on tighter to the cushion. Twist the darning mushroom harder. The fire I lit in the grate this afternoon has long since petered out. A draft scutters in from the chimney, spreads ashes across the rug, lifts one of the curtains. The clock on the mantelpiece whirrs and strikes half past twelve. Helen begins to convulse. To retch. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to look. I turn my head to one side, letting my full weight press against her. At last her feet in their lovely suede boots collapse out to the sides. I lift the cushion. It’s soaked in vomit. I feel for a pulse. I mustn’t think. The cold of the room. The smell of the fluids. The voices.

  I leave her for a minute and go to the window on the river side. I lift the curtain and peer out into the darkness. It’s hard to see whether the tide’s high. I need the river full for this. Carrying her in my arms down the steps with their glycerine sheen would be hopeless.

  I slip into the courtyard and through the door to the alley. It’s as I suspected. The water has covered the shore and slaps the wall about eight feet below. I’ll have to wait at least two hours, maybe three. Perhaps I should have thought of this before using the cushion. Waited a bit.

  The smell of Helen’s vomit permeates everything. I feel it’s got into my hair, my clothes. I go to the kitchen for a J cloth and the Dettox spray and mop up the mess on her chest, take the cushion to the kitchen to wash. On second thoughts, perhaps I should get rid of it. But where? Calm. Breathe. My mind won’t be still. There’s too much to think about. Like the things Helen drew my attention to. The things the forensics might pick up. I should be far more attentive to the evidence I’m leaving.

  In the end, I stuff the cushion into the washing machine on a hot wash and turn it on. Then I fetch Mother’s wheelchair from under the stairs. Helen’s such a light weight after Jez. I lift her in my arms and shift her into it. She’ll be fine sitting there for a couple of hours.

  I pick up the incriminating badge and take it up to the music room. In the faint light that seeps from the stairwell through the high windows, I find the hoodie at the foot of Jez’s bed and pin it back on. He’s still in a feverish sleep, giving off a faint boyish scent that I draw into my lungs to rinse away that other smell of Helen. I lift a lock of his dark hair and rub my nose across the fine down behind his ear, push my finger gently along the blue vein on his arm, down to the palm of his hand that lies upturned as if he’s offering me something precious in it. Kiss the pads of his fingers where they are soft like peach skin. I let my eyes roam over the length of his body. Shiver at the anticipated sweetness, once we can be alone again.

  Downstairs I tug some rubber gloves from the clutter in the cupboard under the sink and place them on the table ready for the tide. They lie there, pink bloated fingers monstrous after Jez’s slender, golden ones. The next hour is interminable. I try to clear up the kitchen but it’s already almost tidy. I put the empty wine bottles in the recycling bin, and wash Helen’s glass in the sink, three times, scrubbing it with the washing-up brush before putting it into the dishwasher. Every so often I pop my head round the living room door to check that she hasn’t started to breathe again. I have an urge to wrap a rug around her, though she will no longer be able to feel the cold. I don’t like to see her slumped there in her orange miniskirt and opaque cerise tights, her cerise crew-neck jumper and orange scarf in the draft that continues to blow from the fireplace. All so nicely co-ordinated. One leg of her tights has wrinkled up around her knee a bit, probably from her struggle with me on the sofa, and I have the urge to pull it up and smooth it out. I don’t like to see her like this at all, but I had no choice. What other option did I have?

  I find the blanket, the one I wrapped Jez in this afternoon, the green and white check, and drape it around her. The clock strikes again.

  I go back to the kitchen. Sit, my head in my hands. Go back to check on her again. Realize that this time I’m hoping she might be breathing. I put my hand under her mouth, her nose, lift her wrist, try to find a pulse.

  Nothing.

  The phone rings. It’s two in the morning. No one phones at two. I consider picking it up, then refrain. It clicks on to answer machine. I hear Mick’s voice.

  ‘Sonia. I’m sorry to disturb you at this time. But Helen’s gone off and I wondered whether she might be with you. If you could give me a ring in the morning . . . I’m worried about her.’

  Why do people assume everyone’s with me? If they suspect she’s here, how long will it be before they come snooping around? I must get rid of her.

  I go out to the door in the wall and stop. There are voices coming along the alley. Foreign accents. Po
lish or Russian. Students coming back from a night out. Laughter, a shriek. One of them is probably leaning over the wall to feign jumping into the river. You get used to the pranks played by students, the same old games as if they were the first ones to ever think of them. He calls to his mates, they are just a few centimetres from me on the other side of the door.

  Go, I mumble, move on, though I don’t think there’ll be enough water to deposit Helen into yet.

  At last the footsteps retreat down the alley, the voices fade. I turn the key in the lock and step across to the wall. As I suspected, the water rolls indifferently, at least six feet below me. Does it always rise so reluctantly?

  A police launch bounds past on the river, its lights blazing and the water goes mad, rolling and slapping and splashing up against the bricks. Swirling around the great chain that’s bolted to the wall there. There’s the mournful wailing sound from the pontoon just along the shore as it creaks in the wake.

  I have about an hour until the water should be high enough. How do you sink a body? I need some weights. The obvious place for these would’ve been the shore but that’s no use now the water has crept in and covered it. I unearth a few broken bricks from the courtyard, ones my mother used to raise the flower bed, and carry them into the living room. I stare at Helen in the wheelchair. There’s nowhere to put them! Then I remember she had a jacket on when she arrived. I find it in the kitchen. It’s the lovely blue-green wool jacket with a hood she had on at the Pavilion the other day. I unwrap the blanket, pull her arms into the sleeves, and place some broken bricks in the coat’s deep pockets. I’m not sure, even now, that she will be heavy enough to sink. As a precaution, I put two more half bricks in an old Sainsbury’s carrier bag and tie them to the little chain Boden put in the collars of their garments in case you haven’t a hanger and need to hook your coat on a peg. The bricks nestle in the hood. This makes me think of Seb, the way he put cans of lager in fishing nets and tied them onto ropes so he could swim out to the barges, dragging them.