In Too Deep

by Samantha Hayes

  We exchange knowing grins, and for some reason I want to reach out and touch her hand, just as she touched mine. But I don’t.

  ‘Hannah’s had a tough time lately,’ I say, knowing she’d hate me talking about her.

  ‘I understand. Losing a sibling must have been devastating.’

  ‘She took it badly. And now her with her dad missing, too . . .’

  My hand comes up to my mouth.

  For a moment Susan looks utterly puzzled. Then she frowns, as if she’s realised she can’t possibly be right, that we couldn’t have lost both a son and a father from the same family.

  ‘But . . . I thought your husband was in Ireland working.’ She waits a moment, sizing me up. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being nosy again. Please, no need to talk about anything you’re not comfortable with.’

  But as it sinks in that I’ve revealed my secret to Susan, as the very thing that makes me different from everyone else – unreachable and cursed – slips out, I find that I do feel comfortable talking to her about it. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Hannah felt bad for me having to explain what has happened. She was trying to make it so I didn’t have to. She’s also having a hard time accepting the situation, and I think believing that her dad is actually away working somehow helps her.’

  I was naive to think that I could go the whole weekend without it cropping up, especially as this break was Rick’s idea. Besides, there’s something persuasive about Susan – the angular yet appealing features of her face, the way they blur at the edges as if she’s been smudged by an artist’s finger. Her gaze holds me carefully, making me feel like a damaged bird in her cupped hands, while her voice touches something inside me, urging me to continue.

  ‘And the terrible thing is,’ I say, ‘that I have no idea what’s happened to him. No one does.’

  Kath Lane always said the more people who know the story, the more people will be on the lookout for Rick. It’s a long shot, I realise, but I have to weigh up my shame against the outcome.

  Susan stares at me – eyebrows raised, the rest of her face stuck in a shocked expression as if she’s either faking it or is genuinely lost for words.

  ‘Rick went out to buy a newspaper last November and didn’t come back,’ I explain. ‘No one knows what happened to him, and the police haven’t made any progress with their investigation.’

  Every time I say it, it comes out differently. I don’t have a speech carefully planned, though it gets shorter each time I tell it. But all people really want to know about is what must have been going through Rick’s mind to make him leave that way, or if things had been bad between us, or even if I had something to do with it. I feel myself redden at the thought of the argument Rick and I had, and also because with each recounting I miss things out, watching the truth slip away, damning myself further as the cloak of guilt fits more and more snugly.

  ‘That’s awful for you,’ Susan says, looking utterly confused. ‘Your husband disappeared?’

  I give a little nod, as if it happens to everyone. ‘Yes.’

  Susan leans forward on her chair, elbows on the table, her hands clasped at her neck. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she says, just like every other person I’ve told. ‘How is that possible in this day and age? Surely they can find him. Haven’t they checked CCTV and bank accounts, or put up posters or done appeals on TV? What about locating his phone somehow?’

  Susan’s concern is following a familiar pattern. She’s only trying to help, but it’s so predictable now. Before long she’ll be yawning, hinting that she has an early start, giving me a wide berth next time she sees me, thankful when we pack up and finally leave her hotel. People distance themselves from bad luck and misery.

  ‘The police have done everything they can. The case isn’t high priority any more,’ I say, too tired to recount the few statements the police took from vague witnesses who may or may not have seen anything that morning. Memory plays tricks, especially when you don’t think it’s needed.

  ‘But what about you, Gina? How do you cope day to day? I know it would drive me potty, the not knowing.’

  I laugh softly and raise my glass as if toasting her. Strangely, it feels OK to let her know that I’m not really coping, whereas normally I try to hide it.

  ‘You read about these things in the papers, but you never think it will happen to you. Like everyone, I thought I was immune.’

  Susan’s gaze is curious and sympathetic as I continue.

  ‘Though Jacob’s death got rid of my naivety about that. You never get over the loss of a child, but you learn to deal with it the best way you can. Eventually, some kind of life and routine re-forms, though it’s never the same. You get on with living it, albeit rather crookedly and painfully compared to before.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Susan says.

  No, you can’t.

  ‘Losing Jacob made me think that was it, we’d had our share of tragedy and we wouldn’t get any more.’ I laugh sourly, draining my glass. Susan immediately tops it up. ‘The corner shop is about ten minutes’ walk away and Rick only had a few coins with him. We were expecting friends for dinner that night, and stupidly, as the afternoon wore on, I remember thinking that he’d definitely be back soon because he wouldn’t want to miss my paella. He always helped me cook it.’ None of it’s coming out right.

  ‘Oh God, Gina,’ Susan says predictably, though with more sympathy than most people offer at this stage. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done in your shoes. And the police don’t have any clues?’

  I shake my head. ‘No one does. Apart from the belongings he left behind, it’s almost as if he never existed.’

  Susan looks at me. Behind those intense blue eyes, I see her mind racing, figuring out the right thing to say next, something that won’t upset me, but something that will end this exchange without seeming rude.

  ‘And your son, Jacob,’ she says, turning the conversation back, sizing up the weight of my life. ‘How did he die?’

  It knocks me sideways. I drink more wine. In an odd way, I appreciate her directness.

  ‘A car,’ I say blankly, thankful that time has done its work. I can be flat and cold about it these days, showing nothing of my inner sadness. I don’t reveal one speck of how much I miss my handsome, funny, clever, sensitive, freckly little boy. ‘He was killed in a hit-and-run accident.’

  I hate the word ‘accident’.

  Susan’s mouth is slightly open. Her lower jaw quivers, hanging in the space where words should be.

  ‘This is him,’ I say, reaching down to my bag and pulling out my purse. I take out a photo. ‘He was eleven when he died. I took this a couple of weeks before, not knowing it would be the last one ever.’

  Susan looks at the picture, gently taking it from me. ‘Such a happy-looking boy,’ she says respectfully, without sinking into the past tense. ‘Is that his pet rabbit?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I laugh fondly. ‘He loved it. It was called Peter. The poor thing died a few weeks after Jacob. I swear it had a broken heart, though Rick said that was silly.’

  It was also very old, but I don’t tell her that. Then I feel ashamed for trying to eke out more sympathy, as if my story doesn’t warrant enough.

  Susan keeps hold of the picture as we chat, toying with it between her fingers, making me feel on edge. I meant to get extra copies made, but never quite got round to it. I couldn’t stand it if it got damaged or something was spilled on it.

  I reach out my hand to take it back, but she keeps hold of it.

  ‘I know you said you can talk about your son, Gina, but God, I’m so sorry – I wouldn’t have shown you a picture of Phil if I’d known about your husband,’ she says, shaking her head.

  It’s from the heart, but all I can think of is that she still has hold of my precious photo – my darling, fragile Jacob between her fingers. I’m considering reaching out for Phil’s picture – the one nearest – and taking him hostage until she gives my boy back.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I
lie. ‘You weren’t to know.’

  She gives me an odd look in return, her fingers tightening around the photograph of Jacob. His cheek is pressed under her thumb.

  To initiate the swap, I grab Phil’s picture, pretending to be interested again. He’s shorter than Rick – more of the rugby player physique about him – and Phil’s hair is dark and cropped, showing a man who visits the barber regularly, perhaps even the type to go for a manicure once in a while. Rick used to laugh at such things, preferring the wild, slightly unkempt style he sported. ‘What’s the point of working for yourself if you can’t be yourself?’ he once said.

  ‘He looks very smart in his suit,’ I say, offering the frame to Susan. Finally, she reciprocates and hands me back Jacob. I quickly slip him back inside my purse, but with my lips aching for the kiss I usually give him.

  She puts the picture of her husband back on the table. It seems to be the only one of him, with lots of other pictures of assorted family members, the hotel, someone’s wedding, and a portrait of Susan clearly taken a long while ago crowding the polished surface.

  Then there’s a noise – a familiar sound that makes the blood drain from my cheeks and my heart kick up its pace. A telephone . . . maybe a text . . . maybe the first ring of a call . . .

  I lunge for my bag, shoving my hand inside, then withdraw feeling deflated as Susan holds up her glowing phone.

  Every call, every message . . . I pray it’s him.

  ‘It’s my son again,’ Susan says, reading the text. ‘He says he’ll be arriving home tomorrow afternoon.’

  She taps out a brief reply.

  ‘I can’t wait to introduce him to Hannah,’ she continues, draining the last of the bottle into my glass before I’m able to stop her. ‘I know Tom will be dying to meet her.’

  Gina

  Sunday-morning breakfast is served slightly later than usual, but I’m awake at 5 a.m., hardly daring to move my head on the pillow. Lines of crushing pain run in bands around my skull, while my vision is blurry and my stomach is awash with acid and the remains of last night’s food.

  Hannah snores gently in the next bed, dreaming her way to morning. She makes little noises as she works through whatever’s playing out in her brain, but once or twice the sweet contented snuffles transform into deep, painful moans punctuated by words that I can’t make out. Words that sound utterly sad.

  I get up slowly and take two paracetamol from my bag. I’ve done this most mornings since Rick went, but nothing numbs the various pains I have, whether self-inflicted or otherwise. I used to consider myself pretty healthy for my age, with few trips to the GP, but now it’s as if my body is fast-forwarding to old age. My joints ache, my skin has turned papery and dry, and my hair is falling out. I have stomach pains most of the time, and palpitations that stop me in my tracks, while the shake in my hand is only stopped by fitful bouts of sleep or, more often than not, wine.

  I splash water on my face and stretch into the clothes I dropped on the bathroom floor last night. I pull on a fleece zip-up top from my bag, signalling to Cooper once I’ve laced up my trainers. He makes a contented, throaty grumble, thumping his tail several times before heaving himself up. His black coat shines as he walks through a chink of sunlight creeping between the curtains. We leave the room, and it’s only when I’ve shut the door that I realise I’ve left my key card inside.

  The hotel is quiet as I walk along the creaky-floored corridor, down the big oak staircase and into the reception area. I stop, pausing to look around. The still air smells sweet and sickly from the lilies on the central table. Orange pollen has fallen on to the polished wood, and a single fruit fly hovering around the white flower cones is the only movement in the room.

  ‘Rick chose this place,’ I whisper pensively, giving Cooper’s lead a jangle and wondering if there was a particular reason.

  It’s just me searching for answers, I realise, but I can’t help it. Everything Rick did was careful, considered and filled with forethought. Surely the choice of this hotel was, too? It wouldn’t be like him to randomly pick any old place off the internet, even if special offers were involved.

  ‘Come on then, boy,’ I say. ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’ I head for the front door, wondering if I’m the only person awake in the entire Cotswolds. Outside, the air smells like wet peat and herbs, mashed up with sweet rain and the chill of the night. Even though the sun has risen, the grounds are still shaded by the tall canopy of trees running the perimeter, as well as the span of the building itself. It looks even more imposing at this time of day, as if it’s been awake all night, keeping watch.

  A chill runs up my spine, and it only dissipates when Cooper uncharacteristically tugs on the lead. He trots at a brisk pace towards the lawn with me following.

  Once he’s finished, I allow him to amble over to the thicket of trees, discovering it’s actually a small spinney with more depth than I realised. I look around. I doubt Cooper will charge down to the fields at the bottom, where the woolly bodies of a dozen or so sheep are standing in the misty, ancient and ridged field. He’s too old and lazy to chase them, so I unhook his lead.

  ‘Off you go, boy,’ I say, watching as he barely moves any faster. I worry about him. His hips are slowly getting worse, making his movements more lumbering as every week goes by. I can’t bear the thought of losing him. He’s my connection to Rick. The two of them were inseparable.

  I wander on, tracking the edge of the spinney, eventually deciding to climb over the metal estate fence. Despite his barrel-shaped body, Cooper pushes through the bars, following me down into the dark trees. Indignant birds squawk and flap as I invade their habitat, though two lazy pheasants watch me from up ahead, finally running and flapping into the air as Cooper approaches.

  A hundred yards or so further on, I come across the stump of a fallen tree. One side is flat and smooth, so I sit down and watch as Cooper trots around me, pushing his nose into the deep compost of twigs and leaves that’s covering the ground, excited by all the new smells. It’s a far cry from the quick and guilty walk around the local park before work that he usually gets. It feels good to be out in the fresh air, despite my grogginess from the wine. There’s something magical about the early hour, as if it belongs to me alone.

  ‘Exercise can really help your mood,’ Paula said during one of my sessions. ‘Though I realise it may be the last thing you feel like doing under the circumstances.’

  ‘Walking is OK,’ I told her honestly. ‘I can manage that. But only because it’s what Rick liked to do.’ She encouraged me to get out daily, using Cooper as an excuse, but as the days without Rick turned into weeks, what with running the house single-handedly and doing my job, free time for long walks diminished. The best I manage now is a quick trot to the park, or at worst I shove him into the garden.

  ‘Please don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Paula said another time, when I confessed to not having followed her recommendations.

  I remember the pained expression I pulled – the same one I wear most days now. I apologised, hanging my head, and Paula chastised me gently, reminding me that I was a good woman, that I had nothing to be sorry about.

  My lips parted, wanting to say, Oh, but I do, though something silenced me, convincing me that telling the story leading up to Rick and me arguing in the car wasn’t important, that what he’d seen between Adrian and me had been entirely innocent and he’d simply read it the wrong way.

  But it was far from innocent, and guilt had me believing it was the cause of his disappearance, while Paula’s job was to assure me that it wasn’t.

  ‘It’s natural for you to dissect everything,’ she said intuitively. ‘Analysing every word you and Rick said in the preceding days, thinking about every look you exchanged, every kiss you shared, just to see if there was a subtle something that you missed. A clue that would lead you straight to him.’

  She was right, although it was mainly the words exchanged between Adrian and me that I was overthinking, wondering if Rick
had spied on us more than that one time, overheard something. As it stood, I knew that hugging Adrian in that way was wrong, but there was a huge gap of logic to explain Rick’s reaction if he’d taken off because of it. What else did he know?

  In the aftermath of Rick’s disappearance, I’d skirted around the issue with Adrian once or twice over the phone when I’d had to call the office, trying to find out what the hell he might have said to Rick, or, worse, what he might have done. But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing how he was affecting me by making a special visit into work while I was still on compassionate leave. Instead, I kept all it inside.

  ‘I’ve analysed everything until I can’t remember it any more,’ I confessed to Paula. ‘I’m working backwards through it now.’

  I considered telling her the truth about Adrian many times, but it never quite came out. All things considered, it was safer that way.

  I’d been working at Watkins & Lowe for eleven years, and had reckoned the offer of a partnership was in the bag. Rod Watkins was retiring and several new posts were opening as the business expanded under the guidance of Mick Lowe. This included the role – the one that should have been mine – that ended up being given to Adrian, an outsider who we all knew from his stints at other agencies. Paths cross in this business, and I knew he was less than scrupulous, operating just under the ethical radar in many of his deals. The collective heart of the agency had sunk when he’d joined the team.

  And as if having his larger-than-life presence in the office hadn’t been enough – with the hideous gloating made known through subtle signs that were apparent only to me – Adrian had soon begun a thing with Steph, making it blatantly obvious that he’d not only taken the job I’d wanted and needed, but that he was slowly and surely prising my best friend from me too. I had no idea why.

  ‘I think about it all the time,’ I said to Paula, referring to the stuff she knew, as well as the stuff she didn’t. ‘I’m obsessing and I want to stop. I can’t carry on like this. It’s the not knowing that’s killing me.’