I walk away from the visitors’ center toward the tall wooden gate further along the front wall, where I show the documentation and consent to the scan. There’s something relentless about the rhythms and rituals of this place that I can feel working on me. The gate swings shut behind me, and I’m inside. It’s strangely silent and deserted, and my footsteps echo on concrete as I walk to the waiting hall. Two uniformed officials are standing at the entrance, staring straight ahead as I approach.
“We need to search you, sir,” one says as soon as I am close enough to hear. “Please stand straight and put your arms out to the sides.”
I stand still and try to detach myself from their hands patting up and down my body, insistently and hard. I try not to think about the photograph tucked into my waistband, but they don’t seem interested in searching that thoroughly, just covering the basics. Beyond where we are standing I can see a handful of visitors waiting in the corridor on red plastic chairs. One is a woman with a young toddler, who squirms and wriggles restlessly as he plays with a toy truck, running it up and down his mother’s arm. Her arms are clasped around him, fencing him in, but she’s looking only at the far door, her eyes fixed on it, waiting. A couple of chairs along, a man in his twenties sits hunched forward with his hands clasped, tapping his feet on the floor.
“Straight ahead,” one of the officials says, gesturing at the corridor. “Just sit down and wait until you’re called.”
Slowly, I do as I’m told. The toddler squeals and points at me, eyes wide and dark in his face, but none of the others turn to look.
I sit motionless, regulating my breathing. Now that I’m here, adrenaline is starting to thump through my veins. The place smells sharp, like spearmint disinfectant. Nausea throbs faintly in my head. I notice a vending machine and go across to it, fumbling in my pocket for the two pounds I kept. I feed the money into the machine and down a can of Coke, but it fights queasily for a place in my stomach. I can’t seem to settle down. My heartbeat shifts into time with the quick repeated tapping of the young man’s feet on the floor, each tap thudding through me. I clench my fists, try to relax. There is a round plastic clock on the far wall, its face entirely bare and smooth but for two black hands bisecting the surface. On a little table in the corner, magazines and coloring books with crayons are stacked in piles. A tall green plant in the corner winds its way toward the ceiling. I look at these objects one by one, grounding myself.
“Alex Carmichael?” When the call finally comes, it jolts me and I quickly get to my feet. A tall, stocky man in uniform is waiting for me, tightly smiling. “I’m going to take you to a private room,” he says. “I’ll be waiting at the door, to keep an eye on things.” His face is neutral; it’s impossible to tell if the statement is intended to warn or reassure.
We walk along a corridor painted in lurid peppermint green, hallucinogenic in its brightness. We come to the door; it is polished metal, brushed like aluminum, a small grille set into it. The official stops, throws me a look. “He’s inside. You have an hour max,” he says. I think I catch pity and confusion in his glance, as if he’s wondering how on earth I have got myself here and what business I could possibly have with the man on the other side of the door. Then it slides open and I’m looking in at the low metal table standing alone in the emptiness, with chairs on either side, and Kaspar sitting there waiting.
He glances up when I come in, his expression expectant and watchful. Automatically, I register his looks: the refined molding of his face, the smooth olive skin pulled tight over his bones, the strange, dark silver-tinged eyes glittering across at me. He’s wearing a sleeveless white tank top, the muscles of his arms bulging, shining under the lights like iron. It’s impossible not to notice his peculiar magnetism—it raises my hackles, and yet I can’t help but acknowledge it.
I sit down opposite him. “Thank you for seeing me,” I say.
Kaspar shrugs lazily. When he speaks, his voice is husky and accented. “Let us say that I was curious,” he says. There’s a second-language quality to his English, giving his speech a stilted yet oddly elegant air.
“I’ll get straight to it,” I say. I refuse to let myself be intimidated by this man, although it would be surprisingly easy. “I think the officials here told you that I’m married to someone you used to know.”
Kaspar inclines his head very slightly. “Rachel.” His tone is contemplative and soft, giving nothing away.
“That’s right,” I say. “I don’t know how well you knew her, or how much you had to do with one another.” I’m careful not to make it sound too much like a question; I don’t want to give the impression that I’m interrogating him, but in my experience people don’t like to let a silence stretch, so I simply wait, hoping that he’ll elaborate.
The silence doesn’t seem to bother Kaspar; he stares at me through unblinking, slightly narrowed eyes, one corner of his mouth turned upward in a faint smirk. On the table, his hands rest coolly in loose fists. It’s as if he’s letting me know how easy it would be for him to knock me out if he chose, but that he’s deciding to let me speak.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” I say at last. Kaspar doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t show any sign of confirming it either; he just continues to regard me levelly. “Look,” I say, “the truth is that I don’t know everything about my wife’s past. But I get the impression that things between you were strained.” It’s something of a shot in the dark, but from the way Natalie spoke about this man, I can’t imagine anything else.
Kaspar tips his head back a little and contemplates me some more, as if turning these words over in his head. “It is unlikely that they would have been otherwise,” he comments, “given the circumstances. But all her actions were what I would have expected from a woman like her.”
“Meaning?” I ask, a little sharply.
He moves his mouth in a small gesture of contempt. “She was not someone who understood the true nature of things. She had little imagination. She was very different from her sister.”
“Sadie,” I say, just to show that I do have some knowledge. I’m tempted to argue, push back against the slights to my wife, but I tell myself to hold off.
Kaspar nods. “For all her faults,” he says, pausing briefly, giving the impression that he is running through a litany of them in his head, “she is loyal.”
I register the present tense, wonder if it is significant. He certainly speaks as if they are still in contact, still part of one another’s lives. But on the other hand, in a place like this time effectively stops. I can imagine that the past years might have felt like a drawn breath, little more than a necessary bridge between the past and the future. “My wife is loyal,” I say tightly. “To those who she feels have earned it.”
Kaspar straightens up in his chair, looks a little incredulous. For the first time, I see him studying me with some genuine interest. “Forgive me,” he says, “but I am not sure you have, in fact, explained why you are here.” His tone is still light, but there’s a kind of veiled menace to it that makes my blood rise.
“I’m here because I want to understand what happened back then,” I say. I keep my voice as low and controlled as his, conscious of the official behind the door.
Kaspar frowns, tipping his head to one side and rubbing a finger across the smooth slash of his jawline. “Surely this does not matter now,” he comments.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I’m aware of an increasing sense of frustration, knowing this conversation isn’t being played out on an equal level. Without knowing for sure if he has any involvement, I don’t want to mention the fire, or the man in our house; it feels better to play dumb, assume that he has nothing against me. “Look, you and I don’t know each other. We have no animosity.” I pause briefly, giving him the chance to contradict me, but he remains silent. “All I’m asking is for some information about the past that can cost you nothing to g
ive. Anything you can tell me will help.”
Kaspar nods slowly, his eyes on mine. When he speaks his voice is calm, almost soothing. “My friend,” he says, with a little tremor of irony, “I will tell you only that I am serving two life sentences for murder. I will be in here until the day I die. Not everyone is in a position such as mine, but everyone must serve their sentence. Even your wife.”
My heart is thumping, and I can feel the collar of my shirt damp against my neck. It’s something about the casual way in which he says it—the throwaway acknowledgment of what he’s capable of. “What does my wife have to do with this?” I manage.
He shrugs faintly. “Nothing. Everything. She is not exempt from consequence.”
I realize with increasing despair that he’s playing with me. “She has a new life now,” I say, trying to drag us back onto concrete ground. “She only wants to live her life with me and my daughter—our daughter—in peace.”
Another long pause, before he speaks again. “I cannot imagine,” he says thoughtfully, “why you would think I would wish otherwise.” He leans forward, those odd gray-silver eyes boring into mine. Now that he is so close, I can smell the heat that rises off his skin, a faint scent of cinnamon and spice. “These things are so insignificant to me now,” he says quietly. “What is done is done. Your wife is nothing to me anymore. My life is this.” He gestures around at the four walls of the small room encircling us. “You would be surprised at how quickly everything else is extinguished.”
Despite the mildness of his expression, there’s an indefinable malice about the way he speaks, and about the closeness that he maintains between us. I force myself to stay motionless, not wanting to be the one to move back. It’s impossible to say if he is telling the truth. There is a frightening composure about this man that I sense I won’t crack. I had imagined a thug, coarsely direct and indiscreetly verbose, not this regal-looking foreigner who makes it so clear that each word he gives me is a gift that he could easily withdraw if he wanted to.
“Then I’m sorry to have taken up your time,” I say. It’s meant to sound ironic, but the words come out simple and unvarnished.
Kaspar regards me thoughtfully. “Time is something I have plenty of,” he says at last.
I make as if to stand up, but as I do so I’m conscious of the photograph digging into my stomach. I want him to see it. There’s the slightest chance that the sight of my wife’s face might unlock something in him, maybe betray some emotion that he has held back up to this point. I reach down and pull it out, holding it between my fingertips. “I have a picture of her,” I say. “Rachel.” The name feels unfamiliar on my lips. “This is how she is now.”
There’s the faintest spark of interest in Kaspar’s eyes—nothing much, just a brief instant of connection as he reaches one hand forward to take the photograph that I’m holding out to him. He looks at it intently for what must be ten seconds; a long time, in this room and its silence. I’m watching him, trying to read his expression, but it’s frustratingly blank.
He tosses the photograph back at me across the table. “It only remains,” he says, “for me to say good luck to you, my friend.”
I snatch up the photo. It’s clear that the conversation is over. He’s leaning back in his chair, the T-shirt riding up over the tight muscles of his stomach, signaling to the official through the small glass window. I think I can see a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth now, but when he glances back at me as I stand up it’s gone.
“Good-bye,” I say, and then I’m walking away, listening to my own footsteps echoing across the smooth polished floor, and forcing myself not to look back.
NATALIE
SEPTEMBER 2017
I’m sitting across from Jade, trying to block out everything I hate about being in this place: the antiseptic smell, the harsh fizz of the lighting, the general air of lethargy and decay. We’re watching the little TV above her bed, steadily eating the grapes I brought with me. We haven’t spoken in about ten minutes. I had thought that Alex would meet me here, but I was held up on the bus and by the time I arrived, he’d texted me saying he’d had to leave. Work again, I’m guessing. So it’s just me and her.
While she’s absorbed in the television I take the chance to study her. She’s looking better, I think. The color is bleeding slowly back into her cheeks, and everything about her—even the way she blinks—just seems a little less languid and perfunctory. In fact, if we were sitting somewhere other than a hospital room, then the only clue I’d have that there was anything wrong with her would be the bright red mark running along her hairline and creeping down the side of her face. It astounds me, the speed with which she’s bouncing back. The indestructability of youth.
Tentatively, I clear my throat, but she doesn’t look over, her eyes trained on the screen. I have no idea if her concentration is put on, or whether this silence is an uncomfortable one for her or not. I know it’s uncomfortable for me. Say something, I instruct myself. Doesn’t matter how banal. Anything to break the deadlock.
“I’ve seen this before,” I say at last, gesturing at the film. “She dies at the end.”
Jade shoots me a quick look, half amused, half outraged. “Seriously?”
“No.” I smile, pleased to have caught her attention. “Just joking. I’ve never seen it.”
Jade sighs, then reaches for the remote control beside her and zaps the television into blackness. “I have.” She rolls onto her side, pushing herself up on her elbow and propping her head on her hand. “And she does, actually.”
“Seriously?” I echo her, thinking she’s making a joke in turn, but she just nods, straight-faced. “Oh. Well . . .” I try to think of something else to say. Making conversation with Jade is unpredictable; sometimes easy and unthinking, sometimes like pushing water uphill. I’ve always been conscious of this, but here more than ever. There’s nothing to distract. The spotlight is on us, shining at full force. “Your friends have been in?” I ask, gesturing at the little clutch of get-well cards lined up by the bed.
Jade nods again. “Yeah. Last night. They all had a nightmare with the history test yesterday. At least I didn’t have to take that.”
“That’s something,” I agree. Is she being ironic, or just stating a fact? I can’t tell, don’t seem to have that natural instinct for teenage mannerisms and moods. I can’t remember how I thought and felt about much at that age. It’s another life.
“Have you been back to the house?” she asks. There’s no obvious change of tempo, but her eyes seem a little brighter and keener.
“I haven’t, no,” I say slowly. “Your dad has, but I don’t . . . I’m not sure I see the point. Not until we find out how much can realistically be rebuilt, or how long it’s going to take. Without knowing that, it’s just staring at wreckage.” I take a breath, half expecting her to chip in or at least make some noise of agreement, but she’s silent, and so I keep talking. “And I suppose quite apart from that, I just don’t want to. I remember reading an article a little while ago about a woman who goes back every weekend to the place where she saw both her parents shot, to place flowers or whatever, or just to, you know, relive it. I thought at the time, why would you want to do that . . . and now I think it even more. No one in their right mind wants to relive trauma, really, do they? I mean, I know it’s not the same, what’s happened here. But . . .” I finally wind myself up, realizing that Jade is staring at me looking lost, presumably wondering what the hell I’m on. “All the same,” I say.
“I think you’re right,” Jade says. “I don’t want to go back either. I don’t even want to live there anymore, even if they do rebuild it. It’s all . . .” She moves her head restlessly on the pillow. “I dunno. I can’t think of the word.”
Tainted, I think, but I don’t say it.
She’s looking at me head on now, unfalteringly. “Did Dad tell you?” she asks. “About me having seen that man
before, the one who was in the house before the fire.”
“Yes, he did.” I realize as soon as I’ve spoken that she’s chosen a clever way of putting it. By framing a question, she’s slipped the fact of the man being there under the radar, so that any answer I gave would be a tacit acknowledgment of it. I don’t know if this is calculated, or if she’s just got a natural knack for it, but either way I respect it. And of course she’s right. Whatever I might have thought when she first talked about this, the truth is that I know she wasn’t mistaken. In fact I know more than she does—I know exactly the kind of man we’re dealing with. The kind of man who’s capable of most things, but not of everything. And they’re the most dangerous kind, in a way; they have something to prove, always feeling they have to make up for their little pockets of softness and shortcomings. Yes, Dominic Westwood could set a fire. He could light a match and walk away, as long as he didn’t have to see the outcome of what he’d done.
My mouth is dry and I know that Jade is waiting for me to say something more, but it’s an effort to get the words out. “You think he’s been following you.”
“I don’t think it.” Jade’s voice is briefly scornful, but there’s a crack in it that tells me she’s desperate to be taken seriously. “It’s not the sort of thing you imagine, is it. Maybe once or twice you might see someone around and think they were following you but it was actually just a coincidence. But not this much. I’ve seen him, like, nine or ten times.”
“That often” I say, my mind whirling. “When? Doing what?”
Jade scratches the side of her face, glancing down. At first I think she’s being bashful for some reason, but then I see with a light shock that there are tears brimming in her eyes. “Not much,” she says, clearly fighting to keep her voice casual. “Sometimes he’s just hanging around the school gates, on his phone or whatever. Once or twice he’s been on the bus with me. A couple of times round the shops when I’ve been hanging out with Katie or Sophie. He’s never spoken to me. He just—stares at me. Not like a perv, you know. Just looking. That’s all it is. It sounds stupid now that I say it.”
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