The Push

by Claire McGowan

  ‘You were convicted of having sexual relations with minors,’ said Diana, frosty. Hence his long time in prison.

  ‘Teenagers. Not children.’

  ‘Thirteen-year-olds.’

  He glared. ‘Is there a point to all this, or is it just harassment?’

  Alison breathed in and out twice before speaking. ‘That’s not why we’re here anyway, Mr Jarvis. We need to check on your movements over the last few weeks. Ms Culville has been involved in a crime, and it seems to coincide with you getting out of prison.’

  ‘What’s she done now?’

  ‘Nothing.’ That they knew of. Funny how he’d assumed Jax was the perpetrator, not the victim.

  He leaned back, arms behind his head, still confident and cocky despite being a registered sex offender. ‘Good luck with linking me to anything. I get one hour of internet access a week, heavily supervised. I’m not allowed a mobile – and believe me they search us for them. I have a nine p.m. curfew, like a small child. I haven’t seen Jax since she sent me down, and have no plans to, the vindictive bitch.’

  Wow. Just, wow. This guy. ‘We’ll check up on all of that, Mr Jarvis.’

  ‘You do that, darling,’ he said, almost pleasant. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘You can go,’ she said reluctantly, wishing there was something new she could charge him with. Of course, he could have paid someone else to hassle Jax, but she knew he didn’t have any money, just a post-prison allowance. The powerful men he’d traded images with were also mostly in jail, their network smashed. His wife was AWOL. Seemed like this was another dead end.

  The day of – Monica

  2.45 p.m.

  It all started to go wrong when Kelly turned up. Monica was cursing herself for her stupidity in not editing the email list when she sent out her party reminder – Kelly didn’t belong somewhere like this, and she’d only feel out of place. Probably she’d never even seen orzo before and she’d ask what it was and they’d all feel sorry for her. Even if her baby had been born, Monica wouldn’t really have wanted her there, but since she’d shown up – unbelievable really – she would have to be made welcome.

  However, Monica had not initially noticed that Kelly was gone, that she’d taken Hadley, because she was too busy being furious with Ed. When he appeared from the shed with Jeremy and Aaron, she had not really noticed what Jax was saying to Aaron, not taken it in, because she’d beckoned Ed into the house with a sharp gesture, like a slap that didn’t land. ‘Come here.’

  He followed her to the kitchen, which was in a shocking state, people’s drinks and plates left around the counters and table, wine left out to spoil, beer caps everywhere. Monica itched to sweep it all into a bin bag and put her Marigolds on. ‘What the hell were you doing?’ she hissed, throwing bottles into the recycling with a crash.

  ‘Showing the boys my shed.’ Ed picked up another beer. She’d lost count of how many he’d had.

  ‘Did you have to? In the middle of all this?’ Monica knew very well what Ed got up to in the shed, what kind of material he had on his computer and filed neatly away in his shelves and binders. He called it erotica, maintained he was a collector. Monica had accepted it, because at least it kept him away from her. But now Aaron would tell Jax, and Jeremy would tell Anita, and people would know about it. That their marriage was not as perfect as she liked to make out. That her husband looked at porn.

  Ed sighed. Now that the baby was here, Monica had the unsettling impression that the power balance between them had shifted, and she did not like that. She said, modulating her tone, ‘Why don’t you check on the barbecue? That Hazel’s totally monopolising it.’ He went, taking a second beer with him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Chloe appeared in the doorway, like a wraith in the too-big dress. A wave of irritation swept through Monica. Did she have to look like that? Act like that? Did she have to exist, ruining Monica’s life?

  ‘None of your business. Can’t you behave normally, go out and talk to our guests, hand round nibbles?’

  Chloe watched her very calmly. It was an irritating habit she’d developed since everything that had happened. She didn’t cry or look scared when Monica told her off any more; she just peered at her mother like she was an interesting specimen. Sometimes Monica thought she even saw pity there. ‘I was watching Issy. No one else was.’

  ‘It’s Isabella. And she’s asleep. She doesn’t need watching every minute of the day.’

  ‘She’s been awake for ages. You haven’t got the monitor on.’

  As if Monica had time to sit by a baby monitor all day. She had people all over her garden, that Aisha had even gone upstairs without Monica there to point out features of the house, and there were babies everywhere, naked breasts all over the place leaking milk. Despite what she’d said in the antenatal group, Monica did not see the need for anyone to breastfeed, not if the baby was looked after in other ways, properly fed. She thrust a platter of padron peppers at Chloe. ‘Take these out. Talk to people.’

  ‘What should I talk about?’ said Chloe coolly. ‘There’s so many things I’m not allowed to mention, after all.’ And she walked into the garden, without waiting for an answer. That was when Monica became aware of the commotion outside, a vague sense of people moving too fast for the event, of searching. When she heard someone say, Kelly’s taken Hadley, her first thought was of irritation. This was what came of mixing people who should really stay apart.

  When that was all finally sorted out, just a silly misunderstanding, and she’d corralled them all to take the photo of the babies (her heart was not in it, but she couldn’t have a party without Instagramming it), Monica went back into the kitchen, and saw that someone had left the fridge door open. Ed, presumably, taking out his beer. Oh God, no! She wrenched it wide, and sure enough, the cream-topped cake was melting, dripping on to the salads below. ‘ED!’ she shrieked. What more could go wrong?

  When she closed the fridge door, she jumped – Nina was standing behind it, her blue eyes judgemental, wearing some hippy skirt and vest top. When did she get here? How annoying – Monica had secretly hoped she wouldn’t come to the barbecue, after what she’d said to her at the group meeting (the nerve!). And what a moment to catch her. ‘Problems?’ said Nina.

  ‘Oh! No, no, everything under control. Do help yourself to a drink there. And if you’d like to peek around the house, of course, you’re very welcome.’

  Nina did not pour a drink, but she did look around her, eyes taking in the garden, the messy kitchen. ‘Thanks. I might just do that.’

  Jax – four weeks earlier

  I was at home. Of course – I was always at home now. And when the baby came, it would be the same. I’d be tied to the sink, the loo, the need to wash and sluice this small thing intent on puking and pooping itself round the clock. Changing Babygros. Feeding, like a cow at a milking station. For someone who’d been single for so long, able to come and go and stay out all night if I felt like it, answer to no one, this was a big change. Aaron kissed me goodbye in the morning, his shirt collar stiff against my neck, and I was jealous of him, even knowing he was going to a big 1970s office in Croydon to answer phones all day and eat Super Noodles for his lunch. I lay in bed all morning, feeling like an invalid in a children’s book, Colin from The Secret Garden or Katy from What Katy Did. I could smell myself, sour and meaty. I wasn’t supposed to shower until Aaron got home and could help me, but God, it was humiliating, like an old woman with a sugar-baby partner. Did people laugh at us, when we went by? Was I like some gross old man bribing his way to young flesh?

  Sod it, I was going to get up and wash. I needed the loo anyway. I hated the book I was reading – some detective story where a raped sex worker was described as voluptuous and sensual – and the TV was downstairs. Aaron had forgotten to leave my laptop for me. I slithered out of bed to the floor, and shuffled across the carpet on my bottom to the bathroom. It was surprisingly hard, and I resolved to remember this when my baby was learning to walk, how much e
ffort it requires to pull yourself up, to engage those core muscles. If only I’d stuck with the Pilates class taught by the guy in the man-bun and yoga pants. I felt ridiculous scooting across the hall this way, but soon the cool tiles of the bathroom were under me. The sink was above me – from this angle I could see the inadequacy of our cleaning. Aaron genuinely didn’t seem to notice hairs or toothpaste stains, hadn’t known that you were supposed to clean your house each week at least. I would have to stand up to do this. What harm could it do, standing for a few minutes to brush my teeth and splash myself with water? I wouldn’t attempt the shower in case I slipped getting in – we’d have to buy one of those rubber bathmats old people had. A grab rail. I was ageing decades with every day. I grasped the edge of the bath and hauled myself up. Now I could see my face, pale and cross from days indoors, my disordered greasy hair, spots flaring up on my chin. God. I ran the tap, washed my face and teeth and armpits, realising they needed a shave. I went to turn it off again, and that was when I heard a noise downstairs.

  I froze. The postman? No, I’d heard him come earlier. A parcel delivery? Buying things online had replaced a social life for me recently, despite my resolutions about cutting back. But the doorbell hadn’t gone. All the same it sounded like someone was down there. How could they be? I hadn’t heard any sounds of a break-in. Although a key might have been masked by the water running, but Aaron wasn’t due home for hours. It was barely midday. Oh – maybe it was Minou, returned from her wanderings. Aaron had finally put the posters up, but I’d been disappointed not to hear anything as a result.

  ‘Baby?’ I called. This could work for the cat or for Aaron. No answer, but the noise stopped. I listened very hard, my breath sounding in my ears. It began again – a rustling, like someone flicking through papers. ‘Hello?’

  Nothing. Should I go down? I made my way to the stairs, holding on to the banister for support, and looked over. I could see nothing in the triangle of living room visible to me. The inner door to the hallway was ajar, had Aaron left it like that when he went? I usually shut it for draughts but he often forgot.

  I stopped. Listened. Listened. Barely a sound, but all the same, my senses were aflame, millions of years of evolution urging me to recognise what my rational brain would not accept – someone was in my house. And I was almost nine months pregnant, and forbidden to move. ‘Is anyone there?’ I hated the waver of my voice. And if no one was, would I seem crazy? Was I crazy, in fact, from loneliness and worry and stress?

  I sat at the top of the stairs, like a toddler, and began to bump my way down. I made as much noise as possible and went as slowly as I could. A vague rustle was all I could hear. When I reached the bottom, I stood up, and moved forward with a few shaky steps. Nothing. There was no one in the house, just the kitchen with Aaron’s breakfast bowl left out and the milk not in the fridge. A surge of irritation went through me – couldn’t he manage these most simple things? And I was having a baby with this man? When I turned back from the fridge, I noticed something. The door of the little bureau, where I kept my important papers, was open. Maybe Aaron had done it, he was always leaving doors open. Maybe I was imagining things, like James Stewart in Rear Window, immobilised. Although actually, hadn’t he been right in the end?

  I still hadn’t been to the loo. I shuffled upstairs again, and when I pulled down my knickers I noticed a splash of red there. Just a tiny drop of blood, but enough to make me crawl back to bed, praying to something I didn’t believe in that my impatience hadn’t cost me my baby. Stay in there. Please, stay in there where it’s safe.

  In bed, I took out my phone. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but I was. ‘Mum?’

  She sounded rushed and busy, out somewhere in the world, perhaps at the shops. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I just . . . Could you come by today? If you’re not too busy?’

  A short silence. ‘Well, of course, Jacqueline, if you feel you need it.’

  Too late now for any pride. ‘I need it. Thanks, Mum.’

  Alison

  They had now spoken to all the attendees at the fateful barbecue, except for one: Aaron Cole. Every time she rang Jax Culville, Jax said Aaron was at work, or out with friends. Was that normal, for a man with a new baby to be out so much? ‘Dunno,’ said Diana, when Alison voiced this question. ‘Aren’t most of them useless?’

  ‘Not all of them.’ Tom would be fine, wouldn’t he? Not like these other dads she was encountering. ‘We’ll have to go to his work, drag him out.’

  ‘After this, then.’ They were arriving at Beeches, an exclusive private school near Beckenham, red-brick buildings and emerald-green grass even in this weather. As they parked up, schoolgirls walked past in navy uniforms, glossy hair shining. Alison detected curiosity from them, even disdain, but no fear. Unlike at her own school, where the arrival of the police would have seen every toilet in the place clogged with weed and worse.

  They were met in the lobby – light-filled and spacious – by Chloe’s form teacher, a Ms Li, small and shiny-haired in a neat suit. ‘Oh sorry, it’s a bit chaotic here near the end of term.’ The lobby was quiet and clean. If this was chaos, Alison would take it. ‘You wanted to speak about Chloe Evans?’ She led them down a wood-panelled corridor to her office. The whole place had the blond-wood-and-light feel of a Scandinavian hotel. Privilege, eh?

  ‘That’s right. There was a suspicious death at her mother’s house, perhaps you saw it on the news? The fall?’

  ‘That was Chloe’s house? Goodness, I didn’t realise.’ Her groomed eyebrows went up as she sat down behind a desk. ‘Do help yourselves to water, by the way.’ A glass jug sat on the side, cucumber floating in it. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t inform us. But then, we’ve found Mrs Evans – sorry, she’s something else now, isn’t she? – she’s been rather difficult to contact recently.’

  ‘It’s Dunwood now, yes. How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Chloe’s been off sick, as you know. Glandular fever. But we do need a sick note for an absence of this length, and, well, we haven’t had one.’

  ‘You haven’t?’ That seemed odd for someone like Monica, who missed nothing.

  ‘Her mother said the doctor was dragging their heels – especially as I gather they moved house around the same time. Then she said she’d sent it, but it must have got lost, so she had to get another one, and . . . well, it’s been several months now, and of course we’re almost into the school holidays.’

  ‘And did you notice anything strange about Chloe before she went off?’

  ‘She was quiet, pale – but she’s always been that way. Rather in her mother’s shadow, I believe.’ Alison nodded her understanding.

  Diana, who’d been looking round her with an impassive expression, said, ‘Who are Chloe’s friends, Ms Li? Anyone who might know what was up with her?’

  ‘I can’t say she has a lot of girlfriends. But she had a boyfriend, I believe.’

  ‘She did?’ That was a surprise to Alison, having met Chloe with her baggy clothes and surly manner.

  ‘A boy named Sam Morris, yes. Scholarship boy.’ And there was so much contained in that phrase – their relative socio-economic brackets, how Monica Dunwood might have felt about it. ‘I believe there was some . . . family opposition.’

  Was it as simple as that – Monica had kept her daughter off school to stop her seeing a boy from a poorer family? On the other hand, Chloe hadn’t looked at all well. ‘Alright, thank you, Ms Li.’ They’d have to find the time to talk to this Sam Morris, but they were stretched as it was, the week’s grace Colette had given them almost up. Alison would have to go to her soon and plead for more time. Probably, she wouldn’t get it.

  ‘No problem.’ The teacher rose. ‘If you speak to Mrs Dunwood, perhaps you would remind her about the sick note. Unexcused absence is actually illegal, as you’ll know better than anyone.’

  ‘Will do.’ She might enjoy reminding Monica Dunwood that she was breaking the law. ‘What do you think?’ she
muttered to Diana, as they were shepherded out, catching glimpses of expensive science labs, a library and theatre, even a swimming pool shining blue in the distance.

  ‘I think I went to the wrong school,’ said Diana crisply. ‘In my place half the teachers would run if they saw the cops coming, never mind the students.’

  Alison smiled. She was beginning to like her new partner. As they reached the car, she decided what to do next. ‘What time is it in Hong Kong?’

  Diana looked it up on her phone. ‘Evening. Half six-ish.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll catch Thomas Evans at the office.’

  This time, her luck was in – the phone rang a few times, all the way across seas and continents, before it was picked up by a man with a British accent, north-eastern she thought. Alison explained who she was.

  ‘Someone died at the house?’ Thomas Evans’s voice was incredulous, all that way away.

  ‘You didn’t hear?’ She’d have thought that, even if it wasn’t on the news out there, his daughter would have told him.

  ‘Monica . . . she’s not the best at staying in touch. I’ve been trying to ring Chloe for months now and Monica keeps putting me off, saying she’s sick. I email her, but I don’t know if kids even use email nowadays. Text her, even. She never replies.’

  ‘You’re saying you haven’t heard from Chloe in months?’ Alison looked up at Diana, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Not a word. I thought maybe she was – well, she took the divorce hard, and my move out here. I wanted to bring her with me, but Monica . . . well.’ Having met his ex-wife, Alison understood that well. ‘God, Chloe must be in a state. Someone getting killed in her house! Poor kid.’

  ‘Is there anything about Monica you could tell us that might be helpful? Anything possibly relevant to the case?’

  She could hear his hesitation down the line, over the miles between them. ‘Look, I don’t want to get involved in anything. And yeah, I’m her ex, of course I’m going to say . . . just, don’t believe everything she says, OK? She doesn’t always tell the truth.’