The Day She Died: A Novel

by Catriona McPherson

And the truth was, I did think that was funny. It’s easy to overreact to stuff that pushes your buttons, and if anything I go the other road to make sure. But a mum leaving her baby was a kicker, no two ways there. And if she’d never done that before and she’d never left a note before, I could see why he was scared. But nothing about this whole stupid mess made sense. What was he even doing in Marks in Dumfries on his own with Ruby on this day of all days? After that news? How could he hear her cry for help and then hang up and smash his phone? Why the hell were they having a third kid anyway, with their boy and girl already? He was talking again. God’s sake, Jessie, at least listen, eh?

  “It’s not just the depression,” he was saying and he sat up again, leaned his head against the lace mat on the back of his chair, and looked at me from under his lashes. It should have been a creepy look, really. Sly, kind of. But he just looked wiped, as if he’d been drugged and could hardly stay conscious. “It’s more than that. It’s everything. Everything’s crap.”

  I couldn’t help flicking a glance around the room then. “Looks okay to me,” I said.

  “It’s not though,” he said. “Happy Families and all that. We weren’t. We’re not.”

  “Well, not today maybe,” I said.

  “Oh, me and the kids are fine,” he went on. “Me and Becky … Look, come on back through. They’re doing murder in there.”

  The shouting started as soon as he opened the door, noise breaking over us.

  “We’re starving, Dad!”

  “P B a J! P B a J!”

  “Can I have syrup instead of jam, but?”

  “Jam but, jam but!”

  He high-fived Ruby on his way back to the breadboard and kissed the baby. He put a hand down on both their heads and tousled their hair, making a noise like a machine churning, messing her strawberry curls, his blond silk.

  “Say hello to Jess, kids,” he said. “She’s staying for tea, seeing Mummy’s gone out.”

  But he’d only got as far as spreading marg on the bread when a car door slammed outside. I watched the blood drain out of his face. Becky? Then a second door slammed, and two sets of feet walked up the brick path to the door. Even the kids fell silent, listening to the two sets of feet in heavy shoes, slow deliberate steps. Police. And a crackle from one of their radios made it true, and then Gus was edging round the children’s chairs, gripping them tight, hauling himself along like he was climbing a cliff face. I followed him through the living room and out into the hall, watched as he opened the door.

  “Mr. King?” said one of the coppers.

  A woman and a man, and the way they stood there said it all.

  “Aye?” said Gus.

  “You’re the husband of Rebecca King?”

  “That was quick,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

  “Quick?” said the woman, frowning. Then she smoothed her expression. “Can we come inside, Mr. King?”

  “Have you found her?”

  “So you did know your wife was missing?” said the man.

  His partner scowled. “Can we step inside, Mr. King?”

  “I phoned Castle Douglas,” said Gus. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “If we could just come in.”

  “What do you want?” He was holding the door so hard that the hinge creaked. “If you’re not from CD, what are you doing here?”

  “Gus?” I said softly. What was wrong with him? Was this denial? From the kitchen, the kids started whining. The woman copper looked past him and caught my eye.

  “I’ll just go and see to them,” I said and backed away.

  I couldn’t hear anything over the din of sorting out who stole what and who kicked who and where was their dinner, their daddy, their mummy (Oh God), but I felt him fall. Felt it right through my feet and up to my teeth when Gus King heard the news and hit the floor.

  Five

  The woman copper was looking at me like something stuck to her shoe.

  “You should try and find someone else,” I said. “I really don’t know Gus all that well.”

  “You know him well enough to call him Gus,” she said, which was weird. Cops might Mr. and Mrs. everyone they meet, but normal

  people don’t.

  “Yeah, the kids don’t know me at all and … ”

  She waited.

  “I’m not that great with children actually. They need someone who knows what they’re doing tonight of all—”

  “We don’t want to be bothering Mr. King about babysitters just now,” she said. “He’s got enough on his plate.” The man copper had gone back outside to use his radio and not frighten the kids, and Gus had gone into the bathroom. The woman and me were sitting in the uncomfortable chairs in the living room. I could tell she had her legs braced to stop the cushion scooting out from under her. The kids had got their ice cream and were quiet in the kitchen with a story on the tape recorder.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t answer or smile, but she maybe unfroze a wee tiny bit. “What happened?” I asked. “Are you allowed to tell me?”

  “She drove her car off the road this afternoon. The B797, godforsaken spot, halfway between nowhere and nowhere else.”

  “Sanquhar and Abington?”

  “Exactly.”

  I knew it well. Abington services was where Dumfriesshire air-kissed the M74, and every divorced dad who’d left the sticks and moved to Glasgow dropped his kids there or picked them up again at least a few times. Hellish dump it was too. As well as the bored dads and miserable kids, there were always a few dodgy blokes selling cars for cash, and a few even dodgier blokes having meetings without any cars at all to explain the cash. And the road to get there from here was only one banjo backing track from a horror film. The copper was talking.

  “A turn and a drop, God knows how many feet down to the water. And the crash barrier might as well be crocheted.”

  “I know where you mean,” I told her. I would have sworn her ears pricked up, but they couldn’t have really. It was probably just her eyebrows, those dead dark ones that make the rest of your face look peeled. “Used to meet my dad at Abington,” I explained.

  She sat back, and her torn face straightened itself a bit. She nearly smiled. “Aye, me too,” she said. “If you know what she was doing there, you should tell me. Mr. King couldn’t think, state he’s in.”

  I didn’t speak. But there’s no fooling a cop. Or there wasn’t this one.

  “I’m right,” she said, and she wriggled forward until her knees were nearly touching mine. “You know something.”

  The letter was still on the sideboard; I could see it from the corner of my eye. I could hear it humming. I couldn’t help the glance I flicked at it.

  “If you know something, you need to tell me,” said the copper, twisting round in her chair. “We’re having a very bad day today, you know. Between this and the river.”

  “The river?” I said. “The Nith at Whitesands? What happened there?”

  “God knows where it happened,” she said. “Whitesands is just where it bobbed to the surface again.” She shuddered. “So tell me what you know about Mrs. King.” It was odd the way she didn’t ask any actual questions. It worked, though. I nodded at the sideboard and then looked away. Which was when Gus came back.

  “Oh Jess,” he said. The copper had risen and picked it up, stood there reading. “It’s not how it seems,” he told her.

  “We’d better make a start then, Mr. King,” the copper said.

  “Is there really no one else I could call for you?” I asked Gus. The copper made a sound with her teeth like a beer bottle top coming off.

  “Try Ros,” he said. “Her number’s on the—Oh God Jesus, what am I—Look.” He came over and held both of my hands in his, looked really hard into my eyes. “Just please stay, eh?”

  “O
kay then,” said the copper. “Let’s go.” I followed them through to the hall.

  “Don’t bother about their teeth for once,” said Gus, “but a bath’ll help them get sleepy. Thanks, eh?”

  And they were gone, leaving me standing there on the thin carpet strip that ran up the middle of the hall from the front mat to the bathroom door. An hour ago I’d been headed home to a bottle of wine—

  who was I kidding with that pomegranate juice?—and a box set, and now here I was all alone in a stranger’s house with sole charge of two little kids. Jesus, I could be anyone. I could be an axe murderer. Lightning could hit the same wee house twice on the same miserable day.

  Could, but wouldn’t. I took my coat off—finally—and jammed it onto the hat stand. I took my shoes off too and lined them up at the end of the row. Work boots, trainers, a pair of pretendy Uggs, Ruby’s wellies, Dillon’s wellies, scuffed Start-Rites, old jellies, and now mine. All in a row.

  “Do you like bananas?” I asked them, going back into the kitchen again. The ice cream in the bowls hadn’t gone down much. Well, what did I know about toddlers’ portions?

  “Uh-huh,” said Ruby.

  “And do you like sugar?”

  A big yes from the baby.

  “Do you like fried bread and butter?” No answer to that one; they were too young to know that fried anything is a winner.

  “So how do you fancy fried banana and sugar pieces? You can’t just eat ice cream or you’ll wake up in the middle of the night with your tummies rumbling and your daddy’ll think it’s monsters and be scared.”

  Ruby kind of smiled and glanced at Dillon, and I wondered if maybe you shouldn’t speak about monsters to kids when they were all alone with a stranger.

  “I’ll make one and cut it in half to see if you like it,” I said.

  “Can we watch the telly?” said Ruby.

  “Doy Dory Doo!” Dillon put in.

  “Can we go and watch Doy Dory Doo?” said Ruby, giggling.

  I thought about the red and grey flecked carpet and the vinyl suite, and how much harm could banana do it? So I nodded. Ruby hopped down from the stool and the baby held up his arms and screamed, kept screaming until I worked out how to undo the straps and lifted him down.

  And then finally, when they were settled side by side on the couch and Ruby had popped the tape in—Toy Story 2—I just gave in. I put on a cotton apron that was hanging from the window latch by the fridge. I put the radio on to the news and let my daydreams take me where they wanted to, loading up a tray with plates and cups, wiping the ice cream off the high chair tray, trying to make a bit of space to turn round, looking for a pan in the big larder cupboard to fry the sandwiches in. I found a black iron one, thick with what Steve at work calls seasoning and everyone else calls grease, and so heavy I had to lift it with both hands.

  It was a funny old place, this, for a young family. The black pan, the apron, the walnut-veneered bedroom suite with the old painted cot crammed in. Except for the Playmobil knights, everything in that bedroom looked straight out of the fifties, and the kitchen was just the same. Painted wooden cupboards with those black handles from before plastic and a china sink with a curtain across the underneath. Waxed paper, see-through with oil, on the shelves, mustard and cress growing in saucers on the windowsill. Outside, in the light from the kitchen window, I could see a washing line, one of those coat hangers with a dress on for pegs, lines of veg with milk bottle tops swinging above to keep the birds off.

  “Dig for bloody Victory,” I whispered. Except for the video player and the Fisher Price tape machine—still burbling on with The Big Friendly Giant—this place was like a museum. I pressed a slice of bread into the hot oil, laid long slices of sugared banana on top and pressed another slice over them. If Gus hadn’t had a mobile phone, I’d think they were those retro-freaks who pay bid on eBay for faded—

  It wasn’t until I blinked and saw myself in the window that I realised I was standing there, spatula up in the air, like a statue. He’d been speaking to Becky on the phone when we were all in Marky’s. Then we came back here, hardly started making the tea, and the cops arrived. Two cops saying she’d gone to the middle of nowhere and crashed and they’d found her, ID’d her car, got the address, and come to find him.

  It wasn’t Becky. It couldn’t be.

  I flipped the sandwich and pressed it down again.

  How could they make a mistake like that, though? If someone stole her car and crashed it, they’d have their own bag and purse and that. And why would a girl steal a car?

  I slid the sandwich onto the spatula again and then chuted it onto a plate, cut it in half, and poured the milk. The plates were white glass with yellow flowers, like I hadn’t seen since I used to visit my granny.

  But that woman copper had said she drove off the road this afternoon. How late was the end of the afternoon? Five. Definitely. Then it was evening, or teatime anyway. So it wasn’t Becky. It couldn’t be.

  Through in the living room, both kids were slack and dreamy on the couch, slewing sideways to see past me when I blocked the screen. I put the tray down on the coffee table between a stack of library picture books and a fruit bowl full of Lego.

  “Here you go,” I said, dishing out the plates. “If you like it I’ll make some more. If not, PB and J it is. You decide.” I turned to get their milk and Dillon screamed, the loudest scream yet. I knocked the tray, toppling the cups, sending milk all over the library books and dripping off the table onto the floor. I whipped round. He was sitting straight up yelling holy murder, his mouth wide open, tears just beginning to trickle down his cheeks.

  “Dillon! Dilly baby,” said Ruby. Her plate slid off her lap and the sandwich disappeared into the couch.

  “Foo-foo,” said Dillon.

  “Burny, burny,” said Ruby.

  “Foo-foo.”

  “He’s blowing,” Ruby said. “To cool it down. You should of blowed it, Dilbert.”

  “Oh Jesus!” I snatched the plate away from him, pressed my finger on the greasy bread, and pulled it away again, hissing. “Oh God!” I knelt down in front of the couch and turned up Dillon’s hands. One was bright red and shining with butter. “Oh baby boy, I’m so sorry.” I hoisted him, squirming, into my arms, bumped against the table, and heard one of the milk cups smash as it hit the floor. “Oh God! Okay, we’ll go to the kitchen—”

  “Doy Dory Doo!” said Dillon, really howling.

  “Where’s Daddy gone?” said Ruby. “I want Mummy.” She was starting to whimper.

  “Mummeeee!” Dillon squealed in my ear. I held him tighter.

  “I’ve lost my sammidge,” Ruby shouted, holding her empty plate out to show me.

  “Down!” screamed Dillon, wriggling and pressing his hands hard against me to shove me away. I held him tighter still.

  “Ruby,” I said, over the noise of them both. “Just sit really still on the couch and watch your film and don’t stand on the floor. Eat Dillon’s sandwich.”

  “Noooo!” screamed Dillon. He turned the tips of his fingers in, digging his nails into the skin of my neck.

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” I said to Ruby.

  “Down! Down!” shouted Dillon, bucking and kicking. But Ruby was sorted. She took a big bite of his sandwich with her eyes fixed on his face to see how he liked that and then she turned to the telly again.

  “One minute, I’ll be back again,” I said. “Unless Mummy gets here first, eh?”

  And she’ll come home to find a total stranger burning her kids and spreading broken glass about. I could feel tears beginning to gather at the base of my throat. Useless bitch. Useless bitch. I effing well told that copper I couldn’t do this. If Becky tore a strip off me, I’d give her her arse in her hands. At least I didn’t leave them, I’d say. At least I didn’t get pregnant and then just walk. Useless bitch. I sort of limped into
the kitchen, trying to keep a good hold of Dillon as he twisted and yelled. I even remembered to shut the door so Ruby could hear the telly, but his screams had turned to moans now and his sobs had turned to sighs, just about as deep as mine. I kissed the top of his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sitting him down on the edge of the china sink and running the tap until it was stone cold. “I’m really really sorry.” Which had to help. I remembered Caroline with the couch asking me if anyone had ever said sorry, and me being amazed. Adults didn’t apologise to kids where I came from. It was working with Dillon. He was hardly sobbing at all now. “Put your wee hand under there for me, eh? Oh, you’re a good big brave clever boy.” I stretched his hand over to the tap, and he slipped down a bit into the plastic bowl half full of water, his knees coming up under his chin.

  “Bet bum,” he said. “Ouch.”

  “You can’t say ouch for a wet bum,” I told him.

  “Ouch handy,” he said.

  “That’s true.” I took it out of the stream of water for a minute to kiss it and then put it back under again.

  “Kiss it better,” he said and he rested his head against my chest. A flood of feeling filled me up from the pit of my bowels into my throat, and right then I thought something unforgiveable. I’ll never tell a soul what I thought, what I wished for.

  “Mummy’ll be home soon,” I told him, trying to wash it away.

  Six

  I hadn’t heard a car, but then the bath water was running and the thunder of it in the old enamel bath could have covered a jet landing. The whole place was an echo chamber, shiny lino tiles on the floor, glossy painted walls, and nothing more than a bathmat, thin from washing, to muffle the sound.

  I was trying to make up for the fiasco their tea had turned into—cold water in first, top it up with hot, test it with my elbow, the pair of them told to stay out of the way, backs against the other wall, until I was sure it was warm enough not to give them a chill, cool enough not to give them a scald. Dillon’s hand was still pink, but that might have been from holding it under the tap so long.