The Carrier

by Sophie Hannah

  “I know.”

  “It was so vivid.”

  I grab his arm, pull him round to face me. “It wasn’t too late,” I say. “You could have left her. You did leave her, but you didn’t come and find me. You never came looking for me!”

  “You had Sean.”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I? How did you feel about that?”

  Tim stops walking. “I thought he was wrong for you. Part of me was glad you had someone, even so. I’d have felt guiltier about not being able to leave Francine if you were completely on your own—”

  “Stop!” I can’t stand to listen.

  “What do you want me to say, Gaby? That I was jealous of Sean because he had you and I didn’t? Of course I was.”

  “But you didn’t say that, Tim. You said something different. Shall I tell you how I felt about Francine? I hated her. Not for being a bitch and putting you through hell every day. For being your wife. She could have been the kindest, loveliest woman on the face of the earth and I’d have loathed her every bit as much. I used to wish she’d drop dead. I Googled her five times a day, looked at the photo of her on her firm’s website, stared into her stony eyes. I’d imagine you in bed with her, watching TV with her, clearing away the supper things together, and I’d wish her dead. Next to you, Francine’s the person who’s inspired my most passionate feelings. There—how do you feel about me now?”

  How would you feel if I told you I love Lauren for killing her, and always will, however wrong it is?

  “Wow,” Tim says.

  “You didn’t feel that way about Sean, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean what you’ve decided it means.”

  “You can live without me, Tim.” I can’t forgive that. “All those years of no contact—”

  “Gaby, you lived without me perfectly well!”

  “It’s not the same. I thought I had no choice. You’d made it clear you didn’t want me anywhere near you.”

  “You could have thought, Fuck that, and hunted me down,” Tim says. “You could have turned up on the doorstep and told Francine the truth, provoked a crisis. Can’t you see how unreasonable you’re being? I could live without you, yes, but I don’t want to. I choose not to—ever.” He laughs. “What about you? You can live without me, and you’re about to prove it. You’re leaving me, aren’t you?”

  I say nothing.

  Tim grabs my hands. It hurts. “Tell me what I can do to change your mind,” he says. “I’ll do anything.”

  “No. You tell me what you can do. Or, better than that, don’t tell me—just do it. Change my mind.”

  “I will.”

  “Good-bye, Tim.”

  I walk away, down the hill, without looking back. I don’t have to hurry; he won’t follow me. Though I can’t see him, I know he’s still where I left him, deciding we’re doomed, that it’s too late—there is nothing he could possibly do that would be big enough. Run after me, refuse to let me go. Turn back the clock, do everything differently.

  There’s a taxi stand outside a pizzeria at the bottom of the hill path. I get into the first cab in the line, tell the driver to take me to Geneva Airport. “Which airline are you flying with, miss?” he asks me in English.

  Good question. I think back to Düsseldorf Airport, Sean asking me, “Who’s the carrier?”

  I don’t know who I’m flying with. I’m booked onto the same return flight as Tim, but that’s impossible now. “I don’t know,” I say. “Take me to any departure gate.”

  “You are going to book a flight when you arrive?” The driver’s not giving up easily. “There are different gates for different destinations. What is your destination?”

  “I don’t know. Sorry. I’ll decide when I get there.”

  If I get there. Maybe Tim will stop me; maybe we’ll decide to stay in Switzerland for the rest of our lives. A new start. Not three hundred and sixty-five minus ninety midnights, but as many as we’ve got left. If I’m lucky—and I have been in my life so far, mostly—I’ll never have to make the decision of where to fly to, never have to face the realization that there’s nowhere I want to go without Tim.

  That’s what I’m going to keep thinking all the way to Geneva Airport. I’ve got about two hours, a bit longer if I’m lucky. Two hours is a long time.

  28

  6/4/2011

  “Stop where you are! Permission to approach denied.”

  “I’m . . . here, sir.” Sam was standing directly in front of Proust’s desk. Any closer and he’d have been touching it. He stared at the inspector’s upside-down signature on the bottom of a form. The ink was still wet. Shiny.

  “I meant metaphorically stop where you are. I don’t want it.”

  How could he know? There was no way. “I think we’re at cross purposes,” Sam said, trying to work out what Proust thought he was about to give him.

  “You mean you’re making me cross on purpose?” the Snowman snapped, removing the signed form from the top of the pile in front of him and signing the one beneath it without looking at it. “I don’t want your letter of resignation, Sergeant.”

  “My—”

  “The one you were about to produce from your jacket’s inside pocket and put on my desk.”

  Give it to him. You don’t need permission. It’s not up to him.

  With an unsteady hand, Sam extracted the letter from his jacket and held it out for Proust to take.

  “Put it through the shredder,” the Snowman barked. “I’m not interested.”

  “You want me to stay?” Sam asked.

  Proust smiled in the way that an adult might smile at a child’s sweet but naïve suggestion. “Neither of us wants you to stay—not you and not me—but we’ll both have to put up with you being here. I’m not one for lavish compliments, Sergeant, but you’re the only member of my team who’s halfway normal. Reliably unremarkable.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “If you leave, I won’t be able to avoid having Sergeant Zailer working for me again. Waterhouse would hate it, but he’d have to pretend it was what he wanted. His marriage would hate it even more, and would hasten to its inevitable doom. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”

  “You want me to stay,” said Sam. This time he wasn’t asking.

  Proust looked up at him. Sighed. “Do you want me to send a bunch of flowers to your dressing room? Yes, Sergeant, I want you to stay. You’re the only person I work with that I never have to think about. And I do mean never. I’m not thinking about you now, for example. I’m thinking about more important things.”

  Sam prayed the Snowman couldn’t read his mind. What did it say about him that he felt flattered when he ought to feel insulted? He would tell Kate later and pretend to share her outrage, while secretly believing Proust wanted to make him feel valued in the only way he knew how.

  “I’m going to have to think about it, sir.”

  Proust chuckled. “Think all you like. I won’t be thinking about you thinking. I won’t be thinking about you at all, Sergeant, and I’ll be enjoying it very much.”

  “Sir, if you want me to stay . . .”

  “In the immediate short term, I’d rather you left. My office, I mean. Off you go, and take your pointless letter with you.” Proust waved elaborately, as if for a press photograph, without looking up from his paperwork.

  Sam went.

  He took his pointless letter with him.

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