He says it’s off, Mick says wearily.
Hold on. I try to adjust my arm around Livvy so I can take the spoon from Nat. I can’t just smell it.
I taste it. It’s slightly fizzy.
It’s way past its sell-by, Nat says. Admit it. He wants to poison me or something.
Nat goes and the door bangs. The room is quiet again. Alex starts to roll a joint.
So. Al went to Halesworth, Mick says.
Oh, I say, realising I’ve forgotten all about Lennie, the funeral. Oh my God—and?
And they haven’t released the body yet.
Alex says it in a blank voice, blank and triumphant.
No? I say. But surely—?
Tomorrow morning. Or that’s what they’re saying now, he says.
Can you believe it? Mick says.
But I thought it was supposed to be today?
It was, Alex says, but there was a cock-up. So tomorrow it will have to be.
Soon after Alex has gone, Jordan appears in the doorway, one hand sliding up the doorframe, the other delving down inside his pyjama bottoms.
Go to bed, says Mick. Straightaway Jordan looks at me.
You heard, I tell him without looking at Mick.
But he doesn’t move, just gazes at me, eyes shiny with exhaustion. He’s at the age when kids look old enough during the daylight hours, but then go back to being little all over again at night.
I sigh.
You want me to take you up? I ask him.
Yes, Jordan says and carries on looking at me steadily.
Mick makes an exasperated noise.
Well, of course, he says. I mean if you offer him that—
You’re a hard man, I say to Mick. I say it half joking but the voice I use is not very jokey.
He looks at me as I clear the plates off the table and put them by the sink.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Nothing, I say. Come on, boy.
On the stairs, I prod at Jordan’s small hard bottom till he giggles and collapses back against me. Relieved, I breathe in his warmth and his bed-smell.
At the doorway to his room, he yelps.
What?
Ouch-y. I stepped on Lego, he says.
Shouldn’t leave it lying around, then.
I didn’t. It was Rosa.
I put him in bed and he immediately tugs the duvet up to his chin. As I kiss the bridge of his small nose, he reaches out for a handful of my hair. Holds it.
Where were you today? he says.
Oh, nowhere much. I had to see Maggie and a couple of other people. Just jobs and things. Why, what did you do?
I got worried, he says, yawning.
But why? Didn’t Daddy say where I was?
He did but I was still worried.
Why, darling?
He says nothing. Just looks at me and his mouth stretches down at the corners like it does when he’s going to cry.
What, darling?
His mouth stays down. I stroke his face—slide the palm of my hand all over it, feeling all the curves and dips and softnesses. He shuts his eyes. A tear squeezes down the side.
You weren’t here, he says.
I’m here now, I tell him.
He gives a little sob.
I was worried, he says again.
Worried about what?
That something might happen.
Oh Jordan—
He sobs again.
Nothing’s going to happen, I say, kissing his face. And I’m not going anywhere.
He says nothing.
OK, sweetie?
He blinks.
OK?
I might have to tickle you, I tell him. If you’re not going to answer me, I might just have to do it.
And I do and I feel the wriggle of him, crazy beneath my fingers. I drink in his toothpaste-and-saliva breath. But in the end I stop, because he’s just not laughing. Or at least, he is, but not quite enough.
Downstairs, Mick is sitting with the last of the wine. Fletcher is asleep at his feet. Mick has his shoes off and his feet are stretched out in their thick woollen socks. One of the dog’s front paws twitches ever so slightly.
OK? Mick says.
He’s just overtired.
I knew you’d take him up.
You think I shouldn’t?
It’s getting into a habit with him, that’s all.
I shrug.
I just felt bad, I say. At being out so long today.
What do you mean? he says, staring at me. You’re allowed to go out.
Yes, I say, but for so long.
I don’t look at him. I don’t know what I’m trying to tell him—whether I’m trying to tell him anything. The more I try to tell the truth, the more it feels like a lie. He sighs and pulls out a chair, puts his feet up on it.
I told you. You’re a free agent, Tess. Please don’t make me into this person who always wants you home. It’s not fair.
Yes, I say, but the baby—
She was OK. And as you say, we could start her on some formula.
He twizzles his wine glass round and round on the table.
Friday, he says at last, is going to be difficult.
Yes, I say, I know.
He stops turning the glass, finishes the last mouthful of wine.
And after Friday, he says, I’m not sure exactly how life is going to be either.
I sit down.
How do you mean?
He looks me in the eye.
I mean us, Tess. Our family. You and me.
He runs his hands through his hair. It’s getting long again—even though he always has it cut extra short, in a style I hate, just to save money. He has good hair. I watch as the thick, gold band of his wedding ring runs through all that hair.
I shiver, listening to the wind. Pull my cardigan round my shoulders.
I’m sorry, I say, I’m tired. And I don’t know what you mean and I don’t know what to say.
He looks at me.
It’s just—I’ve run out of energy for saying things, I tell him.
Anyone would look at this family, he says quietly, and think we were happy.
I shut my eyes.
That’s a weird thing to say.
Is it? he says.
You know it is. We’re happy, aren’t we?
You tell me, he says and he sounds almost angry. You tell me, Tess—do you like this? How is it for you? Are we?
I sit there and I can’t speak. Panic shifts things around in my chest.
We’ve all been having a terrible time, Mick, I say. It’s no one’s fault.
I hear myself and think I sound like Lacey.
This goes beyond that, he says.
Does it?
I think so.
He hesitates.
If you want me to be different, he says, if you want me to change, you have to say how.
Yes, I say.
Yes what?
Just yes, I’m listening.
He stops a moment.
But you have to give me a clue, he says. Otherwise it’s just not fair. The odds are just too stacked against me. Do you see that?
I nod.
I’m going to think about going back to work, he says then. The paper would have me. We could come to an arrangement. I talked to Blake.
You did?
Mick nods.
Today. I called him.
You want to do that? I ask him.
Maybe, he says. Maybe I have no choice.
What do you mean, no choice?
He’s silent.
We’re managing, I tell him. We have enough money.
It’s not just money, he says after a moment.
I don’t want you to change, I tell him. I’m about to continue and tell him that he doesn’t have to go back to work either, when he stops me.
Don’t, he says. Don’t say anything now. I mean it. I’m not asking you for that. But do me the favour of thinking about it. We have to get through Friday. We have a lot to get through, y
ou and me.
OK, I say.
You’re important to me, he says and gives me a bruising look. He pushes back his chair and the dog wakes up, stretches.
We should get to bed, he says.
Yes, I agree. Bed.
Sometimes, when I carry Liv around for too long, I’m left with a memory of her in my arms, a heaviness you can’t quite shake off. Or perhaps a lightness, an emptiness. That’s what I’m feeling now, except the memory is of Lacey. His touch, his breath, the feeling of what might happen next.
Mick looks at me and I flush. If he looked inside me, he could probably see it too. If he wanted to.
Chapter 15
NEXT MORNING, LENNIE’S BODY IS BROUGHT TO HALES-worth. It is brought in an ambulance and put in the coffin that has been waiting for days now at Sharman’s. Alex is there alone when they bring her. He won’t have Mick, he won’t have Lacey. He doesn’t invite Bob either. Instead Bob comes over to us early. He does this a lot—he likes to see our kids before they go off to school. Especially Rosa.
Passing through the hall, I hear this:
Why do dogs always look like they’re about to cry? Rosa is asking Bob.
You’re right, I hear him say, I guess they do look kind of tragic.
Tragic, yes, Rosa agrees, as if they’re about to cry. Do your dogs at home look like that?
I’ve almost forgotten, he says, what they look like at all.
It hasn’t been that long—
Well, it’s been a while.
But you’ll go home soon, right? After tomorrow you can go any time?
I guess so, he says.
There’s a pause and then:
I don’t really want you to go, Rosa says.
Silence.
I’ve got used to you being here.
So what’s that you’re drawing? Bob says then. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school.
Not yet, Rosa says. In a minute. Fletcher—it’s Fletcher, can’t you see—?
I can almost hear Rosa bite her lip and hold her breath. The big dark slope of her silence as she concentrates.
It’s great, I hear Bob say then, a great picture. The eyebrows especially—you’ve got them exactly right.
Sad eyebrows, Rosa says, sad everything.
That’s right.
I could draw your dogs if you like, Rosa says. If I ever get to meet them, that is.
That would be nice, Bob says. A special portrait. Maybe I should invite you over.
Yes, Rosa says, please do. Well, just ask my mum and send me a ticket. Or if you want, just the money.
I hear Bob almost laugh.
He’s got a big tongue, that dog, Bob says.
No, Rosa says a little impatiently, that’s not a tongue, that’s a heart—Lennie’s big heart in his mouth. Can’t you see? Don’t worry, he’s not going to eat it—
In the hallway, I hold my breath. Fortunately Bob is laughing.
You’re a funny little girl, he says.
Well, and you’re a funny man, Rosa says. Do you want to sit together? At the funeral?
Another chunk of silence.
If we’re allowed, Rosa adds. We might not be allowed.
That afternoon—Thursday afternoon—turns suddenly beautiful. The sky, which was inky with threatening storm, clears and bright white sunshine soars across it. The sea sparkles. It isn’t warm exactly, but you couldn’t say it’s cold either. No-coat weather, definitely.
I’ve done a morning at the clinic, but my last patient cancelled. I go home early to find Mick still barely dressed, padding around the house in slippers and cardigan, like an old man. He hasn’t even shaved.
Are you OK? I ask him.
Fine, he says.
Really? You don’t look at all fine.
He shrugs and doesn’t answer but I catch him frowning once or twice. I don’t know if it’s me, or just his own thoughts unwinding in his head.
He says he’ll walk Fletcher after lunch and go on to get the kids from school.
Are you sure? I say. Normally when I haven’t got clinic in the afternoon, I do it.
Stop being guilty all the time, he says. Would I offer if I didn’t mean it?
Liv is in her cradle seat in a corner of the sitting room. The seat has a row of blue, mauve and orange plastic beads strung in front of it, but Liv is much more taken up with watching Rosa’s kitten who’s batting a piece of scrunched-up paper across the floor.
She keeps her eyes on the kitten, both fists pushed in her mouth. Kicking her feet sharply every time the kitten jumps.
I pick up the kitten in one hand and in the other the piece of paper which, I see, is covered in Rosa’s neat meticulous drawings, her handwriting. All her drawings are like this—sturdy, detailed and repetitive and packed with information. She’s like a cave painter, her art teacher at school says.
I open up the scrunched paper and the kitten yowls. I drop her.
On the paper are a succession of pink crayoned hearts and the words, A Map Of Where To Find It—followed by Rosa’s initials and her age. Underneath are piles of long wavy blue lines and a picture of a woman standing on top. A person standing on the waves. At the bottom, Rosa has written: Keep Out.
I put the paper back on the table and pick Liv up. She smiles and almost laughs when I bundle her into the buggy. It’s like she knows where we’re going. It’s like she does, even if I don’t.
* * *
We go down the High Street, in the direction of Gun Hill. It’s still bright but very windy. Things falling over, bins and signs banging. Outside the grocer’s a woman is yelling and yelling at her child to get into the car. In the road is a pile of manure left by the brewery drays. By the post box, an old man with a stick stands very still and bent over and further on an even older woman travels down the street in a little electric disabled car with a flag on it. She waves to a boy who comes out of Somerfield and picks up cardboard boxes and takes them back into the shop.
I want Liv to fall asleep but she doesn’t. She sits up as straight as her almost five-month-old back will allow, straining and following everything that’s going on.
We go past the Marie Curie shop, where Maggie is possibly sorting black bags of stuff in the back, and the butcher’s. No one in there at all. At Suzanne Hair Fashions, Sue Peach can be glimpsed through the glass, foils in her hair, holding a cup of something.
At the foot of Gun Hill I hesitate, as if going up there is really an option. Then, after thinking about it for a second or two, I turn the buggy and head along North Parade towards the pier.
Though I don’t know that’s where I’m going till I get there. Or maybe that’s wrong. Maybe I do know.
It’s really not cold but still the wind along the front stings your cheeks and makes your eyes water.
I feel happy and excited for the first time in a very long time. Because it is a weird day, a mad, glittery day, uncanny and unseasonable. Because the sea has a million different colours slipping over its surface and my heart just nearly explodes when I see it—all that water and the pier, with its tangled mass of metal. And because Rosa may well be right. From where I stand it could just be a huge spidery animal crawling, belly slung low, into all that water.
He’s perched on a filing cabinet over by the window, drinking something from a polystyrene cup. Tipping his head back, watching the sea.
I stare at him.
Why are you here? I ask him.
He turns and looks happy and pleased and careful.
Why are you? he says.
I really don’t know, I say because it’s the truth, and I go bright red and take a step back. He laughs. From the other side of the room Mawhinney’s watching us. Mawhinney and a thousand others. The whole room buzzing—more police than I’ve ever seen in there.
Good news actually, he says. They think they might have something. The National Police Computer, a profile that fits. It’s something, anyway.
My heart contracts.
They’ve found a man?
A suspect. A better one than Darren Sims, anyway. Mawhinney’s over the moon.
My God, I say.
I know, he says. It’s a shock isn’t it.
Look, I say, do you need to stay here?
He looks at me.
What, now?
Yes, now.
No, he says, not really. They’re finished with me. Though I’ll have to see Alex later.
Come for a swim then, I say.
He looks at me as if I’m mad.
A what?
Over by one of the computers, Mawhinney is talking to a blonde woman in uniform.
A swim? I say. Or if you want, a paddle.
He chucks his cup in the bin and folds his arms and laughs.
OK, he says.
OK?
He glances over at Mawhinney, who is bent over the computer now as the woman scrolls along the screen.
Yes, crazy woman, Lacey says. Come on then, yes, let’s go.
Maybe I do really mean it about the swim. Or maybe it’s only a way of getting him inside The Polecat with me. Whichever it is, as I dig the key out and put it in the lock and turn and yank it open, my hand is trembling. He lifts the buggy up the two wooden steps and we’re in.
Sand underfoot. The grit sound of sand on wood.
The curtains in the hut have bold oranges and lemons on them—leftovers from the sixties, from someone’s mother. I tug them now along the little stretchy curtain wires and light falls in. The windows are dirty but the light outside is bright. A spider has spun its web across one of the corners and in pulling at the curtain I break it. It falls and hangs for a moment on a thin string—a tiny, balled-up, bouncing dark red thing—before dropping to the wooden floor where sand, dust and, I suppose, old sandwich crumbs combine.
My little hut, I tell him.
Lacey looks around.
It’s a mess, I know.
This is it? he says. Where you come?
I haven’t been here in a while, I tell him and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Not properly since—
We take a step back from each other. Suddenly I’m embarrassed.
It’s tiny isn’t it? I say almost in a whisper, because it is, the walls are coming closer every minute. I used to think it was big, I add, when I first got it.
Bigger than you think, he says, from the outside.
Some are much better than this, I tell him. Some have—oh, I don’t know, some go back further.
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