by Sam Anthony
Fiona was taken aback. “But you always drink mojitos. It’s tradition.”
“Not tonight.”
“Seriously? You two are letting me down. What happened to the good old days when the three of used to get thoroughly sozzled and slag off our husbands? Now, it’s just me. I can’t be expected to do all the slagging off on my own.”
Serena was more compassionate than her friend. “What’s wrong, Mia? What are your symptoms?”
“To be honest, they’re hard to pin down. I’ve lost a bit of weight and I feel tired all the time, but that’s probably because I keep waking up hot and sweaty in the night. I don’t know what it is, but something’s not right.”
Fiona shook her head sympathetically. “It sounds like the dreaded menopause to me.”
“It can’t be, I’m only forty-three.”
“I’m telling you …” Fiona left to buy the cheapest round any of them had bought for at least ten years.
When Fiona returned, Serena said, “What’s the conversation topic for this evening, Mia?”
Mia’s face darkened. “It’s that little madam Jemima.”
“Oh, no! What’s she done now?”
“I don’t know where to start.”
Chapter 67
Sunday 14 December, 2003
O’Connor bedroom, 7:13 p.m.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Ava was listening to unidentifiable music in her bedroom.
Bang, clatter, crash, bang, clatter, crash. Fiona was putting away pots and pans in the kitchen.
Swish, swish. Don’t worry, ladies, thought Steve. I’ll close the curtains for a change. Protecting the world from climate change and light pollution all by myself, as usual. He looked out the bedroom window at the front drive. Frost had already formed on the car windscreens, and wisps of mist were patrolling the garden like lonely spectres seeking death.
The phone rang.
Steve picked it up. “Hello?”
It was Ollie. He was shouting. “Code red! Code red!”
“Mate, what the fuck’s a code red?”
“Mia knows.”
“Knows what?”
“About you and Mandy.”
“Shit! How?”
“Does that matter? The thing is, she knows. And if Mia knows, it’s only going to be a few minutes until …”
“Until Fiona knows. God, I’m so fucked!”
“You need to …”
“Don’t worry, mate. I know what I’ve got to do. Thanks for the heads up.”
“Good luck.”
Steve hung up and sped downstairs to the kitchen.
Bang, clatter, crash. “Who was that?” said Fiona, not turning around.
“Huh?”
“On the phone.”
“Oh, it was Ollie.”
“What did he want?”
“Erm …” Steve faltered.
“Well?”
“Erm … Have you ever wondered why the sound quality of phone calls is so bad? If anything, it was better thirty years ago than it is now. I can remember, as a kid, having a phone conversation with my grandmother in Australia, and I could hear her as if she was in the next room. Ollie is only half a mile away, but it sounded as if he was on Jupiter in the middle of a hurricane.”
“Perhaps your hearing is deteriorating,” said Fiona. “You are getting on a bit, you know.”
“I can hear CDs okay, and the radio. Sometimes I listen to Radio 1 in my car and I can make out all the individual sounds: the keyboards, the bass, the guitars, the vocals, the backing vocals, the percussion. Everything. If the quality of radio broadcasts is crystal clear, how come the quality of phone calls is so shit? It’s just a single voice, for fuck’s sake!”
“Steve, please.”
“Sorry. But I feel very strongly about this. Is it the quality of the microphone or the speaker? Is it something to do with the bandwidth of the signal? Is it …?”
“You’re rambling, love. What did Ollie want?”
Steve couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. It was time to either come clean or lie. And he couldn’t lie.
He blew out his cheeks and exhaled. This was it.
“Can we talk, Fi?”
“We are talking.”
“No, properly talk.”
“Sure. What about?”
“Not here; Ava’s upstairs. Let’s go for a walk up the hill.”
“Now? It’s freezing cold and nearly pitch black out there.”
“Please. It’s important.”
Fiona sighed. “Okay. I’ll get my coat.”
She left the room and returned five minutes later, layered up ready for an expedition to the North Pole.
“Leave your phone here. You aren’t going to need it,” said Steve.
“Okay.” Fiona placed her mobile on the kitchen counter. “Let’s go.” She paused at the bottom of the stairs and shouted up, “Me and Dad are just going for a quick walk. We won’t be long.”
Ava didn’t hear.
As the front door closed, Fiona’s phone began to ring.
Ava didn’t hear that either.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
◆◆◆
“Well? What did you want to talk about?”
“Let’s go a bit further.”
“But it’s getting so foggy.”
“Just up to these trees.”
“What trees? I can’t see anything.”
“Take my arm.”
Steve led Fiona up to a nondescript patch of grass, much like any other in the impenetrable murk.
“This is far enough,” said Fiona. “Just tell me whatever it is you have to say. And it better not be about recycling.”
“It’s not. I don’t want to make you suitable for re-use by another man; I want to keep you until the day I die.”
“What are you talking about?”
Steve swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’ve been having sex with someone else.”
Fiona’s knees buckled, but Steve caught her and held her to him.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I still love you. I still want to be with you. It’s just sex.”
Fiona found her voice. “Just sex?” She pushed him away. “Don’t touch me.”
“There’s no need to be like that, love. Come here.” He opened his arms wide.
She stood her ground. “How could you!”
Steve shrugged. “I’m forty-five. I’m not ready to give up on sex yet.”
“Nor am I. We can have sex whenever you like. When have I ever turned you down?”
“Well, there was that time when …”
“All right, sometimes I turn you down, but very rarely, and I’ve always got a good reason.”
“That’s fair enough. I concede that you will usually go along with it if I initiate sex, but it’s not as if you enjoy it anymore.”
Fiona’s mouth fell open.
“And it’s not just that …” Steve pressed on remorselessly.
“What else?”
“Well, to be honest, …”
“You don’t have to prefix yourself with ‘to be honest’. I know from painful experience that you’re always honest.”
“I thought it might soften the blow.”
“What blow?”
“Okay, here goes: I don’t find you as attractive as I used to. I don’t get aroused anymore when I see you naked. You have to admit you’ve put on a few pounds lately. The backs of your thighs and your arse are covered in cellulite. Your breasts are really saggy. Your nipples are hairy. Your minge is like a tropical rainforest. Your …”
“Stop! Please stop. That’s enough honesty.”
“I’m just telling the truth, love.”
“I know. Now stop.”
Steve changed tack. “In contrast, Mandy’s body is perfect. Her breasts …”
“Mandy!”
“Yes.”
“Mandy the teenage tart from the pub?”
“She’s not a t
art.”
“I don’t believe this.” Fiona staggered backwards. “You’ve been fucking the fucking barmaid!”
Steve was shocked. He hadn’t heard his wife use profanity since she gave birth to Ava fifteen years earlier. “Fi, it really doesn’t suit you when you swear.”
“Suit me? Jesus Christ! You’ve just criticised my appearance in the most hurtful way possible. You’ve betrayed me with that skanky cunt from the pub. You’ve tried to blame me for your infidelity. And now you’re getting upset because I used a few fucking swearwords. Fuck you!”
“Fi, …”
“I said, fuck you!”
“Listen, you don’t need to worry. It’s just sex. I don’t love Mandy, I love you.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate, you piece of shit, because I despise you.”
Fiona turned and ran.
◆◆◆
Steve set off in pursuit. He could see nothing ahead of him, just swirling fog in the darkness, but he could hear thumping footsteps on grass … then on gravel. Gravel? That’s not right. “Fiona, Stop. Stop!”
Steve skidded to a halt, but the footsteps ahead continued, getting faster if anything as the downward gradient increased. “Stop!”
And then they did stop. Just for a second, before they were replaced by a heartbreaking scream. “Steeeeeeee ...!” Loud at first but rapidly diminishing in volume until it terminated with a distant “Whump!”
Then silence.
Steve froze.
In the darkness and fog, visibility was almost zero.
“Fiona?” he called.
Silence.
Steve dropped to his hands and knees and crawled forward, the painful gravel biting into his chilled skin.
He slid his hands out a few inches in front of him and shuffled onwards. And again. Five feet. Ten feet. Fifteen feet. And then his hands found the edge.
Beyond the edge there was nothing. Cold, empty air. He lay flat on the ground and reached downwards, praying that he would find solid ground.
Nothing.
“Fiona!” His cry echoed back at him mockingly. Then silence again.
Steve began to ease himself backwards, attempting to retrace his path, but his bearings were off and he reversed into something. He turned and traced its outline.
He couldn’t see it, but he knew what it was immediately. An old wooden sign with two words written on the other side:
Danger!
Quarry
Steve took out his phone and dialled 999.
Chapter 68
Monday 15 December, 2003
Fairfax bedroom, 3:35 a.m.
The phone rang.
Mia, barely conscious, picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Steve? What time is it?”
“What the fuck, Steve, we were asleep!”
“Has something happened?”
“The police station! What’s going on?”
“What about her? Is she all right? (Shut up, Ollie, I’m trying to listen.)”
“I’m sorry, Steve, this is a terrible line. Say that again.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Steve, you’re scaring me. Put Fiona on the phone.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. How can she be dead? I only spoke to her yesterday afternoon and she was fine then.”
“What happened?”
“What kind of accident?”
“Fell?”
“The quarry? What were you doing near the quarry at night in this fog? (Shut up, Ollie.)”
“Running? Fiona doesn’t run.”
“Oh, shit! This isn’t something to do with you screwing the barmaid, is it?”
“Please say you didn’t tell Fiona about it.”
“You fucking idiot! She must have been heartbroken.”
“You don’t think she …”
“She deliberately jumped into the quarry. Fiona wouldn’t do that, would she?”
“Then how did it happen?”
“Because she was trying to get away from you.”
“Steve, you … you …”
“You didn’t push her, did you?”
“You cheated on her with a fucking teenager!”
“What do you mean ‘just sex’? You broke your marriage vows. You betrayed her.”
“This isn’t real. I’m still asleep. I’ll wake up in the morning to discover it was all a horrifying nightmare. (Pinch me, Ollie. Ow! That really hurt. No, don’t do it again.)”
“Yes, sorry.”
“God, what else?”
“Murdered her? Why would they think that?”
“And did you?”
“Which you always are.”
“Fantasising about something is hardly the same as carrying it out. I fantasise about shagging Jason Robinson, but that doesn’t mean I’d actually go through with it. Although I probably would if he was keen. (Oh, do shut up, Ollie.)”
“That’s not good. What have you been saying to them?”
“Well, stop. Don’t say another word. You need a solicitor.”
“Steve, there’s no way the authorities can convict you if Fiona just fell into the quarry on a foggy night. There won’t be any evidence. You’re going to be okay.”
“Don’t say another word. Ollie’s coming to get you. (Yes, you are. Get dressed.)”
Chapter 69
Monday 15 December, 2003
Police station, 3:35 a.m.
The phone rang out.
Steve felt sick.
“Answer, damn it! … Mia, it’s me.”
“3:35.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Yes. I’m at the police station.”
“It’s Fiona.”
“No, she’s … she’s dead.”
“I said Fiona’s dead.”
“I’m not joking.”
“I can’t, Mia. You’re not listening. Fiona is dead.”
“It happened last night.”
“There was an accident.”
“We were walking on the hills in the fog, and Fiona … fell.”
“Into the quarry.”
“We didn’t realise we were near the quarry. We lost our way. Fiona was running …”
“We’d had a bit of a row. She was upset.”
“Yes.”
“I had to. She would have found out sooner or later, and I thought it would be better coming from me.”
“I think she was. I’ve never seen her so upset.”
“She what?”
“Kill herself? No way. You should have heard her scream all the way down. That was the scream of someone who didn’t want to die. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get the sound out of my head.”
“She was just disorientated by the fog and took a wrong path.”
“Don’t say that. It wasn’t my fault. Oh, Jesus, how am I going to tell Ava?”
“Say it.”
“Of course not. I loved her. I could never hurt her.”
“But that was just sex.”
“I didn’t realise she’d be so upset.”
“Are you still there?”
“There’s more bad news, I’m afraid.”
“It’s the police. They … they think I murdered her.”
“They’ve come up with a hare-brained theory that I wanted her out of the way so I could be with my lover.”
“No … well … not really. If I’m totally honest, …”
“Exactly. If I’m totally honest, I did fantasise about what my life could be like if Fiona was dead and I moved in with Mandy.”
“That’s what I said. Although not the Jason Robinson part, obviously. The police don’t seem to believe me, though. They’ve been interviewing me for hours.”
“Just telling them the truth.”
“Ironic, huh? I’ve been married to a solicitor for nearly twenty years and never needed one, and then the one time I actually do need legal advice, she’s dead. Oh my God, she’s really dead!”
; “I’m not so sure. It’s not just Fiona’s death they’re questioning me about. They’re accusing me of being the village mugger too.”
Chapter 70
Monday 15 December, 2003
Fairfax kitchen, 7:55 a.m.
Ollie looked awful. After his 4:00 a.m. trip to the police station, he’d spent the rest of the night with Steve: listening, consoling and drinking.
Mia looked worse. She’d been with Steve when he woke Ava to break the news that her mother was dead. She’d seen the emotions come and go on the poor girl’s face: shock, disbelief, numbness, anger, despair. When all Ava’s questions had been answered, and she’d collapsed back onto the bed and closed her eyes, Mia had remained awake in a chair by her bedside, stroking her hand, until they’d both finally fallen into a fitful sleep.
Now Ollie and Mia were home, listening to the familiar thumps from upstairs of their children, getting ready for school, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had struck during the night.
Lord put his head on Mia’s lap and looked up at her with his big brown eyes, while she absentmindedly played with his ears. Normally, at that time of day, he’d be nosing his food bowl around the kitchen until somebody noticed and fed him, but he was a sensitive dog, and he realised his family were hurting.
Barney was first to come downstairs, bursting into the kitchen with a whoop. “Yee-haw! I love Monday mornings. Maths, history and geography. The perfect start to the week.”
Jemima arrived seconds later. “Oh, God. Another fucking week of torture. I don’t suppose anyone’s seen my pencil case?”
It gradually dawned on Barney and Jemima that something was amiss. Their parents weren’t frantically charging around the kitchen, searching for documents and car keys, while clutching steaming mugs in one hand and limp toast in the other. Instead, they were sitting at the breakfast bar looking as if one of their dearest friends had just died, years before her time. Which, of course, she had. In spite of their best efforts to appear upbeat, for the sake of the children, Ollie and Mia were both wearing their heart on their face.
“What have I done now?” said Jemima.
Ollie pointed at two chairs. “Have a seat, kids. There’s something we need to tell you.”