Under the Ice

by Rachael Blok

  It is only just possible to make out Tim Pickles beneath the fists and feet, and Maarten dives straight in. These men are strong but he is tall, lithe. He can’t beat them, but he can lever them away.

  ‘Police! Stop! Get off!’ he commands, pulling at the arm of one and spinning him away. The snow is compacted underfoot, and he slips, his foot sliding beneath him with the force of pushing.

  Maarten feels a sharp blow to his head, but can’t see from where it comes. It makes him reel but he needs to keep moving or he will become a punchbag. He ducks under the arm, striking out after a recoil, and pushes the soft-bellied body backwards. The man falls, and Maarten sees colours flash in his vision as he turns to stand and face the last men.

  ‘Stay out of this, copper!’ It is John.

  ‘John! Stop!’

  Maarten manages to pull the arm of one of the men behind them, and holds him steady. Imogen has appeared to his left, and she snaps handcuffs on his wrists, allowing Maarten to step between John and Tim Pickles. The fourth man goes back into for a lunge, and Maarten sees Imogen sidestep him, using the thrust of his lunge to spill him forward, tumbling head over heels. She stands over him, reading him his rights, refusing to allow him to rise and rejoin the fray.

  ‘John, stop!’

  The fist of the giant man is raised high. Maarten stands over Tim Pickles, and if John releases his blow it will land on him, hard and heavy. Maarten is taller, but John is broad and angry. There is an implacability in his stance, and Maarten doubts that he can halt him.

  Sirens scream into the street, and there are footsteps, running towards them.

  ‘He fucking killed my girl!’ John’s face is wrenched in rage. His fist has blood on it and his T-shirt, once white, is spattered red. He stands in the cold but the heat of his rage vibrates.

  ‘He killed my girl!’ he repeats. This time the edge is a fraction dulled.

  ‘We don’t know that. It’s not the right way, John. Trust me.’ Maarten watches his eyes, waiting for a change.

  John’s shoulder drops a millimetre as police officers pile on him from behind. He is felled, and Maarten suddenly feels incredibly sorry.

  ‘Ambulance, to 46 Rosewell Avenue.’

  He hears Imogen making the call.

  Dropping to his knees, he speaks to the mashed body on the white lawn. His face is awash with blood. ‘Sir, can you hear me, sir? Tim? Can you hear me?’

  There is no response, and he checks his breathing.

  ‘Leave him, don’t move him,’ he says as a police officer runs up.

  ‘It’s me, Sunny. Sir, you’re bleeding. Christ, your head!’

  Maarten looks up to face Sunny, and as he does so, a trickle of blood lands in his eye. He takes his glasses off to wipe them, and sees that the lens is fractured on one side. The arm on that side is bent in the middle. He sways, and feels a pound in his temple.

  ‘We need to get you to hospital. Can I get some help here?’ Sunny shouts loudly, but it seems to come from far away.

  Looking at the lawn, as the snow and street spins, Maarten watches two uniformed police officers run towards him. He can see from their faces that he must look bad. But the pounding is just making him sleepy. He’s so tired. He could just close his eyes.

  Eyelids drooping, he watches another officer pull John up. He is hunched and sobbing.

  They all fall down.

  20

  The door to the office is imposing. The waiting room is empty: magazines, water cooler, carpets. Therapy isn’t cheap, and this room is gently expensive.

  ‘Feeling OK?’

  Will’s half glance, fidgeting hands, reassuring smile, are beginning to grate on her. ‘You’re sure you don’t want to see a woman?’ he asks again.

  But she doesn’t. It isn’t about gender; it is about distance, about the dispassionate feel… And also something calming about the name, something compelling; it had lifted off the clean, white page.

  ‘Mrs Brennan?’ a tall man says, smiling. ‘Come in.’

  He has dark hair, not much older than her. He looks like she imagines a doctor to look: expensive-looking glasses, professional, polished, unflappable; and he speaks to Finn before she has a chance to say hello.

  Sitting, handshakes done, she sits upright in the chair. After introductions and a faltering start from Will, Klaber turns to her.

  ‘And how have you found it? Having a baby can be a shock to the system.’

  Unaccountably, Jenny begins to cry.

  Will leans forward and lifts Finn out of her arms, offering her a tissue and speaking for her.

  ‘Jenny’s struggling a bit, doctor. She’s not normally someone who struggles… she has found the last few months difficult.’

  Jenny’s skin prickles.

  ‘Yes?’ Dr Klaber replies, speaking to Jenny but looking at Will too. ‘I bet it’s been hard for both of you. Professionals in their thirties often are hit harder than younger parents. They’re used to being in control, to being organised. And reflux, I see from the notes; possibly affecting sleep?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Will. ‘Finn can be up a lot at night still. He needs to be held upright after feeding.’

  The hum of the air conditioning is gentle. The seat in which Jenny sits is leather, and it swings, right and left. She tries not to move too much, to sit into it. But any shifting seems to produce momentum. She’s nervous.

  ‘What about eating, sleeping? Broken sleep can be hard. Are you lying awake at night?’ Dr Klaber looks at Jenny. He ignores the tears, and they slow.

  She manages to shake her head. Sleep, when available, is usually instant.

  ‘Jenny, before we go any further I just want to reassure you. I’m here for you to talk to, because sometimes talking helps, but crying is normal. Being tired is normal. Worrying about your baby is normal.’

  ‘It’s more than that.’ Jenny can hear the apology in Will’s voice. Whether it is to the doctor or to her she can’t be sure. ‘Jenny has been tired, but more than just lack of sleep… she’s seen a face in the window late at night… It’s becoming a bit like… an obsession. She’s obsessing about a murdered girl…’

  Nodding slowly, as though Will is describing failing mechanics in a car, Klaber takes a sip of water, and pours two more glasses. He offers the first to Jenny, saying, ‘Jenny, would you like to tell me?’

  Wishing for a wave to wash her away, she opens her mouth to speak but no words come. They are caught in her throat, bloated and bulbous. The marbles.

  ‘Well, you must have heard about the murdered girl…’ She can hear Will stalling.

  ‘Yes. That happened near you, did it?’ Dr Klaber glances down at the file before him. ‘Oh yes, I see. I know that area. I’ve done Parkrun there a few times, and my wife works near there.’

  ‘Yes, well the lake is minutes from our house. Since then, Jenny’s been thinking about it; too much really. And the other night she thought she saw a face at the window…’

  A pause. She knows Will has finished. He is worried and he has tried, but saying it aloud has diminished it. There is nothing to really make sense of. It is a jumble of stories about someone who Will doesn’t recognise. He doesn’t know what to do. That is the sum of it. He is terrified. The fear resonates, pings, in his voice.

  Klaber leans forward, handing Jenny a tissue. He looks from one to the other, waiting.

  Neither speaks.

  ‘You know, as a couple with a new baby, it would be strange if you felt unaffected by the death of a child near your home. Even feeling the impact strongly. Given your sleep disruption, the change in your lives… small changes can unsettle us, but a murder is anything but small.’

  Jenny meets his eyes. The tears have stopped. His voice has a hum to it.

  ‘What about the faces at the window? What about those?’ It’s Will’s last stand.

  ‘Seeing things in the dark? If I told you I thought I’d seen someone out of the corner of my eye, but a tree had moved, or a light had flashed, you wouldn’t
think that odd. Possibly a distorted reflection in the dark, against glass?’

  Will is out of bullets. He takes Jenny’s hand; she sees his sideways glance. They have told a professional and he has said it is fine. It’s Will’s balm.

  Realising what she wants to say, the words shape in her head. They are stored, boxed, unwilling to enter aloud, but they fizzle gently: I feel alone.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says (I miss my dad; I miss my mum). ‘Really I am. But Will is right, I am tense, and maybe talking would help.’ It doesn’t matter if she believes it or not. This concession to Will is easy. She does feel more solid. Less likely to dissolve and leak.

  Will’s phone buzzes and he offers his thanks and pulls out of the room.

  ‘Call me, if you like. My secretary can make your appointment, or you can talk to me over the phone. I’m not busy at the moment,’ Klaber says, handing her his card.

  As he places a hand on her arm, as the other hand holds the card, she wants to tell him that she’s sure something isn’t right. Part of her wants to scream, to shake his arm. The urge to open her mouth, to tell him of the whisper, the voice, the face of the girl… the night-walking, the park, the cold, the dreams…

  ‘Thank you,’ she manages, her arm warm where he holds it.

  ‘Is there something else, Jenny?’

  ‘I found a phone,’ she begins, in a blurt.

  His eyebrows rise, and he smiles. ‘Sorry, you found a phone? Your phone?’

  ‘No,’ and the words come with urgency. An urgency which suddenly presses, out of nowhere. Like a confession. ‘I found a phone in the dark, in the park… I walked there…’

  ‘You took a walk in the dark?’

  She has begun. It’s like rolling a ball down a hill. She can’t stop it. It must come out. It’s driven out of her. ‘I walked, I think sleepwalked, to the lake. And I found a phone. Cold. Wet. And I…’ Her eyes close. Save her. What had that meant? What does it mean? ‘I’ve given it to the police. But why did I find it? Why was I there?’

  Will walks back in, phone call finished, and picks up Finn in the car seat.

  With a tiny shake of her head at Klaber, and the panic in her hiding, finding somewhere to crawl, she manages to drop his hand. She has been gripping it throughout.

  ‘Give me a call.’ He smiles. ‘Why don’t you make another appointment?’

  *

  Finn sleeps in the car on the way home, and Will has bought some coffees from the hospital café. Jenny sips the hot frothy liquid, letting it warm her from the inside as the car is battered with fresh snowfall. The huge wet flakes come at the windscreen quickly, clinging, before being pummelled by the wipers and disappearing. The warmth of the carpeted room stays with her.

  She thinks about seeing Dr Klaber again: if she will be able to speak, to articulate the muddled sense of unease.

  ‘Well, he seemed quite good. Feel any better?’ Will says, his sideways glance anxious.

  He is always nervous after a public crying fit. It is as though crying in public means that she is much more upset than when she does it at home. She, on the other hand, finds that her tears are indiscriminate. They simply arrive, demonstrating no awareness of place or occasion.

  ‘Much,’ she replies, trying hard. ‘I liked him.’

  ‘Takeaway tonight? I’ll brave the arctic conditions and hunt and gather you a lamb pasanda with Peshwari naan? Me Will, you Jenny?’

  She laughs at his bestial grunting and when Finn wakes they are at the house. The day is already darkening, and after Finn’s feed Will lifts him out of Jenny’s arms.

  ‘Go and pour some wine. I’ll put him in pjs and bring him in to you to take upstairs.’

  Jenny resists the urge to remind him where the clean pyjamas are. He will call to ask in a minute, but if she tells him in advance he feels reprimanded.

  Feeling calmer than she has in weeks, the moment of solitude is a gift.

  She thinks of his hand on her arm; someone to rationalise her disquiet. The words had loosened the knot in her insides.

  ‘Babes, where are the clean pyjamas?’ Will shouts from the bedroom.

  Turning on the tap to rinse out dishes from earlier, the water stutters. Jenny turns the tap on and off three times before the pipes grunt, growl. The water follows in a belch and a burst. A shout. Jenny flinches. The pipes must be freezing in the cold. She’ll have to get Will to check them – the house is old, and they can’t go without water. She places her hand in the flow, to feel its temperature. Its coolness runs against her skin. Her hand becomes numb. Its feel familiar – there’s a stab in her stomach – the sound of a voice.

  Slowly, she pulls it backwards, reluctant. The creeping sensation of the coldness of the water is magnetic.

  21

  It’s cold. The wind blows like ice. Feet wet, she stumbles. The hill dips and the ground crunches beneath her feet like glass, sharp, stabbing.

  It’s not far now. She’s running, and the lake appears. This time it’s snowing and she’s wet.

  The suddenness of arriving shocks like a blow. What is she doing? How did she get here?

  In the stillness of the night, she pauses, tries to think. There had been a voice?

  ‘Who’s there?’ she calls, but the words float out, and the cold of the air freezes them before her.

  ‘Why am I back here?’ Her whisper lands on the ground, unanswered. Fighting tears, she turns as a shadow falls across the moonlit path: it’s the willow again, waving, dancing.

  ‘Save her.’ The whisper is close, and it makes her run. She runs and she runs. Along the lake, turning past the old pub and up the hill.

  She must get back to Finn. What if he’s crying? She needs to get back to Will, before he wakes and finds her gone. She’s not running from him. Is she?

  22

  17 December

  The hospital’s corridor is empty, and the smell is interlaced for Maarten with the birth of Sanne, number two daughter. Nic had been born in Holland, where home births were more common, and by the second they had moved to England, living in London. He had sat hot and hungry, holding Liv’s hand, as she strained out the tiny baby. The vivid sense of exhaustion and elation is wrapped up in this odour of disinfectant and the unwell – sterile blood. Apprehension and happiness, with each breath. Her tiny hands, waving and fragile.

  ‘How’s the war wound?’ asks Imogen, sitting down beside him.

  Jolted back, reaching up, he touches where the glue holds the cut together, held under a dressing to keep it dry.

  ‘Not too bad. Kak, not too great.’

  ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Liv picked me up. Before the sun.’

  He had passed out when he’d arrived in the hospital. They had scanned him, watched him, wanted to keep him in, and all he had wanted to do was to flee. The mess and the chaos of the emergency room had been oppressive, impossible to unpick. He couldn’t have recovered in there. His memory of the night is faint. Liv had come. Liv. His mouth had been full of cotton wool. His lips cracked as he spoke, and his eyes had only partly opened: the bandage that keeps the wound tight pulled his eyelids forward, just a chink of light.

  ‘Are you sure you want to come home now? It’s four a.m… they said you were adamant?’ She had leaned over him and her scent was a relief, a warmth. Her hand had reached for his and her touch was all he needed to muster the strength.

  ‘Yes.’

  Voice parched, scratched, he’d barely managed to speak, and she’d got him out.

  ‘Nice glasses,’ Imogen says.

  The spare pair has a red rim, and are too bold for a murder investigation, but he’s got no choice today, as the others are being fixed. ‘Liv’s going to collect mine for me later. How’s he doing?’ He gestures to the room, where Tim Pickles is linked to machines that monitor in beeps and blinks on the screen.

  ‘Not great, but I think he’ll be OK. The doctor’s heading over in a second. What will we do about the interview, sir?
’

  ‘Well, it will have to wait. Has there been anything else? Are his phone records in yet?’

  ‘Yes. He’s called a number of sixth formers but we’ve got nothing that links him to Leigh. He has, however, had a visitor.’

  Maarten glances at Imogen; her eyebrows are raised.

  ‘Young?’

  ‘Seventeen. She came in yesterday evening. The hospital wouldn’t let her see him, but Sunny was outside the room so he managed to speak to her briefly. She didn’t say much, and ran away when he told her who he was. He did manage to get out of her that she was worried about him, and he got the impression that she might have been at the other end of his call. She answered a few questions: Pickles has loads of their numbers, from what I can gather. Smokes with them sometimes, gets drunk. Been to a couple of house parties when parents have been away. She said nothing to link him to Leigh – the girl looked as though Sunny was mad when he suggested it.’

  ‘Have you identified her?’

  ‘Yes, Sunny’s got her name and she’s coming in later with her parents so we can check her out then. We’ll keep digging.’

  ‘Good work.’

  He glances down at Imogen’s wrist, wrapped in a white bandage. ‘What happened? Were you hurt too?’

  ‘Not really – I think I sprained it putting the cuffs on. Seb made me get it checked out this morning – he’s driven me in. Gone to get coffees. He’s getting you one too.’ She glances down the corridor. ‘Here he is.’

  ‘Maarten,’ Seb says, his long stride halting as he passes out a coffee, face filled with sympathy. ‘Shocking news – how are you?’

  ‘OK.’ The room spins. Holding the coffee close he breathes in – he can’t drink, his mouth feels too raw, but the bitter smell rises and takes the edge off the hospital aroma. ‘Tired. Looking forward to the end of the day.’