Lacey looks at me.
Want some coffee? he says.
OK. Please.
I watch him get it—his tall straight back as he stands there talking to Estelle. How Estelle smiles and leans her elbows on the counter, then touches her hair.
So, he says, when he returns with two mugs.
So, I ask him, you got yourself a room?
He smiles at me.
Yes, he says, I got one. Thank you.
He’s laughing.
What? What’s funny?
You are. He rips open a sachet of brown sugar and crumbs spill on the white table. You make me laugh. The way you talk, all your funny questions.
It’s you, I say. Then I blush again.
And you’re always blushing, he says.
I ignore this.
I only asked you if you got a room—
I know, he says, and he sits back in his chair, relaxed. I didn’t mean that.
What, then?
He thinks for a moment.
Only that it’s possible to talk to you for ages and find out nothing.
I laugh.
What exactly would you want to find out?
I don’t know, he says. You tell me.
You see! I cry. That’s what you do all the time—turn everything back into a question.
Lacey smiles. At my feet, Fletcher wimpers, strains at the lead and then pants.
Poor dog, says Lacey. Can’t he join them?
No, I say, we’d never get him back.
I watch as Lacey rubs Fletcher’s head, pulls at the silky scrags behind his ears.
Does he want a drink?
I shrug.
Lacey picks up Jordan’s Mickey Mouse bucket.
I’ll get him one, shall I?
If you want, I say. The tap’s over there.
He goes over to the low concrete wall and fills the bucket and carries it back. He carries it the way Jordan would—concentrating, taking care not to spill any.
He sets it down in front of Fletcher and the dog laps enthusiastically.
There, you see, Lacey says, he was. Poor dog was thirsty.
The wind blows and Estelle’s tub containing beach bats and fishing nets falls over and rolls clattering over the prom. Estelle comes out and gathers it up and takes it back. The old people are coming out of the sea now, tiptoeing up over the shingle, towels over their shoulders.
The Frisbee flies up and clatters across the concrete near us. Lacey straightaway picks it up and tries to throw it back. But he can’t do it because the wind is against him and it lands back on the prom. Both kids shriek at him.
Like this! Jordan shouts, showing Lacey the flick of the wrist. Fletcher is now vigorously chewing the side of Jordan’s bucket. I take it from him.
You said you wanted to talk about Alex, I remind him.
He looks surprised.
Yes, he says, yes. If you don’t mind. There’s something I need to ask you, actually.
You mean to do with the investigation?
I can’t really claim that it is, he says. Or at least, it might be, but, well, I’m not sure.
Well, I say, go ahead.
You’ll blush if I ask it.
Really?
I laugh and my heart races.
Yes, he says, I think you will.
I wait and he looks at me.
You and Alex, he says, you used to be involved?
Well, yes, I say steadily. We went out. Years ago. Before Lennie and before Mick. It’s not a secret—everyone knows that.
Lacey thinks about this.
I’ve known him since I was a teenager, I say. I’m very fond of him. Mick’s known him almost as long.
Lacey’s silent. I wait.
OK, he says, OK, but—I’m sorry to ask but—is there still an excitement between you and Alex?
I put my hand to my face.
What? You mean now?
Yes. Now.
Lacey’s eyes are on my face.
No, I say quickly as the blood rushes to my cheeks. Well, no, I don’t think so.
I make myself busy by stuffing the bucket into the buggy’s rain hood.
You’re not sure? Lacey says.
I mean, as I said, there used to be. A long time ago. We—liked each other. But it’s over, from my point of view.
And from his?
I try to look Lacey in the eye.
Why on earth are you asking me this? I mean, has he said something?
Not a word, Lacey says in a strange, solemn voice. I promise you. Nothing.
Well then, I say, it’s a bit personal, isn’t it?
I’d still like an answer, he says gently.
Well, I—excitement’s a funny word for it, I tell him at last.
What word would you use, then?
I pause a moment. I feel suddenly drained, exhausted.
Look—is this really relevant to anything? I ask him.
I don’t know, he says. Is it?
Minutes pass and we both do nothing. Just sit in silence and watch the kids and the sea.
Sorry, he says after a moment or two. I shouldn’t have asked you that.
I keep a blank face.
I don’t care, I say. Ask me anything you want. I’ll tell you anything. I don’t care about anything much just now.
He pauses a moment.
This must be a nightmare—for you, he says at last.
In a nightmare, you wake up.
I’m sorry, he says again.
Is that it? I ask him.
What?
Is that all you’re trained to say? Sorry? Because really I’d have thought they’d have given you something better.
Better for what?
For—I don’t know—for fobbing people off with.
He says nothing.
Sorry, I say after another moment, I didn’t mean that. I’m just so fucking sick of it all.
Yes, he says.
I hate how it’s become the way we live. Every day we wake up and it starts over—all of this.
You’re still in shock, he tells me.
I think about this.
I don’t know, I say. Am I? I’m surprised at how OK I feel, really. Like I’m in a dream and most of me is somewhere else.
Lacey’s looking at me.
Everyone responds differently, he says.
But, I insist to him, it can’t last—you have to come out of it eventually, don’t you?
I don’t know, he says quietly. I’ve never experienced what you’re going through.
Also, I tell him, I feel different—
Different in what way?
I don’t know—bad, irresponsible—
Really?
Yes. Like I could fuck things up and not care at all.
What sort of things?
I don’t know. Just things. It’s as if I genuinely don’t care at all—or there’s nothing at stake. Not even the kids sometimes. It scares me.
Why?
Because it’s not normal. It’s not how I usually am.
You’re too hard on yourself, he says. None of you are to blame for what happened.
I know that, I say.
Well then, I say after a pause. Maybe I’m just very angry.
Tess, he says gently, you have every right to be.
Why would anyone do it? I ask him.
He looks at me carefully.
Why would anyone want to take her heart?
Do you know what a trophy-taker is? he asks me.
No, I say. And then it dawns.
A body part, he says. Any part. It’s usually something smaller, something sexual maybe. A heart is rare.
Why?
He takes a breath.
Well—it’s very hard to take out.
I look quickly away at the sea where the horizon dissolves and water and sky blur.
Sorry, he says, but you did ask.
Tears spring to my eyes.
She’s dead, I tell him, I know that. I know she’s not coming
back. But you see, to me—this place is still so full of her.
Lacey says nothing.
You think I’m silly, I tell him and I pick up a paper napkin and hold it to my eyes, or mad. Crazy.
No, he says. No I don’t.
He passes me another napkin. His fingers close to mine.
I don’t think you’re any of those things, he says.
Then what?
He doesn’t answer.
I fold the damp napkin, over and over, smaller and smaller.
In the end, I tell him, it’s this. Your life—anyone’s life—it just doesn’t belong to you, does it?
He is silent for a very long time and then he says, No. It doesn’t. But you still have to act as if it does.
Alex says that all he wants is for people to leave him alone now.
He says he’s sick of all the offers of help—sick and tired of people cooking him food and leaving toys and notes and stuff in the porch. He doesn’t want any babysitting, or a free takeaway from Mei Yuen’s, or a bag of plums or a bacon quiche or an unripe marrow. He doesn’t want his windows cleaned for nothing, or extra fish thrown in when he orders from the fish shop. He especially doesn’t want the king-sized crocheted blanket, a monstrous acrylic thing in cheap scarlets and blues and pinks, made by the ladies of the Reydon Society.
He says his GP’s given him some Prozac. And that’s it, that’s nice, that’s all he really wants for now. Just that and maybe the chance to bury Lennie. Ideally with her heart—but if that’s not possible, then what’s left of her, laid to rest, without it.
But none of it may be possible, not for a while anyway. Lennie’s body is still being looked at and Alex has been warned that a second, independent autopsy may be required. It could be some time before the coroner will release the body to the family for a funeral.
Meanwhile, Bob’s worrying about how long this is all taking. It’s impossible, apparently, for anyone to say. He’s frail, he ought not to travel unnecessarily, but it could be weeks and he’s wondering if he should fly back and then return when Alex has more information. And Bob has dogs at home. He’s concerned about his dogs. Two chocolate Labs, one of whom is elderly and needs regular injections. A neighbour is taking care of them right now.
But I can’t rely on their kindness forever, he says.
He tells me how Lennie phoned him just about every week and how he was thinking of getting e-mail so they could stay in touch that way as well. Keeping up with the times. Except maybe not, maybe he could never have done it, because these days his hands don’t work so well.
Look at them—he spreads his ropy, mottled fingers in front of him. See? I have the shakes nearly all the time now.
He frowns at them.
I don’t think they look too bad, I tell him.
He ignores me.
She was very popular with the boys, you know, he says. As a teenager. A good-looking girl, like her mother. Though she could be wicked, you know, really wicked—oh my goodness—playing them off against each other—
He laughs. So do I.
I can just see it, I say.
Can you? he says, narrowing his eyes. I pitied some of those poor guys, oh my God, oh dear, I really did—
He stops and recovers himself.
And what about you? he says. Bet you had a lot of guys after you? You’re a good-looking girl as well. Now don’t mess with me, I bet you did.
Some, I tell him, but not a lot.
He tries to look astonished.
But—a girl like you?
You’re exhausted, I tell him.
You know, he says, I can’t see you well. You do look very far away to me.
You’re just exhausted, Bob.
Yes but I can’t rest though, he says quietly. I’d like to sleep, I really would. But I won’t. Not now. That’s the tragedy.
I push a fresh cup of coffee towards him and his fingers close around it, eager as baby’s fingers. He does this, even though we both know he’ll leave it to go cold like the last one.
I shouldn’t really have coffee, he confesses.
How about a brandy then? I say.
He begins to weep.
OK, he says and I pour him a generous one and he downs it in two swift gulps. Then he tells me he’s not allowed that either.
But what the hell, he says. You know, the way I figure it, who’s left to mind?
Chapter 9
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON, A DARK DAY. THE KIDS at school for at least another hour and Liv down for her nap, arms flung up beneath her blue bunny blanket.
Mick wraps his arms around me.
What? he says. What is it?
I try to wriggle out.
What’s what?
You seem far away.
I don’t think so.
Something’s getting to you.
I look at him.
I mean, something else, he says.
I’m fine, I tell him. Hearing the coldness creep into my voice.
He releases me, drops his arms down to his side.
You want me to leave you alone?
I turn and look at him.
I didn’t say that, no.
Then—what, Tess? Tell me—
I sigh.
Oh Mick, I say, I don’t know. I don’t mind—I don’t care what you do. What do you mean, leave me alone? I’m not asking for anything. What you’re doing is fine.
He smiles, but I can read the smile. Unreasonable, it says.
What you do is always fine, I tell him.
I love you, he says. Do you know that?
Thank you.
What do you mean, thank you?
Just—I’m glad.
It’s not something you say thank you for.
What, then?
He kisses my hands, both at once, then separately, finger by finger.
You’re in another world these days, he says.
Well, I say, we all are. Aren’t we?
He stops the kissing.
Maybe, he says. But I’m trying not to be. And the difference is, I feel you want to be.
I remember a time when sex was a glue, a healer—it would smooth, ease, mend, bring us closer together. As well as for pleasure—we could rely on it for that, nearly always anyway. Not any more. Now it’s a thing that comes between us, pushing us further away.
Upstairs, the bed is still unmade, still covered in child clutter. Livvy’s bright-coloured teething monkey and a pile of Rosa’s navy school socks. On the carpet, Jordan’s forgotten homework sheet—signed by us but never delivered to school—a pack of Disprin, a pair of my knickers.
Mick sweeps the stuff off and pulls the duvet back and I lie on the sheet which is cool as water. I start to undo my jeans.
No, he says, let me—
He does it slowly and carefully, laying each bit of clothing aside like someone who knows they’ll have to pick it up later.
I laugh.
What?
You don’t have to fold them, I say.
He smiles grimly, determined to be amused, yet obviously bothered that the mood’s disturbed. He senses it’s going to be tough, that I won’t play.
But, I think, I want to do this.
He kisses my face, my neck, my hair. Then he takes his own clothes off more quickly. I put my face close to his body, dutifully take in the familiar chill of his skin, the folds, the curves, the hair.
Come on, he says and pulls the duvet over us, pulls me onto him, gathers my hair so it doesn’t dangle in his face.
It ought to be possible, I tell myself as his fingers move over my bottom, my thighs. I try to get them into my head—those weird and dirty thoughts, hot and shameful, to get me going. It usually works for me. But it’s impossible and my mind is pulled up and away and I float free. Instead I see Lennie, biting her lip as she tries to back her car into a tight space on an afternoon after school a long time ago. I see the pier, battered by wind and storms, and all those ketchup cans piled up behind Mawhinney. And the slic
e of grey, choppy sea through the window behind.
And then, suddenly, I see Darren Sims. I remember his denim jacket lying on a clay-spattered stool in Lennie’s studio. I check the memory—it feels real—and I tense up at this surprising thought.
Mick wets his fingers and puts them inside me.
He kisses my nipples, touches me, delves around. I try to feel it. I try to push the thoughts away, but they come creeping back, unstoppable as smoke.
My conversation with Mawhinney comes into my head.
Mick pushes me over onto my back.
Hey, he says as, lazy-eyed, he licks his fingers and strokes between my legs again. What are you thinking?
Nothing, I tell him. I’m trying to concentrate.
On what?
On this. The sex.
He sits up. He’s giving up.
I push him over. His penis is standing right up. I bend my head and grasp its stem like a flower and kiss the end of it. It smells of spit and cheese and the hotness of men before sex. He makes a little noise of encouragement. Before he can start asking to come inside me, I make my fingers into a circle and then hold him there.
He lies back and closes his eyes. He has a lovely face when his eyes are closed—young and smoothed-out and trusting.
Oh, he says, oh, o-oh.
Moving my hand up and down, I feel like a sober person watching a drunk one.
You like this? I ask him in the low, barely-there voice I use to make him come. It pleases you?
He moans.
I stroke the length of him and then bring my hand tight around him again and move it up and down.
He groans.
I think of how many times we must have done this—and then I realise that I can’t remember any of them. I can’t remember how love felt in the days before Lennie died.
Each time I tighten my hand, he moans. I try kissing the tip of him again, slipping it in my mouth, and it’s clear from the sounds that he likes it but eventually it hurts my neck so I lift my head up again.
Through the window is the silvery, waving eucalyptus tree that could do with a trim, and beyond it, sky. Afternoon sun is squeezing itself out from between grey clouds. Later it will rain.
Hey. Not too hard, Mick whispers, eyes still closed but reaching out with his hand to mine. Get some oil.
Under the bed is a small brown glass bottle of oil. I reach down and unscrew the cap and tip some into my hand and slide my fingers over him. He sighs. I slip my hand up and down, up and down, until he begins to pant and lift his pelvis up off the bed and then I know it’s about to be over, and then it is.
Something Might Happen Page 10
