I can’t think of a thing to say.
“There’s this five-hour window,” John continues. “That’s what they call it. A five-hour window. I left the hospital at twenty past three. They know that because people saw me leave. I got home at half past eight. They know that because you saw me arrive. So there’s these five hours I can’t account for.”
“But you must know what you were doing.”
“Of course I—” he takes a breath, forces his voice to soften. “Of course I know what I was doing. I was driving around. Trying to unwind. I had three patients die on me. Three. I mean, I know why they died. But I was feeling bad. Really, really bad. And I was worried about Joel. So I bailed on a couple of meetings and left early and just… drove around. They know all of that, they could see where I’d been from my phone.”
The process of enquiry is mysterious to me, but I know how this part works. My own phone showed me going for lunch with Melanie, coming home and staying there. Of course they don’t rely on your phone (assume nothing, believe no one, check everything). I still remember them hammering away at the possibility that I left my phone behind and went out anyway. It’s only thanks to my neighbour – my guardian angel – finally breaking his silence, saving me with that single mysterious message that I seem to have been taken off the list of people who might have hurt Joel. John is still speaking. I force myself to listen.
“And that’s what they’ve been talking to you about?”
“Yes. Again. They keep going over and over the same ground, it’s like torture. It must be a technique they teach them. Keep asking the same questions until you’re about ready to die of boredom, and then slip in the one new thing they actually wanted to know so you’re off guard.”
I want to ask what the new thing was this time, but I don’t dare.
“So where did you go that afternoon?” I ask, because I have to say something and I can’t think of anything else to say.
“I went all over the city. Places where we’ve been happy mostly.”
Back to places where Joel might have run to.
“But if you were driving the whole time, surely there’s no way you could have—”
“But I wasn’t. I parked up quite a few times. Got out. Went for a walk. Three or four times. Quiet spots they were, too, because those were the kind of spots Joel used to like—” He laughs. “I mean, if I was a police officer, I’d be taking a close look at me. You can’t blame them for checking.”
There’s only one thing I want to say. Just one question that I want to ask. And I can’t possibly ask it.
“Maybe you should have a solicitor with you. Are you allowed a solicitor?”
“Yes, of course I am, but I’m putting it off for as long as I can. The minute I get a solicitor involved they’ll just be even more convinced I’ve got something to hide.”
“They don’t think you actually did it. They can’t. They must know you would never—”
“They haven’t arrested me yet, but that’s not the same thing as thinking I haven’t done it. They keep telling me I’m not a suspect. I don’t know why because everything else they’re saying and doing makes it bloody clear that I am.”
“But you can’t be a suspect, because Joel’s not dead.” This is the most important thing, the one thing no one must lose sight of. “He’s just missing, they need to find him, they have to keep looking—”
“Susannah. Joel’s been gone for a month now. There’s no sign of him anywhere. He’s not with his friends. He’s not in a homeless shelter. He’s not turned up on CCTV anywhere that they can find. He hasn’t used his phone for anything, nothing at all, and the battery’s long since run flat. I don’t want this to be true, I’d give anything for it not to be true, but we’ve got to start getting ready for—”
“He’s not dead. I’d know if he was dead. I’d know it. They can’t stop looking!”
“They are still looking!” A flash of anger now and I flinch. John was often angry with Joel, but hardly ever with me. “Of course they’re still bloody looking. But I think they’re looking for his body now.”
If I speak or move or breathe or do anything other than sit very still and quiet at this table, the world will crack in two.
“Anyway. The next time they ask to talk to me, I’m going to have to bite the bullet and take a solicitor in with me.”
“But you said yourself that just makes it look like you might have—”
“I know, but this is starting to frighten me now. I have to get legal advice, it’s gone on too long now. I need to protect myself.”
We used to be so close it felt as if we were one person, but now we are splitting apart. Now I am me and John is John, and John requires protection, even though I myself do not. Perhaps I’m one of the people he must protect himself against.
“But what about the phone call? The phone call to the phone? The pay-as-you-go one? Surely that means there’s someone else involved? They have to concentrate on finding the person who Joel called, they must know that’s way more likely to be what happened than you… than you—”
“Oh, come on. You know who uses pay-as-you-go phones like that? Drug dealers. Joel might have gone off and bought drugs, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t… I mean, my God, if I found out about it somehow, it might even give me a reason to -” He hears the words he’s saying and stops himself. “I’m just trying to think the way they think, okay? Maybe they think I found him getting high and I was so angry with him I—”
We used to be able to finish our sentences. We used to be able to look at each other.
“I just need you to know that I didn’t,” he says. “Okay? The next time they call me in I’m taking a solicitor with me, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got anything to hide. I don’t. I didn’t do anything. I absolutely did not. I would never, ever, ever hurt our son.” He waits for a moment. I think he must be waiting for me to speak. “You do believe me, don’t you? You do know I wouldn’t ever—?”
This is where I am supposed to say, No, I know you wouldn’t ever do that. I am supposed to lean across the table and take his hand in mine. Perhaps I was even supposed to interrupt him before he even finished speaking. I wish I was with Nick instead, so I could look into his eyes and ask him the question I cannot ask my husband and see the truth in his eyes when he looks at me. I can be honest with Nick. But is Nick always honest with me?
“No,” I say. “I know you wouldn’t ever do that.” I reach across the table and take his hand in mine.
We sit in the twilight of the dining room and hold hands and look at each other across the empty mugs, the empty plates.
Chapter Nineteen
Thursday 14th December 2017
Even the most desolate place can be transformed by the bright kiss of Christmas lights, and tonight my home town has made itself glorious. When I climb down from the bus and cross the plate-glass bustle of the station, I find its familiar concourse turned strange and lovely. Warm yellow lights twine around doorways and lamp posts, bright tinsel clings like ivy to the shopfronts and wraps around the bronze neck of the poet who strides, coat blowing, towards the trains. A clutch of chilly teenagers in thin coats and fingerless gloves – violins and violas and cellos, a sprinkling of wind and brass, and a single percussionist fluttering between drums and bells – are diligently playing carols beneath the green-black bloom of the naked Christmas fir tree.
Why is the tree bereft of its coat of lights and colour? Perhaps the money ran out. Or perhaps someone simply looked at the tree and thought, Yes, that’s all we need. What more do we need to remind us that even at the heart of winter, there is life? I like the darkness of the tree as it towers over the children beneath it. I like the bleakness and the menace. I rummage in my pocket and drop a handful of coins into the open violin case that waits, hungry and innocent, on the outer edge of the music. I wonder where the teacher is. Surely they can’t be here without an adult? The players look cold but intent, as if this is a duty they’ve imposed on themsel
ves.
For a moment I’m watching Joel standing in the church, his face golden with candlelight, submerged in the ecstasy of self-forgetfulness. All the little faces of the children, so peachy and perfect, and three spaces from the end in the second row, my own little child, the anxiety smoothed from his face as he sang ‘Once In Royal David’s City’ at the school carol concert. I love singing in the choir, he confided to me at bedtime, because I can be as loud as I want and no one can really hear that it’s me. In the New Year John will accidentally steal all Joel’s pleasure, by suggesting he might enjoy having private singing lessons, that he might even get good enough to be picked for a solo. But that’s in the future. Right now, my son is singing and John and I sit misty-eyed beneath the Gothic curve of the church roof, holding hands. Tomorrow it will be time to light the candles in Joel’s little cake and hold hands and exclaim, Do you remember? Do you? Do you…? But right now, we’re happy.
I should be used to the sharp sting of memory by now, one cold hand caressing my face while the other drives the icicle through my heart, but there are some pains you never grow used to. I let the moment take me instead, tears gathering on my cheeks as I stand before the red-nosed, watery-eyed children, and listen to the music. Anyone watching will simply think I’m sentimental. Although probably no one’s watching at all.
When the carol finishes, I smile and drop more coins into the violin case. I’ve come to town to be generous, after all. Jackie is lost to me, but I managed without her before and I’ll manage again. It’s time to pick up the threads of my own life, my real life, where my sister and her children will surely welcome me in for our usual bittersweet Christmas celebration.
True to her word, Melanie hasn’t contacted me. Her impossible threat of medical care and psychological probing hangs between us like an iron sword. But today I will fill my arms with gifts and glitter and slip past the sword’s sharp edges, winning my way to paradise like the heroine of a fairy tale. Grace’s sweet muffin face will beam with delight, and she’ll leap to her feet and clap her hands, wriggling like a puppy, calling out to me, Auntie Susannah, Auntie Susannah! And Thomas, shyer and gruffer, will nonetheless creep up behind me, slide his arms around my waist and squeeze tight, his head butting against my shoulder blades, his breath warm. I can win all of this for myself if I can only find the right gifts. Surely, somewhere in this multitude of booths, I’ll find what I’m looking for. I leave the station and make my way to the frail glass artifice of the shopping centre next door.
Each shop briefly conjures paradise, with lights and bustle and music that sings of untold wonders within. I plunge eagerly through the doors, bewitched by flashes of colour and enticing shapes that are somehow never quite what I’m looking for. Something with pink and sparkle that instantly makes me think of Grace resolves itself into a cheap make-up set, tiny pots of lip-gloss sparsely scattered in a flimsy plastic casing. A fat paperback with dragons rampaging across the cover makes my heart beat faster, convinced I’ve found the perfect new world for Thomas to lose himself in; but when I look properly, it’s only a notebook.
I scurry in and out of shops, endlessly dazzled by treasures that crumble when I look at them too closely. I sidle cautiously up to something that looks like a blush-pink angora jumper, willing it not to dissolve into acrylic, and reach out a hand towards it. From across the store, a shop assistant catches my eye and I wince, praying I don’t look like a shoplifter, but she smiles and nods encouragingly, as if this is the proper way to approach the goods. That’s right, she mouths to me, so clearly I can almost hear the words in my head. Don’t frighten them. The wool beneath my fingers is so soft it’s like petting something alive. Perhaps I should shop only from the corners of my eyes. For a moment I think I see Nick, but when I look it’s only a security guard, reaching gallantly out to catch a hat and scarf set I’ve knocked to the floor as I fumble among a rainbow of knitwear.
“That’s the way,” he says to me, and as long as I’m not looking at him his voice is Nick’s voice, and for a moment our hands touch and I let myself imagine that his fingers are Nick’s fingers, and I think I might melt with desire right here in the shop. “Nice and slow. Take it easy.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promise.
“I can help you if you’ll let me. You know I want to help you, don’t you?”
Is this an appropriate conversation for a security guard to be having with a customer? Perhaps my smile, warmed by my memories of Nick, invited more intimacy than I intended. Or perhaps I’m hearing things. The hat and scarf set is all wrong for what I wanted, the wrong shade of grey to suit Richard, the wrong sort of gloves, the wrong texture, everything all wrong, and for a moment the music comes to a stop and everyone in the shop turns to stare at me, their eyes black and accusing, their fingers ready to point and blame; but then a delicious scent of aftershave drifts across my path, spicy and musky and maddeningly sophisticated, and I’m drawn like a wolf scenting prey, and the music is light and beautiful once more, and the wrong hat and scarf are forgotten.
I wander dazedly from table to table, and then from shop to shop, so entranced that I barely notice the shock of the cold that greets me when I slip through the tall glass doors to the street outside. Above my head, the cool white stars on the lamp posts slip their moorings and dance a wild secret dance against the sky, unseen by the hordes of shopper who hurry, intent and eager, below. Perhaps I’m the only person in the whole world who can see what’s happening above our heads. I want to stop and stare, but I know that if I do, the illusion will disappear. I can’t be too greedy. I need to be satisfied with mere sips of wonder. On the war memorial, the men have laid down their arms and stand with their arms around each others’ shoulders, drinking in turn from a stone cup that passes from hand to hand. The traffic lights halt the stream of vehicles so we can pour across the road like water.
How beautiful my city is, at this hour and in this season and in this perfect violet half-light. It’s so grey and ugly, visitors love to tell us, staring at us in triumphant accusation, as if our grandparents and great-grandparents chose the nights of bright fires and wailing sirens and the cold refinement of the radio announcer’s voice declaring that Further air raids were carried out on a north-east town. But today, there’s no ugliness, only the beautiful contrast of our city’s concrete scars, nestled close to their surviving Victorian gems. My heart, frail and frozen as it is, lifts at the sight. I reach out and caress the yellow bricks of the wall, imagining I feel it heave a sigh of satisfaction at my touch.
Then someone tugs gently on my sleeve, and in the moment before I turn my face fully towards her and see her face resolve into the kind plain ordinariness of an older woman wrapped in layers of fleece and wool, I see the wise tricksy face of the fortune-teller.
“That young lad,” she says. “Over there, look. He wants to talk to you.”
“What? What young lad?”
“He knows you. Look.”
I follow her pointing finger. My breath catches in my throat. He’s only there for a second, but he’s unmistakeable, his appearance validated by someone who can have no way of knowing what this means, who she’s just pointed out to me. Joel’s gaze meets mine, briefly, shyly. And then, before I can spoil it by staring too long, he’s gone, slipping through the doors of the bookshop.
My impulse is to tear through the crowd like a savage, bludgeoning people out of my way, but I’ve learned better by now. I need to be slow and careful, not look too closely. I let the tide of people carry me, wandering slowly in through the doorway and pausing by the table that waits, strewn with blues and greens and enticing gold swirls, to lure me into a purchase. I know where Joel will be, but I won’t frighten him by coming too close too quickly. Instead I flit discreetly from section to section, navigating Christmas Bestsellers, Staff Recommendations, Christmas Gifts for Young Adults, Christmas Gifts for Children, mounting the stairs and drifting past book bags and bunting, through Local History, Travel and Mind Body Spirit. Each she
lf cries out to me in longing, begging me to moor up for a while and browse their wares, but I resist the urge. I need to stay firm and safe in this world, not get lost in another.
The Horror section’s empty. For a moment, I waver. I was so sure I’d find him here. But no, there he is, disappearing around the corner and towards the stairs. He’s restless, shy, afraid of being caught. But if I give him time, he’ll let me catch him. I’m careful to keep several people between us as I follow him.
“Susannah.” Nick is with me again, this time in the form of a man in a thick puffy crimson jacket. “Be careful.”
I’m being careful, I think, half resentful at the implication that I might not know how to approach my own son. But there’s no time to stop and talk, because Joel’s already through the door and turning left, and I have to follow him.
Above the orange glow of the sodium lights, the violet sky has turned ultramarine and the breeze is trying to flay the flesh from my bones. I don’t care, I have all I need to keep me warm. Joel’s walking more slowly now, pausing often to look in shop windows, and I begin to close the gap, holding my breath in case I frighten him away. If he shows any sign of flight, I’ll drop back again. But instead, he turns his head and for a breathtaking moment we make eye contact and he sees me, he sees me, and then he smiles, as if this is all he has ever wanted, and although the next minute he’s moving again, I know we’re on the same side, that this is simply him feeling his way back into my company again. I’ve waited more than five years. I can wait a little longer.
Where are we going? Ahead of us, three huge blue glass ships shimmer in the stylised waves that float on the curve of concrete above the old Co-op building. Perhaps this is a clue to where Joel has been. Signing on with a boat and letting the ocean take him wherever it will. Is this still possible in an age of passports and paperwork? The boats rock treacherously in their blue glass ocean, and I wonder if he was ever seasick. I hope not. I can’t bear to think of him alone and cold, with no kind hand to soothe him as his stomach roiled and turned. Perhaps he hid inside a lifeboat and never came to shore.
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