His Other Life

by Beth Thomas

  I unplug it and put it in a bag for her and then Ginger and the male officer come back downstairs.

  ‘Anything?’ I ask them both as they arrive in the room. Ginger shakes her head but the male officer is looking expectantly at the carrier bag containing the answer phone.

  ‘Something interesting?’ he asks her.

  ‘Could be,’ she nods. ‘Message on the answer phone, left this evening, just before Mr Littleton left the house.’

  ‘Uh huh, uh huh.’ He’s nodding approvingly, looking knowledgeable, but I’m sure the answer phone message won’t give them anything other than the overt words in it that we’ve all heard. Someone called Leon phoned and left a message. That’s it, nothing more. Big dumb policeman is probably just showing off since there’s really little point in taking the machine with them. No matter how many times they listen to it, that message won’t tell them anything.

  ‘We’ll have a look into your line records,’ PC Burly says suddenly, interrupting my train of thought. ‘See if we can find out where that call came from.’

  Of course. I didn’t think of that.

  ‘Has the phone rung or been used at all since that message arrived?’

  ‘Um, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well that’s something anyway.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Last thing, Mrs Littleton. Do you know where your husband keeps his passport?’

  ‘Why?’

  He tries to smile reassuringly but it doesn’t go very well. ‘Let’s just see if it’s still there.’

  ‘Yes, sure, it’s in the same place as mine.’

  I take them all back upstairs into the spare room and pull open the drawer in the bureau where the passports are kept and we all stand motionless as we stare silently down into it. Lying there amongst the travel insurance documents and the suitcase tags and some old pens and batteries and foreign plug adaptors is one single solitary passport, abandoned amongst the detritus, ungrabbed, unincluded, unwanted.

  ‘That lying little shit,’ Ginger spits venomously behind me, neatly summing up my thoughts exactly.

  THREE

  When I was fifteen, I had a friend at school called Kate. She joined our school in Year Ten because her mum found condoms in her dad’s jacket. Kate was pretty unhappy about the whole thing – moving house, changing schools, arguing parents – and made very little effort to make new friends, but she was clever and pretty so inevitably she became popular anyway. She didn’t pay much attention to me of course. I was good at French and English and she was good at tennis; I was friends with Ginger Blake and Maria Stavronopoulous, she was friends with Ryan Mitchell and Daniel Williams. But one day when Maria was away visiting family and Ginger was off sick, Kate came and sat next to me in Sex Ed. It was like Kate Middleton calmly sitting down next to you in the Asda café. She said ‘Hi’ to me so naturally it was like we were already close. So we started chatting and I found out that she was actually a really nice girl and we became good friends and stayed that way until we finished school.

  Ha ha. That’s my sarcasm again. Kate, I think, was quite happy to be friends with me now and then, so we would get together at weekends and go out in the evenings and paint each other’s nails. But when I really needed her, when Ajeet Johar snogged Stephie Morrison in the geography room, or when I was off school for six weeks with glandular fever, she was nowhere to be seen. By me, anyway. By all accounts Stephie and Ajeet saw plenty of her during those two six-week periods of black misery – known in our family history as The Dark Ages and The Dark Ages Two: The Return.

  I wasn’t really surprised and didn’t even feel particularly let down. Her being friends with me was extraordinary, remember. I was so grateful that she had chosen me at all, even on a superficial level, that I was happy with what I had. Ginger and Maria came and sat by my bed and brought me magazines and chocolate and DVDs for both of my teenage crises, and that was fine.

  Marriage, on the other hand, is a different story. By definition, it can’t be superficial. I Googled the definition, months ago, so I know. Two people, choosing each other above all other human beings on the planet, to go through the rest of their lives with, to support, confide in, listen to, help. Or, you know, something like that. I’m no expert but that sounds like the opposite of superficial to me. I heard once that marriage is a gift through which husband and wife may grow together in love and trust, united in heart, body and mind, but I don’t know if I believed it then, and I’m pretty sure I don’t believe it now.

  The funny thing about someone in your life walking out of it without telling you they’re going is that you don’t know how to feel. Or rather, you feel so many different things, they all get blended up together so nothing is distinguishable. You end up with a kind of brown plasticine of emotion. A sludge of feeling. I’m upset, of course, and hurt. But also empty, lost, scared – for him and for me – mystified, curious and angry. Furious actually. Curious and furious. I swing from screaming ‘I HOPE THAT FUCKING SECRETIVE LITTLE TOSSER NEVER COMES BACK!’ to thoughtfully pondering ‘I wonder what on earth has happened to him.’ I hate him with a pure, scalding stream of loathing; I love him like I never did before. I hope he stays away forever; I yearn for his return with every single molecule of myself.

  I spend stupid amounts of time Googling ‘missing husband’. Mostly there are news articles from around the world talking about murdered wives or bodies being found. One actually makes my toes curl as it describes a poor woman collapsing after finding her missing husband in the local hospital morgue.

  A sound comes out of me and I’m not sure if it’s a sob or a laugh. But then the air gets stuck in my lungs and my face crumples and I have to blink very quickly for several seconds to stop myself from believing that have anything to cry about.

  For the first three days I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, I don’t go to work, I barely see anyone. I feel like I’m in suspended animation, like sitting motionless in HG Wells’ time machine, watching the world spin by faster and faster, plants growing, dust collecting, things getting older and everything moving on and changing except me. It’s like breathing in and not breathing out again. I’m tense with a feeling of imminent onrushing change, my adrenalin levels dialled up to maximum, my fight or flight reflexes poised and waiting for whatever is coming, to come.

  But it doesn’t. The only thing that comes is the police. A bland, quiet officer called Linda Patterson who says she’s my family liaison person while the investigation is underway.

  ‘If you can find a key to his offices,’ she says, ‘that would be very useful. We’ll need to have a look through his paperwork. Also I’ll need a full description of the car …’

  I stand at the window staring at the street, watching the comings and goings of all the neighbours, all the neighbours’ visitors, all the neighbours’ deliveries and collections. But no one and nothing arrives here. Apart from a purse that I ordered last week on eBay. It’s completely gorgeous, covered in black sequins.

  On the fourth day I wake up alone in my – not ‘our’ – double bed, look at the empty space next to me and think, The toad’s not coming back, is he? The universe answers with a resounding silence, which I take to be confirmation, so I get up, get showered, and go to work. At least, I go to the shop. It will be good to see Ginge, but frankly helping someone decide between the Abraham Lincoln or the Scooby Doo outfits has never seemed more trivial.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Ginger says when she sees me, and walks over to me as rapidly as she can in a narrow Nefertiti dress. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back for a few weeks. Are you OK?’

  I shrug. ‘No. Yes. I suppose so. Massively pissed off, a bit unhinged maybe, but OK. How are you?’

  She stares at me, obviously weighing up the likelihood of me genuinely being OK versus the possibility I’m lying about it and likely suddenly to explode into a full-blown Hulk episode and smash the shop up. That would seriously piss off our boss, Penny, especially with the front of shop displays looking as good as
they do right now. After a couple of seconds, she evidently decides I’m safe and may be allowed to stay. She angles her head as she concocts an answer to my enquiry. ‘I’m not bad, considering I’ve been dead for three thousand years and feel like I’m going to tip over in this ridiculous dress.’

  I glance around me at the old familiarity of the place – the shelves of plastic fangs and bloody daggers; the disembodied zombie heads; the grotesque Golem masks – and feel comforted. The world around me starts to reassemble itself into something normal, something recognisable, and it makes me feel more real. Then Ginger moves closer and assumes a serious expression. ‘Seriously though, Gee. Do you honestly think you’re up to being back at work already? I mean, what’s happened is ghastly – do you think you can cope with this too?’ She pulls on the Nefertiti head-dress and straightens the attached hair on her shoulders. ‘I’m worried you might struggle.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I’m sure I’ll cope. I’m OK.’

  ‘Really?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, really. I didn’t think I would be, and I’ve had my moments the past four days, believe me, but I’m not broken, just a bit winded. Being at work will give me something to do and something else to think about. The bills still need to be paid, don’t they? And if he ever does turn up again, nothing short of a kidnap and torture or serious amnesia would make me take him back.’

  ‘Right on.’ She pauses. ‘How about two broken legs?’

  I shake my head. ‘He’s got a mobile, hasn’t he? And if he hasn’t, someone else will have, broken legs or not.’

  ‘Broken arms?’

  ‘Hands still work.’

  ‘Broken fingers?’

  ‘Dictation?’

  ‘Of course. What about a fever? You know, delirious with it, couldn’t say his own name, let alone find his way home?’

  ‘That comes under amnesia. No, I’m holding out for kidnap and torture. That’s the favourite.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  She’s distracted by a customer at this point and I go and change into the Texas Chain Saw outfit, thinking about how generally OK I am feeling. Naturally when I think about Adam and the missing madras (I really did want Chinese anyway) all the fury and confusion and resentment start to boil and fester inside me again, and there’s a danger of it bubbling up to the surface and spilling out in the form of shrieky, shop-smashing rage. But the funny thing is, if I don’t actively think about it like that, it’s not at the forefront of my mind at all.

  ‘Seriously,’ Nefertiti hisses at me, eyeing my costume, ‘is that really what you’re wearing?’

  I glance down, then nod at her. ‘It felt right.’

  I watch for the next twenty minutes as she totters in teeny tiny steps backwards and forwards to the stock room for a Fred Flintstone, then a Mr Blobby, then a Men in Black, then back to Fred Flintstone again. The scene is completely absorbing. Ginger is smiling sweetly with her ‘Here you go’s and ‘How about this?’s, but I know her teeth are gritted and it makes me want to giggle. Thoughts of Adam are in my mind, simmering, but they’re not overwhelming and they’re certainly not crushing me.

  Eventually it’s settled – London Beefeater – and the difficult customer leaves us in peace.

  ‘So what’s the latest from the police?’ Ginger asks me as she puts Fred and Blobby back on the rail.

  ‘Nothing much. They’ve got the car details and they’re going through some of his business stuff from the office, but I get the impression they’re not that bothered about it.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Because he’s an adult man who drove off voluntarily. No one lured him into a car with promises of sweets or puppies, there’s no jerky CCTV footage of him getting into a taxi at two in the morning, they haven’t found his jacket and shoes on the beach or by a railway line, his car hasn’t been discovered at some M1 services with a sinister blood smear on the passenger seat …’

  She puts her hands up. ‘OK, yes, I get it. What I mean is, why are you getting the impression they’re not bothered?’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, they’ve only been round to see me once since that first time. There are no updates, no one calling in to check on me. I don’t know, it all seems pretty half-hearted to me.’

  ‘And you have plenty of experience of what happens in these circumstances, do you? I mean, this is half-hearted compared with …?’

  I think about that a moment, then nod slowly. ‘Yeah, good point, this is probably just the way it’s done. I don’t know why I was expecting more.’

  ‘Look, Gee, you don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes. Maybe they’ve set up an incident room or something. There could be a team of five or six people working on it, going door to door or sifting through his work stuff. There’s probably far more happening than you’re aware of.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And maybe they’re so busy they haven’t had time to update you on anything. They won’t update you until they have something concrete to tell you anyway, will they?’

  ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘Do you want me to ask Matt to pop round and see you? He’ll probably be able to tell you a bit more. From the police perspective. He might even have some inside knowledge that the investigation team would never tell you.’

  ‘Really? Wouldn’t he get into trouble for that?’

  She shrugs. ‘Who’s gonna know? And anyway, what’s gonna happen to him, someone calls the police?’

  I look up at her gratefully. ‘That would be good. Would you?’

  ‘Course I would, stupid. Happy to.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll mind?’

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure he won’t mind.’

  ‘And you’ll be there too, right?’

  She smiles and rubs my arm. ‘Yes, Gracie, I’ll be there too.’

  I give her a quick hug. ‘Thanks Ginge.’

  ‘No probs.’

  ‘And … sorry for sulking … a bit.’

  She rings Matt during her lunch break and he says he can pop over tonight. Lucky for me that he’s free so soon. Ginge comes home with me after work to wait for him. And eat my food.

  ‘I think it’s only fair that if I cook something, I should be allowed to eat some of it,’ she says around a mouthful of sausage.

  ‘Totally.’

  We’re slobbing it – understandable in the circs, I think – and eating our dinner on trays on our laps. As we eat, Ginge is glancing around the room checking out all the pictures of Adam and me that are everywhere. Us at my sister’s twenty-first birthday party last year; us feeding goats on our honeymoon in the Cotswolds; us having Christmas dinner at his parents’ house. Something occurs to me suddenly and I slam my hands to my head. ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Oh my God what?! What is it?’

  ‘Adam’s parents! I haven’t even told them what’s happened! Oh arses, this is terrible. He’s been gone for four days, he could even be dead …’

  ‘He’s not dead.’

  ‘… and they don’t even know anything odd has happened.’ I turn to look at Ginge, my eyes wild. ‘They might even have heard from him by now! God, maybe they know something, maybe he’s explained everything to them and told them to fill me in the moment I got in touch with them …’

  ‘Gee …’

  ‘… which he would have expected me to do that same night.’

  ‘Gee, listen.’

  ‘But I didn’t, I completely forgot about them. Bloody hell, Ginge, what sort of person does that make me?’

  ‘It makes you the sort of person that’s going through a pretty terrible ordeal, that’s all. It’s completely understandable, given what you’ve had to deal with, stop stressing.’

  By now I’m up off the sofa pacing the room, each fist clamped around a handful of hair. It’s still attached to my head, don’t worry. I’m not quite there yet.

  ‘I can’t stop stressing, I’m a terrible, awful, horrible person.’ I lunge towards the phone but Ginger is already up and grabs my a
rm.

  ‘Stop!’ she says, almost shouting. ‘Seriously Gee, stop acting mad.’

  ‘I’m not acting mad!’ I halt in my tracks. ‘Am I acting mad?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I don’t know. Just for God’s sake calm down and listen.’

  I do a ‘relax’ thing, making a concerted effort to breathe deeply for a few seconds with my eyes closed, and actively loosen my arms and shoulders. ‘OK. What?’

  ‘The police will have let Adam’s parents know. You don’t need to worry about that.’

  I stare at her. Of course they would have. Relief floods through me. ‘Oh, thank God. Yes, of course they would. Jesus, I’m such a plank!’

  ‘No, you’re not, you’re just not thinking straight at the moment.’

  ‘I’m really not.’ Another sudden thought. ‘Do you think they’ll have let my parents know?’

  Ginger bites her lip and breaks eye contact. ‘I don’t know. They might have. Depends if they’ve been round to see them already, I expect … But no, if they’d already been round there to ask questions, your mum would have phoned you after, wouldn’t she? So they probably don’t know yet. Good idea if you call them and let them know first. Otherwise it’ll come as a bit of a shock when the boys in blue turn up on their doorstep …’ She tails off and watches me. ‘What’s up?’

  I’m pacing again, rubbing my head and face, and I stop and turn to face her. ‘Ask questions? What do you mean, ask questions? Why would the police need to question my parents at all? I mean, Adam is just their son-in-law, there’s no other connection, they’re not going to be able to tell them anything. He just drove off, no one knows what happened to him – well, I expect someone does, somewhere, probably Adam himself in fact, the lying SCUMBAG!’ – I shout the word out, as if somewhere he can still hear me – ‘but my mum and dad certainly don’t know, why would the police even bother with them?’

  Ginger walks across to where I’ve stopped and takes hold of my upper arms. ‘OK, now I want you to try and be calm about this. Will you? Are you calm?’

  Her words shoot darts of panic into me and my agitated heart dials up a notch. ‘Christ Ginge, what do you know?’