Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘Norah went almost straight back to sleep,’ she says, before re-taking her seat. ‘Sometimes she only needs her hair stroking and that’s enough.’

  We get through the rest of the meal with relative normality. Jane and Andy still make much of the conversation, while Ben and I routinely blank out everything that’s going on around us while umming and aahing at the appropriate times.

  There’s always an awkward moment after people have finished eating in which nobody’s quite sure what happens next. Everyone really wants to head either home or somewhere far more comfortable than a dining table – though nobody wants to be the first person to bring it up.

  It is Ben who finally breaks the impasse. He mentions his collection of football programmes, perhaps accidentally – and then he and Andy disappear into the garage to look through them. Jane waits until they’ve left and then pours herself another glass of wine.

  ‘That is such a blokey thing to do,’ she says. ‘Can you imagine me dragging you upstairs to go through old Cosmos?’ She swallows a mouthful of wine and then adds: ‘At least they’re getting on…’

  I’m not sure how to respond because I would far rather they weren’t getting on. My hushed altercation across the table with Ben has brought that closely enough into focus.

  ‘How’s the car?’ Jane asks.

  ‘They’ve impounded it for some sort of inspection. My solicitor said I might not hear back about it for another week.’

  ‘I meant Andy’s BMW.’

  ‘Oh… His indicator stick is on the other side of the steering wheel, so I keep setting the wipers going when I’m trying to go around a corner – but it’s fine other than that.’

  She holds the glass in front of her face, lowers it and then lifts it again. It feels like she’s mulling over whether to say something. In the end she places the glass on the table.

  ‘Are you still OK for tomorrow?’

  I stare at her blankly, trying to figure out what she means.

  She must see it because she quickly adds: ‘You’re taking Norah in the afternoon…’

  ‘Oh, of course. I thought you meant something else.’

  I’m not fooling anyone. I’d completely forgotten I am supposed to be keeping an eye on Jane’s daughter while she gets a mole removed.

  ‘Take her to the park,’ Jane says. ‘The forecast says it’ll be dry and she loves going there. She’ll want to stroke all the dogs and, before you know it, ninety minutes will have gone past.’

  ‘You’re dropping her off at…?’

  ‘One o’clock. Do you want me to bring her to the studio or your flat?’

  ‘The flat. I’ve got packing to do in the morning anyway.’

  Jane nods along, though my gaze is momentarily drawn towards the baby monitor, panicked that Norah might start crying again and I’ll be asked to go and sort it out as some sort of indoctrination. It wasn’t that long ago that I was telling David I was pregnant – and now it seems incomprehensible that I ever felt ready for that.

  ‘Are you looking forward to the move?’ Jane asks.

  I hesitate, wondering if, perhaps, Andy has returned and is now standing behind me. Under the guise of stooping to scratch my ankle, I check there’s nobody there and then sit up straighter again.

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  ‘I think it’s great that you’re finally moving on,’ she replies.

  ‘From David…?’

  ‘Who else? I’ve been thinking about what I saw in the park earlier and perhaps I was wrong. I was trying to keep an eye on Norah and there was a bit of mist around. I don’t know…’

  I’m not surprised that she might try to backtrack on what she said she saw. It’s natural. We see something we can’t explain and then, in the hours afterwards, we convince ourselves it wasn’t really like that. My problem is that I have a photo to confirm what was there.

  ‘Are you sure you’re fine to look after Norah?’ Jane asks.

  It’s not as if I could say ‘no’ when she first asked, let alone now.

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  She obviously sees it within me. ‘But…?’

  ‘I’m on bail,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not like you did anything, though, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  Thirty-Six

  THE WHY

  Two years, one month ago

  It’s four days since I pushed David’s body into the lake – and it’s only now that a pair of officers are visiting to find out the circumstances around his ‘disappearance’.

  I think it would genuinely concern most people to know how long the police take to respond to cases of missing people. It’s probably cuts and diminishing resources – but there’s also a distinct sense that there isn’t a lot they can do when an adult disappears.

  I’ve been wearing turtle-necks ever since, which is enough to cover my own wound. Aside from that, it had got to the point where I think I’d over-cleaned in the aftermath of what happened. I had swabbed the floors between the kitchen and the front door to the degree that they looked overly sparkling in comparison to the rest of the flat. It smelled too clinical as well, so, after all that cleaning, I had to dirty up the apartment a bit. I trampled in a few footprints and emptied a little dust from the vacuum into the corners around the kitchen appliances. I even left a small Marmite stain on the counter, close to the glued-together Tigger pot. My keys are sitting inside, as they always have.

  I have no idea how I’m supposed to be behaving – whether I should be crying my eyes out, or answering their questions with a blank-eyed, glassy stare. Perhaps I should be full of hope that this is all a misunderstanding and that I’m confident David will return quickly enough? In the end, I figure I’m better offering a bit of everything.

  The officers are on the sofa, both wearing uniforms, one of whom is carrying a notebook. I’m in the chair facing them, my legs curled underneath me.

  ‘The last I heard, he was off on a work trip,’ I say. ‘He takes them often. He buys and sells collectibles and goes to trade fairs all over Europe. He was in Sweden recently – and Estonia.’

  ‘Have you looked for his passport?’ one of the officers ask.

  ‘It’s gone. It was in the drawer next to our bed, but there’s no sign of it. His phone is gone, too. He said he’d be back in a day – but that was two days ago. I’ve not heard from him since.’

  The officer motions towards the window. ‘Did you say that’s his car outside?’

  ‘It is. He said he was getting a taxi to the airport because of the parking fees. I’d gone to work at my studio and, when I got back, he wasn’t here. I assumed he was already on his way.’

  ‘Where was your husband headed?’

  ‘He said Denmark. I assumed Copenhagen – but I’m not sure if he ever specifically said that. I can’t remember.’

  I speak as confidently as I can – but it took me a while to decide upon Denmark as the place where David was apparently going. I was thinking about a place in the UK but then figured it might mean that various British police forces join together. I found a list of collector fairs around Europe and there is one happening in Copenhagen at the moment. I hope they’ll check and put two and two together to make five.

  ‘Was there a reason he was going to Denmark specifically?’

  ‘I assume some sort of fair, or that he was buying or selling from someone specifically. We didn’t talk that much about those sorts of things – he was always going somewhere.’

  That gets a nod and another note on the pad. The officer counts on his fingers and then says: ‘So the last time you saw him was on Monday morning…?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘When did you last hear from him?’

  ‘That morning. He usually texts when he gets to the airport – but not always. I assumed I’d get something when he landed in Denmark but nothing came. I’ll show you my phone.’

  I figure they’d be able to check through the phone company if they really wanted – but I pass him
my phone, where it highlights the messages I sent to David after I’d already killed him.

  Hey. Not heard from you. How are you? How was the flight?

  * * *

  Are you OK? Hoping you get this. I had a good day. Hoping yours was all right.

  * * *

  Can you text or call me? Getting worried.

  On it goes. Message after message sent to a phone I’d already smashed to pieces and dumped in a bin outside the Tesco Express in Kingbridge, along with the remains of David’s burnt passport.

  The officer skims along the screen before handing it back.

  ‘Do you know where he might have stayed in Copenhagen?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘What about the taxi company he used to get to the airport?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. I think he kept the details on his phone – but I don’t know where that is.’

  I can feel my hand starting to shake with the pressure of the lies building up. It’s a lot of front to maintain. I stand abruptly and ask if they’d like some tea. They each say yes, so I cross to the kitchen and find myself standing on the precise spot where David died. It only occurred to me this morning that I don’t know how deep the water is at the lake in Little Bush Woods. There’s a ‘deep water’ sign – but that doesn’t necessarily mean much. I keep thinking his body will appear, despite the bricks.

  There are a few moments of respite as I make three teas and, by the time I get back to the living room area, my nerves have settled.

  The officer asks questions about the length of time we’ve been together and how long we’ve been married. I play up a little ditziness by counting on my fingers and glancing upwards, as if counting the months is an enormous challenge.

  The next question is the one I expected. I’ve been practising the answer in my head, knowing it’s what will matter when it comes to it.

  ‘Has he ever done this before?’ the officer asks.

  I pause for a moment and then: ‘No, well…’ I stare wistfully off towards the window and sigh loudly enough that it can’t be missed. ‘I suppose I caught him out once,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He told me he was going to an event in Newcastle, but my friend, Jane, saw his car at the service station just outside Kingbridge. I went there and he was sitting in the Burger King by himself.’

  The story gets the confusion I hoped for. The officer with the pen stops writing as the other glances sideways.

  ‘Why?’ the officer asks.

  ‘He said it was because his business wasn’t going well at the time. He didn’t want to sit around all day and make it obvious, so he invented the trip. He said he was afraid of losing me…’

  I can see in their faces that they’re hooked. It isn’t simply a missing person now; it’s a person shamed by a failing business who has probably jumped off a cliff somewhere.

  ‘What was your relationship like?’ he asks.

  I leave another gap and throw in a smaller sigh. ‘We only got married six months ago.’ I point him towards the photo at the side of the TV which was taken on the day. All these types of pictures end up looking the same: blokes in suits and brides in white smiling for the camera. Wedding photos can reveal a lot about the bride – simply look to see what the bridesmaids are wearing. If it’s a sensible colour and style, she’s probably sane. Something garishly bright, or hideously poufy, and she’s a divorce waiting to happen. Jane is in something slimming and turquoise that was chosen entirely by her.

  ‘How was the marriage?’ he asks.

  ‘It had been good. We were trying for a baby.’

  The officer with the pen tilts his head ever so slightly and I know I have them. It’s sympathy for the wronged woman whose husband disappears on mysterious trips all the time. He’ll be having an affair, or living a second life. Maybe he’ll show up in five years married to another woman, who knows nothing about me. Cogs are turning. They know something isn’t right – except it’s something not right with David.

  ‘I was happy,’ I say. ‘He was a bit moody sometimes, but I suppose everyone is.’

  ‘Did he drink?’

  ‘Socially. He liked the odd whisky and lager. Sometimes he’d come home with a bottle of wine he’d bought wherever he’d been.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘No. That wasn’t him.’

  ‘Could he be with any friends or family?’

  ‘He’s never really had that many friends that I know of.’ I let that settle and then add: ‘As for family, there’s only his sister. She’s called Yasmine and lives in Kingbridge. I’ve only met her a couple of times. I don’t think they’re in contact that often – but I guess she’ll know better than me. I don’t have her number, so I haven’t called. I don’t know why he’d be at hers, though. The last I heard, she was pregnant.’

  They check the full details of her name and then ask if there’s anything else I can think of. There isn’t – but I give them his laptop, even though I don’t know the password. I also give them his car key and an envelope of documents, including a few innocuous letters from his bank.

  I lead them to the door and they wait on the precipice.

  ‘What happens next?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ll do what we can,’ the officer says. ‘We’ll check his bank records and see if there are any reports of him getting onto a flight out of the UK.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  Her features soften, seeing me as a concerned wife – even though I’m more curious about how long this will drag on.

  ‘I wish I could give you a precise answer,’ she says, ‘but I don’t know. If anything happens, you’ll be the first to know.’

  I watch them head to their car and then pull away. Unless David’s body floats to the surface of the lake, I’m not expecting to hear anything soon. A thought niggles away that I’m not as smart as I think. That a detail will have escaped me somewhere along the line.

  But there’s the fact that I am, apparently, good at this sort of thing. Everyone has their talents. I’m not sure what it says about me, but perhaps mine lie with deception. I suppose the truth of that will be shown by what happens over the next few months. If I get a year or two along the line and things have gone quiet, then that will be that.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I say – and then I turn and walk back into the flat.

  Thirty-Seven

  THE NOW

  Thursday

  The world swims into focus as I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Whoever decided that people should sleep together – literally sleep – was an idiot. There’s so much more space and freedom when a person has a bed to themselves. I starfish my arms and legs wide and close my eyes again, breathing in the morning. I’m in my bed, in my apartment. The idea that I decided to share this with David seems so outlandish that I sometimes have to remind myself that it happened.

  And now I am giving it up again… this time for Andy. Except that this is different. I know what I’m letting myself in for this time – and Andy isn’t David.

  It’s a few minutes after nine, so I yawn myself into a sitting position, before padding into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. I check the front door, though it’s still on the latch. There have been no more mysterious texts, or possible sightings of David. If Mr Patrick is correct about the police, then they can’t be far away from concluding that there’s no proof I was driving my car, which means that should be finished with.

  Is this it?

  Thirty-six hours of mystery, suspicious police, and now everything goes back to normal? Perhaps the past can finally go back to being the past.

  I return to bed for half an hour and sip the coffee while skimming through the emails on my phone. I answer a call from Jess at the studio, who’s querying something about the rota, and then get on with the job of packing.

  David’s things are long gone. I went for a long drive and left his clothes with a charity shop. I could have taken them to one more locally, but it would
have been too strange to see someone local wandering around in something David owned. It also might have aroused suspicion if I was seen dropping off his things when he was supposedly only missing.

  Everything else was either taken to the tip, or sold – including his car. The police returned me the keys and it sat outside the flat for almost a year until I was sick of the sight of it.

  I find myself flicking through old fitness magazines, wondering why I ever kept them. I think part of it was being with David and somehow believing that one person’s junk was another’s treasure. It doesn’t matter now, because I end up putting more of my things into bin bags than I do the boxes that I will be taking to Andy’s. Some people are apparently addicted to the endorphins that come from buying things, but I think there’s something equally intoxicating about heading to the tip with a carful of junk, while wondering why it was ever bought in the first place.

  It’s less than half an hour until I’ve packed enough rubbish bags to fill my car. I head outside and only then remember that I have Andy’s BMW. I dump everything into the back and then go for a drive out to the tip.

  When I get there, some burly bloke offers to help and everything is dispatched with maximum prejudice. Apart from the magazines that will go off to be recycled, the man reckons everything else will be in landfill by the weekend. How easy it is to shed an old life.

  Back at the flat, I struggle to reverse-park Andy’s BMW into the space. The car is needlessly big and the mirrors seem to move themselves. I’m never convinced that I’m in control. It takes me three attempts and then I figure it’s close enough.

  I spot the package straight away.

  It’s sitting on my step, neatly wrapped in brown paper and thirty or forty centimetres square. When I reach it, I see the rectangle of white paper that’s been taped to the front. ‘Morgan’ is printed in capital letters and sans serif font, with no last name. I pick up the box and it’s surprisingly light. There’s no rattle from inside.