‘Where have you been? It’s four nights since you were here.’
‘Italy.’ He edges further back on to the settee and turns to look at me, his body still facing away, as if he has one foot poised ready for a sharp exit.
‘Italy? For four days?’ I set the wine glass down next to his research papers, which are still lying on the table. ‘Why?’
‘I couldn’t be here. Not with you. When you came home, I was so pleased. I wanted so much to help you and look out for you. I thought maybe it would be a new start.’ He reaches across and picks up the research work and tidies it into a pile. ‘But you were just like before. And you were right, I was ready to leave you. I didn’t want to stay here any more, fighting and fucking. That’s all we ever did.’ He is crying now and wipes a tear from his cheek. It isn’t the first time I have seen him cry. ‘We used to be so good, Rini. It was so nice to be with you. But as soon as I mentioned having a family, you changed.’ He gets closer to me, risks a touch on my arm. I don’t push him away. ‘I want a normal life, Rini. Marriage and babies. I want them with you. I came back to tell you that. I will give you time. I will help you if I can. But I want you to be honest with me.’ He reaches out, takes my hand. ‘If you don’t want me, just tell me. I can get my things and go. But I want you to know that I do love you. I don’t care about your past, or any problems you or I may have had. I can make today number one. The first day. If you want it.’ I wonder how many times I am supposed to restart my life. I’m like a damned cat. He stops, takes a breath, and then, as if he thinks he might not have demonstrated that he is steadfast in his decision, adds quickly, ‘But you have to really want it.’
I take the prepaid phone from the table and toss it into the nearest waste-paper basket. It doesn’t mean anything really, because all I have done is move it from the table. But it is supposed to be symbolic. It means I am tossing away the old life, the old contacts, and eight of the sixteen unanswered calls to Antonio. Somewhere on that SIM card are Margot Wolfe’s details. It is also the number that Elle knows. He understands my actions, moves in closer and holds me in a tight embrace. I should feel relieved, but for some reason I don’t.
He whips up some pasta in a carbonara sauce, and while he is cooking, I use the time to check my online bank account. I find that he made a withdrawal of £340 from my account the morning he left. Which means I paid for the coat, and no doubt the ticket to Italy. It matters, but I decide that it doesn’t matter enough to raise it and cause an argument, revisit the whole I support you thing. We’re on thin ice as it is, and I don’t want to be the one to stamp my foot and watch as we drown. I’m not ready for him to walk out on me. What the hell would I do? Being alone is fine when you’ve never known anything different, but now that I have, I can’t go back to work-sleep-repeat. Maybe in time it will get better between us. If not, maybe I will get stronger and find a way forward without him.
So I sit and smile and wait to eat. He tells me that the days without me were hell, and I reply the same, which they kind of were. We eat, and then he gives me the look that I know means he wants to kiss me. He does, and we end up in bed. This time it is back to expectations: Antonio being gentle with me because I am fragile, his hand moving up and down over my scars. Afterwards I get up to look at my hip in the mirror, thinking how the marks seem to take on a shape I have never noticed before. I know it is just from where they ground out my bones and fixed my tendons, but they look like the arch of a butterfly’s wings, a gentle V shape with a body carved in the middle. I look down at the torn painting and tell myself that tomorrow I will put it away.
Not long afterwards, Antonio gets up and sweeps up the broken glass from the floor. He tucks the painting in a drawer, knowing it must be important if I brought it back with me. It’s like he can read my mind. The storm outside still rages, but at least the one in here, inside me, seems to be settling. We fall asleep together that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, and I think I am glad he came home. It’s the first time we have slept like that in months, and I wonder if finally the demons inside me have found their way out.
24
Over breakfast the following morning, Antonio announces that he is going to open the bistro he has always dreamed of. He has long talked of this. He envisions a small place, beat-up tables and expensive white linen. Like old Rome. Recycled glasses and silver cutlery, only without the view of the Colosseum.
‘The bank will lend me half, and I have the other half saved up.’ He tucks into a rasher of streaky bacon and shovels in a spoonful of scrambled eggs. I remember Joyce’s, and how salty they were. I smile at the idea of Elle driving her crazy now that she is lady of the manor.
‘That’s a fantastic idea,’ I say, doubtful about the bank loan and the savings. But again, as if he is able to read my mind, he gets up, produces the paperwork from the bank. As I scan the page, he steals a rasher of bacon from my plate. On the table there is a carnation in a slim vase, which I assume he put there.
‘I organised the loan during the time you were away,’ he says, smacking his lips, licking his fingers. ‘The first day, when I thought we were finished.’
I smile, reach up and kiss him, not really reading what he has given me. He backs away, surprised, before slowly relaxing into my lips. ‘The eggs are great. If you serve these, I’m sure it will succeed.’
Afterwards we sit together on the couch, snuggle up and watch the Discovery Channel. A lion pride, and how the young survive. Later on, he cooks pesto pasta with chicken and we eat it from our laps underneath the duvet, which we dragged downstairs after we made love earlier. Yes, that’s what we did. It was nice, kind, gentle love. The kind I used to back away from but the only kind that has the ability to heal old wounds. Which is, after all, what I am. Or at least, according to my father, what I open up.
But it all feels a little like we are following a script, some made-for-TV movie about how to patch over mistakes and pretend everything is all right. We smile a lot at each other when we don’t know what to say, hold hands from a distance. But he is trying, and I suppose for once I am too. It’s enough for now. Eventually we fall asleep.
I only wake up when I hear the thud of thunder. A loud clap reverberating through the house. Then again, the exact same sound, and I realise that it isn’t thunder at all. It is somebody knocking at the door. I glance at my phone. 11.07 p.m. No good news comes at this time of day. I nudge Antonio awake and then feel sick with the realisation that it could be Elle. It feels just like that night when she called about our mother having died.
‘What is it?’ he mumbles after first stammering something unintelligible in Italian. More knocking.
‘It’s the door,’ I whisper. He looks down at his watch, stands up, pulls his T-shirt on. Adjusts his boxers, and what’s in them. I slump down underneath the duvet, listening. Although I can’t hear what is being said, I can hear the tone of the conversation, and I know straight away that it isn’t light or trivial. But I also know that it isn’t Elle, so feel relieved.
I pull on my shirt, and less than a minute later Antonio is back in the lounge with two people following. They stand with authority, dripping on my laminate floorboards, the drops running through the cracks. They have left clumps of mud across the runner in the hallway. One of them is a woman. Her face is angular, like a Rubik’s Cube out of line, and make-up-free. Her ears are set too low on her head, as if they have slid down, melted. She smiles at me, but I know there is no kindness in that smile. It is formal, a kind of well, I’m in your house so I might as well look polite smile. The man next to her is large, over-proportioned in just about every dimension. I know straight away that they are police.
‘Good evening, Dr Harringford. I am DC Forrester and this is DC McGuire. We need to ask you a few questions about your sister, Eleanor Harringford.’
I look around the room and make my assessment of what this looks like. There is a bottle of wine on the table to start with, the shape of which could easily be mistaken for champagne. Tw
o empty glasses. The television is playing in the background on mute, and I have that distinct look of somebody who not long ago was having sex. Happy couple, no problems. But these are police and they want to ask about my sister. That means they probably know that my parents have just died. Which means they probably know I am set for a big payout. Elle is probably the one who called them, and I am hit by a somewhat underwhelming fear that this looks like a celebration.
‘OK. How can we help?’ Antonio steps straight in. Got to love him for trying, but what could he possibly do? He has never even met Elle.
‘May we sit down?’ DC Forrester asks as she positions herself on the couch opposite. I don’t answer, yet Antonio ushers DC McGuire into the seat next to her.
‘What about my sister?’ I say, kind of tired. I say it casually, as if we might be the parents of an unruly child and are used to visits from the police. Oh, what has Eleanor been up to now? What trouble has she got herself into? A pencil through the little girl’s hand? Oh goodness, what a minx.
‘Your sister has been reported missing, and we are working alongside a team in Edinburgh to help locate her. She was last seen two days ago in Horton, the village where she lives. There are no further reported sightings, not in the village or nearby cities. She hasn’t been home, either.’ DC McGuire hasn’t spoken yet, but he is taking all the details in. No pictures of family, no trinkets placed on the cupboards. The only books are medical or morbid. Anaesthesia. The Pocket Handbook of Anaesthesia. Pain Management. Tombs for the Living: Andean Mortuary Practices. Pharmacology Success! Killing for Company. I might as well have a guide on how to murder and conceal a body.
‘But you aren’t just police officers conducting a search. You’re plain-clothes officers,’ I say, knowing that already this thing has escalated. Thoughts are racing in my mind, and in just about every scenario I do not look good.
‘There are plenty of uniformed officers doing house-to-house, Dr Harringford. Rest assured. But yes, we are from CID. Criminal Investigations Department.’ Antonio is doing that thing he does, shuffling from one foot to the other in a way that he thinks looks casual, but that he only ever does when he is nervous. ‘Your sister was last seen by the owner of the public house, the –’ she stops, flicks through her black notepad – ‘Enchanted Swan. She was running around the churchyard late at night in the rain. She hasn’t been seen since. Based on what has been happening during the past week, we are trying to build up a picture of her movements. There are anecdotal accounts of mental health issues, so she is what we would call a vulnerable adult.’ I almost laugh, and stop myself. I think I have covered it up, but I guess nothing gets past a cop’s eyes. ‘Is there something you find funny, Dr Harringford?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just, I have never heard anybody describe Elle as a vulnerable adult.’ I compose myself, pull the duvet higher. I wish I was wearing knickers. ‘In fact, quite the opposite. What can I do to help?’
DC McGuire takes over for a bit. It is effortless the way he just steps in, as if they have rehearsed this. ‘We understand that you have experienced a number of losses in your family of late.’
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ Antonio interrupts. The break in conversation comes just as a flash of lightning crosses the sky. The thunder follows only a second later.
‘White, no sugar,’ says DC Forrester.
‘The same. Thanks.’ McGuire turns to me and links his hands together. ‘At times of stress, existing problems are always amplified. We understand that you lost both of your parents recently. Our condolences.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, kind of coldly. I should have tried to look hurt, like it was difficult for me, but I guess some things are just too well programmed for an automatic override.
‘I’m sure this is difficult, but I want to ask about your mother. What was the cause of her death?’ he continues.
‘I think cancer.’
‘You don’t know how your mother died?’ DC Forrester chips in, squinting in my direction.
I pause, and swallow. ‘I believe it was cancer, but I haven’t seen the medical records or spoken to a doctor.’
DC Forrester looks around at the books, stands up and wanders over after checking that I don’t mind. She picks up Pharmacology Success! and flicks through the pages. ‘You’re a doctor yourself, right?’ I nod. ‘Were you not interested?’ She sets the book back down and looks around at the absence of personal objects. ‘Let’s look at it like this. One of my family gets involved in a crime, I would want to know what was happening. I’d want to know the details of the case, what facts were known, what hypotheses were being made. Because that’s how my mind works. It’s my job to be curious. Suspicious.’ She picks up Killing for Company, a biography of serial killer Dennis Nilsen, a man who kept the bodies of his victims to ease his loneliness. She sets it back down, expressionless. ‘I would have thought as a doctor you might like to know how your own mother passed away.’
I tuck my hair behind my ears and brush my fringe from my eyes. Antonio slips back into the room with a tray of tea. I reach over, take mine, all the while clinging on to the duvet.
‘Our relationship wasn’t very good,’ I offer. ‘It wasn’t what you would call a normal mother–daughter relationship.’
‘Yes, we understand you were adopted by your aunt.’
‘No I wasn’t. I just lived with her.’
‘Why?’
‘Why didn’t she adopt me or why did I live with her?’
‘Both,’ says DC Forrester.
‘I don’t know.’ Antonio sits down next to me and takes my hand in his. ‘I went to live with her when I was three years old. Nobody ever told me why exactly.’
‘You never asked?’ I shrug my shoulders, letting them know I have no answer. ‘Not very inquisitive, are you? We already spoke with your aunt. She told us your mother couldn’t cope with two children, that she was overwhelmed. I guess you’d call it post-natal depression nowadays.’ Antonio strokes my hand, relieved to be learning the truth. But I know this is crap. Bullshit that even now my Aunt Jemima is happy to accept. I want to know if they realise that Aunt Jemima wasn’t at the funeral, but I don’t ask, certain that the question would act like a fan to the flame of suspicion.
‘I think that’s it,’ I agree. ‘Post-natal depression. Our relationship was almost non-existent. We didn’t talk or exchange letters. To her it was like I didn’t exist. So when she died, I didn’t ask.’ I don’t add in any of the assumptions I made regarding Elle’s involvement.
‘So let me build up a picture here,’ says Forrester as she picks up a mug of tea and sits back down. ‘You had no relationship with your mother. None with your father.’ She looks to me for confirmation and I give it with a quick nod of the head. ‘How’d you find out about your mother’s death?’
‘Elle called me.’ They look confused. ‘Eleanor. My sister.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I went there for the funeral.’
McGuire follows Forrester’s lead and picks up his mug. ‘So you dropped everything and took a flight for the funeral?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ I slide my hand out from Antonio’s.
‘Even though you had no relationship with either of your parents.’
‘I guess you could put it like that.’ It kind of hurts, listening to the past being reduced to the skeleton of details. It feels like we are doing it a disservice somehow, making it smaller than it really is. It makes me sound stupid: Little girl dashes to mourn Mummy who never wanted her. I must look really pathetic to them.
‘Presumably you went to support your sister?’
‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’ While that isn’t strictly the truth, saying that I went to find out why they never wanted me seems so heartbreakingly lame that I cannot bring myself to admit it. Especially when I have just agreed to Aunt Jemima’s version that post-natal depression forced them to give me away. ‘I went there because I wanted to support Elle.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how did you find her when you arrived? What was her mental state like?’ They sip at their tea in unison.
‘I’m not a psychologist, how would I know?’
Forrester looks to McGuire with half-pursed lips, a little wrinkle crease forming on her cheek like the crescent-shaped scars on my hip. She raises her eyebrows in a way that makes me think she has got me down as a wiseass. ‘No, Dr Harringford,’ she says, irritated, ‘you are not a psychologist, but you are her sister. You know her. You share the same blood. You must be able to tell me if she was crying, sad, happy, elated. These are simple emotions, Dr Harringford.’
‘She was OK.’ Their heads slide in towards me, as if I have just announced that she occasionally turned into an alien. ‘Elle isn’t like most people. I don’t want to paint her in a bad light, but she didn’t seem particularly sad at what had happened. Not regarding my mother anyway. If you knew her—’
‘So,’ she interrupts. ‘Eleanor Harringford was in a reasonable mood following your mother’s death. Not taking it too badly. What did you do together in the days before your mother’s funeral that would lead you to believe that she was in a reasonable mood? Coping with the loss, so to speak.’
I run over the events in my head. Our activities don’t look good, and it makes both me and Elle appear heartless and cold. In this moment I hate her more than I ever have. Where the fuck has she gone? ‘Not much. Simple stuff. We hung out. We ate dinner. After the funeral, I left.’
‘Simple stuff, hm.’ She huffs and hums like I might have done when gazing over a weird rash on somebody’s skin, trying to decipher what she sees and still appear intelligent. ‘But you didn’t leave immediately after the funeral, did you?’
‘No. Not immediately.’ Her eyes are fixed on mine, waiting for me to elaborate. ‘I stayed one more night.’
‘Where?’
My Sister Page 18