His Other Life

by Beth Thomas

  I did wonder whether it’s not switched off at all, maybe he simply hit a black spot or whatever it’s called, so I’ve texted, Facebooked and WhatsApped him too. That way, if he does happen to get a fraction of a second of signal, he’ll see my messages. At least then he could try to call me from a phone box, to put my mind at ease.

  But he’s called me before from the East of India. Or rather, I’ve called him there before. I know I have, I remember it. He forgot to ask me what I wanted, so I rang to tell him, to make sure he didn’t come back with a vindaloo for me like the first time, when he didn’t know I don’t like spicy food. Which means I know there’s no black spot there. Which means he’s turned his phone off.

  Unless he didn’t go to the East of India …

  I jump up out of frustration, wanting to shout angrily at Adam, wanting to shriek at him, wanting to throw my head back and scream at the ceiling. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. I turn down the bubbling volcano of fury that’s threatening to erupt and try to think clearly. Why would he be taking so long? Did he go somewhere else? Or has something happened to him? Something … bad?

  I walk over to the answer phone and listen to Leon again. I don’t know why, the message isn’t going to tell me where Adam is. But I have to keep hearing it. It seems connected to his prolonged absence somehow. Or is it simply a pleasant message from an old friend, wanting to catch up? It doesn’t sound like it to me, but then my opinion is not really objective. I have my own feelings about Adam that colour every interaction he has with anyone else.

  I press play yet again. ‘Hello Adam, it’s Leon …’

  Something about that unknown point he’s making when he says their names now sounds a bit menacing. Or am I imagining things, bearing in mind Adam went out for food over two hours ago and still hasn’t come back?

  I start suddenly. A car. There’s a car pulling onto the driveway. Oh, thank God. He’s safe. A giant flame of rage roars into life in me suddenly, along with my almost forgotten hunger. But why the fuck did it take him so long? I clench my jaw, my fists, and every other muscle in my body. Even my eyelids go rigid. Ooh you secretive sod, do you have some explaining to do. I charge over to the window and yank back the curtain. It’s almost completely dark by now and I have to press my face to the glass to see out. My own face, distorted by a vicious snarl, lunges at me in the blackness. Where’s the car? Where’s that prickish little car? There’s nothing on the driveway yet so I look at the road, to see the silver Corsa with its reversing lights on. But it’s not there. There’s only one car there and it’s an ordinary blue car, simply driving past. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t discharge my husband, rescued after a cam belt disaster. It doesn’t yield anything.

  I drop the curtain and drop my hands and a small sound comes out of me. The hunger disappears, forgotten again, but the anger doesn’t. In fact, the anger starts to swell again and turn white, blinding white, expanding inside me until I feel I can’t contain it any more and I put my hands on my head and shout ‘AAARRRSE!’ as loudly as I can. It comes out a bit screamy – ‘AAAAAAAHHHHHSE!’

  When I stop, the house falls instantly silent. Supernaturally so. Like all the things that usually make a noise also suddenly stop. The fridge isn’t humming, no pipes are clunking, there’s no creaking, clicking, ticking or cracking. Everything is completely and utterly still. The house feels like it’s waiting.

  That’s it, I’m calling Ginger. I’ve wanted to for over an hour already but managed to convince myself not to; managed to convince myself I was over-reacting. But she’s my best friend in the whole world, she’ll know whether I’m over-reacting or not. I spend the next few minutes rooting through my handbag, then frantically running from room to room looking for my phone, before remembering that it’s already in my hand. I close my eyes. I growl a bit at myself. Come on, focus.

  Ginger isn’t ginger, actually. She has gorgeous, shiny brown hair, and her name is in fact Louise, but because her baby brother Matthew once painted her whole head red with poster paint when they were tots, she’s been Ginger, or Ginge, ever since. She answers on the second ring.

  ‘Hey, Gee, how’s you?’

  I open my mouth and a kind of whimpering sound comes out.

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘Ginge …’ It comes out as a breathy sob.

  ‘On my way,’ she says simply.

  There’s a sharp pain in the side of my head and I realise suddenly that I’m pressing the phone too hard into my ear. I ease it away and my ear throbs with the rush of blood.

  So now I have about fifteen minutes to wait until she gets here. It’s a huge relief to wait for something that has a definite and predictable ending. Although Adam going to the Indian take-away was in that category originally. Now that he’s been gone for over three and a half hours, I’m starting to wonder if …

  I halt that thought mid-way. Of course he’s coming back. That’s just mad thinking. His car’s broken down and his phone’s out of battery. That’s all. I’ll feel ridiculous in about one minute when he arrives in a taxi. I pull the curtain back for the thousandth time, more slowly now, not really able to convince myself any longer that this time he will be there. Sure enough, yet again there’s no taxi. No AA recovery lorry either. Not even a police car. No one at all.

  ‘Right, so what’s going on?’ Ginge demands as soon as she’s in through the front door. She’s business-like and determined but when she looks at my face she falters. ‘Good God, Gee, what’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Adam …’ I begin, but immediately she starts nodding meaningfully. I stop and frown. ‘Why are you nodding like that?’

  ‘What do you mean? How else am I supposed to nod? It’s a fairly standard gesture. Internationally recognised.’

  ‘No. Ginge. Why are you nodding at all?’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I’m listening to you. What’s your point? Tell me what he’s done, for Pete’s sake.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Why would you assume he’s done something?’

  She looks momentarily discomfited and moves her head back slightly. ‘Well, hasn’t he?’

  I think for a second. Has he? Ginger moves her head forward again and raises her eyebrows, waiting. Suddenly, I feel like I don’t want her there. She’s irritating the crap out of me and, as I look at her freckly face peering at me, a very large part of me wants to slap it. I can actually feel my arm start to move backwards so I stop it and clench my fists.

  ‘He went out to get a pasanda about—’ I glance at my watch – ‘nearly four hours ago.’

  ‘And?’

  I shrug. ‘There is no “And”.’

  She frowns. ‘I don’t get it. Where is he now?’

  ‘That’s the point. I don’t know. He hasn’t come back.’

  She stares at me for a second, her eyes widening. ‘Oh, fucking hell.’

  Within minutes she’s made tea for us both and installed me on the sofa while she phones round all the hospitals in the area. There’s only one in our town but she phones the two neighbouring towns too, just in case. I know he’s got ID on him so someone would contact me if he’s been admitted, but at least it feels like we’re doing something.

  ‘Dead,’ Ginge says, clicking her phone off and palming it.

  ‘Wha-at?’

  ‘A and E. They’re all dead. Nothing’s happening anywhere apparently.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I’m not sure whether that’s a relief or not. No, it is. I mean, yes, of course it is. A huge relief. Except I still don’t know a single thing. At least I would have known … something if he’d been admitted somewhere. I look up at Ginge. ‘So, what now?’

  She fiddles with her phone for a second, then comes over to sit next to me. ‘I think it’s time to call the police.’ She puts the phone into my hand and we both stare down at it.

  ‘You suggesting we call Matt?’

  Matt is Ginger’s little brother. He’s a local PC, or DC, or PCSO or something now. Last time I spoke to him he was a silent, skelet
al seventeen-year-old with dyed black hair and a nose ring. According to their mum, Mrs Blake, he ‘got in with the wrong crowd’ back then and barely came home for a few years, then apparently turned things round and joined the force. The thought of speaking to a policeman is made a bit less terrifying if it’s a geeky, awkward, slightly familiar stranger with pimples rather than an intimidating, black-coated stranger with a notebook.

  Ginger shakes her head. ‘No, I mean the real police.’

  ‘What’s he then? Toy Town?’

  ‘No, silly. I just mean you need to report it. Officially. Not just get Matt round here for a cuppa.’ She pauses. ‘Much as I’m sure he’d be up for it.’

  I think furiously for a few seconds. Ginger and I have known each other since school, back when we had to pad our bras and smoke to look older. Now we work together in a costume shop called DisGuys and DisGirls in the main pedestrianised part of the town. I’ve been there four years; she’s been there six. She’s kind of the assistant manager or something. Unofficially of course. She doesn’t get paid a higher responsibility allowance or anything. She just has control of the keys and the cashbox when Penny is away. It’s only a set of keys and a cashbox, but it gives her the edge over me when it comes to taking charge of a situation.

  I push the phone towards her. ‘You do it.’

  ‘No, Grace, I can’t, can I? It’s your husband, you’re going to have to do it yourself.’

  ‘You could pretend to be me.’

  She widens her eyes, as if in … revulsion. Or do I imagine that? ‘No, I absolutely could not do that, come on now.’

  I stare at the phone in my hand; its smooth, shiny surface and pleasing heaviness have never looked more menacing. I so don’t want to do this. I’ll feel silly, like I’m wasting their time. It’s only been a few hours. I look up at Ginger. ‘We can’t report him yet though, can we? Doesn’t he have to be missing for twenty-four hours first, or something?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘It’s one of those things that everyone knows, isn’t it? You have to give them time to get over their sulk, or affair, or secret surgery, or whatever, and come home of their own accord. We’ll just be wasting their time.’

  She shakes her head and looks at me the way a traffic warden looks at a car on double yellows. ‘I think you’ve been watching too many crime dramas, love. It’s not like that in real life.’

  ‘How do you know? Have you reported someone missing before?’

  She puts her hand on my arm. ‘Hey, come on. You can do it. Just dial the number, say what’s happened, and that’s that.’

  Turns out it’s actually quite difficult finding the right number to ring. I’m thinking 999, but Ginger says that’s emergencies only and I say well what the fuck is this if it’s not an emergency and she says it only means it’s for an urgent kind of emergency like a crime actually happening at that moment and I say well maybe it is how the hell can we possibly know that we have literally no clue what’s happening or happened to him that’s why we need to ring and she says actually I think we’ve both got a bit of an inkling to be honest haven’t we and I say what the hell is that supposed to mean and she says nothing sorry didn’t mean anything and then she goes into the other room to see if she can find a Yellow Pages in the kitchen drawer.

  ‘I’ve rung them,’ she announces softly, coming back into the room a few minutes later. I’m standing at the window again, peering out. A cat is brazenly washing itself at the end of our driveway, apparently very confident that it’s not going to get flattened by a returning Corsa any time soon. I turn to look at Ginger and nod, weak with gratitude. Thank God that’s done and I don’t have to face them or answer any horrible questions.

  ‘They’re on their way over,’ she goes on. ‘They want to ask you some questions.’

  So twenty minutes later the police turn up and I tell them what happened with Adam and the East of India, and then they interrogate me about his likes and dislikes and habits and hobbies and friends and associates. Once I’ve explained his line of work and the location of his office, I know that there is very little more I can say, so I watch them closely as I answer: they’re very nice and softly spoken and write down the answers I give in their little black notebooks, but I notice their expressions, the furtive looks they’re giving each other, the barely concealed surprise or contempt or impatience with me as I tell them the things I know about my husband.

  ‘OK, Mrs Littleton, I need to know who your husband’s work associates are?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Just one or two of them, then. His main contact. Don’t worry, we can probably find out the rest.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘OK, not to worry. Who are his drinking mates? And we’ll need their addresses, if you can remember them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh. Well, just his best mate then?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

  There’s a very brief pause and the two officers glance at each other. ‘OK, never mind. Where does he drink? What are his hobbies? Where did he go to school? What sport does he follow? Which team does he support?’

  I look at them both, and then at Ginger. ‘I don’t know.’

  There’s an awkward, slightly longer silence. Then the female officer leans towards me. ‘Can you try, Grace? Think really hard. Has he ever mentioned anyone, or talked about a place, the name of a pub, a street even?’

  I’m already shaking my head because I know I don’t need to think hard about this. There’s no point. He has kept everything about himself completely shut off from me, right from the very start of our relationship, right from that moment I stepped into his office looking for a flat to rent. I have tried and tried to find something out about him – asked his mum and step-dad, checked his post, tried to sneak a look at his phone – but I’ve never got anywhere. His mum and step-dad, Julia and Ray Moorfield, just say, ‘Ah, you’ll have to ask Adam about that, lovey.’ All he told me about his real dad is that he’s no longer around, then closed the conversation off definitively. ‘What more do you need to know?’ he said, when I questioned it. And then peered at me, as if I was under a microscope, somehow managing to make me feel horrible for asking. ‘He’s not around any more, that’s that. Jesus, Grace, do you have to know every single minute detail about all your friends’ lives? Is that who you are?’ His post is always generic bills or advertisements. His phone is completely and permanently inaccessible. The absence of any information about him has become like a third person in our marriage. The single piece of information that I do have about Adam is that I have absolutely no information about him.

  ‘Adam never talks about his past, or his work, or what he does when we aren’t together. He just doesn’t.’

  ‘And you don’t question that?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘Well, doesn’t it strike you as odd that the man you married apparently has no friends and no past?’

  I open my mouth to answer, but close it again when I realise I have nothing to say. How can I tell them that it has struck me as odd every single second of our marriage? How can I possibly confess to the fact that I was so amazed that someone like him had chosen to marry someone like me that I was terrified to look too closely at any cracks in the façade? That I tried to ignore the nagging doubts about him that wouldn’t leave me alone? That I made myself ignore them? Worse, that I got used to it?

  Eventually I shake my head. ‘Not really. We’re happy, just the two of us.’

  ‘So who was your best man?’ the male officer barks at me now.

  I turn to look at him coolly. ‘Adam’s step-dad.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve met his parents then.’

  ‘Look, I don’t think we’re achieving anything here,’ Ginger butts in at this point. ‘Why don’t I take you upstairs and you can look at Adam’s room and personal belongings? There might be a clue there.’

  The male officer stares at her, then gives o
ne curt nod. He gets up and follows her out of the room and we hear them going upstairs. I turn to look at the female officer and I can see that she’s readying herself to use this opportunity to get more out of me that I might have been reluctant to admit in front of her confrontational colleague. She’s wasting her time.

  ‘Is there anything else you can think of, Grace?’ she says very gently. ‘Anything at all? A first name, a glimpse of something you might have seen on his phone? A street he was maybe interested in …?’

  With a jolt I remember the answer phone. ‘Oh, yes, there is one thing. I completely forgot about this. A man left a message on the answer phone today. A Leon.’ I get up and walk over to the phone, then press play on the machine.

  ‘Hello Adam, it’s Leon.’ That horrible, deep, gravelly voice seeps out of the speaker into my life again. ‘Long time no see. Betcha didn’t expect to hear from me again, did you? Come as a bit of a shock, has it? Ha, I bet it has. Just thought I’d give you a call, let you know I’m in the area – nearby actually. Very nearby. Would only take me two minutes to get to your place from here. Piece of cake. I’m gonna try to catch up with you very soon. Don’t worry about calling me back, I’ll be in touch.’

  The officer listens raptly as the message plays. When it finishes she asks me to play it again and furiously scribbles in her notebook the entire time. Then she asks me if I can give her the tape. I blink and wonder how old she is.

  ‘It’s a digital machine.’

  She stares at me, as if she doesn’t understand what that means.

  ‘There’s no tape,’ I elaborate.

  ‘Oh, God, silly me,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I’ll need to take the whole machine then, please.’