*
As I drive back through town, I hear my mobile phone ringing, in my handbag, which is on the passenger seat beside me. It rings twice, then stops. Then it starts again a second and then a third time, the same each time, two rings then nothing. On the fourth try it rings six times before going to voicemail and, a few moments later, there is the penetrating beep that tells me someone has left a message. I pull in and mount the grass verge just before the one-way system and, flicking on my hazard lights, pull my phone out of my bag. The call log tells me I have four missed calls from a withheld number. I wonder if it could be Toni – her cop phone always registers as withheld – but when I listen to the message on my voicemail, nobody speaks. It is a long stretch of nobody speaking that goes on for longer than I listen to it, which is several minutes. After a while, I end the call to voicemail and toss the phone on top of my bag, then pick it up and listen again, my hand over my other ear to impede the drone of passing traffic. It sounds as though somebody has accidentally called my number as they are walking along the street, the phone in their pocket. I can hear muffled footsteps and background noises, cars and conversations passing, an indistinct acoustic of public space. Then, just at the point where I am convinced that somebody has called me four times accidentally, I hear something I didn’t hear the first time – a long sigh, a sigh that makes me feel cold. It is not a sad sigh but a malevolent one, a sigh of satisfaction. It is so close to the phone’s microphone that I feel a sudden shock, as if someone has just tapped me on the shoulder in my own car. The phone is not in someone’s pocket or handbag; it is in her, or his, hand, close to their mouth – the intimacy of it – a mouth near my face.
After the sigh, there comes more background noise, but I don’t listen. I press the ‘end call’ button with a fierce jab of my thumb, then delete the message, then go to my call log and delete all the registers. I throw the phone back into my handbag and restart the car’s engine. As I pull out into the road, a car comes round the corner behind me, too fast, and blares its horn in fury as it swings by, the arc of sound making a dying howl.
*
My free local paper, the weekly, is waiting for me on the mat when I get home. When there were other people in my house, immediately after the event, this paper always disappeared as soon as it was delivered – I realise now that people were protecting me from reports about Betty and Willow. There was a council meeting about parking regulations; Witchard’s Factory Wardrobes was having a sale; secondary schools’ admissions policy was under review. It is surprising what can seem insulting, just how much can be taken personally.
I unfold it and turn the pages rapidly, as I sink down at the kitchen table. The tensions in the town have not abated, it would seem. Last Wednesday, a young woman was followed out of the Chinese takeaway on Clifton Rise by three or four youths who began taunting her about her accent. When she told them to go away, one of the youths took her takeaway from her hand, removed the lid and pushed the hot food in her face and hair. A local councillor is quoted as saying that newcomers to the town must understand the strength of local feeling about unemployment. I wonder if the young woman was one of the young women I saw earlier that day in the warehouse, smilingly sorting through the zips or patches of leather, feeling safe amongst her friends and colleagues, until a strange woman passed by staring at her and reminded her there are always a thousand reasons to feel uncomfortable, to know you are not safe. I shake my head. I must not start to think all things are linked. I will go mad.
*
It is dark outside. I decide to give myself the evening off. I open a bottle of wine and go to the cupboard that houses the posh glasses we never used and find the most expensive glass in it, a large globe on an ultra-thin, twisted stem – the sort of glass that people hold up in restaurants and turn in the light to see the true colour of the wine. I put them both on the tray and then it occurs to me, like a light coming on, that I could have a smoke – in my own house, another transgressive thought. I seem to be having a lot of them recently. Rees is away. No one need ever know. I have two cigarettes in a packet of ten at the back of the drawer where I keep the old instruction leaflets to white goods I discarded years ago. Eventually, I find the packet, a little crushed, beneath the warranty for an electric sandwich toaster. The cigarettes in it are ancient and dry. Despite what I pretended to David, I was never a serious smoker, any more than I was a serious drinker. It was a just a rebellious gesture.
I put the bottle of wine and the expensive glass and cigarettes and hob-ring lighter on a tray, then walk through to the sitting room. I put the gas fire on full, turn on the television, then turn the sound up, drink my wine and smoke my fags, too quickly, one after the other, tapping the ash on to the tray, my feet up on the sofa even though my shoes are still on.
*
Some time later, I jump awake and, as I do, spill wine on myself. I have fallen asleep with the television blaring, the two cigarette stubs on the tray, my expensive wine glass clutched between my fingers and balanced on my chest. That is what has woken me, its tipping – luckily there was only a little left in it. I sit up, disorientated. The wine bottle is two-thirds empty. The room smells of the cigarettes – disgusting, I think. On the television, a group of people in a studio are crammed together on a lurid yellow sofa, shrieking like hyenas. I fumble for the remote control and flick the TV off. Suddenly, I am back in my house, in the semi-dark, alone, surrounded by everything that has happened. I want to sink back down but force myself to stand, unsteadily, and put down my wine glass on the tray, pick up the tray and turn towards the kitchen. The start of it awaits me there, the ritual, the slow but certain process of closing down the house for night-time, checking doors, turning off the lights, acknowledging to myself I am alone. I perform it. I make myself, although all I want is Betty’s bed, the whisper of her duvet cover as I pull it over my shoulder, the hypnotic wheeling glow of the orange starfish light, my thoughts of her. I don’t want to do anything but think of her.
*
Unusually for me, I sleep, and in the morning I am bleary and sluggish. I wander slowly downstairs in my dressing-gown. Coffee and two bites of toast fail to revive me. My home phone rings as I am halfway up the stairs, on my way to get dressed. It stops by the time I get back downstairs but starts again a moment later.
‘Laura, hi, it’s Toni.’
I am in such a flat, distracted state, that it takes a moment or two to register. ‘Toni,’ I say.
‘Are you okay. You sound sleepy. Did I wake you up?’
‘No, no, I’m fine, just haven’t been up long. Had a lie-in, for once.’
‘Good.’
I smile to myself. Toni, my mother hen.
‘Are you in for the next half-hour?’ she asks.
‘Yes, sure, I’m not even dressed yet.’
‘Great, I’m going to pop round. Is it all right if I bring a colleague with me?’
‘Yes, sure, I’ll put some clothes on.’
‘Well, you don’t have to for us.’
I look at my watch. It is mid-morning already. ‘Did you call me yesterday?’ I ask. ‘On the mobile, several times in a row, just missed calls?’
‘No, I would always try your home phone first or leave a message.’
‘Oh, okay.’
*
Toni looks around as she steps in the door.
‘Rees is staying with David for a bit,’ I say.
‘Yes, I know,’ says Toni.
I look at the colleague Toni has brought with her, a junior- miss version of Toni, younger but with the same direct look and choppy fair hair. Her eyes are twinkly and very round. She looks like one of those perky, efficient young women to whom nothing really bad has ever happened, although I try not to be judgemental. I should know, of all people, how deceptive appearances can be. ‘Rees is my son,’ I say.
‘Hi, I’m Jane,’ she says. ‘How old is your son?’
‘He’s four,’ I say.
Jane stops in my hallway and s
ays, ‘I like this mirror.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling a little to myself as I turn to the kitchen. It is a perfectly ordinary mirror. I have got used to certain police-officer traits, thanks to Toni, chief of which is the way they observe things out loud all the time, in order to demonstrate how observant they are. Maybe it’s a technique they are taught to relax relatives or victims and to unsettle suspects, one that becomes such an ingrained habit that they do it without realising. We are all the same to them, ultimately, the people they deal with – the civilians, the not-Us. I think of how the child lock was on in the car the night they drove me to hospital, how they walked behind and in front of me across the hospital car park, as though I could turn into a suspect at any time.
Toni is carrying a dull-blue cardboard folder and I guess immediately this means this visit is more formal than her previous ones. I decide not to bother with the offer of hot drinks and feel a reflexive if brief anxiety that the young officer, Jane, will think me rude. As we sit down, the three of us, Toni puts the folder on the table and launches into a prepared speech. ‘Laura, you know that Mr Ahmetaj was initially arrested on suspicion of causing death by dangerous driving.’ It occurs to me that Toni thinks I am getting better, getting strong enough, perhaps, for what she is about to tell me. Outside in the garden, from somewhere close by my back door, comes the wailing of a neighbour’s cat.
Toni turns to Jane. ‘We’ve kept Laura informed as much as possible. I’ve been popping round on a weekly basis.’ She smiles at me. ‘We’ve had a few cups of tea over the last few weeks, haven’t we?’ I smile back, but uneasily. ‘Laura knows that causing death by dangerous driving is a Category A offence and she also knows that because of that, we have to gather evidence for such a serious charge. We’ve also talked a bit about the difficulty of prosecuting charges like that, the burden of proof and so on.’ I don’t like this Toni. I like the one who had a sneaky fag in my garden.
‘The car was impounded, wasn’t it?’ asks Jane. The two of them are off on some sort of police officers’ riff together, as if they are on a training exercise, which in some ways I suppose they are. There is an obvious hierarchy between them, a sense of deferral on Jane’s part and guidance on Toni’s. This annoys me. It reminds me I have a defined role as well. Hello, I want to say, remember me? The name is Laura.
‘Yes, we took the clothes too, and the drink and drugs tests were negative. Toni turns to me. ‘Do you remember I explained that the driver was released on police bail while we gathered evidence?’
I nod.
‘Well, that’s what we’ve been doing. We’ve taken the statements from Ranmali and her husband, obviously we did that a while ago, and there were skid marks on the road. We’ve had the vehicle examined. But the problem we have is that there were no other witness statements. There was Willow, of course, but she was unwell for a while, and then we lost her. This is difficult, but, we’ve come to the conclusion that there is no firm evidence he was driving dangerously.’ This is not a shock to me. Toni warned me weeks ago that the charges might be reduced to causing death by careless driving, a much less serious charge. ‘He gave us a statement and under our new family charter, you have a right to see it. It’s here.’ I look down at the folder on the table. ‘I can leave it here with you, if you like. I can read it to you, now if you like, or leave it with you, then you can call me later if you want to talk things through.’
They are both looking at me. Now I understand the formality, why she has brought a companion. I have rights. Maybe I am going to complain, or sue them in some way. Maybe I am going to hire a lawyer. I am on my own, I think. This is the beginning of the end of their interest in me. They are cutting me loose.
Toni is watching me. ‘As a result of our investigations, the charges against him will be downgraded. Laura, I hope you understand, we’re sorry but this was always a possibility and it’s what often happens in a case of this type. A lot of people do get upset at this point, and I know it’s hard for you to comprehend when you’ve lost someone you love but the truth is there’s…’
I cut her off. ‘What will he be charged with?’
‘Failing to stop at the scene of an accident.’
‘Which means, what?’ Suddenly, I begin to hyperventilate, great deep gulping breaths. ‘What? What will happen to him? What?’
‘Probably a two hundred pound fine and points on his licence.’
Briefly, I am returned to the night she came to take me to the hospital to identify Betty’s body, the sense of unreality I felt as I walked along the endlessly strange and compulsively familiar corridors – my gentle but abiding conviction that I was dreaming.
They are both looking at me. There is a long pause. They have said what they came to say. They are nice people and concerned for me. They want to leave me with the impression that they are there to serve me, help me and are trying to imply by their silence that they are at my disposal but I can feel their desire to leave as flat and solid as the table at which we are sitting. I know they will not go until I dismiss them, so after a while, I say, quietly, ‘I would like you both to leave now, please. Thank you.’
They rise from their chairs, leaving the folder on the table. I remain seated. Toni lifts a hand, the same way she did that night, a gesture to indicate she would like to touch my shoulder but does not want to be presumptuous. She was expecting tears, I think, anger, maybe even hysteria – she would probably have preferred them to my unnatural calm. I can feel the strain in their quiet movements, their determination to be appropriate. At the kitchen door, Toni turns and says softly, ‘I’ll call you later, when you’ve had time to look at the statements.’
I still don’t look at her, but I nod, very slightly. They leave me sitting there and let themselves out, to walk to their car in silence, to breathe sighs as they get in, to talk about me as they drive back to the police station, to get on with the rest of their job, their lives.
*
Mr A’s statement is written in a scrawled but legible hand by whichever police officer took it down but it is in the first person, from Mr A’s point of view. The reason he was driving down Fulton Road was that he had been to visit the school, Betty’s school, my daughter’s school. He had an appointment with the head teacher.
The school my nephew goes to is very bad. We heard the other school was a good school but they would not let my nephew go. They say he must wait. I know the school he means, St Michael’s, a small, single-intake primary on the side of town nearest the clifftop rise. I’ve had some professional dealings there, with the special-needs co-ordinator. She has had to refer several children to us, or their GPs. It’s an area of high economic deprivation and over a third of the children who go there are on the special-needs register, although technically it’s a mainstream school. They have to suspend Year 6 children, eleven-year-olds, for smoking in the playground. There has been a lot of trouble between the children of the migrant workers and the children from the local estates. My nephew was having problems there, the statement continues, some very bad boys. We went to the other school to see. There is more about how bad St Michael’s is. It was clearly a matter that had preoccupied Mr A. This is the best town we live in but the school for my nephew is a big problem for us. We go to speak to the teachers many times, my cousin goes and says to the head teacher about how unhappy my nephew is in the bad school. The head teacher there is a woman who is not listening to what we are saying. We do not want to leave the town. We have business here now and apart from the school things are the best, so far. We do not understand why my nephew cannot go to another school as it is our only problem, our difficulty. So we make a meeting with the head of the other school, to see. Mr A is not the only one to be confused by the vagaries of the schools’ admission system. Betty’s school is in a residential area of Edwardian semis. Even though it is double intake, the waiting list is long. We are twenty minutes’ walk away and only got Betty in because her entry year had a freakily low level of siblings. We spoke to the te
acher there. We had to wait in the office. The head teacher of Betty’s school is a Mr Coe, a short gruff man much beloved by the children but disliked by most of the parents, including myself. He is red-faced and short-tempered and to me it is a mystery why the children like him – Betty always talked of him in tones of adoration. Normally my cousin, a woman, would go but that day was late, so I go in the car with my nephew. I want him to see that my nephew is a good boy, works hard, always polite. We talk to the man. He is a nice man, reasonable, but he says he cannot help. As we come outside the school, my nephew runs. He kicks at a thing, you know, a triangle. He fell.
As they were leaving the school, the nephew was playing with and tripped over a plastic traffic cone which someone had left in the middle of the pavement and hit his forehead on a low brick wall. His head was bleeding heavily as Mr A drove hurriedly down Fulton Road and around the corner. As he did, two girls ran out into the road. There was no time to avoid them. Neither he nor his nephew were wearing seatbelts. Mr A slowed the car and stopped as soon as he could safely. He didn’t know what to do. He saw the woman run out from the shop in his rear-view mirror. His nephew was screaming and had blood on his face. He drove on. He didn’t know what to do, so he took the nephew back to the camp, to his mother, and the women took him to hospital, then Mr A had a conversation with the other men. That was the way they always did it. When there was a problem, they would get together to discuss what was the best to do for everybody. Later, he came to the police station. At this point, the police officer has used official language. Later I presented myself at the police station where I was arrested. It has always seemed odd to me when that phrase gets used in the newspapers, that people should present themselves at police stations and meekly submit to arrest, offer themselves up on a platter. Arrest has always implied physical violence to me – a car chase, or a door being broken down, maybe a scuffle.
Whatever You Love Page 22
