‘OK,’ she said quietly. ‘I could ask things such as “Was she good?” or “Did you get her number?” but I won’t.’ She hated it that her voice was shaking. ‘But the thing I really want to know, Adam, is why?’
There was a predictable silence in the office; the kind of silence that was big enough to fill the space that had grown between them since this had started nearly a year ago.
‘In all honesty, I have no idea. I wasn’t thinking. She was attractive. She was there. Had I not been drunk, things would have been different.’ Normally, Lorraine knew, Adam would be acting out his feelings by rubbing his face or ruffling his hair or even fiddling with his cuff button. But he wasn’t doing any of these things. He just stood, limply, as if every part of him had surrendered to his situation.
Lorraine shook her head, exhausted by the magnitude of it all. ‘I guess I was hoping that you’d say something more tangible, like it was because of me or the girls or because your home life sucked. But that it was purely down to your bad judgement makes me worry, Adam. It makes me worry a lot. It makes me think this could happen again.’ She lifted her hands, but then dropped them into her lap. ‘And for the record, I don’t believe that you haven’t seen her since.’
‘I—’
Adam was halted by the bleep of Lorraine’s phone. She lunged for it. ‘It’s Grace.’ She read the few words and closed her eyes. ‘She’s OK but she doesn’t want to see us.’
Adam sighed. ‘I can understand why. We’ve done nothing but pressure her since this began.’
‘Pressure? You think asking our daughter to see sense is pressuring her?’
Adam raised his eyebrows, making Lorraine stop and think.
With reluctant fingers, she tapped out a reply: We’re here when you need us.
*
As far as Lorraine could see, the text from Grace had come as a welcome interruption for Adam. He’d told her the basics, given her enough of a picture of what had happened that night to ease some of the mystery that she’d embellished to outlandish proportions over the previous year. For the time being, though, there were other issues to deal with, not least the complex web of relationships between the characters in the Sally-Ann case.
With investigations in full swing and their team working round the clock, Lorraine and Adam had decided to go home for a couple of hours given that they both had an afternoon off. They’d travelled home separately, however, and Adam had already changed into his running gear by the time Lorraine had taken off her coat and turned up the central heating. She was making a cup of tea when the doorbell rang. Thinking it might be Grace, she went to answer it.
Matt stood shaking on the top step, jangling his car keys and glancing nervously down the street. As soon as Lorraine opened the door, he began babbling some kind of apology.
‘Matt,’ Lorraine said, putting her hand up to stop the flow. ‘You’d better come in.’
He followed Lorraine into the kitchen. Adam looked stunned to see him, but somehow Matt kept his composure, albeit shakily.
‘Is Grace OK?’ Lorraine said, suddenly concerned.
Matt nodded solemnly. ‘She’s fine. I mean, you know, OKish.’ He let out a sigh. ‘I don’t know what she’s told you about everything but—’
‘You don’t know?’ Adam barked, standing up from tying his trainer laces. ‘That’s a bit rich, seeing as you’re responsible for our daughter leaving home and school.’
Matt looked despondent. Lorraine gripped Adam’s arm in order to silence him.
‘It’s not exactly like that,’ Matt continued. ‘Grace is a bit confused.’
‘Damn right she is,’ Adam said, pulling away and taking a step towards Matt with his fists clenched. Lorraine came between them.
‘I know she’s planning on leaving anyway, but Grace didn’t go to school today,’ Lorraine said. ‘And we have no idea where she is.’
Matt raised his hands in defence. ‘She was with me,’ he confessed. ‘We were talking and stuff.’ He bowed his head. ‘Look, that’s why I’m here. There’s something important I have to tell you.’
40
THE HOUSE TELEPHONE stops ringing just before I grab it. As I skid to a halt on the hall tiles, I realise my whole body is tingling. My nervousness is fuelled entirely by thought. This scares me. It’s like a volcano eruption that I have no control over, or an illness that can’t be cured. I pick up the receiver to make sure that the caller isn’t hanging on, waiting for me. Almost immediately my mobile phone begins to ring. I run around searching for it and finally find it in my bag in the kitchen.
‘Hello?’ I say before I have even pressed the answer button. There is something unusually urgent about this afternoon, something oppressive and final, as if my time here is nearly up when I really don’t want it to be; a make-or-break span of existence that I simply hadn’t expected to end so soon.
‘Hello?’ I say again. ‘Who’s there?’ All I can hear is the convulsive breathing of an unidentified caller. It’s as if all the air in the kitchen is being sucked in and out of the phone. ‘Who is this?’ I’m about to hang up when I hear a woman’s voice.
‘Please help me,’ she says, and I know in an instant it’s Pip. My heart skittles inside my chest. I know why she is calling. My hand drops limply down to my side as I take it in, as I decide what it means. When I bring the phone back to my ear, the frantic breathing continues. I can almost feel the squeeze of her hand on mine as her body tears her apart, as her womb prepares to empty.
‘Pip?’ I ask, even though I know perfectly well it’s her. ‘Are you OK?’
There is a long pause. Eventually she speaks. ‘The baby’s coming.’ More panting followed by controlled breaths now, as if just speaking to me has somehow calmed her down.
‘Did you just ring the land line?’ I ask stupidly.
‘Yes, yes,’ she says, during a plateau between contractions. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you. I didn’t know who else to call. I left a message.’
I haven’t had a chance to listen to it but I like it that she contacted me, that in the mess of her body’s contortions, she turned to me for help.
‘Will you come over?’ she asks. I can almost see the grimace of pain on her face. ‘I really need you to help me. This baby will be here very soon and I can’t get hold of anyone. Clive must be in a meeting.’
The shock of what she’s just told me jolts me out of inaction. Even before we have finished the call, I am shoving on my shoes and grabbing my coat. ‘I’m on my way, Pip. Just hang on.’
I keep her on the line, hunting everywhere for my car keys, but they’re nowhere to be found. I decide to take James’s car, then remember it’s at the garage being serviced. I pull at my hair in frustration but try not to let Pip hear my anxiety. ‘Please, you mustn’t give birth without me. I want to be there. I promise I will be there soon.’ Then I ask her if she has called for an ambulance, and when she tells me she hasn’t, I give her very specific instructions. I pray that she will do as she’s told.
The freezing air takes my breath away, but not so much that I can’t think straight. Without transport I am left with only the bicycle. I drag it out from behind the side gate and swing my leg over the saddle. When I first begin to pedal, I am slipping all over the place on the icy road. A car hoots as I swerve between parked vehicles and I regain my balance just in time to miss clipping the side of a van.
It’s not far to Pip’s house – or at least it’s never seemed that way when I’ve driven – but now, powering myself, I might as well be trying to get to the other side of the moon. The sky is overcast and low, bearing down on me like the weight of my mission. This is a culmination, an eclipse, a perfect opportunity that I can’t afford to miss. I chant this over and over in my head as my legs cycle round and round, getting me closer to where I need to be.
Pip’s street is a perfect middle-class haven. Everything about it is comfortable, reassuring, safe and serene. Last time I visited her at home I was bringing the twins to play with Lil
ly. It almost seems like a dreamscape now, part of another life, as I pedal frantically onwards to help her. Dear God, don’t let her have given birth without me.
‘Watch out!’ a man yells from his car window as he reverses out of his drive. I swerve and narrowly miss the back end of his car.
At the head of the cul-de-sac I screech to a halt on the gravel of Pip’s drive. I let the bicycle fall to the ground and charge up to her front door. I jab the bell with my finger several times as well as rapping the knocker.
Pip answers the door quicker than I expect and, at first glance, she appears perfectly normal, smiling when she first sets eyes on me. But the smile quickly falls away as she drops into the abyss of another contraction. I replace it with one of my own smiles and look at her, relieved, exhausted, happy that this is finally going to happen. She is still very pregnant. I shove her roughly into the hallway and slam the front door.
‘I’m sorry, Pip,’ I say. ‘I never intended for this.’
She is horrified and unable to speak. She clutches at her abdomen and leans against the wall while pulling a face, the like of which I have never seen before. Her forehead crinkles, and her mouth contorts, exposing her teeth in a smile of agony. Then her eyes roll back and she seems to be in a different place for the next minute or two, not even able to care about my forceful entry into her house.
I go to her and tentatively stroke her shoulder, feeling a sudden pang of guilt. I expect her to flinch away, but she doesn’t even seem to know I’m here. When I put a hand on her stomach, it feels as hard as rock. Her muscles are clamping around the baby, making me wonder how it will survive such trauma.
‘I really think you should sit down, Pip. I’m worried you will fall.’
For a moment she ignores me, but then it is as if someone has flicked a switch and the old Pip returns. She stares at me, wondering if I am the person she knows.
‘Pip, I want you to sit on the sofa.’ My voice is commanding and mean, something she has never heard from me before, but I have a job to do and nothing will stand in my way. She opens her mouth to speak and my finger automatically presses against her lips, silencing her. She doesn’t pull away from my touch. ‘Just relax. We don’t want anything to happen to baby, do we?’
‘I . . . I don’t understand. What the hell is going on? I want Clive.’ Her lips wet my finger as she speaks.
It occurs to me that he might be on his way. ‘Did you speak to him? Did you get through to him? Tell me!’ I glance at my watch. I don’t have long.
Pip shakes her head. ‘I left him a message, that’s all.’
‘Did you call anyone else?’ I place a hand on the shiny white mantelpiece to steady myself. The dizziness comes in waves, escalating my need.
‘Just the hospital ward,’ Pip says after a moment’s hesitation.
‘The ambulance?’ I told her not to. I told her to wait for me.
Pip is shaking her head, fearful of what I might do if she admits to calling for help. Once again her body is consumed by a contraction. It has only been a couple of minutes since the last one.
I get down on my knees in front of her and take her hands in mine. ‘Oh, Pip. Breathe through it. Focus on me, focus on my eyes.’ I don’t want her to give birth yet. In an out-of-body way, she seems to connect with me and our minds lock in a contraction-surviving battle. ‘We can do this together, Pip,’ I tell her, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. A growl emanates from her lungs and all I can do is watch and suffer my own mental agony as the clamping of her body passes through her.
When it has subsided, I go to the kitchen to get supplies. On my return, I see that she has disobeyed me and has her phone in her shaking hands. I take a swipe and send it skidding across the floor. ‘Stupid bitch! Don’t you trust me? Don’t you think I know what I’m doing?’
Pip stares at the phone lying on the floor. Oddly, she stays perfectly calm, and turns to me, offering me one of her motherly smiles. ‘Of course I trust you,’ she says.
Another quick glance at the phone from her makes me stamp on it with my boot, smashing the screen into a map of jagged shards.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
I offer up the tea towel I have wetted with water. ‘Let me cool your face,’ I say. She allows me to dab it across her head.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘That’s very thoughtful.’ Her shoulders are shaking.
In my right hand I am holding the kitchen knife. When I bring it out from behind my back, Pip screams. I have no idea if it’s from fear or another contraction.
41
I DECIDE, SEEING as I’m home, that I should probably put on a load of washing. The mundaneness of the simple action keeps me occupied during this interminable period of waiting. I sort through the garments, which have got into a muddle in the utility room – a dirty tangle of everyone’s clothes. I put my laundry in the machine but it’s only half full, so I grab some other items of a similar colour and I’m about to shove them in too when I notice the blood.
I shake open the fabric and identify a stain of red where there really shouldn’t be one. I don’t understand, and neither do I want to touch it. Half of me believes this can’t really be what I think it is, that there is bound to be some rational explanation, while the other half of me knows exactly what it means. I stare at it for a few more moments and decide not to put it in to wash. Instead, I bundle the yellow garment inside a pillow case and hide it at the bottom of the laundry basket.
‘Surely not,’ I say to myself as I go up from the basement.
I am alone in the house so checking all the cupboards is easy, although at first I don’t see what it is I am looking for. It takes some not very careful rummaging and dislodging of items, which will probably give away my nosing about, to finally confirm my suspicions.
I go into the kitchen, still puzzling over what I have found. It doesn’t make any sense at all. The light is flashing on the telephone base, indicating a message has been left. I’ve not been back long. I press the button and at first I think it’s a hoax caller but somewhere, in all the panting and demented breathing, is a woman’s desperate voice.
‘Are you there? Anyone? Help me . . . please?’
‘It’s Pip,’ I say, sounding almost as breathless as her message. Perhaps she’s gone into labour. In that case, why isn’t she in hospital? And why didn’t she call her midwife or Clive? I hope nothing is wrong.
I phone her back immediately just to check everything is OK, but when I dial her number it goes straight to her voicemail. I’m puzzled, but suddenly realise the time. I have to fetch James’s car from the garage, after which I should probably drive over to Pip’s to check everything is all right.
Twenty minutes later I find the car only needed a tail-light bulb and a handbrake adjustment. Still distracted, I pay the bill and the mechanic hands over the MOT certificate. I can’t get Pip’s pitiful message out of my head. It’s stuck there right along with the contents of the cupboard and the bloodied garment. My mind is suddenly made up. It’s only a short drive to her house. Besides, she might be grateful for someone to fetch Lilly from school.
Ten minutes later and I’m pulling onto Pip’s drive. Her car is parked in front of the garage as usual but there is also a familiar bicycle lying discarded on the tarmac. My heart stutters at the sight of it. I stare at it intently as I walk past, wondering what it means, half expecting the front wheel to start turning and squeaking. I shrug it off but swear I see the flash of someone’s face dart away from the front window as I approach the door. I didn’t see who it was.
I ring the doorbell and wait. No one answers. I peer in through the bay window but the living room is dark and empty. As my eyes scan around the room, I notice several cups on the floor, one smashed, and a broken phone lying beside the fireplace.
That’s odd, I think. Pip is always ridiculously tidy.
I ring the bell again and rap on the letterbox. Then I open the flap and call through, singing out her n
ame, hoping that if she is upstairs she will hear me. I don’t want to panic her but can’t help it that my voice increases in urgency.
‘Pip, Pip, are you there?’
I put my ear to the hole and listen for a reply. Nothing comes, not even the clattering claws or the squeaky yap of her little Jack Russell dog. I wonder if she has gone for a walk to help her labour along, if indeed she is in labour, or perhaps she has been whisked away already by an ambulance. But I swear I saw someone in her living room.
I go down the path at the side of the house, thankful the gate isn’t locked. I half expect Jingles to come skittering up to greet me but the dog isn’t outside either. Pip’s garden is a neat square of winter green and pruned shrubs with a couple of brightly coloured balls strewn about the grass. A plastic pedal car is badly parked on the patio outside the kitchen door. I push it away with my foot and cup my hand against the glass. This time the person inside doesn’t have a chance to dart out of the way.
As she turns to face me, her expression crumples into something I don’t recognise – an emotion that I have never seen on anyone before – but then, in an instant, she is herself again, back to the person I know, composed and in control. I want to sigh with relief because Pip has help already, but then something inside me prevents this from happening. To begin with, I can’t figure out what it is, why I am not feeling grateful on Pip’s behalf that assistance and comfort has arrived. Only when she has unlocked the back door and has coaxed me inside do I realise why my heart is racing and my fists are balled into tense knots. By then, it is too late.
Zoe.
Claudia.
The greeting is fake and punctuated by tense nods of our heads. I try to remain calm. My mind is racing ahead of my mouth and I know what I want to say, ought to say, but I don’t. I’m still not sure what this all means.
‘Where is Pip? Is she OK?’ I take a step forward into the kitchen, trying to see through into the living room. She takes a couple of steps back but is still blocking my way. ‘Did she go to the hospital?’
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