Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  “Shush.”

  “Don’t shush me, Joe.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yes, I think I do. What you’re telling me is that our baby is being looked after by a teenager whose mother was murdered.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “And she’s living in our house.”

  “She’s a good kid. She’s great with Emma.”

  “I don’t care. She has no training, no references. She should be at school.”

  “Shush.”

  “I said don’t shush me.”

  “She’s here.”

  Her eyes snap up. Darcy is standing beside the car, rhythmically chewing gum. Emma is balancing on the bumper bar, perched between her arms.

  “Darcy, this is Julianne. Julianne, this is Darcy.”

  Julianne gives her a fixed larger-than-life smile. “Hello.”

  Darcy raises her hand a few inches in a nervous wave. “Did you have a nice trip?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Julianne takes Emma from her. “I’m sorry about your mother, Darcy. It’s an awful thing.”

  “What happened?” asks Emma.

  “Nothing to concern you, sweetheart.”

  We drive in silence. The only person talking is Emma, who asks and fields all the questions. Darcy has withdrawn into a bubble of silence and uncertainty. I don’t know what’s wrong with Julianne. It’s not like her to be so unwelcoming and intractable.

  At the cottage Charlie comes running outside to greet us. She’s bursting with news for Julianne, most of it about Darcy, which she can’t tell because Darcy is standing next to her.

  I carry the bags inside where Julianne moves from room to room, as though making an inspection. Maybe she expects to find the place a mess, with unwashed laundry, unmade beds and dirty dishes in the sink. Instead it’s spotless. For some reason this deepens her funk. She drinks two glasses of wine over dinner—a casserole prepared by Darcy—but instead of relaxing, her lips tighten into narrow lines and her comments become sharp and accusatory.

  “I’ll give Emma a bath,” Julianne says, turning towards the stairs. Darcy’s eyes meet mine, framing a question.

  After the dishwasher is packed, I go up and find Julianne sitting on our bed. Her suitcase is open. She is sorting clothes. Why is she so annoyed at Darcy being here? It’s almost an ownership issue: a marking out of her territory or a defense of an existing claim. But that’s ridiculous. Darcy isn’t a threat.

  I notice a bundle of black lace in her case. Lingerie. A camisole and knickers.

  “When did you buy these?”

  “Last week in Rome.”

  “You didn’t show me.”

  “I forgot.”

  I drape the straps of the camisole over my forefingers. “I bet they look even better when you’re wearing them. Perhaps you can show me later.”

  She takes the lingerie from me and tosses it in the washing basket. Who did she wear it for? Something snags in my chest—the same niggling sense of disquiet that I felt when I found the hotel receipt for a champagne breakfast.

  Julianne doesn’t wear sexy lingerie. She says it’s uncomfortable and impractical. Whenever I’ve bought her something flimsy for Valentine’s Day she’s only worn it the once. She prefers her Marks & Spencer briefs, high-cut, size twelve, black or white. What made her change her mind?

  She bought the lingerie in Rome and took it to Moscow. I want to ask her why but I don’t know how to frame the question without it sounding jealous or worse.

  The moment passes. Julianne turns away. Tiredness shows in her movements, her small steps and the slope of her shoulders.

  I don’t accept the premise that there’s no smoke without fire, nor am I a believer in portents or auguries, but I cannot shake the discomfiting sense that a space is opening up between us. I want to put it down to tiredness. I tell myself that Julianne has been traveling a lot, being pulled in too many directions, taking on too much.

  A month ago on her birthday I planned to cook her a special meal. I drove into Bristol and bought seafood at the fish markets. She phoned just after six to say that she was still in London. There was some sort of crisis, a missing funds transfer. She wouldn’t be home.

  “Where are you going to stay?”

  “In a hotel; the company will pay.”

  “You don’t have any clothes.”

  “I’ll make do.”

  “It’s your birthday.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

  I ate a dozen oysters and threw the rest of the meal in the bin. Then I walked up the hill to the Fox & Badger and had three pints with Nigel and a Dutch tourist who knew more about the area than anyone in the bar.

  There have been other moments. (I won’t call them signs.) Julianne was due to fly back from Madrid one Friday and I tried to call her mobile but couldn’t get through. I called her office instead. A secretary told me that Mrs. O’Loughlin had been in London all day, having flown in the previous night.

  When I finally found Julianne, she apologized, saying she’d meant to call me. I asked about the flights and she said I must have been mistaken. I have no reason to doubt her. We have been married for sixteen years and I can’t remember a single moment or event that caused me to question her commitment. At the same time, she’s still a mystery. When people ask me why I became a psychologist, I say, “Because of Julianne. I wanted to know what she was really thinking.” It didn’t work. I still have no idea.

  I watch her sorting through her clothes, aggressively opening drawers and pulling hangers from the rack.

  “Why are you so angry?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Talk to me.”

  The suitcase is slammed shut. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing, Joe? Just because you couldn’t save that woman on the bridge, we’re looking after her daughter.”

  “No.”

  “Well, why is she here?”

  “She had nowhere else to go. Her house is a crime scene. Her mother is dead…”

  “Murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the police haven’t caught the killer?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You know nothing about this girl or her family. Does she even realize her mother is dead? She doesn’t look grief-stricken.”

  “You’re not being fair.”

  “Well, tell me, is she psychologically stable? You’re the expert. Is she going to flip out and hurt my baby?”

  “She would never hurt Emma.”

  “And you base that upon…?”

  “Twenty years’ experience as a psychologist.”

  The last sentence is delivered with my own version of cold certainty. Julianne stops. When it comes to personality readings, I’m rarely wrong and she knows it.

  Sitting on the bed, she tucks a pillow behind her and leans against the wall, playing with the tasseled cord of her dressing gown. I crawl across the bed towards her.

  “Stop,” she says, holding up her hand like a policeman directing traffic. “Don’t come any closer.”

  I sit on my side of the bed. We can stare at each other in the mirror. It’s like watching a scene from a TV sitcom.

  “When I go away I don’t want things to change, Joe. I want to come home and find everything as I left it. I know that sounds selfish but I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember when you taught Emma to pedal her tricycle?”

  “Sure.”

  “She was so excited. It was all she wanted to talk about. You shared that moment with her. I missed it.”

  “That’s going to happen sometimes.”

  “I know and I don’t like it.” She leans sideways, resting her head on my shoulder. “What if I miss seeing Emma lose her first tooth or Charlie going on her first date? I don’t want things to change when I go away, Joe. I know it’s irrational and selfish and impossible. I want you to keep them exactly the same until I get home, so I
can be here too.”

  Julianne runs a finger along the side of my thigh. “I know your job is about helping people. And I know that mentally ill people are often stigmatized, but I don’t want Charlie and Emma exposed to damaged people and their damaged minds.”

  “I would never…”

  “I know, I know, but remember last time.”

  “Last time?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She’s talking about one of my former patients who tried to destroy me by taking away everything I loved—Julianne, Charlie, my career, my life.

  “This is completely different,” I say.

  “I’m just warning you. I don’t want your work in this house.”

  “Darcy isn’t a danger. She’s a good kid.”

  “She’s doesn’t look like a kid,” she says, turning to face me. The corners of her mouth are turned down. It is neither a smile nor an invitation to kiss. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

  “Only until you stepped off the train.”

  Three a.m. The girls are asleep. I slip out of bed and close the office door before turning on the lamp. I could blame my medication again, but too many thoughts are tripping over each other in my mind.

  This time I’m not thinking about Christine Wheeler or Darcy or reliving that moment on the bridge. My concerns are more personal. I keep reflecting on the lingerie and the hotel receipt. One thought leads to another. The late night phone calls when Julianne closes the office door. The overnight stays in London. The sudden changes in her diary that have kept her away from home…

  I hate the clichés about marriages having ups and downs and changing over time. Julianne is a better person than I am. She is stronger emotionally and has more invested in holding this family together. Here’s another cliché—there’s a third person in our marriage. His name is Mr. Parkinson and he took up residence four years ago.

  The hotel receipt is pressed between the pages of a book. The Hotel Excelsior. Julianne said it was a short walk from the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain. I dial the number. A woman answers, the night manager. She sounds young and tired. It’s four a.m. in Rome.

  “I want to query an invoice,” I whisper, cupping my hand over the phone.

  “Yes, sir. When did you stay here, sir?”

  “No, it’s not for me. It’s for an employee.”

  I think of a cover story. I’m an accountant calling from London. I’m doing an audit. I give her Julianne’s name and the dates of her stay.

  “Mrs. O’Loughlin settled her account in full. She paid with her credit card.”

  “She was traveling with a business colleague.”

  “The name?”

  Dirk. What is his last name? I can’t remember.

  “I just wanted to ask about a room service charge for breakfast… with champagne.”

  “Is Mrs. O’Loughlin querying her bill?” she asks.

  “Could there be a mistake?”

  “The room charges were shown to Mrs. O’Loughlin when she settled her account.”

  “Under the circumstances, it seems rather a lot for one person. I mean, look at the order: bacon and eggs, smoked salmon, pancakes, pastries, strawberries and champagne.”

  “Yes, sir, I have the details of the order.”

  “It’s a lot for one person.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She doesn’t seem to understand my point.

  “Who signed for it?”

  “Someone signed the docket when breakfast was delivered to the room.”

  “So you can’t tell me if Mrs. O’Loughlin signed for it?”

  “Is she disputing the bill, sir?”

  I lie. “She has no recollection of ordering that amount of food.”

  There is a pause. “Would you like me to fax a copy of the signature, sir?”

  “Is it legible?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Another phone is ringing in the background. The night manager is alone on the desk. She suggests I call later in the morning and talk to the hotel manager.

  “I’m sure he will be happy to reimburse Mrs. O’Loughlin. The charges will be refunded to her credit card.”

  I recognize the danger. Julianne will see the refund on her card statement.

  “No, it’s fine. Don’t bother.”

  “But if Mrs. O’Loughlin feels she has been overcharged—”

  “She may have been mistaken. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  20

  A dozen women have taken over a corner of the bar, pushing chairs and tables together on the edge of the dance floor. The bitch is dancing, grinding her hips like a pole dancer, her face flushed from laughter and too much wine. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking every man in the place is looking at her, desiring her, but her face is too hard and her body even harder.

  Mercifully, it’s not youthful innocence that I am after. It is not purity. I want to wade in filth. I want to see the cracks in her makeup and stretch marks on her stomach. I want to see her body swing.

  Someone shrieks with laughter. The middle-aged bride-to-be is so drunk she can barely stand. I think her name is Cathy and she’s late to the altar or going around for a second time. She bumps into some guy at a table, spilling his pint, and then apologizes with all the sincerity of a whore’s kiss. Pity the poor bastard putting his prick in that!

  Alice walks to the jukebox and studies the song titles beneath the glass. What sort of mother brings her preteen daughter to a hen night? She should be at home in bed. Instead she’s sulking, plump and sedentary, eating crisps and drinking lemonade.

  “You don’t like dancing?” I ask.

  Alice shakes her head.

  “Must be pretty boring if you don’t dance.”

  She shrugs.

  “Your name is Alice, right?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I heard your mother say it. It’s a nice name. ‘Will you walk a little faster?’ said a whiting to a snail, ‘There’s a porpoise close behind us and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?’ ”

  “That’s from Alice in Wonderland,” she says.

  “Yes it is.”

  “My dad used to read that to me.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser. Where’s your dad now?”

  “Not here.”

  “Is he away on business?”

  “He travels a lot.”

  Her mum is being spun across the dance floor, sending her dress twirling and knickers flashing.

  “Your mum is having a good time.”

  Alice rolls her eyes. “She’s embarrassing.”

  “All parents are embarrassing.”

  She looks at me more closely. “Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

  “So I won’t be recognized.”

  “Who are you hiding from?”

  “Why do you think I’m hiding? I might be famous.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’m incognito.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In disguise.”

  “It’s not a very good disguise.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  She shrugs.

  “What sort of music do you like, Alice? Wait! Don’t tell me. I think you’re a Coldplay fan?”

  Her eyes widen. “How did you know?”

  “You’re obviously a girl of very good taste.”

  This time she smiles.

  “Chris Martin is a mate of mine,” I say.

  “No way.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The lead singer of Coldplay—you know him?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “A good guy: not conceited.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Big headed. Up himself.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s a cow.”

>   “Gwyneth is OK.”

  “My friend Shelly says Gwyneth Paltrow is a wannabe Madonna. Shelly shouldn’t talk ’cos she told Danny Green that I thought he was fit only I never said that. As if! I don’t fancy him at all.”

  Someone stands in the open doorway and lights a cigarette. She screws up her nose. “People shouldn’t smoke. It causes gangrene. My dad smokes and my two uncles. I tried it once and puked over my mum’s leather seats.”

  “She must have been impressed.”

  “Shelly made me do it.”

  “I wouldn’t listen to Shelly so much.”

  “She’s my best friend. She’s prettier than I am.”

  “I don’t think she is.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never seen her.”

  “I just find it hard to believe that anyone could be prettier than you are.”

  Alice frowns skeptically and changes the subject.

  “What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?” she asks.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a joke. I heard someone say it.”

  “I don’t know. What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?”

  “Forty-five minutes.”

  I smile.

  “OK. Now explain it to me,” she says.

  “That’s how long a wedding ceremony lasts. The difference between a boyfriend and a husband is forty-five minutes.”

  “Oh. I thought it was going to be rude. Now tell me a joke?”

  “I’m not very good at remembering jokes.”

  She’s disappointed.

  “Do you really know Chris Martin?”

  “Sure. He has a house in London.”

  “You been there?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re so lucky.”

  She has a small almond-shaped birthmark on her neck below her right ear. Lower still, a gold chain with a horseshoe pendant sways back and forth as she rocks on her heels.

  “You like horses?”

  “I have one. A chestnut mare called Sally.”

  “How tall is she?”

  “Fifteen hands.”

  “That’s a good size. How often do you ride?”

  “Every weekend. I have lessons every Monday after school.”

  “Lessons. Where do you have those?”

  “Clack Mill Stables. Mrs. Lehane is my riding teacher.”

  “You like her.”

  “Sure.”