There’s a pause on the end of the phone. I hear a ragged intake of breath, the shudder of a heart beating one final time before it knows it must break. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say, though it comes out as a sob.
Her voice trembles on the other end of the line. ‘What happened?’
‘She drowned.’
‘What? How? Where?’
‘The river. The Tagus. She slipped or fell. We don’t know yet. The police are investigating.’ I don’t mention the other theories – that maybe she was pushed, that she was murdered, that maybe she jumped. I can’t say it out loud.
‘Was she drunk? On drugs?’ her mum asks and there’s a new tone in her voice that instantly raises my heckles. It’s barely noticeable and maybe I should put it down to shock, but she sounds accusatory, as though this is something Kate has brought on herself, that she’s to blame for her own death.
‘I … I don’t know,’ I finally stammer. ‘They’re doing toxicology reports.’ As I say it I realise that with so many drugs in her system the police will assume she was off her head. They’ll blame her for her own death too, just like her own mother is doing. Even if she was murdered, it will be her fault. That’s what happens all the time when women are victims of crimes. They’re blamed for their own injuries. Whether it’s rape or domestic violence or assault, the inference is always that women bring it on themselves.
‘You don’t need me over there, do you?’ Kate’s mum asks in an almost impatient voice.
‘Um …’ I reel, not sure what to say. What mother wouldn’t rush to be by their child’s side – even if that child was no longer living? The thought of leaving Marlow on a cold mortuary slab in a foreign country, with other people making decisions about her, makes the typhoon of grief and shock in my chest batter at my ribs. I’m so enraged I’m afraid I might start screaming and never stop. ‘You don’t want to be here?’ I manage to ask in as calm a voice as I can manage. Rob squeezes my free hand. He can hear I’m struggling to hold it together.
‘Can you handle things?’ she answers.
‘Sure,’ I find myself replying.
‘I don’t know what to do about a funeral,’ she says and though she sounds very matter-of-fact, and devoid of emotion, I wonder if she’s just covering up her grief. ‘You knew her best, perhaps you can decide.’
‘Right,’ I stammer. Am I supposed to plan the whole funeral then? Shouldn’t it be her mother doing that? Kate doesn’t have siblings and her father died when she was thirteen so I guess then I am family, or as close as. And we were like sisters. ‘Of course,’ I hear myself say. I can do this for her. She’d want me to. I can hear her in my head telling me: For fuck’s sake don’t let my mother read the eulogy, and make sure everyone drinks a lot and has a good time. No tears!
‘OK, I’ll be in touch when I know more,’ I say. ‘Bye. I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I choke out, but she’s already hung up.
I stare at the phone in shock.
Now you know why I drink, I hear Kate say. Her voice is so loud, so real, I almost jump around in my seat to look for her standing behind me. Is this what it will be like from now on? Will she haunt me forever? Will I hear her voice in my head all the time as a ghostly presence, accompanying me through life? I don’t think I’ll mind too much, to be honest. It’s something of a comfort, as though she’s still alive. I put the phone down and swallow the new shot of tequila Rob has set in front of me. Kate always used to say she didn’t want kids because she was worried she’d turn out like her own mother and now I know why. ‘That was weird,’ I say, looking at Rob. ‘Her mum wants me to plan the funeral.’
‘What about Toby?’ Rob asks, necking back his own drink. He seems to be hammering them back faster than me. That’s already his fifth, I think. ‘Can’t he do it? They are still married.’
Oh God, Toby. I remember that call we had a few hours ago. He was so damn rude, so cynical about Kate’s disappearance. I want to rub it in his face that he was wrong but at the same time, what is there to be gleeful about in being right? All that stuff he said about her wanting him to come back to him, and about her lying to me, seem now like nothing more than bitter remarks from a jilted husband.
‘Want me to tell him?’ Rob offers again.
I shake my head, pick the phone up and dial Toby’s number. He answers immediately. ‘Orla,’ he says, both impatient and on edge, as if he’s been waiting on the call.
‘It’s Kate,’ I tell him without preamble. ‘She’s dead.’
‘What?’ Toby whispers into the phone.
‘She’s dead,’ I repeat like an automaton. Maybe the more times I say it the easier it will be to believe.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Toby asks, angrily.
‘They found her—’
‘Who found her?’ he interrupts.
‘The police. She drowned. In the river.’
‘Jesus,’ Toby mutters. ‘Fuck. How?’
‘I don’t know. The police don’t know. They’re investigating.’ It’s too much to explain about the head injury and I don’t want to mention that they’re wondering if it was a suicide. I’ll wait until I know more.
‘But, Jesus … was she drunk?’ he asks. ‘She was fucking high, wasn’t she?’
I take a deep breath, trying to hold in the rage. Why is everyone looking to blame her? She’s dead! Can we not cut her a goddamn break? ‘No, not especially,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘What can I do?’ he finally says, snapping into pragmatic mode. ‘What’s happening to the body?’
Ignoring the jarring way he’s described her as a body, I let out a heaving sigh of relief. This is what I actually need, someone like Toby who knows how to handle the ugly, writhing messes of life, who knows how to fix things or to find the people to fix things. That’s his skill, why he’s so successful at his job.
‘I have to organise the funeral,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he says.
‘I don’t even know what she wanted.’
‘Cremation,’ he says, not missing a beat.
I nod. Of course, he’d know. They were married; they must have talked of these things.
‘I’ll start letting her friends know,’ I say, beginning a mental list in my head of all the things I have to do. ‘I’ve told her mother already.’
‘Christ,’ Toby says, and I picture him sitting in their old apartment, at the dining table, head in his hand or perhaps standing at the window looking out over the city. ‘What a thing to happen.’ He pauses. ‘What do the police say?’
‘They think it was an accident,’ I tell him. I don’t mention the other possibilities.
‘Where were you?’ he asks. ‘When it happened.’
I’m a little stunned by the question and the slightly accusatory tone buried in his voice. ‘I was asleep. I don’t know why she went out or why she was down by the river.’
Bitch! Kate’s voice bursts in my head.
‘OK,’ Toby says. ‘Are you good to organise things your end?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ I say, shaking off the confusion. ‘Rob’s with me.’
‘Well, let me know what you need. I’ll figure things out this end. The funeral and everything. I mean, we are technically still married. God,’ he says again and now I can hear the shock and the bewilderment in his voice as he really starts to process what’s happened. ‘I just used the present tense,’ he says. ‘We were married. Fuck.’
Past tense. Kate is past tense. She will never again be.
‘I’ll call you when I know more,’ I tell Toby quickly, and then hang up.
I finish my drink in two swallows, enjoying the way it makes the world foggy and holds the present at a distance. In this state I can keep Kate alive. I don’t have to use the past tense when I think of her.
‘Are you OK?’ Rob asks. His eyes are bloodshot and his face white as a ghost. I dread to think how I must look.
&
nbsp; Bitch!
Kate’s voice is so loud I stare at Rob wondering if he has heard it too. But it’s just in my head. I can hear her scream the word but I can’t see her or where we were when she said it.
‘Orla?’ Rob says, tapping me on the arm. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, worried.
I startle. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
Bitch! she screams again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday
For a blissful moment when I wake the world is full of sunlight and air. I stretch my toes and turn my face towards the window, feeling the sun’s rays warm my eyelids. And then the memories return, along with a pounding headache. I open my eyes, for a split second hoping and praying I’ll find myself back in England, in my own bed, having dreamed everything, but no such luck. I’m in the spare room of Sebastian’s apartment. And Kate is dead. I let the weight of it sink into me. The sunlight evaporates; the air becomes chill. My body is cast in lead.
I must have drunk enough to knock out a bull elephant last night, anything to try to push away the reality of what we were dealing with, and now my mouth is dry and my head feels as fragile and dangerously delicate as a wasp’s nest. I remember the tequila bottle on the table and Rob telling me to slow down. I vaguely recall posting something on Facebook about Kate, tears streaming down my face as I typed, and Rob helping me back to the apartment and into bed. I think when we came in that Sebastian said something about how sorry he was.
I remember crying myself to sleep and maybe that’s also why I have such a splitting headache now, and my eyes are puffy and dry. That thought conjures the image of Kate dead, her flesh putrid. And the next thing I know I’m stumbling from bed and into the bathroom, throwing open the door and making it to the toilet just in time to throw up the entire contents of my stomach, which is mainly liquid.
Afterwards, shaky and nauseous and still green around the gills, I lean back against the cold tile wall and close my eyes. My shoulders shake but the tears won’t come. I’m too exhausted. Where’s Rob? I wonder. What time is it? Groggy, I reach for my phone. It’s almost midday. There are dozens of missed calls, texts and emails from friends who must have seen the Facebook post about Kate. I can’t face them right now. Grappling my way to standing I head out into the hall. The door to the secret room is shut.
I creep into the living room. It’s dark – the shutters drawn – but I can hear the muffled sound of someone crying. I spot Rob kneeling in the gloom beside a suitcase.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
He jumps around in fright. ‘You’re awake,’ he says. ‘I wanted to let you sleep. How are you feeling?’
I walk closer. ‘Awful.’ It’s only then I notice it’s Kate’s suitcase.
Rob’s got one of Kate’s tops in his lap. He notices me glancing at it. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ he says, wiping at his tears. ‘I guess I thought maybe I’d find a clue or something if I went through her stuff.’
I kneel beside him. ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I did the same when she first went missing.’
Rob’s face is red, his lashes wet. I put my arm around him. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ he says, shaking his head in disbelief. He shoves the top back on the pile of her clothes, jumbled in her bag. I want to tell him to fold it but it’s not like it matters.
‘I’ve booked a flight for this afternoon,’ Rob says, rubbing an arm over his face and standing up.
‘Oh,’ I say, turning to him.
‘We can’t leave Marlow any longer.’
‘Yes, sorry, I know. I just …’ I stop as my throat squeezes shut. His mention of Marlow has hit me hard. More than anything right now I want to hold my daughter in my arms. ‘I wish I could come too,’ I sigh, my eyes stinging.
‘They said you needed to stay.’
I nod. Yes, they did.
‘I’ve called the embassy already,’ Rob says.
‘You have?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Yes, but they can’t do much. They gave me a list of English-speaking funeral directors. I called one and I’ve arranged for them to collect the body once they’re done with the autopsy. They said they’d co-ordinate with the authorities. But it should be today or tomorrow. They’ll cremate the body. You just have to pick up the ashes.’
The body. There it is again, that word. Not Kate’s body, but the body.
My phone rings and I pull it out my back pocket. It’s Konstandin.
Rob is peering over my shoulder at the phone ringing in my lap. ‘Why’s he calling?’ he asks.
I ignore him and stand up to answer the call. ‘Hi,’ I say into the phone.
‘I saw the news,’ Konstandin answers. ‘It’s your friend.’
The news. Of course. Reza warned me they’d release the information to the media. ‘Yes,’ I say. I head towards the window and open the shutter. Buttery golden sunlight floods into the room and I turn my face to it, hoping it will in some way chase away the darkness inside.
‘I’m sorry,’ Konstandin says. I can hear the genuine sorrow in his voice. ‘Can I do anything to help?’
I take a deep breath. ‘No. But thank you.’
‘Let me know if that changes,’ he tells me. ‘I’m here if you need something.’
‘Thank you,’ I repeat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.
When I hang up I find Rob is in the bedroom packing his shaving gear into his small backpack. ‘Are you leaving right now?’ I ask, a pang of anxiety hitting. I don’t want to be here alone, dealing with everything all by myself again. I need him. He’s my rock.
‘Fairly soon,’ he says with an apologetic shrug. ‘Flight’s at three-twenty. I’ll make it back by seven to pick up Marlow.’
I nod. God, I wish I could go with him. My bottom lip starts to tremble at the thought of him leaving without me.
The intercom buzzes just then and we both freeze, turning our heads in the direction of the front door. I flashback vividly to last night, to the police knocking with their horrendous news.
Both Rob and I make a move for the intercom at the same time but are interrupted in the hall by Sebastian exiting his recording room. I didn’t realise he was home. He jumps when he sees Rob and I in the hallway, quickly pulling the door to his recording room shut behind him. He grabs for the intercom on the wall as it buzzes for a third time, pressing it to his ear before hitting the button to let whoever it is in.
‘It’s the police,’ he tells us, moving to open the door.
I exchange a worried look with Rob. Why are they back? What more news could there be? Sebastian opens the door to Nunes. I’ve already taken against him, initially for his lack of engagement with the case when I first came to report Kate missing and then for his pointed suspicion and his comment that Kate might have killed herself, and now I bristle even more at his terse nod when he enters the apartment. There’s an arrogance to him and a swagger that doesn’t feel deserved, as though he’s learned how to be a detective from watching too many Netflix Scandi-noirs.
‘The autopsy report has come back,’ he says, pulling out his notebook and flipping it open.
‘And?’ I ask, after he pauses for what feels like dramatic effect.
‘There’s evidence that your friend fought off an attack.’
‘What?’ I ask, feeling faint.
He looks down and reads directly from the notebook. ‘Her hands and arms show signs of bruising and injuries consistent with a physical fight.’
My head is filled with pins and needles. I think I might fall over.
‘She couldn’t have sustained the injuries in the water, once she fell in?’ I hear Rob ask.
Nunes shakes his head. ‘The doctor says no. They occurred prior to drowning.’ He looks down at his notebook again. ‘Significant scratches on her arms and hands. She fought with someone before she died.’
‘But she died by drowning? She wasn’t … killed … and then dumped in the water?’ Rob asks.
Nunes nods. ‘She drowned.’
‘So someone pushed her in then,’ I deduce. ‘She fought with someone and they pushed her. Or they hit her and she fell in and …’ I break off, having to put my hand on Rob’s arm to steady myself. ‘But who? Who would do that?’
Nunes doesn’t have an answer. ‘You need to come to the police station,’ he says.
I blink rapidly, my heart starting to beat fast and a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down my spine. ‘Why?’ I manage to ask.
‘What’s this about?’ Rob interrupts, putting his arm around me protectively.
‘We have questions for your wife. Detective Reza will meet us there.’
‘I’ve answered everything I possibly can already,’ I protest. ‘I’ve told you everything I know. If you need to talk to anyone it should be those two men I told you about. Have you found them yet? Are you even looking? They’re the ones who saw her last!’
Nunes glances between us. ‘Now it’s become a murder inquiry, we need to get new statement.’
His expression remains neutral but his eyes tell a different story – there’s a suspicious glint to them. Shit. A cold weight settles on my shoulders. Do the police think I had something to do with Kate’s dying? They can’t. That’s ludicrous. Why on earth would I hurt her or want her dead? If only I could remember more about that night.
I look to Rob who gives me a confused, worried shrug, like he doesn’t know what to make of it either, but what other choice do I have except to go with them? I don’t think I’m being given an option.
‘I’ll get my things,’ I say, and head to the bedroom, past Sebastian who shrinks away from me as I pass, as though I’m contagious.
In the bedroom I run a comb quickly through my hair, change my top, and brush my teeth. I could use a shower, as I still feel grimy and dishevelled from drinking too much. The tequila fumes coming off me could ignite a small blaze. Rob has followed me into the bedroom. I’m worried but try to hide it from him by forcing a smile. It feels silly to give my fears a voice. Of course, they can’t be looking at me as a suspect.
The Weekend Away Page 18
