by Jessica Moor
‘Can we get the bill, please? I think we’re finally both done.’
The waitress nods, gathering in the little dishes and giving Katie a comedy wink.
‘Good for you, lovely,’ she says.
Perhaps it is good for her.
Perhaps this is what proper nourishment is – the feeling of being so full, so overfull, that she can’t separate herself from that sense of straining, of not being enough to contain the thing inside her.
It is a feeling she has denied herself for so long her stomach has shrunk into something hard and mean.
The waitress returns with the bill. Jamie glances at it, then pushes it towards Katie.
‘I think that one’s yours.’
He looks at her. Waits for a second, then adds, ‘You had all those chips.’
Katie meets his eyes for a few seconds longer than she knows to be wise then nods and leans under the table to pick up her handbag, wincing at the tightness of her swollen belly.
Jamie leans across the table – she automatically presents her cheek.
‘You look much better.’
The words echo in her ear.
‘Let’s go home. I want you.’
* * *
• • •
It takes her a while to get the word out, but she does say no.
The stabbing in her stomach increases in violence as she lies down on the bed. She can’t – not tonight.
Her wretched belly feels like a stone. The rest of her is light, drained.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and begins to lay out her case. Too tired. Not feeling well. She won’t be able to get wet. It won’t be good for him.
He has lube, he points out. She can just lie there.
‘I’ll do all the work.’
It is impossible to say no to Jamie. He doesn’t make it an option.
When would she even say it? There’s no break between the trail of dry kisses he scatters down her neck, the cotton wrench of him pulling her knickers halfway down her thighs, the workmanlike motion of turning her on to her stomach.
27.
Now
Sonia crossed to the sliding doors and pulled them open, letting the stale cushion of refuge warmth hit her full in the face.
The sliding door led into the living room, the same room where Val had told them that Katie was dead. Sonia made to turn the television on but found that the remote control was gone. Lynne’s Peony, she suspected. Quite the little klepto, that kid. Rich kids had no sense of what did and didn’t belong to them.
She wondered if it was worth the fuss of going up to Lynne and accusing her daughter. She’d have to do it tactfully and try not to let her temper rise at the look of disdain that would inevitably take over Lynne’s face.
Feeling oddly taut and shaky, Sonia went down the hallway and up the stairs to Lynne’s room. She knocked on the door, but it gave way beneath her knuckles and swung open with a low creak.
Sonia had grown up knowing not to grass, not to do anything that might make her stand out. The voice she was trying to ignore as she stood outside the office door – already open a crack – was her mother’s voice, yet again. Don’t get involved, you’ve got enough on your plate.
But she couldn’t help it. She thought of Peony – not a particularly nice kid, she had to admit, but just as blameless as her own two boys, protected from the world by a shelter as flimsy as that bloody Lynne.
She didn’t let the rage grow, not yet, because then she wouldn’t be able to get her words out, wouldn’t be able to say what she needed to say to Val and those men.
* * *
• • •
Raised voices were coming from inside the office, and Sonia danced on the spot. Nothing changed with Val – you were always desperately trying to find a gap in her sentences to give you the chance to speak.
Val was talking to one of the detectives – the younger one. Her voice was tight and urgent.
‘Detective Brookes, I’m not convinced that your investigation has exhausted all the options.’
Through the crack of the open door, Sonia saw the detective fold his arms, although from where she was standing she wasn’t sure if it was a sign that he was listening or a sign that he wanted Val to shut up.
‘Something doesn’t sit right about Katie’s death. Why would she want to drown herself?’ Val shuddered, a movement that Sonia felt, too, in her own body. ‘It’s a terrible way to die.’
‘Depression can do awful things, Mrs Redwood,’ the young man began gently.
She could see that Val hated the boy – man – for being a man.
But Sonia couldn’t hate him. She couldn’t hate anyone who, the day before, had kicked a ball around with her boys and fallen to his knees on the muddy grass in celebration when Lewis scored a goal.
Val saw what she wanted to see.
‘Ms.’
Trust Val. She never missed a chance to be offended.
‘We have good reason to believe that Katie would have been suicidal, and no alternative theory,’ the cop said.
Sonia wasn’t overly fond of the police, not after everything that had happened. But even she had to admit that this one was doing a good job of keeping his shit together around Val.
Val opened her mouth.
‘No credible alternative theory,’ he added. Seemed like he could handle himself.
‘Perhaps your lack of alternative theory is due to a lack of exploration, Detective,’ Val snapped. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.’
Her voice had that sing-song feel that it had sometimes, as if she were reciting the words to a song lyric that everyone knew.
‘Nice line, Mrs Redwood,’ the young detective replied, and his voice hardened. His cool was snapping. Val had that effect on people.
Something in his posture reminded Sonia of her boys when they’d been forced to sit still for too long.
‘Here’s another one for you. Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation is the most likely. Here’s a girl with no marks on her, no signs of a struggle, no foreign DNA, no one in her life with the motive to kill her.
‘But what we do have is a history of self-harm and mental illness. We do have her jumping off a bridge in a local suicide spot, and we do have a boyfriend who says she was acting oddly. Unless you know something you’re not telling us . . .’
‘I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply.’
‘I think I can hazard a guess at what you’re trying to imply, though. That we’re incompetent, right? I get it. You think she shouldn’t have died. You think she had things to live for.’ His hand was on Val’s arm. Her body was tense. ‘Well, maybe she did, I don’t know. But sometimes women make their own choices – you’re all about women making choices, right? – and you can’t always find a way to pin it on a bloke.’
There was a long pause. Val tilted her head back a good way to look down her nose at Detective Brookes.
‘This is exactly the sort of attitude I’ve come to expect from your profession, Detective,’ she said.
In a swift motion, the older detective came out of the office and into the hall, placing himself between Val and his colleague.
‘Well, Mrs Redwood,’ he intervened, ‘perhaps that’s your prejudice talking. Detective Brookes’ – he placed a large hand on his colleague’s chest – ‘is working extremely hard on Katie’s case. Now’ – he took on the stance of the playground diplomat, with those infuriating patting motions – ‘I think it’s probably for the best if everyone sets aside their preconceptions. I know it’s hard. In your job, you start to see a pattern and it’s hard to unsee it. But . . .’ He held up a finger when Val Redwood opened her mouth. ‘We’re doing our work as professionals here, working very hard, and it’s easier for us to get on with that work if we’re not having to answer
to criticisms from you.’
Sonia sneezed, and all three of them wheeled around. For a moment, Sonia forgot why she had been standing there. Then –
‘Lynne’s gone,’ she said.
‘Gone?’ Val said, advancing on Sonia, as if forgetting the policemen. ‘What do you mean, she’s gone?’
‘I went up to her room and . . .’ Sonia jerked her head upwards, to indicate the floor above.
Go and see for yourself, she wanted to say, but she thought she might as well practise her soft act. ‘Well, she’s not there. All her stuff is gone. And her kid’s stuff.’
Val said nothing, but pushed past Sonia, knocking her slightly off balance. Sonia remained hovering in the doorway while the two detectives stared at her blankly.
‘Jesus,’ the younger one said finally. ‘Impossible to get anything done round here.’
The older detective heaved an outsized sigh, his face reddening. It wasn’t hard to see that he was angry – humiliated, even – but he hid it behind a bluff smile.
‘Wonder why she’s gone?’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘What on earth do you think makes a woman go back to her rich husband?’
The younger detective had the grace to look a little embarrassed. ‘All right, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘I think that’s enough of that.’ He nodded at Sonia. ‘Thanks for letting us know,’ he said, before crossing the room, smiling at her carefully and closing the door in her face.
Sonia remained standing there for a second, and her arms seemed to lift themselves and fold across her chest. Practise, she whispered to herself, and forced the corners of her mouth into a gentle smile, unknotting her arms from around her.
She turned and made to go back along the corridor, only to see Val moving down the stairs at a pace Sonia wouldn’t have thought her capable of. She had a wild look about her.
‘Sonia, where did Lynne go?’ she said, her voice fruitier and more crushing than ever.
Sonia felt her mouth opening wide despite herself, the shard in her chest seeming to grow and expand. The words How should I fucking know? were already blossoming on her tongue, but Val and the detectives had run back upstairs and she was standing in the hall alone.
* * *
• • •
‘All right, Jen?’
She didn’t know why she was sounding so friendly. She never normally spoke to Jenny. Jenny’s head snapped up as if she were frightened. It made Sonia want to frighten her.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen Lynne?’ Sonia said it breezily, but there was nothing breezy about a disappeared woman. Not in the refuge. Not today. If anyone had bothered to care about her, then maybe she could have made herself care about Lynne, or about Jenny, about any of them. But there it was.
‘Lynne?’ Jenny snorted. ‘Nah.’
Clearly, Jenny didn’t have much time for Lynne. That was something they had in common, Sonia figured.
‘Well, looks like she’s cleared off. Val’s in a flap about it.’
‘Yeah?’ Jenny stood up. It was always surprising how tall she was when she unfolded herself from a chair. ‘Yeah? They’re all het up about it?’
‘Val is. So she’s making it that detective’s problem. They’re all bashing about looking for her, but she’s gone, I’m pretty sure.’
‘Yeah?’
Before Sonia knew what was happening Jenny had slid past her like a vapour, and all at once was standing in the hall.
‘Thanks, Sonia.’
Then she went down the hall, opened the front door and left, with a wave of chilly outdoor air behind her.
* * *
• • •
Nazia was sitting in the living room, a woolly beanie in the place where her headscarf used to be.
‘Don’t suppose you’re going to do a runner, too?’ Sonia said. For something to say.
‘What?’
‘Lynne. And now Jenny. They’re all making a break for it, by the looks of it. Do they know something I don’t?’ Sonia laughed.
She hadn’t actually been expecting Nazia to stand up sharply and dash past her, along the hall and out of the front door. Sonia thought about calling her back, but instead she just sat down on the sofa and let the exhaustion take her. The familiar theme music started to sound. Morse was on again.
28.
Then
She wakes the next morning at the feeling of a soft impression on the bed beside her. Jamie propped up on the pillows next to her with his legs stretched out over the covers, dressed, with a mug of tea in his hand. He’s not really a tea-drinker, but he’s learned how to make it. For her. It’s always somehow a little scummy, a little grey.
She takes the mug.
‘And’ – he reaches over to the bedside table to pick up a plate – ‘for the lady!’
A pain au chocolat, warm and flakey. A bunch of grapes, with little drops of water still clinging to them, giving them a still-life look on the blue ceramic plate. He must have been out already.
Katie pretends to be less awake than she really is so she can nuzzle closer, making soft little noises as he feeds her grapes and pieces of pain au chocolat. The bed starts to fill with crumbs.
‘Drink your tea,’ he says. ‘It’ll go cold.’
Katie takes a gulp. It’s still hot enough that the taste isn’t too noticeable.
‘It’s a beautiful day,’ Jamie says, popping a grape into his mouth. Katie can hear the soft, wet burst of it cracking between his teeth.
‘I was thinking . . .’ He rolls over slightly so that his face is above hers and lays a hand on her cheek. The morning light softens his face, with its sharply drawn boundaries, into something open and golden. ‘Picnic?’
* * *
• • •
It’s a lovely day, in the end. For the most part. The kind of day she always imagined she would have when she was in a relationship.
They buy a baguette and cherry tomatoes and ham and cheese and crisps. They eat, or he eats, watching the pairs of ducks swim by. They talk little.
Katie keeps catching, in frames of a second or so, how pieces of her body look in her new sundress, how sleek and neat they are now. Jamie’s hand drifts at her waist, brushing back and forth with the tips of his fingers. Every stroke seems to emphasize the disparity between waist and hip. Her stomach still aches from the excess of food last night, but it’s a distant ache. She doesn’t have to feel it if she doesn’t want to.
They lie back on the blanket he brought and drift into a doze together, waking only when the air turns chilly.
* * *
• • •
Perhaps it’s because she’s feeling so calm, so normal, that she says it. It’s only an idle comment, as they’re in the car going home.
‘I was thinking maybe I ought to learn to drive.’
Jamie doesn’t look away from the road. ‘I’m not sure that that’s a good idea,’ he says.
‘Why not?’
She shifts, unsticking her sun-warmed skin from the leatherette seat. ‘It would be good to be able to drive my mum to her chemo appointments.’ She pauses for a second, glancing at him sideways. ‘You know, instead of relying on you to do it.’
She shouldn’t have said it. She knows that for certain, before she can begin to understand why. He pulls over so sharply the seat belt takes a strangling grip on her neck. He switches the engine off, one arm dangling casually off the edge of the driver-side window. His mouth has formed a little twist.
‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘What’s wrong with relying on me?’ His voice is soft. ‘Aren’t I reliable enough for you?’
She gives a little laugh. Surely that’s the best thing to do.
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘Just because it’s so silly . . . of course I think you’re . . .’
But the rest of the sentence is lost under
the growl of the engine, switched on with the same brute abruptness with which it was switched off.
He swings away from the kerb, nearly cutting off the driver coming in the opposite direction. Katie can see a sign that specifies thirty miles per hour. He’s doing fifty . . . sixty . . .
‘Jamie . . .’ Her voice is normal, neutral. She’s good at that these days. The histrionics have been stripped away. ‘Could you slow down a bit?’ He doesn’t seem to hear her.
She can see the rubbish truck coming around the corner. It’s vast, bulky, its surface a labyrinth of jagged metal.
In those seconds she wonders if Jamie answers to some higher laws of mathematics and physics than those she understands, because she doesn’t see how there’s any way of them not smashing into the rubbish truck, their last impressions of grinding metal, that foul, gin-like smell.
Jamie swerves, the car snapping down the narrow vein of a side road which seems to have appeared from nowhere. Their speed is maintained as they career down a residential street, missing a cat and a set of dustbins by inches.
Then he slows the car. Switches off the engine. Turns to look at Katie. The twist in his mouth has been ironed out and his expression is calm now. Katie is trying to keep her breathing as quiet as possible.
‘See?’ He tilts his head casually. ‘Could you have done that?’
It can’t be more than a split second before she answers. She’s dizzy with the deceleration.
‘No . . .’
‘I know you’re clever in some ways. You’ve made that pretty clear.’ His voice is taut. ‘But you’re not good at everything. Your reflexes are terrible.’
‘You could have been caught speeding,’ she says.
She knows there is an unspoken accusation there, deeper in her mind, but she can’t get the words to form under the chill of Jamie’s stare.
‘No speed cameras. It’s a dead zone round here.’ He continues to look at her. ‘I’m not fucking stupid, you know.’
