by S. E. Lynes
That sounds so like Neil, so like the way he would tease Abi. Matt takes a sip of his beer just as one of the neighbours from the other end of the street begins to talk to Jennifer and he realises she’s been waiting for a pause in the conversation. Her hands are gathered at her chest and she looks like she’s queuing to meet her favourite actor. The Lovegoods have this effect on people. They possess something approaching star quality. Suburban star quality. He wonders if, whatever world you inhabit, there are always celebrities, whether it’s just a question of scale.
He taps Jennifer on the arm by way of see you later and pushes through what feels like a thickening throng despite the lateness of the hour. A crowd like this he would have expected to be drifting away by ten, safe home to bed, nothing too wild.
Ava is not in the garden. There’s no sign of Bella either. He doubles back into the house. No Ava, no Bella, no Neil. The rolled steel joists strike him – that they have not been boxed in by plasterboard and have been painted grey to stand out against the paler grey walls does look pretty cool, he has to admit. The edges and bolts give a trendy, urban vibe. The Lovegoods are a little ahead of the curve, and he suspects many of the people here tonight will criticise what they see, only to copy some of these ideas in the years to come.
He rests his hand against the beam and feels the strength of it. Something else too, although it could be his imagination: the rhythm of the music seems to be coming into the palm of his hand, up his wrist. The living pulse of the house. Buildings have a soul, he believes this. They transmit a feeling, almost immediately. He knows it has to do with design, with layout, with colour, and with the people in them, whether or not the guests are truly welcome, whether or not the hosts have had a blazing row five minutes before, but sometimes it feels more mysterious than that, as if the very foundations, bricks and walls are in fact a living body, the plumbing the digestive system, the electrics the veins and arteries. He looks up and only then does he notice an industrial-looking clock fixed with huge bolts to the metal beam. This is what he felt – not the music, but this, the beat of the seconds, like a heart.
And at that, a shiver passes through him. Abi, her tiny heart. Her tiny beating heart, stopped.
His eyes fill. He’s a bit drunk, that’s what it is. No doubt about it. If he can feel Abi with him now, it is because the drink has loosened all the things he has preferred to – has had to – keep tied up.
Twenty-Three
Ava
How blue Neil’s eyes are, darker under this navy sky. He has aged this last year, I think – violently so. I have this thought before the knowledge falls into me, before it lands.
‘What do you mean?’ I say, beginning to understand the words but still unable to grasp their meaning fully. ‘What are you talking about, I didn’t leave the door open? How can it have been Matt? He wasn’t there.’
Neil shakes his head. In his eyes, the passing reflection of the moon.
‘I swore I wouldn’t tell you,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have told you. But it’s going to kill you. It’s going to kill all of us. You didn’t leave the front door open, babe. None of this is your fault.’
He sits on the wall outside our house and covers his face with his hands. I make to sit beside him, but I can’t. I can’t sit down. I have to pace, two steps away, two steps back, shaking my hands as if to dry them, my fingers spread and stiff.
‘But he went to work,’ I whisper, the horror still peripheral, still arriving. ‘He’d already gone.’
‘Do you remember it was raining? Well, he popped back for his coat.’
‘His coat?’ I try to think. On the corner of the street. Abi taking a tumble. Blood on the pavement. Matt teasing her with Mr Sloth, kissing her, kissing me, cycling away. ‘His red top,’ I say, seeing it, seeing the undulating muscles in his shoulders under the stretchy fabric as he rode away, seeing him later, when he got back, when I found him standing by his bike in front of our house. I try, but I can’t picture him, not then, but later, later I see him clearly, his silhouette in the doorway, phone to his ear.
‘He was in his black rain jacket,’ I say, to myself as much as Neil. ‘When he called the police, he was in black. I didn’t think it—’
‘He just popped back and grabbed his jacket.’ Neil’s shoulders are round and his belly sticks out against his shirt, the fabric splaying between the buttons. ‘He said he called ta-ta but you didn’t hear him. He was running late, he said, so when he realised he’d left the door open, he just carried on to work, but only ’cos he thought you’d be back downstairs by then. He didn’t do it on purpose. It was just one of those things.’
My eyes feel gritty. I blink to clear them. To see. To see, to see, to see. Opposite, the triangular roofs of the houses, so many triangles, all the same, white arrows heading away to the end of the street. Somewhere a mating vixen cries out in pain and confusion.
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’
Neil doesn’t look up. ‘He didn’t tell you because you were hysterical. Everything happened too fast, everyone was panicking. He panicked too. He thought she’d turn up and it would come to nothing. And then later, when she didn’t, I think he thought it was too late. The moment had gone. And he thought telling you would make things worse.’
A group of four neighbours come stumbling out of the party, laughing, making much more noise than they would normally. Seeing us, they shush each other with the theatricality of the very drunk, nod hello and stagger on their way, suppressing giggles.
‘How long have you known?’ I ask.
Neil stares at the ground. Chafes the soles of his brogues back and forth across the paving stones.
‘How long, Neil?’
‘Since that night.’
My heart hammers. My breath comes fast and shallow. ‘That night?’ I punch him in the shoulder, punch him again, again, again.
‘Ava!’ He grabs my wrists. ‘Ava, stop! Ava!’
‘Get off me.’ I struggle against him.
‘Ava, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told you, but I can’t stand to see you like this. I can’t stand by and watch you destroy yourself. But you have to forgive him, babe. He loves you more than anything in this world.’
‘Loves me? No he doesn’t. Who does that to someone they love? Fuck you, Neil. Fuck both you, you pair of fucking cowards.’
I start to run.
‘Ava,’ I hear him say. ‘Come on. Please.’
I scrabble to find the key, find it, plunge it into the lock. Once inside, I slam the front door shut and lean against it, my head full of white noise.
Matt. Matt left the door open. My own husband is responsible for my daughter’s…
I sink to the floor, my face pressed to the back of my little boy’s soft head.
It wasn’t you. It was him.
Twenty-Four
Matt
His pocket is vibrating. His phone. His phone is buzzing. He didn’t hear it above the music. He waves at Bella, who he eventually found in the garden an hour or so ago now. She gives him a thumbs up before staggering slightly against Pete Shepherd, who laughs and is more than happy to hold her up. He leaves them on the patio, which is now the dance floor, and wanders to the end of the garden. It is a little quieter here, in the thick dark beside the fence. On the screen is a missed call from Neil. One minute ago. A message throws up a blue speech bubble.
I had to tell her. Tried to call you. Sorry.
A feeling of unease unfurls within him. Sorry. Tell her. Tell her what? Tell who what? He checks his watch, sees that it’s after eleven.
What? he thumbs and presses send.
There is another text, earlier. From Ava.
Have gone home. All OK. Enjoy the party. See you in the morning. Xx
His phone flashes. Neil.
I told her it was you who left the door open. I can explain but we need to talk. I’m so sorry, mate. I had no choice.
His guts churn. He leans his hand against the Lovegoods’ back fe
nce, worries he might be sick. Neil must have followed Ava out of the party. He should have looked harder, should have followed her himself. She’s his wife. He promised he’d stick by her and he hasn’t, couldn’t even stay by her side and help her through the sight of the Lovegoods’ little one waving goodnight.
‘Shit,’ he whispers. ‘Shit shit shit.’
He calls Neil.
‘Neil.’ He pushes one hand against his ear to block out the Latin American music throbbing at full blast.
‘Mate, I had to,’ Neil says.
‘Why?’
‘She needs help, mate. She’s going under. We can’t do this to her, it’s not right.’
Matt pinches the bridge of his nose, but the music is so loud he has to cover his ear once again to hear, to concentrate on what he wants to say. ‘I don’t… I wish you hadn’t. Is she… how did she take it?’
‘Not well. You need to get home, mate.’
‘How did you even end up talking to her? Were you on your own?’
‘She was outside when I left the do. She was crying, so I… I talked to her obviously. We haven’t spoken since… you know, and I was just trying to calm her down. But I could see she was going mental with it, you know? The guilt is eating her up. There’ll be nothing left of her if she carries on like this. So I told her. I told her you didn’t tell her ’cos you love her. I explained it. Honestly, I did my best. I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t know what else to do.’
Matt’s head aches. He feels suddenly very sober.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Neil repeats miserably.
Someone taps him on the back. He turns to see Bella performing a drunken shimmy, mouthing at him to come back to the dance floor, miming ending the call.
He raises one finger, then turns away from her.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ he says to Neil. ‘I should have told her.’
‘Well you need to get home. Is Bella still there?’
Matt turns. Bella is now sitting on the floor laughing hysterically. She holds up her arms and is pulled to her feet by Pete Shepherd. By the bar, Johnnie is smoking what looks like a joint and giggling like a fourteen-year-old at a wedding. A string of fairy lights is looped around his neck. There is no sign of Jennifer.
‘She’s here. She’s having a good time, don’t worry. Listen, I’m going to go.’
‘Sure. I’m sorry, OK?’
Neil rings off.
Bella is back on her feet, dancing. Matt edges around the lawn, sidles into the kitchen and through the hall. At the front door, he looks back at the utter tip that is the Lovegoods’ kitchen, the perfect party lying now in ruins, as if a bomb has gone off, blowing everything to bits.
His own house is silent, save for the dull thud of the music from next door.
He takes off his shoes and tiptoes up the hall, half expecting to find Ava in the kitchen red-eyed and waiting for him. But she’s not there.
He creeps up the stairs, hears the dull clank of the en suite shower door closing. She must have had a shower. She will be drying herself. If she heard the front door, she will be readying herself to face him, to confront him. An old dread bubbles up inside him. He is six. His father is throwing open the door to his bedroom, red-faced with some fresh outrage Matt has committed but as yet knows nothing about. He freezes, halfway up the stairs.
The creak of floorboard on the landing, the slightest alteration in the light, and Ava is a shadow in the bedroom doorway.
‘Ava?’
She recedes into the bedroom. After a moment, he steels himself and follows.
She is sitting on the far side of the bed. Her back is to him. She is wrapped in a turquoise towel, her wet hair pushed back.
‘Ava, I’m sorry.’ He stays at his side of the bed, unsure of what else to do.
‘What for?’ She doesn’t look round.
‘You know what for. Neil called me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m so sorry. But that day… it all went so fast. I wanted to tell you, but the police were there and everyone was asking questions and you were hysterical, and the thing is, I never thought… I never thought we wouldn’t find her. I never thought… and then the day went on and we didn’t… we didn’t find her and then there were dogs and the helicopter and they were talking about the river and then next thing it was dark and me and Neil—’
‘And that’s when you told Neil. When you told your friend but not your wife.’
He feels sick. He wants to climb across the bed and touch her but he knows he can’t.
‘I had to tell someone,’ he says. ‘And it was too late to tell you. And then they found her coat and I knew she was dead, I just knew it, and I thought if you knew it was my fault you’d… I thought you’d leave me. I didn’t think you’d ever forgive me.’
She takes her nightie from under the pillow and pulls it over herself before removing the towel. The action is not lost on him.
‘Ava? Talk to me. I’m so sorry.’
She lifts herself momentarily off the bed to pull the nightie down. Still she doesn’t look at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his voice breaking.
‘I should hope you are,’ she says quietly. ‘But sorry’s not going to cover it, is it?’
His chest sinks.
‘Do you know what gaslighting is?’ she asks.
‘What? Oh, come on. I wasn’t gaslighting you.’
Her hand flies up in a stop sign. She still has her back to him; when she speaks, it is to the opposite wall.
‘Gaslighting is when you encourage the belief in something you know to be untrue, to the detriment of someone’s mental health.’
The effect of having only the back of her head to look at is disconcerting. He longs to tell her to turn round, to at least talk to him face to face, but he has, he knows, lost the right to object.
‘Like, say,’ she continues, still in this terrifying, simmering calm, ‘if you tell someone they didn’t post a letter when they know they did, or, to be literal, that the light is no dimmer than the day before even though you know you yourself turned down the flame and that the room is darker. Or, let me think… if you tell someone they left the front door open, a mistake that cost them the life of their daughter, when you know that actually they didn’t do that. When you know that actually it was you. You left the door open. That. That’s gaslighting.’
‘Ava, come on. That wasn’t my intention at all. I didn’t do it to control you or drive you mad. I did it to save us. There was no malice, none whatsoever. I thought if you knew it was me you’d leave and then I’d have lost you and Fred as well as Abi. And you would lose our family too. There was too much at stake. We’d both already lost too much. Ava, I love you.’
She turns, finally, slowly, raises one knee onto the bed. This time she does look at him, she looks right at him, and he wishes she hadn’t. Her eyes are small and filled with scorn.
‘You might not have meant to drive me to losing my mind. But the fact is, you did. You did, Matt, and you’ve stood by and watched. And the reason you didn’t tell me is much less complicated than you claim. You’re a coward. That’s the reason. I knew you were a coward before we were married, but I thought, with time, you’d get stronger. I thought my love would make you a braver man, but it didn’t. It hasn’t. You lied because you were too scared to admit to your responsibility. I know this is what you do, in life, but I never thought you’d do it to me. You’ve watched me drive myself into the ground with guilt, knowing that you could save me from that at least. You’ve watched me for a year. You’ve lied to me for a year, watched me come undone, watched me fight so hard to climb this fucking hill of sand without ever once holding out your hand to pull me up.’ She begins to cry. ‘Don’t you understand? We’re done. There is nothing left of us. I will never trust you again, about anything. And so… there’s nothing, nothing left.’
‘Don’t say that.’ His chest tightens with dread. This is not an argument. This is much, much bigger. He should have known it would be like this. Per
haps he did. ‘Please, Ava. I didn’t lie to you, not like that. We can work through this. Maybe I need help too. I can get help.’
‘That’s up to you. I’ve had help, Matt. A lot of help. I don’t go a day without using my shiny new CBT techniques to argue myself out of a crisis. I’m down to twenty milligrams a day. I’m doing ever so well.’ The sarcasm drips. She climbs onto the bed, shifts herself up against the headboard.
‘Ava—’
‘There is nothing to work through.’ She arranges a pillow behind her, sits back and folds her arms. ‘All the help I’ve had, did you not once think that you, you, could have helped more than anyone? I hate you, do you understand that? I hate you. At some point you have to stand up and take responsibility, be the man you promised yourself you’d be. And you didn’t. Neil has kept your shabby secret for you, but it was so grim, so difficult, he couldn’t even face me. Couldn’t look me in the eye. The moment he did, his compassion was too strong – his love was too strong – and he had to tell me.’
She gives a brief laugh, full of disdain. ‘Didn’t lie to me? Are you serious? Oh darling, don’t blame yourself. We all make mistakes. We need to move on. You need to move on, Matt – you do. It’s your fault. No wonder you’re so keen to bury her. Of course you lied! Of course you did! You’re capable of doing that to another human being, a human being you’re supposed to love, when Neil… Neil had one glimpse and couldn’t bear it and he’s not the one who’s supposed to love me more than anyone else, is he?’ A tear rolls down each of her cheeks. ‘He’s not supposed to love me more than you.’
Twenty-Five
