Before the pregnancy…
There was a row of shops just past the Imperial War Museum: a Turkish grocer’s, a paper shop, and a small supermarket. As Holland pulled over to the curb, he began to ache with the realization that it was getting hard to remember what things were like before Sophie became pregnant.
The good things, anyway.
It never took him very long to get ready.
He didn’t dress up in anything special. There were no pointless rituals, no periods of intense mental preparation, none of that rubbish. He thought about what he was doing, of course he did. He was sensible, he went over it all, but that took no more time than it did to pack his bag.
There wasn’t very much to carry. Nothing that wouldn’t fit into a small rucksack. Previously, with the ones in the hotel rooms, he’d taken something bigger, a bag he could stuff the sheets and bedclothes into. That wouldn’t be necessary this time.
The gloves, the hood, the weapons…
He’d already sharpened the knife, then used it to cut off a length from the reel of washing line. He coiled it up and stuffed it into a pocket at the front of the black leather backpack.
It was funny, the things people carried around with them in bags. Who knew what secrets, what glimpses into people’s lives, might come tumbling out if you could empty their backpacks and briefcases, their plastic sports bags and canvas holdalls? For sure, you’d need to sift through a mountain of files and folders, of newspapers and sandwiches in plastic wrap, before you found anything of interest. A ransom note or a blackmail demand. Perhaps the odd dirty mag or pair of handcuffs. Then, if you were lucky, you might find the one bag in ten thousand or a thousand or less that contained a gun or a bloodstained hammer or a severed finger…
You’d almost certainly be surprised if it was a woman’s handbag.
He smiled as the last thing went in, and he fastened the strap. Anybody rooting through the bag he was packing would probably just be very embarrassed.
Thorne stood staring at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his wardrobe door. He was trying to decide whether to stick with the plain white shirt or go back to the blue denim when the doorbell made his mind up for him.
On the way to the door, he nudged the volume of the music down just a little. He’d decided, after much soul-searching, that George Jones would suit any mood that might be required. He had some of the quirky fifties songs lined up for now, but was ready to bring out the Billy Sherill stuff from two decades later when the time came. There was surely no more romantic song ever recorded than “He Stopped Loving Her Today”…
Eve marched into the center of the room, cast a quick eye over the place, then over Thorne. “You look very summery,” she said.
She was wearing a simple brown cotton dress that buttoned up the front. “So do you,” Thorne said. He looked down at his white shirt. “I thought about wearing a tie…”
She took a step toward him. “God, we’re not going anywhere posh, are we?”
“No…”
“Good. I like the shirt open-necked anyway…”
They kissed, their hands growing busier with every few seconds that passed. As Thorne’s fingers engaged with the second button on her dress, Eve broke off and stepped away, smiling. “Now, I don’t necessarily think that wild gymnastic shagging on a full stomach is a good idea,” she said. “But I could eat something, and I’d definitely like a drink…”
Thorne laughed. “Right, is it a bit warm to eat curry?”
“Curry’s good anytime.”
“There’s a fantastic Indian round the corner.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Or there’s any number of great places in Islington or Camden. Loads of nice restaurants in Crouch End. You haven’t been in my new car yet…”
Eve walked across to the window, fastening her buttons. “Let’s go local. It won’t be fair if only one of us has had a drink.”
“No argument from me. Let me grab a jacket…”
“Don’t bother, we’re not going anywhere just yet.”
“No?”
Eve turned from the window, raising her hands to adjust the clips in her hair. Her breasts pushed against the front of her dress, and Thorne could see the redness where she’d shaved under her arms. “I’ve got something in the van,” she said. “I’ll need a hand bringing it in.”
It wasn’t until Holland looked at the clock on the dash that he realized it had been ten minutes since he’d pulled up outside the flat.
It was just after seven o’clock.
Ten minutes and more of sitting, clutching the plastic bag with the wine inside it, unable to get out of the car.
It was a few minutes after that, when Holland stared, confused for a moment at the small dark patches appearing on his trousers, and realized that he was crying. He lifted his head and squeezed his eyes shut, the next breath a sigh that caught in his throat and became a sob.
Then a series of them, like punches to the heart.
For want of anything else, he wrapped his forearms around the bag, the wine bottle between his face and the steering wheel as his head dropped slowly forward. He felt the pressure of the bottle through the bag, cold against his cheek, and then, within a few minutes, the bag began to grow warm and slippery with tears, each desperate gasp between sobs sucking the clammy plastic into his mouth…
Like the puking wretch he’d been seven days before, Holland could do nothing but let it come and wait for it to finish.
He cried for himself, and for Sophie, and for the child that would be theirs in five weeks. He wept, guilty and sorry and stupid and scared. The tears whose sting was sharpest, though, that were squeezed out faster and bigger than most, were those he shed in anger at the spineless, selfish bastard he knew he had become.
When it was over, Holland lifted his sticky face up just enough to slide a sleeve across it, like a child. He sat, sniffing and staring up at the flat. Before, a general confusion and some pathetic, nameless fear had been twin hands pressing him down into his seat, preventing him from going inside. Now, although there was nothing vague about the shame he was feeling, like a welt across his gut, it was equally effective.
He couldn’t go inside, not yet.
Holland looked down at his briefcase in the passenger footwell. He knew that even if he took work upstairs, tried to get straight into it, the first smile from Sophie would be enough to set him off again.
Maybe he could just drive around…
He reached down and grabbed the case, rummaged inside until he found the sheet of paper he was looking for. He cleared his throat as he took out his phone and dialed the number. Even so, when it was answered, the first word or two he spoke sounded choked and heavy.
“Mrs. Noble, it’s Dave Holland here again. I know it’s an odd time, but I was wondering if now might be a good time to pop over and pick up those photos…?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Holland made it to Romford in a notch under forty minutes, and stepped out of the car to find Irene Noble waiting on her doorstep. She marched down the path toward him. “You did that pretty quickly. It usually comes down to the traffic in the Blackwall Tunnel. This is probably the best time, actually…”
She was wearing a cream trouser suit and full makeup. Holland saw her glance toward the houses on either side. He guessed that she was hoping to see the twitch of a net curtain, a sign that one of the neighbors might be watching the young man walking toward her door.
“It was fairly easy,” Holland said. “There wasn’t much traffic at all…”
He followed her inside, where he was enthusiastically greeted by a small off-white dog. Its fur was matted and smelly, but Holland tried his best to make a fuss of it as it yapped and licked and scrabbled at his shins.
Mrs. Noble shooed the dog into the kitchen. “Candy’s getting old now,” she said. “Actually, she was Roger’s dog, once upon a time. She was still only a puppy when he passed away.”
Holland smiled sympath
etically as they stepped through into the living room. A blue three-piece suite sat on a carpet of pink and purple swirls, and a glass-topped coffee table stood square on to the fireplace. A squashed corduroy cushion, covered in tufts of white dog hair, was the only thing in the room that didn’t look spotless.
Holland took a step toward a beechwood cabinet that ran along the back wall. Its doors were mirrored, and its top covered in framed photographs of children.
Mrs. Noble walked across and picked up a picture. “Mark and Sarah aren’t here,” she said. “I couldn’t bear looking at them and not knowing. I put them away once I felt sure they weren’t coming back. Put them away and bloody well forgot where.” She must have seen concern pass across Holland’s face and reached out a hand to touch his arm. “Don’t worry, you haven’t had a wasted journey. I finally found pictures of them tucked away inside our old wedding album…”
Holland nodded his understanding. She turned the photo she was holding so that he could see the picture. “David’s a stockbroker, doing really well.” She put the frame back and began pointing to others. “Susan’s a nurse up at the Royal Free, Gary went into the army and now he’s training to become a printer, Claire’s about to have her third baby…”
“There’s a lot of them,” Holland said.
“We fostered long-term mostly, which was the way I wanted it. I couldn’t stand to see them go, you know, just when they were starting to belong. Still, we had more than twenty kids, before and after Mark and Sarah. I know what most of them are doing…”
She smiled sadly, not needing to say any more. Holland smiled back, thinking of those twenty other kids, and the man who was once their foster father, and wondering…
“I didn’t know whether you’d have eaten,” she said. “So after you phoned I took a lasagne out of the freezer. It won’t be five minutes…”
“Oh, right…”
“I presume you can have a drink?”
In spite of what he’d previously thought of her, Holland was suddenly filled with something like affection for this woman. He thought about all the children she’d lost in one way or another, and her simple belief in a man whose heart was too full of darkness to go on beating any longer. He felt comfortable…
“Let’s both have a drink,” he said. “I’ve got a nice bottle of wine in the car.”
“You have to let me pay you for the mattress,” Thorne said.
“It’s fine, really. You can get dinner…”
“How much was it?”
“It’s a late birthday present,” Eve said. “To replace the first one.” She smiled. “I don’t remember seeing the plant anywhere at the flat, so I presume you’ve managed to kill it.”
“Oh, right. I was going to tell you about that,” Thorne said.
A waiter brought over their wine, and at the same time the manager came across to the table and laid down a platter of poppadoms. “On the house,” he said. He put a hand on Thorne’s shoulder and winked at Eve. “One of my very best customers,” he said. “But tonight is the first time he has been here with a young lady…”
When the manager had moved away, Eve poured herself and Thorne a large glass of wine each. “I’m not sure how to take that,” she said. “Does he mean that you normally come here with young men?”
Thorne nodded, guiltily. “That was another thing I was going to tell you…”
She laughed. “So you come in here on your own a lot, then?”
“Not a lot.” He nodded toward the manager. “He’s talking about the number of takeaways…”
“I’ve got this image of you now, sitting in here on your own like Billy No-Mates, eating chicken tikka massala…”
“Hang on.” Thorne tried to look hurt. “I do have one or two friends.”
Eve chopped the pile of poppadoms into pieces. She picked up a big bit, ladled onions and chutney onto it. “Tell me about them. What do they do?”
Thorne shrugged. “They’re all connected to work in one way or another, I suppose.” He reached for a piece of poppadom, took a bite. “Phil’s a pathologist…”
She nodded, like it meant something.
“What?” Thorne said.
“You never really switch off, do you?”
“Actually, me and Phil talk about football most of the time…”
“Seriously.”
Thorne took a gulp of wine, feeling it swill the bits from the surface of his teeth, thinking about what Eve was saying. “I don’t believe that anybody ever leaves what they do behind completely,” he said. “We all talk shop, don’t we? Everyone gets…reminded of things.” She stared back at him, rubbing the rim of her wineglass across her chin. “Come on, if you’re out somewhere and you see some amazing display of flowers…”
“Flowers aren’t bodies, are they?”
Thorne was disturbed to feel himself growing slightly irritated. He fought to keep it out of his voice as he picked up the bottle and topped up both their glasses. “Well, some people might say that they’re dying from the moment they’re picked.”
Eve nodded slowly. “Everything’s dying,” she said. “What’s the bloody point of anything at all? We may as well just ask the waiter to put ground glass in the biryani.”
Thorne looked at her, saw her eyes widen and the corners of her mouth begin to twitch. They began to laugh at almost the same moment.
“I never know when you’re winding me up,” he said.
She slid her hand across the table, took hold of his. “Can you leave it behind just for a while, Tom?” she said. “Tonight I want you to switch off…”
“Kids are a bloody handful,” Irene Noble said. “They change things beyond all recognition.” She stared across at Holland. “But you’ll still be glad you did it…”
Holland had supposed that if they talked at all, they might well talk about kids. He never imagined that they might end up talking about his.
“I just feel so guilty,” he said. “For resenting what might happen to me. For even thinking about walking away from it.”
“You’ll feel stuff that’s a whole lot stranger and more painful than that. You’ll feel like you would die for them and the next minute you’d happily murder them. You’ll worry about where they are and then you’ll wish you could have a second to yourself. Every emotion is unconditional…”
“You’re talking about afterward, when the baby’s there. What about feeling like this now?”
“It’s normal. It’s not just the woman’s emotions that get messed around with. Mind you, you can’t use hormones as an excuse…”
Holland laughed, the two glasses of wine he’d put away helping him to feel relaxed. An hour or so earlier, he’d felt far less sure of himself. He’d thought, when they’d started to eat and he’d suddenly begun pouring it all out, that there might be more waterworks on the way, but Irene had helped him stay calm, convinced him that everything would work out for the best…
“I’ll take these out.” She stood up, lifting the tray from the empty seat on the sofa next to her.
Holland passed over his empty plate. “Thanks, that was great.” He was talking about more than just a lasagne that had been cold in the middle.
He sat back down and listened as she pottered around in the kitchen. He could hear her talking softly to the dog, loading the dishes into the dishwasher.
It had been a conversation that Holland would never have had with his mother. Irene Noble, give or take a year or two, was the same age as his mother—a woman who’d been buying baby clothes for the last six months. A woman who refused to admit that anything could go wrong ever, and remained blissfully unaware that things were less than hunky-dory between her eldest son and his pregnant girlfriend.
Irene came back in brandishing choc-ices. “I always keep a stock of these in the freezer. Bloody marvelous in this weather…”
For a minute they said nothing. They sat and ate their ice creams, and listened to the noise of the dog’s claws skittering across the linoleum as she scr
abbled about in the kitchen.
As Irene Noble started to speak, pulling her feet up onto the sofa like a teenager, Holland watched her face shift and settle until every one of her years was clearly visible on it.
“Whatever problems you have, I hope you work them out together, all three of you. But they won’t be in the same league as some of the things that kids have brought with them through my front door. You pass them on, you know. Hand them down, like baldness or diabetes or the color of your eyes…”
“You’re talking about Mark and Sarah…”
“The other day I was very harsh about the two sets of carers who had the children before we did. About their inability to cope. The truth is that we weren’t really coping any better than they had.”
“You adopted them.”
“I think it was our last effort at making them feel part of something bigger. Two parents and two children. We wanted them to come out of themselves, to engage with the rest of the world a bit more.”
“It’s understandable, though,” Holland said. “That they’d be tight-knit. That the two of them would be very close, after what happened.” He looked away from her, down to the floor, thinking, And what was still happening…
“They were too close,” she said. “That was the problem. When they disappeared, Sarah was pregnant, and the baby she was carrying was Mark’s.”
TWENTY-NINE
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