I See You

by Clare Mackintosh

  Kelly carefully cut out the article for Cathy, and sent her a text message to thank her once again for helping out. Her job phone was switched off in her locker at work, but she’d written down her personal mobile number in case Cathy needed to get hold of her.

  Kelly was still in half-blues – a civvy fleece pulled over a white shirt denuded of its tie and epaulettes – and she bent down to unlace her boots. Some of her old school friends were going out for drinks and had invited Kelly to join them, but she was up at five in the morning and there was no fun in being sober on a Friday night. Toast, Netflix, tea and bed, she thought. Rock and roll.

  Her phone rang and she brightened when she saw her sister’s name flash up on the screen.

  ‘Hey, how are you? I haven’t spoken to you in ages!’

  ‘Sorry, you know what it’s like. Listen, I’ve found the perfect thing for Mum’s Christmas present, but it’s a bit more than we’d usually spend – do you want to come in with us?’

  ‘Sure. What is it?’ Kelly kicked off one boot, then the other, only half listening to her twin sister’s description of the vase she’d seen at a craft fair. They were halfway through November; it was weeks until Christmas. Kelly suspected she had been born without the shopping gene, always leaving things to the last minute and secretly enjoying the fevered atmosphere in the malls on Christmas Eve, filled with harassed men panic-buying over-priced perfume and lingerie.

  ‘How are the boys?’ she interrupted, when it was obvious Lexi was about to move on to suggest presents for the rest of the family.

  ‘They’re great. Well, a pain in the neck, half the time, obviously, but great. Alfie’s settled in to school brilliantly, and Fergus seems to have a good time at nursery, judging by the state of his clothes at the end of the day.’

  Kelly laughed. ‘I miss them.’ Lexi and her husband Stuart were only in St Albans, but Kelly didn’t see them nearly as much as she’d like.

  ‘So come over!’

  ‘I will, I promise, as soon as I get some time off. I’ll check my duties and text you some dates. Maybe Sunday lunch sometime?’ Lexi’s roasts were legendary. ‘I think I’ve got a few rest days together at the start of December, if you don’t mind me crashing on your sofa?’

  ‘Brilliant. The boys love it when you stay over. Although not the third – I’ve got a reunion to go to.’

  The almost imperceptible hesitation, and Lexi’s subsequent deliberately casual tone told Kelly precisely what the reunion was for, and where it would be held.

  ‘A reunion at Durham?’

  There was silence at the other end of the phone, and Kelly imagined her sister nodding, her jaw jutting forward the way it always did in anticipation of an argument.

  ‘Freshers of 2005,’ Lexi said brightly. ‘I doubt I’ll recognise half of them, although of course I’m still in touch with Abbie and Dan, and I see Moshy from time to time. I can’t believe it’s been ten years, it feels like ten minutes. Mind you—’

  ‘Lexi!’

  Her sister stopped talking, and Kelly tried to find the right words.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Won’t it …’ she screwed up her eyes, wishing she was having this conversation in person, ‘bring everything up?’ She sat forward, on the edge of the chair, and waited for her sister to speak. She touched the half heart at her throat, suspended on its silver thread, and wondered if Lexi still wore hers. They’d bought them that autumn, just before they went off to uni. Kelly down to Brighton, and Lexi to Durham. It was the first time they’d been apart for longer than a night or two since they’d been born.

  When Lexi eventually answered, it was in the same measured tone she had always used with her sister. ‘There’s nothing to bring up, Kelly. What happened, happened. I can’t change it, but it doesn’t have to define me.’ Lexi had always been the calm one, the sensible one. The two sisters were theoretically identical, but no one had ever struggled to tell them apart. They had the same squared-off chin, the same narrow nose and dark brown eyes, but where Lexi’s face was relaxed and easy-going, Kelly’s was stressed and short-tempered. They had tried to switch places many times as children, but no one who knew them was ever fooled.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I celebrate the good times I had at uni?’ Lexi was saying. ‘Why shouldn’t I be able to walk round the campus like the rest of my friends, remembering the nights out we had, the lectures, the stupid jokes we played on each other?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, Kelly. If I had left after it happened – changed uni like you and Mum wanted me to do – he’d have won. And if I don’t go to this reunion because I’m scared of the memories it might drag up, well, he’ll be winning again.’

  Kelly realised she was shaking. She put her feet flat on the floor and leaned forward, pressing her forearm over her knees to keep them still. ‘I think you’re mad. I wouldn’t go anywhere near that place.’

  ‘Well, you’re not me, are you?’ Lexi exhaled sharply, doing nothing to mask her frustration. ‘Anyone would think it was you it happened to, not me.’

  Kelly said nothing. How could she explain to Lexi that was exactly how it had felt, without implying her trauma was somehow on a par with Lexi’s own? She remembered the session delivered at police college by someone from Occupational Health. They had worked through a case study of a pile-up on the M25; dozens injured, six killed. Who had post-traumatic stress disorder? The trainer wanted them to guess. The Highways Officers, who had been first to the scene? The traffic sergeant, who had to comfort the mother of two dead children? The lorry driver, whose lapse of concentration had caused the devastation?

  None of them.

  It was the off-duty police officer whose daily run took him over the motorway bridge; who witnessed the whole thing happen and called it in, delivering essential information to control room, but ultimately powerless to stop the tragedy unfolding beneath him. That’s who developed PTSD. Who blamed himself for not doing more. That’s who ended up retiring through ill health; who became a recluse. The bystander.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said instead. She heard Lexi sigh.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  It wasn’t, and they both knew it, but neither of them wanted to fall out. The next time they spoke, Lexi would talk about the plans for Christmas, and Kelly would say how great work was, and they would pretend everything was okay.

  Just like they’d done for the last ten years.

  ‘How’s work?’ Lexi asked, as though she could read Kelly’s mind.

  ‘Okay. Same old, you know.’ She tried to sound upbeat, but Lexi wasn’t fooled.

  ‘Oh, Kel, you need a new challenge. Have you thought any more about reapplying for a specialist unit? They can’t hold it against you for ever.’

  Kelly wasn’t so sure. Her departure four years ago from British Transport Police’s Sexual Offences Unit had been rapid and uncomfortable. She had spent nine months off sick, returning to what had been presented to her as a clean slate, but was really a punishment posting. Kelly had thrown herself into shift work, quickly becoming one of the most respected officers on the Neighbourhood Policing Team; pretending to herself she was a uniform cop through and through, when every day she yearned to be dealing with serious investigations again.

  ‘The attachment you’ve just done must have helped.’ Lexi was persistent. ‘Surely now the bosses can see you’re no longer—’ She stopped abruptly, obviously unsure how to summarise the time Kelly had spent off work, unable to leave the flat without breaking into a sweat.

  ‘I’m fine where I am,’ Kelly said shortly. ‘I need to go – there’s someone at the door.’

  ‘Come and see us soon – promise?’

  ‘I promise. Love you, sis.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  Kelly ended the call and sighed. She had so enjoyed her three-month attachment on the Dip Squad, the unit dedicated to tackling the huge number of pickpockets operating on the London Underground. It wasn’t the kudos of being in plain clothes – although af
ter four years in uniform it had been a welcome change – it was the feeling of actually making a real difference; of making a dent in a crime wave affecting so many people in the city. Since Kelly had joined the job, more and more specialist units had been created: all the serious crimes were now hived off to squads; leaving the Neighbourhood Policing Teams with little more than by-law breaches and antisocial behaviour. Kelly had been back in uniform for a week, and apart from Carl Bayliss’s, the only collars she’d fingered had belonged to kids with their trainers on the seats, and the usual Friday-night drunks barging through the barriers and turning the air blue. Was she ready to go back on to a specialist squad? Kelly thought she was, but when she had broached the idea with her inspector, his answer had been short and to the point.

  ‘People have long memories in this job, Kelly. You’re considered too much of a risk.’ He’d given her the Dip Squad attachment as a consolation prize; a step up from shift, but with little risk of becoming emotionally involved. He had intended it to satisfy Kelly, but all it had done was remind her what she was missing.

  Lexi was right; she needed to move on.

  5

  It’s unusual to see Katie much before midday; the tips at the restaurant are better in the evenings than at lunch, and she’s never been one for early nights on her days off. Yesterday, though, she was upstairs before ten, and when I looked in on my way to bed (hard to break the habit of a lifetime) she was fast asleep. Now, while I’m lying in bed trying to summon up some enthusiasm for a wet Monday morning, I hear the whine of the electric shower, accompanied by the knocking sound I’d hoped I’d imagined over the weekend.

  ‘It’s broken.’

  Simon makes a sound that might be agreement, reaching an arm above the duvet to pull me closer to him. I wriggle away.

  ‘We’ll be late for work. I’m going to have to get someone out to look at that shower; it’s definitely not right.’

  ‘It’ll cost a fortune – you know what plumbers are like. They’ll invoice us for a hundred quid before they’ve even stepped through the door.’

  ‘Well, I can’t fix it myself, and …’ I let my sentence trail off, shooting a knowing look at Simon.

  ‘Oi, I’m not that bad!’ He pokes me in the ribs and I squeal. Simon’s atrocious DIY skills are matched only by my own. The house Matt and I bought together was a repossession – we’d never have afforded it, otherwise – and the plan was we’d both do it up. After the second time I drilled through a water pipe I agreed to step away from the power tools, and DIY became one of those ‘blue’ jobs, like servicing the cab, or putting out the bins. I got used to doing most things in the years when it was just me and the kids, but the shelf in the bathroom has fallen down three times, and the flat-pack wardrobe in Katie’s room is decidedly wonky. Discovering Simon was as inept as I was at DIY was secretly rather a blow.

  ‘Is there any point fixing the shower?’ Simon says. ‘The whole bathroom needs redoing.’

  ‘Well, that’s not going to happen any time soon,’ I say, thinking of the Christmas presents I’ll soon be putting on a credit card. ‘We’ll have to get the shower fixed and put up with the rest.’ I snuggle under the duvet and feel Simon’s warm body spooning my own, one eye on the clock.

  ‘It’s a waste of money.’ Simon pushes the duvet off abruptly, kicking it out of reach and sending a blast of cold air across us both. I sit up and look at him.

  ‘Since when did you worry about money?’ I’m the one who keeps track of how much we’re spending. It’s in my blood. Simon, on the other hand, is casual with cash in the way people only are when they’ve never been without it.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, with an embarrassed shrug. ‘Wrong side of the bed. It just seems a shame to patch up something that needs a bigger job on it. How about I get a quote for a complete refit?’

  I imagine the bathroom of my dreams; all chrome and white tiles, like the hotel Simon took me to in Paris for our first anniversary. ‘We can’t afford it, Simon, not with Christmas coming up.’

  ‘I’ll pay,’ he says. There’s something in his eyes that makes me think he regrets his recklessness, but he doesn’t take it back. ‘You won’t let me contribute to the mortgage, so let me buy you a new bathroom.’ I wonder if Justin’s comments last night have hit home; I open my mouth to protest but he holds up a hand. ‘I insist. I’ll look for a reputable building company. If such a thing exists! Right, come on, I’ll be late – and so will you.’ He leaps up and I swing my legs to the side and push my feet into fleecy slippers. My dressing gown feels cold against my naked skin and I shiver as I go downstairs and put the kettle on. Biscuit weaves in and out of my legs, tripping me up until I scoop a cup of food into his bowl.

  I hear the whine of the shower come to an end; the bathroom door open. There are footsteps on the landing, and the murmur of voices as Katie and Simon pass each other. The whine resumes. Katie’s in a hurry today. If she’s getting ready for a night out she can be in the bathroom for what seems like hours – not that Simon would ever complain. He’d go without a shower, rather than chivvy her.

  ‘Teenagers,’ he shrugged, when I told her off for hogging the bathroom. ‘It’s not like I need long to wash my hair.’ He ran a hand over his head, feeling the thinning patch of grey with a rueful smile.

  ‘You’re very understanding.’ I told him. After Matt’s hot-headedness it’s such a relief to be living with someone so tolerant; I’ve never seen Simon lose his temper, not even when the neighbours came round for the umpteenth time to complain about the music Justin was playing at a far more reasonable level than their own screaming kids. Simon doesn’t have it in him to be angry.

  Melissa narrowed her eyes when I told her Simon had lived on his own for ten years before we met.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Nothing! He just hasn’t found the right person. But he’s perfectly house-trained. Cooks, cleans, even irons.’

  ‘You couldn’t send him round to mine, when you’re done with him, could you? Neil can build a computer from scratch but the switch for the vacuum cleaner seems to elude him.’

  I laughed. I had a feeling, even in those early days, that I wouldn’t be sending Simon anywhere. I remembered the shiver of excitement I’d felt when he kissed me for the first time, and the thrill of the fast, clumsy sex we’d had at the end of that first date; all the more exciting because it was so out of character for me. That’s what I liked most about Simon; he made me feel like a different person. Not a mum, or Matt’s girlfriend or wife. Me. Zoe Walker. I went straight from my parents’ house to living with Matt, and when I found myself single at thirty I was so worried about making sure the kids were all right that finding out who I was just wasn’t important. Meeting Simon changed that.

  I make the tea and take a tray upstairs with four mugs, knocking on Justin’s door and picking my way carefully through the detritus on the floor, so I can put a steaming cup next to his bed.

  ‘Justin, cup of tea for you.’

  He doesn’t stir, and I pick up yesterday’s offering, its contents cold and untouched. I look down at my son, three days’ growth hiding a gentle face with its dimpled chin; his hair long across his face and one arm outstretched towards his headboard. ‘Love, it’s almost seven o’clock.’ He grunts. Justin’s laptop is open on the bedside table; an open window for some music forum. It’s black with white writing, and would make my head hurt if I looked at it for too long. On the left I can see the photo Justin uses online: it’s his face, but almost completely obscured by a hand thrust towards the camera. On his palm, in black letters, is written his user name, Game8oy_94.

  Twenty-two, going on twelve. Katie was always in such a hurry to grow up – couldn’t wait to leave behind the Barbie dolls and the My Little Ponies – but men seem to stay boys for so much longer.

  I think about what Simon said the other night, and wonder if Justin really will still be living here when he’s thirty. I used to think I never wanted my children to leave home.
I liked living here, the three of us, meeting for supper but otherwise simply coexisting. Katie and I would go out together occasionally, and Justin would lurk in the kitchen while I cooked tea, stealing chips before they hit the plates and sharing intricacies of Grand Theft Auto I didn’t understand. Like flatmates, I kidded myself. It was only when Simon moved in that I realised how much I’d missed sharing that part of my life with someone.

  Justin pulls the duvet over his head.

  ‘You’ll be late for work,’ I tell him. As will I be, I think, if I don’t get a move on.

  ‘I don’t feel well,’ comes the muffled reply. I yank the duvet, hard.

  ‘Melissa’s gone out on a limb for you, Justin. You are not calling in sick, do you hear me?’ The urgency in my voice finally gets through to him. He knows he wouldn’t have a job without Melissa – without me asking her, come to that.

  ‘All right. Don’t go on.’

  I leave him sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers, rubbing his head till his hair stands on end.

  A fug of steam billows from the open bathroom door. I knock on Katie’s door and she calls for me to come in. She’s sitting at the desk she uses as a dressing table, drawing dark brows on to an immaculately made-up face, her hair twisted into a towel.

  ‘You legend. I’ll drink it while I do my hair. Ready to go at half seven?’

  ‘Do you want some toast?’

  ‘It’ll bloat me. I’ll have something afterwards.’ She blows me a kiss and takes her mug, the one with ‘Calm down and watch TOWIE’ on it. Even in a towelling dressing gown she’s gorgeous. Legs up to her armpits. Heaven knows where she got those from: certainly not from me, and although Matt’s taller than me, he’s stocky with it.

  ‘Bought and paid for,’ he used to say, grinning and rubbing his beer belly. He couldn’t be more different to Simon; tall and rangy, with long legs that look great in a suit and endearingly comical in shorts.