There’s a whisper in her ear. ‘Mel!’ So he has noticed.
She hisses back to Sam, ‘He’s staring at me,’ and watches him roll his eyes.
She first caught sight of the man emerging into the waiting area with a woman. Mel assumed she was a police officer though she was dressed in plain clothes, with hair tightly cropped around her face.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ she said to the man. Was he drunk? He was trying to stand still but his body wasn’t obeying, it was swaying. One hand planted in his pocket, the other rubbing his temples.
‘OK.’ That was all he said before he turned towards the door and brought his eyes to settle on her. They haven’t left her since. Melody has the impression he’s trapped in a bubble that controls the speed of his movement. He floats through the space between them.
Sam nudges her with his elbow. She remembers there is a woman in front of her who has proffered her hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Victoria Rutter. I really appreciate you coming, Melody.’
The man is almost next to her when DI Rutter says this. So close she’s aware of his body giving a little jolt, like a charge of electricity has shot through him. His foot stops, suspended in mid air, and in slow motion he turns to her again, this time without narrowing his eyes. Whatever has happened he manages to bring her into focus.
There’s a contraction in his face muscles, the beginning of a smile, perhaps. But then just as quickly it fades and turns into something else. What? Is he going to cry? She can’t put her finger on it. Sadness. She’d say he looks sad. Washed out like he’s been through the wringer. The automatic doors open, a fug of air from the street hits her. He walks out, disappearing into the crowd.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Sam shakes the DI’s hand. Is he really pleased? She thinks not. Even someone with Sam’s relentless optimism (bordering on the aggressive, Melody would say) can’t be overjoyed to be here. For starters it reeks of fetid bodies and cheese and onion crisps and general decay, and the walls, the colour of stewed tea, are adorned with posters: Terrorism, if you suspect it report it, and her particular favourite, a drive to recruit volunteers: Are You Special?
Then there’s the matter of Sam taking a day off work, the fact of which he hasn’t mentioned yet though she’s seen it hovering on his lips a few times. ‘Don’t drive so fast, you’re making me nervous.’ Do you know the sacrifice I have made to be here? That’s what he’d like to say but he reins it back. His task today is to be supportive, put an arm around her shoulder, squeeze her hand occasionally and strike the right tone, encouraging but also understanding. This against the backdrop of knowing that the Royal Surrey County Hospital will be a man down, and not just any man, but Sam Chapman, who is like ten men.
Still he shakes the DI’s hand like he means it, but then he’s always been an enthusiastic shaker of hands. She attributes this to his public school education. Never give a limp handshake, it tells you a lot about a man, he told her once, though precisely what it told you he never revealed. DI Rutter’s eyes screw up a little, the point at which Melody knows her metacarpal bones are grinding together under Sam’s grip.
DI Rutter explains a number of things before she asks Melody to talk about whatever she can remember, in any order: sights, smells, sounds, whatever comes to mind. Don’t edit anything out, however small. You may not think it is important but it could be.
First, though, there’s the preamble, the warm-up. She retreads the ground that Polly went over. Body, tick. Park, tick. Strangled, tick tick tick.
These are the connections.
There are more.
DI Rutter passes her a photograph of a gold birdcage necklace, found in Eve Elliot’s palm. She allows her time to inspect the image. ‘We’ve checked it, Melody, it’s identical to the one you were holding when you were found.’
Then the words: ‘If you are OK, Melody, I can start the tape.’
She glances down at the evil red eye of the record button.
The facts:
It was six years ago. Friday 17 August 2007. If she said she was late finishing work it would suggest she habitually left at a reasonable time, say 6 p.m., but this wasn’t true so perhaps she wasn’t late at all. Perhaps it was just like every other day at Fin Communications. Never-ending. It was a huge office, although it was frowned upon to call it an office. On each level were ‘central creative spaces’ where staff collaborated (worked) at stations (desks). These were minimalist in character, lacked any form of soft furnishings or sound insulation. The constant buzz of phones ringing, colleagues talking, joking, even the overenthusiastic touch-typing of a nearby colleague were all amplified. Acoustically, it was a challenging place to work. Around the central space was a cluster of rooms each with a different name and interior. On the morning of 17 August Melody blue-skied (brainstormed) a new project for a kids’ fruit snack in the Thought Pod, where the chairs were actually not chairs at all but space hoppers. The idea was that bouncing stimulated creativity. In reality the compression of air from the hoppers made it sound like everyone present was emitting a collective fart. As far as Melody was aware, no one came up with a single creative or original idea.
By 6.30, Melody (and people still called her Melody at this time) had retreated to the Womb, not because she particularly liked the red padded walls but because she couldn’t hear herself think anywhere else. She had one final conversation to appease a client who had started the day threatening to pull the account after a rival software company had appeared in the Telegraph. She promised them that there would be much stronger coverage, hoping they didn’t notice she hadn’t volunteered any details.
As she was tidying her desk before she left for the evening, her friend Sandeep passed by to ask if she was going up to the roof for a drink. It was a chill-out zone with squashy seats, a bar and swings (swings!) because the American owners of Fin Comms wanted you to feel like this was your whole world and you never had to leave. But Melody wanted to smell air that had not been scented with banana or vanilla or whatever the scent of the day was. She wanted to take a deep gulp of London smog, bus fumes, fat frying, pizza, waffles. She wanted to see colours that weren’t primary colours or shades dreamt up by interior designers on astronomical fees. In short, she had had enough. She wanted to leave. Her departing thought was that she wouldn’t care if she didn’t come back. Ever.
Lesson one: be careful what you wish for.
Taking the Tube, she got off at Shepherd’s Bush and walked up Uxbridge Road, where Patrick was waiting in a pub with a group of friends. In mid August, at least in this part of town, families evacuated London, headed to Cornwall in their four-wheel drives or on easyJet to Puglia (the new Tuscany) or Sardinia or France. Those who were left behind were either young or skint, often both. But there were benefits to be had. The city loosened its tie and kicked off its shoes, and on rare warm days it could be found lying on the grass eating strawberries, drinking wine. Come evening, it migrated to beer gardens for cocktails or chilled bottles of rosé, which was exactly what Melody had in mind today.
Sometimes, in the heat and the rounds of after-work summer drinks, the city forgot to eat.
Lesson two: never drink wine on an empty stomach.
She peered around the back door, saw Patrick sitting with the others, five or six of them, Rory, Talia, mainly his friends but ones she had come to know well over the years. She hadn’t heard from Sam and Honor, didn’t know what they were up to, quashed the urge to pump Patrick for information immediately. She’d bide her time. Instead she waited at the bar, ordered a bottle of rosé, asked for a few glasses so it didn’t look like she intended to drink it all herself and went outside to join them.
Patrick saw her and pulled a chair from a neighbouring table over to theirs so she could sit down next to him. She poured two glasses of wine and handed him one, but he shook his head, pointed to the glass of Coke in front of him. ‘On call,’ he said.
‘Weren’t you on call last weekend?’
‘Yup.’ He nodded.
‘Everyone else has pissed off to Tuscany with their kids.’
She tasted the wine. It was a Côtes de Provence, strawberry and peach, chilled; she could pickle herself in the stuff in the summer months. After the day she had had at work, she felt a degree of pickling was in order. The first glass disappeared quickly, always did. At some point she checked her phone, willing it to display a message, tucking it into the pocket of her jacket so she would feel it buzz if one came through.
‘Anyone else coming tonight?’ The words were out before she had time to check them.
‘Not sure,’ he said, watching her refill her glass. ‘You’re making me jealous.’
‘I’d love to drink Coke with you in sympathy but after the week I’ve had …’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Want to talk?’ she asked. Patrick hadn’t been in the best mood of late, though she knew he worked hard to cover it up. It must have been something to do with work, she imagined. Maybe he had given the wrong dose of drugs to a patient. When she’d raised the subject, delicately, in a way that wouldn’t make him think she was being nosy he’d brushed it off. Tiredness, or stress, or I’m fine, that was all she got.
By the time she had finished her second glass it was apparent they were working on different conversational planes. She didn’t mind him not drinking per se. She understood that when he was on call or training for some extreme sport event he couldn’t consume a bottle of wine. It just wasn’t much fun, and, maybe it was her imagination, but she always detected an air of superiority that came with the abstinence. She swore it wasn’t her who became more inebriated but Patrick who grew more sober. She slunk back in her chair, watched him watching the others, cracking a smile only occasionally.
When he was in one of these moods it was best to give him a wide berth. She moved around the table to chat to Rory, a mutual friend. He had started up a new digital advertising agency and was talking about ROI and reach and engagement and content. She had enough of that at work. She gave it five minutes, asked a few pertinent questions, before going to the toilet.
When she returned, she found Patrick again. And Honor. Melody hadn’t known she was coming but she was glad to see her, even more so when she helped herself to the bottle of rosé. Where was Sam? Melody inquired. Honor shrugged. ‘At home, maybe. I don’t know,’ she said and took a gulp of wine.
‘Anyone fancy a barbecue on Sunday?’ Patrick asked. ‘It’ll probably be pissing down by then but we could risk it.’
‘Maybe,’ Honor said. ‘I might be away …’
‘Where are you going?’ Melody asked but Honor had only shrugged again.
Still, they drank and talked and laughed. Even Honor was unusually voluble that night and it wasn’t down to the wine either. She had stopped at one glass, much to Melody’s disappointment. ‘Sorry, I came straight from work, the car is round the corner,’ she’d said. Patrick had thawed out too. Whatever was bothering him before had worked its way out of his system. She was used to this, the dips and curves in his mood, having become attuned to them over the twelve years of their friendship. From her very first day at university Patrick had been there, his room next to hers in halls, toasting bread and sharing cheap bottles of wine at night. On one occasion, returning from a student night called Time Tunnel with Blondie and Culture Club and Abba still ringing in their ears, they had shared a spliff and had actually kissed. A drunken, slobbery snog. She remembered him leaning in towards her and thinking, Well, why not? It makes a change from burning toast or trawling the room for chocolate. There had been a series of these encounters that punctuated university life, but they didn’t amount to anything more than a kiss that she recalled with a joke and an apology the next day. Patrick was a mate; more like a brother in fact. And she couldn’t fancy her brother.
The thought of drunken snogs with Patrick was still present in her mind when she noticed the bottle in front of her swaying, as if it was made of fabric not glass and could catch the breeze. Her head was full of candy floss. She poured herself a glass of water from the jug on the table with the vain hope that it might dilute the alcohol. She’d been happy to hear Honor so upbeat and chatty but now she wanted her to stop. She needed some peace and quiet. The conversation spun around her, darted in and out, new subjects introduced, different speakers. Who was talking now? Why did she feel like she was operating at a different speed to everyone else? It was dark; overhead a canopy of lights twinkled, candles on tables sent fingers of light upwards. She needed air but she was outside already.
‘Are you OK?’ Patrick asked.
A noise came out, something like ‘Uh hmm’. She peeled her jacket from the back of the chair, took her bag.
‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ She slipped through gaps between seats and tables to make her way to the toilet. She needed a pee. Yes, that was what she needed. In the cubicle she began to hover. Just this once, she thought, I’d love to sit down, because she was unsure her legs would hold the weight of her body in the squatting position. She cursed her mother for telling her never to sit on public toilets. There is a whole proliferation of germs, Melody, millions and millions of them. NEVER DO IT. She hovered. When she had finished, she noticed splashes of her own wee on the seat where she had been unsteady. She gave it a wipe with toilet roll before exiting the cubicle to wash her hands.
The soap foamed in her palms, tiny bubbles evaporating. There was a sign that said CAREFUL EXTREMELY HOT WATER and she wondered what she was supposed to do with this information. Not use the hot tap at all? She decided to risk it, watched tiny pearls of water bouncing off her hands. When she was done, she opted to dry her hands with a paper towel. The mirror filled the wall in front of her; it was impossible not to examine herself in the way women sometimes do, running her finger under her eyes, across her cheek. Is this really how I look or is it a bad light? (Let it be the bad light.) She toyed with the notion of applying more make-up. Rooted around but could only find a red lipstick orphaned from its lid and covered in the sediment that collected at the bottom of her bag. She decided against it. It’s not like he’s here, she reasoned. It’s only Patrick and Honor.
Then what?
Did she check her phone?
She left immediately after this, dipped her head around the door that led to the garden and shouted, louder than necessary, ‘I’m going home.’ Patrick had his phone in his hand, texting perhaps. ‘Do you want a lift?’
‘S’fine, I need some air.’
‘But I’m going soon anyway,’ Honor shouted above the noise.
‘Sorry.’
Outside, her movements were slow, the traffic zipped around her. She attempted extra large strides to create a momentum in her walk, slapped her face to wake herself and bring the path ahead of her into focus. She continued down Uxbridge Road, peering into the road. What was she looking for? A taxi? She couldn’t see any. Maybe all the cab drivers had gone to Puglia too. All she saw were coloured shapes flashing past leaving light trails in her vision. Why would she have needed a cab anyway? She only lived three streets away.
She wasn’t going home, that was why.
It was the only feasible explanation.
What can she remember? That the night smelled of Spanish holidays, a potent combination of hot food and heat. She closed her eyes, let herself think she was on holiday, her body starfished on the sea, drifting out from the shore. The blare of a horn pierced the dream. She swayed back from the road. The Uxbridge Road was a long way from Spain.
What was she feeling? What was she thinking? A purpose propelled her forward and yet she had the sense that wherever she was headed was too far away, that her body was working against her. Weightlessness. She found it hard to plant her steps on the pavement, keep straight on the path, like an astronaut bobbing about in zero gravity.
What was her purpose? Perhaps she was hungry, heading towards the Tesco Metro to pick up a pizza? Well yes, that would have been a possibility were it not for the fact that the street was littered with so many takeaway out
lets; Lebanese, Chinese, Indian, Turkish takeaways all came before the Tesco Metro. She wouldn’t have bypassed them all for a frozen pizza.
Was she walking to meet someone? Had she arranged to meet David Alden? To go to the club with him?
She recalls a conversation about the club, an email exchange but nothing more.
Was there anyone else she might have been meeting?
She pauses to replay the question. At one stage, not long after she emerged from the coma, it was the only question in her head, occupying so much space it squeezed out all other thoughts. Who? She knew who, or at least she knew there was only one person she would walk down Uxbridge Road late at night to see. But even in her groggy, confused state she sensed there was a reason she couldn’t say his name. And when she became more lucid and the drugs wore off, she was glad she hadn’t mentioned it, because on analysis it didn’t stack up. He had an alibi. There was no message sent to her phone, no email arranging that particular rendezvous.
‘Anyone at all?’ DI Rutter asks again.
Mel pauses. Victoria Rutter’s eyes have locked on to hers, willing her to remember. She casts a glance at Sam. He has been staring at her too. Now he takes her hand underneath the table and squeezes it.
‘Is anything coming back to you, Mel?’ he says. She watches his lips move as he speaks, pink and rubbery. The flash of his front teeth, yellowing incisors. You need to cut back on the coffee, she thinks.
The doctors warned her the trauma would play havoc with her recall. Memories that had been arranged in strict chronology were jumbled up, so for instance she remembered a business lunch at the Oxo Tower on the day of the attack, but when police checked her diary it was two weeks before. Her instincts could not be trusted.
She pulls her hand away from Sam’s. ‘No,’ she says sharply. Then, modulating her tone, she adds, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. Do you want to take a break?’
The Life I Left Behind Page 9