The Day She Died: A Novel

by Catriona McPherson

  “Keep going, keep going,” he said. “There’s no one here.”

  “Is this your place?” I asked him, but he motioned me to drive on. The track went right past the yard, through an open gate, and then the trees closed around it again. I fumbled for the lights, got the windscreen wipers first, and then there were two patches of yellow ahead of us. All of a sudden, like always, the dark was darker.

  “Stockman’s Cottage,” he said. “Over the fields.” Then he twisted in his seat and looked behind. “Definitely no one there.”

  “So … no point asking if someone saw her leave?” I guessed, wondering what was getting to him. He didn’t answer. And between the dark and the woods and the way he was jumping around, I was really starting to wish I was at home in my flat with my juice in a wineglass after all. Then the trees cleared and the land unfolded, and suddenly we were right on the bay—wet sand gleaming in the last of the sunlight, the stink of seaweed, and the line of the far hills looking as sharp as a knife edge against the pink of the sky.

  “Bear left,” he said. Right into the blaze of the setting sun, blinding us, filling the car with flames.

  “I can’t see a goddamn thing, by the way,” I told him, and I slowed to a crawl. His hair looked like his head was on fire and the stubble on his cheeks was like gold glitter scattered there. Then we drew into the shadow of a rowan tree (like they always have beside houses here, to keep the witches away), and the world was grey again, proper twilight, the last sliver of sun winking out, snuffed for the night.

  “Where’s Mummy’s car?” said Ruby. “Where have they gone?”

  We were parked at the back of a cottage; not the colour of ice cream this one, it was a farmworker’s place for sure. Grey walls, metal window frames painted dark red like a railway station, pebbled glass in the bathroom window, and a lean-to porch against the back door.

  “Can you come in with me?” he said. He hadn’t turned—he was sitting staring straight ahead at the house—but he had to be talking to me. He couldn’t be asking his daughter. His hands were gripping his knees, patches of red and white all up and down his fingers from the pressure.

  “Of course,” I said. I hate going into strangers’ houses, people who don’t know about—. Well, usually I’ve got my excuse ready before they even ask, but this was different. The state of him for one thing, plus what else was I going to do miles from anywhere with it nearly dark now? He fumbled the door open and hauled himself out. Ruby was unbuckling herself, scrambling down.

  “I’ll get the kettle on and you can call a friend on your landline,” I said as I followed him, making it clear that I’d stick to the kitchen. Kitchens were usually fine. “I’ll even stay till they come if you want me to.” I felt sick and my heart was banging inside my ribs, making me think of my granny with her carpet beater—bam bam bam—but my voice sounded fine. I’m a star turn at sounding like I’m a-okay in much worse states than this one.

  He stepped over a low fence into a garden, lifted Ruby over, and kept her riding on his arm as he disappeared round the corner to the front. I followed him. The path was red brick and the edges were bricks sticking up like saw teeth. Two patches of grass and two flower beds against the house. Blue front door and a window on either side, like a drawing. And beyond the garden gate, a few feet of that dead short grass from sheep eating it and then rocks and the beach and the sea—just a ribbon of light in the distance and the slow sound of low tide and the feel of the breeze with a hint of salt in. I looked at him standing there with the kid on his arm, picking over his keys.

  This “Becky” must be mad leaving here. Walking away from everyone’s dream life. Stark raving bonkers.

  He was struggling with the keys like a drunk, so I took them out of his hands and opened up for him. The wee girl wriggled down and burst into the house shouting.

  “Mummy! Mummy?”

  From one of the rooms came a sound. I couldn’t have said what it was, but beside me, on the doorstep, he swayed again.

  “No way,” he said. “She’d never.” And he took the length of the hallway in three strides, his hair flapping and his heavy boots booming on the thin carpet runner, then he shoved a door open and stood on the threshold. I edged up behind him and peered over his shoulder, standing on my tiptoes.

  The blinds were closed, but I could see a double bed—sheets and blankets, flat foam pillows, no cushions, thank God—and beyond it a cot wedged in, in front of a tiled fireplace. And in the cot was a baby. A toddler, a boy by the look of him, standing up in footy pyjamas, holding on to the bars. He lifted his arms and squealed.

  “Daddeeee!”

  The man sat down hard on the edge of the bed and put a hand through the cot bars. The baby grabbed on, wrapping his whole fat little fist round one finger and tugging. He started bouncing up and down, his nappy—pull-ups, twenty-four months—rustling, saying “Da-ddy, Da-ddy” over and over in time with each bounce.

  “She left him,” said the man, looking up at me. “She locked him in and left him. What if something had happened to me? How long … ”

  I sat down too then, right down on a stranger’s bed, and I could feel the stale close air of a stranger’s bedroom pressing in, the private smell of sleep and worn clothes.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “He’s fine.” He really was too. In fact, the boy was in the best shape out of the three of us, actually, but he’d picked up enough of the feelings in the room to stop bouncing. He was standing still now with the end of the man’s finger in his mouth, looking at him with the same big dark eyes as his sister.

  “Are you all right?” The man stretched out his other hand and touched my bare arm where I’d pushed my sleeves up for driving.

  “Me?” I said. Yelped, really. “Don’t worry about me! Time like this. God!” And now I put a hand on him. It was a shock to feel him burning through his padded shirt, damp with sweat.

  “You need … ” I said. What? He needed his wife back, was what he needed. Nothing that I could give him anyway. “Jeez, you’re roasting.”

  “I’m … When she phoned,” he started. He had lowered his head and he was mumbling again. “All I could think was she’d left me. She’d left me. Didn’t even think of trying not to scare Ruby and I forgot—” His throat closed. He cleared it and spoke again. “Until you asked about the nappies. I forgot—” He was trembling.

  “You’d had a shock,” I said. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “I forgot him!” He was whispering. “What kind of dad am I?”

  “A brilliant one,” I said. “You remembered the nappies. And you nearly broke the door down getting in here.”

  I was trying to help, but what the hell did I know about any of this? Well, truth was, a bit more than I’d want to tell him. Luckily he wasn’t paying attention. He stood, stooped over the cot, and swiped the baby up into his arms. Buried his face into the fat little neck and blew raspberries, just like he had with the girl. The baby kicked against his chest, squealing. I could smell the sour stink of his nappy, overdue for changing.

  “A brilliant dad?” he said, but he looked hopeful, like he just needed to hear it maybe one more time.

  “For sure.” I tried to sound as definite as could be. “Or she wouldn’t have left them with you, would she?” Which didn’t come out the way I meant it, but he was okay. He nearly smiled.

  “Roobs!” he shouted. “What are you doing so quiet through there, you wee monkey?” And he turned and left the room, clomped through the house, still shouting. I could hear her giggling somewhere.

  Maybe it was just a fight. Maybe she’d gone round to a friend’s to give him a scare, bring him to his senses, stop him … coming in late or putting his boots on the couch. (Except he’d been wheeling a trolley round M&S, buying figs for the kid.) Or maybe the poor cow was happier in Caul View near her mum or her pals and had just had enough of the cottage—taken off, back by be
dtime. (Except she had her own car, so how bad could it be?) Storm in a teacup. Someone needed to get her told about leaving the baby alone, right enough, but there was no harm done, so—

  I’d been letting my eyes drift over the cosy mess of the bedroom, being quite brave really, now I knew the big dangers were behind me. The floor was littered with toys and clothes—but boys’ toys, quite safe. The dressing-table top was crowded with bottles and brushes and a row of Playmobil knights in armour ready for battle. I didn’t think much of them and looked away. Something was propped against the mirror. Something that didn’t belong. I stepped closer and read. It wasn’t in an envelope, wasn’t even folded.

  I’m sorry, it said. I can’t go through it again. I can’t go on.

  Four

  “Hi!” he shouted as I slipped into the room. I let my breath go. There wasn’t a kitchen door off the hall. Two bedrooms on one side, bathroom at the back, and just one door opposite. So I knew the kitchen had to be off the living room, no other way to get there. I’d told myself they weren’t the type for those big Ikea couches. I was right; the three-piece suite was black and grey vinyl with red furry cushions. Only, a suite that old-fashioned made me think of a vase of bulrushes dyed different colours, and that made me think of pampas grass, and from pampas grass it wasn’t too far to—

  So I sprang to the kitchen door—Jessica Constable: super hero—and slipped through and he shouted “Hi” right at me.

  Pretty overwhelming, actually, because the kitchen was small. And his grin was too broad, like his voice was too loud. And his eyes were too wide. What big pain you’re in, Grandmamma. It was about to get worse too.

  “Can I have a word?” I said. I had the note behind my back.

  “PB&J for dinner!” he shouted. “Yeay!”

  “Yeay!” shouted the kids. They were sitting at either end of a tiny table squeezed between the door and the larder—it was that kind of kitchen: no work space at all, but a table crammed in—the boy in a high chair and Ruby kneeling up on a stool, feet tucked under. The baby had a sippy cup, nearly empty, hanging from his mouth, the spout held in his teeth.

  “And ice cream!” the man said.

  “Yeay!” shouted the baby, letting the cup drop. He started banging his hands flat on the tray of his chair. But it had gone too far for Ruby now. She spoke up in a smaller voice.

  “Is Mummy coming back?”

  He didn’t answer, was still grinning that awful grin.

  “Can I just have a quick word?” I said.

  When he followed me back through, I closed the door on the kids and put the note in his hands.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “It was on the dressing table. And her purse was behind it. I mean—I didn’t look, but this is her purse, right?” I handed it over, fat, bulging with cards and receipts. A right mum purse. He unzipped it and I caught sight of a photograph in the plastic bit you put your travel card in if you live in a city. Two babies.

  “She didn’t take anything,” he said, flicking though the compartments. Then he put it down and read the note again.

  “I think you should call the police,” I told him.

  He walked backwards, staring at the paper, until he bumped up against a sideboard—dark wood, but no carvings—and he leaned there.

  “Where’s your phone?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said, jerking his head up. “She didn’t mean it. She’ll come home.”

  “Cos she can’t have had much of a head start, can she? They could look for her car.”

  He was shaking his head. He had twisted his hair into a rope—maybe for hygiene, making the sandwiches—but it shook loose again now and he swiped at it. “Listen,” he said. “If I call the police and tell them this and they find her, they’ll take her to hospital.”

  “But it sounds like that’s where she needs to be—”

  “And she’ll never forgive me. It’ll all be ten times worse. If they find out she left the baby, she might get charged.”

  “Not if she’s ill. If her doctor says she’s ill.”

  “She won’t see a doctor. I’ve tried. Look, it’s not the first—”

  “Daddeee!” A wail from the kitchen. “We’re hungreee! Where’s Mummeee?”

  And then the little one started up too.

  “Mummeeeeeee!” A peal of sound that rang in your teeth.

  “Look,” I said. “I see this at work all the time. People just drowning because they think if they tell, it’ll jump up and bite them. It doesn’t. There’s help. No matter what’s wrong. There’s always help.”

  “At work?” he said. “Wheesht, kids! One minute! What do you do, like? Are you a social worker?”

  “No! God, no. This is just—just a friendly word.”

  “Kids, shut up!” he shouted again. Then he smiled, as best he could. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s just a friend I’m needing.” The next smile was a bit better. “So what’s the name of this new friend then?”

  “Never mind that now,” I said. “You need to call the cops and get them looking.”

  “I’m Gus King,” he said. “And Ruby and Dillon King are the backing singers.”

  I laughed a bit—he deserved it for trying—but I wanted to shake him.

  He looked at the note again, out the front window, at his watch, back at me. “You really think I should phone?”

  “I really do. Right now.” Inappropriate, unprofessional. What you’re supposed to say is, it’s your decision, I’ll support you but it’s up to you. “Where’s your phone?” I asked and then followed him through to the hall.

  The phone was on a kind of hallstand thing, wrought iron and glass, half-hidden under coats and bobble hats. He looked up the number in the book—I’d have just called 999—and dialled, then tidied the coat rack while he waited, pulling sleeves the right way out, balling up gloves and tucking them into a drawer. Then his eyes opened wide and he swung away.

  “Yeah, hi, hiya,” he said. “Em, it’s my wife. She’s left in her car and there’s a note and I’m worried about her.” He looked back at me as if to ask if he’d said it right. I nodded and gave him a tight smile. “Hello? Oh, uh-huh. License number, yeah. It’s, em, SD02 ZJY. A Micra. Dark green. I—I don’t know. I just got back in ten minutes ago. Me and my kids.” He gave me a hard stare, daring me to disagree. “I had both the kids out with me and we all got back and she was gone. Becky King. Yeah, Rebecca. King, yeah. She left a note, saying she couldn’t go on.” I reached out and touched his arm, squeezed it a little. “It’s the Stockman’s Cottage at Cally Mains, Sandsea. Gatehouse, yeah. No, no, it’s okay. No, it’s fine.” He glanced at me again. “I’ve got a friend with me.” And he dropped the phone back down as if it was burning him, turned, put both his hands against the wall, and let his head hang down.

  “Gus?”

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “What did they say?”

  He stood up and stared at me. “They’re sending somebody round,” he said. “Jesus. I thought they’d tell me not to worry. Twenty-four hours and all that. Check with her friends … ”

  “You could do,” I said. “Check with her family. Her friends.”

  “No family,” he said. “Well, her dad. But … ” He shook his head. I knew the type. Saw plenty of dads like that at work. Or heard about them anyway.

  “Friends?” I asked. He walked back through to the living room and dropped down onto one of the vinyl chairs. They were the kind that the cushion squirts out if you move too fast and he looked miserable, balancing there on the edge of it, feet braced. Those big Ikea couches, at least you can plop into them after a shock.

  “Her best friend was Ros,” he said. “But she’s away back home to Poland. She only broke the news a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That can’t have helped,” I said. I sat down too, right on the edge of the sofa, on one
of the furry cushions, still not sure. But it squeaked like horsehair, so I shoved myself back a bit.

  “It didn’t,” said Gus. “But I know Becky. She’ll come back.”

  “But … do you mind me asking?” I said. A bit late. “It wasn’t just her friend leaving, was it? What couldn’t she go through again?”

  “Depression,” he said.

  “Right,” I said. “Christ. Yeah. Well. I’ve never had it. I’d rather have pretty much anything else, though.”

  He nodded. “Me too,” he said. Then he looked at me. “Makes a change to hear somebody take it seriously.”

  That was a nice thing to say. He didn’t half notice wee things for someone who’d just had something truly enormous happen. So I said no more, in case he thought I was milking it.

  After a minute, he cocked his head towards the kitchen. The kids were laughing, squealing a bit. Someone was kicking their chair.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Post-natal depression. Ruby was bad. Dillon was worse. And she told me this morning she was pregnant again. Did the test and everything.”

  I remembered what he had said on the phone. It’s not forever. It’ll stop. And her note. I can’t go through it again. I can’t go on.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I said. He looked up and nodded really slow. “But—” He stopped nodding as soon as I spoke again.

  “But what?” he asked me. He looked like he’d been turned to stone.

  “She won’t have to go through it,” I said. “She can stop it. If you agree.”

  “Think I want to see her in that state a third time?” He was instantly angry. Zero to sixty in a heartbeat.

  “So she’ll do that. She won’t just end it all. She won’t just leave you lot.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said and put his head back in his hands, like the flash of anger had never happened.

  “Of course I am,” I told him. “She’d never leave them.”

  “She left Dillon,” he said, his voice muffled.