by S. J. Watson
‘No. They’re yours.’
I hesitate.
‘Keep them. This, too.’
She hands me a box that was on the floor next to Kate’s bed. It’s a biscuit tin. On the lid are the words Huile d’Olive, a picture of a woman in a red dress.
‘It’s for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s just some personal stuff of Kate’s. I thought you should have it.’
So this is what’s left of my sister. This is what I’ve come to take home. Back to her son.
I’m nervous, as if the tin might contain a trap, a rat or a poisonous spider.
I take off the lid. The box is full of notebooks, photos, paperwork. Her passport is on the top and I open it to her photograph. It’s recent, one I haven’t seen before. Her hair is shorter and I can see she’d lost weight. She looks almost like someone else.
I look at the expiry date. It’s valid for eight more years. Eight years she’ll never need. I snap it shut and put it back, then close the box.
‘I’ll look at the rest later,’ I say. I realize I’ve begun to cry, for the first time since she died. I’m exposed, raw. It’s as if I’ve been slit open like one of Hugh’s patients, neck to groin. I am flayed, my heart a jagged slash.
I put the box down. I want to get away, to find somewhere quiet and warm where I can stay for ever and not have to think about anything at all.
But isn’t this what I came for? To mine the memory of my sister, to make sure there is a tiny part of her that survives for Connor? To feel something, to say sorry, to say goodbye?
Yes, I think. That’s why I’m here. I’m doing the right thing.
So why do I hate myself?
‘It’s okay,’ says Anna. ‘You go ahead and cry. It’s okay.’
Chapter Four
We take a cab to the restaurant. We’re shown to our table, outside on the pavement. White tablecloth, held down with plastic clips, a basket of bread. The evening is warm and pleasant, the air still, loaded with promise.
We chat. Once I recovered we told ourselves we must spend the evening celebrating Kate’s life as well as mourning her death. We laugh, there’s an ease between us; Anna even takes out her phone and takes a snap of the two of us with the river in the background. She tells me she likes this area of the city and wants to live here, one day. ‘It’s very central,’ she says. ‘By the river . . .’ She orders a carafe of wine. As the waiter begins to pour I put my hand over the top of my glass and shake my head.
‘You’re not drinking?’
‘No,’ I say. I think of the excuses I’ve made in the past – I’m on antibiotics, I’m dieting, or driving – but then the inevitable happens. Other excuses begin to crowd in, the ones that tell me why this time, this one time, I can take a sip. It’s been a difficult day, I’m stressed, it’s been fifteen years and it won’t do any harm.
My sister has been killed.
‘I’m fine.’
I think back to what I’ve learned. I can’t avoid the temptation to drink, I have to recognize the urge. I have to know that it’s normal, and temporary. I have to challenge it, or ride it out.
‘To be honest, I don’t drink. I haven’t for a while.’ Anna nods and sips her wine while I ask for some sparkling water. She looks interested but asks no questions, and I’m relieved. When she puts her glass down I see that she’s distracted, restless. She shifts in her seat, rearranges her napkin.
‘I wanted to talk to you about something.’
‘Go on.’
She hesitates. I wonder what she’s going to say. I know the police have interviewed her extensively; the bar Kate was in that evening is one she goes to. I brace myself for a revelation.
‘It’s about the money . . .’
I smile. Kate’s will must have surprised her, and Hugh warned me she’d probably mention it.
‘The money Kate left to you?’
‘Yes. It was a shock . . .’ She picks off some bread. ‘I really wasn’t expecting it. To be honest, I had no idea she had any money to leave, let alone that she’d leave some of it to me . . . And I didn’t ask her for it. I do want you to know that.’
I nod. I remember it’d been Hugh who had persuaded Kate to write a will in the first place, and we’d both been relieved when she’d later changed it to include Anna. It meant she had friends, she was putting down roots.
‘I know. It’s okay.’
‘Were you surprised? That she left money to me?’
‘No. It makes sense. You were her best friend. Kate was a generous person. She must have wanted you to have it.’
She looks relieved. I wonder whether it’s because of the money, or the fact that this conversation isn’t proving as awkward as she’d feared.
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Our father. He died a couple of years ago and left his money to Kate. Just what was in the bank, plus the proceeds from the sale of his house. It came to a lot more than anyone expected.’
A lot more, I think. Almost a million pounds. But I don’t say it.
‘Did he leave some to you?’
I shake my head. ‘He thought I didn’t need it, I guess.’
Or maybe it was guilt. He knew he’d neglected his younger daughter. He was trying to make it up to her.
Anna sighs.
‘Oh, it’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘Hugh has money in the family and Kate was struggling.’
‘But she didn’t spend it.’
‘No. Hugh suggested she put some of it away, save it for a rainy day. But neither of us thought she would actually listen to him.’
‘I would happily give my share to you. If you want?’
She’s being serious. I put my hand on her arm. ‘Absolutely not. Besides, she left the rest to Connor. It came to quite a lot.’ A lot more than she left to you, I think, though again I don’t say it. ‘I’m his trustee, though I’m not giving it to him until I’m sure he won’t spend it all on computer games and new trainers.’
She says nothing. She looks unconvinced.
‘Kate clearly wanted you to have that money. Enjoy it . . .’
Her face breaks into a smile of relief. She thanks me, and a moment later the waiter comes over and for a minute we’re lost in the choosing and ordering of our food. Once he’s retreated, there’s silence. The sun pours its golden light over the river. People stroll, arm in arm. The veil of my grief lifts, briefly, and I glimpse peace. I feel myself almost capable of relaxing.
‘This is so lovely,’ I say. ‘I can see why Kate came to Paris.’
Anna smiles. I think how things might’ve been, if my sister and I had somehow managed to reconcile our differences and found a way back to the closeness we’d shared until the last few years. Perhaps then I could’ve visited them both. It might’ve been the three of us sitting here, chatting, gossiping, having fun. Were we really that different, Kate and I?
I turn to Anna. For the first time I feel able to ask her. ‘I wish I knew what happened,’ I say quietly. ‘That night . . .’<
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She sips her wine then pours herself more.
‘Normally we’d have gone out together,’ she says. Something in her tone makes me think I’m not the only one who feels guilty. ‘But I was busy that day. She was on her own.’
I sigh. I don’t want to imagine it.
‘Is it a bad area? Where she was found?’
‘No. Not particularly.’
‘What happened, Anna?’
‘What’ve the police said? Do you talk to them?’
‘Yes. Not as much as Hugh. The Foreign Office said they’d prefer to liaise with just one of us. It keeps it simple, I suppose, and he volunteered. But I speak to them, too.’
‘And you discuss what they say?’
‘Oh, he tells me everything. But none of it’s very helpful.’
‘Really?’
‘No. It’s all dead ends. There’s no motive. They said they’d talked to her friends, but—’
‘But none of us knew anything . . .’
‘No. So they just keep drawing blanks. The only thing they’re puzzled about is her earring.’
I close my eyes. This is hard. I can’t help but visualize my sister’s body. She was found wearing one earring. It looked as though the other had been torn off.
‘They asked me about that.’
‘You don’t remember anything?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. Was it expensive?’
‘It was cheap. Costume jewellery. Cheap gold, I think. A funny kind of dreamcatcher design with turquoise feathers. I suppose in the dark it might’ve looked expensive, but why take only one? And, as far as they can tell, nothing else was missing. She still had her phone, her purse.’ I hesitate. ‘I think that’s why I find it so hard. It seems so senseless. Hugh keeps suggesting I have some therapy.’
‘And do you think you should?’
I pick up my glass. ‘I’m just not sure what good it would do. It’s typical of Hugh, though. He’s a wonderful man, but he’s a surgeon. If something’s broken he just wants to fix it and then move on. Sometimes I think he’s secretly angry that I’m not getting back to normal quickly enough. You know? He thinks I’m over-obsessing about knowing who killed her.’
‘And are you?’
‘Of course not. I know it won’t bring her back. It’s just . . . we used to be as close as two people can be, you know? We used to finish each other’s sentences. How could I have not known when she was in trouble?’
‘You’re not to blame—’ she begins, but I interrupt her.
‘You knew her, Anna. What was she even doing there, in that bar, alone?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m not sure.’ She looks out, towards the river. The coaches on the bridge are silvered in the last of the evening sun, the buildings on the right bank glisten.
‘What? What is it? Anna?’
‘I think she might’ve been seeing someone . . .’
‘A boyfriend?’
‘Kind of . . .’
I feel a surge of energy. A Pavlovian response to the promise of progress.
‘What d’you mean? Who was she seeing? Did the police know?’
‘It’s not that simple.’ She looks uncomfortable. ‘She . . . she had boyfriends. Boyfriends, plural.’
I take a deep breath and put down my fork. ‘You mean more than one at the same time?’
She nods.
‘You think one of them found out about the others? Did you tell the police?’
‘I told them as much as I knew. I presume they looked into it, I think they still are looking into it. The thing is . . . it wasn’t as straightforward as that.’ She hesitates but doesn’t lower her voice, even though there are people at the surrounding tables. ‘They weren’t really boyfriends as such. Kate had fun. You know? She liked meeting guys and having a good time. We both did, occasionally.’
‘In bars?’
‘No. Online.’
‘Okay . . .’ I say. ‘So she dated people off the internet?’
‘Not just dating.’
‘She was meeting men for sex.’
She looks defensive. ‘It happens! But, anyway, I know she didn’t meet them all. She was more into it than me, but still a lot of it was just sex talk, you know? Fantasy.’
I try to picture Kate, alone in her room, in front of her laptop. For some reason I think of Connor sitting at his computer, his face illuminated by the screen, then of Hugh doing the same thing.
I dismiss the thought. Hugh isn’t that sort of person.
‘We both used to go online together. This is before I met my boyfriend, of course. We’d chat to people, compare notes, sometimes go on dates. You know?’
‘But the police said she left alone.’
‘Maybe she’d been stood up?’
‘Promise me the police know this? They didn’t say anything . . . She might have put herself in real danger.’
‘Oh, yes. I told them. They questioned me for hours. They asked about everything. Her friends. People she knew. Even you and Hugh.’ She looks at me then down at the table. Anger prickles. Have we been investigated? Do they think I’m capable of hurting my sister? ‘They took away her computer, her phone. I guess they didn’t find anything . . .’
‘Maybe they didn’t look hard enough?’
She smiles sadly. ‘Well, I suppose we have to trust that they know what they’re doing. Surely?’ She pauses. ‘I’m sorry. If I’ve upset you.’
I look out over the city. It’s dark now, the sky is lit, Notre Dame sits in front of us, owning its own ghostly history. I’m overwhelmed with sadness. All these questions that lead nowhere.
I begin to cry again. It’s as if it’s a new skill; now I’ve started, I can’t stop. ‘How can someone do this to my sister – to anyone – and get away with it?’
‘I know. I know.’ She hands me a tissue from her bag then puts her hand on mine. ‘You need closure.’
I shut my eyes. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But everything I try to do just opens it all up further. It’s like a cut that won’t heal.’
In my mind I see Kate as a toddler: we’re ready to go to a party, she’s wearing a dress in lemon that had once been mine and a band in her hair with a yellow bow. She’s just pulled herself up on a chair but has let go. She wobbles then looks at me. She’s hesitant, determined, and after a couple of false starts she lifts one foot, then the other. She takes a few steps, her arms out wide, then begins to fall. I remember I’d caught her, swooped her up – already she was giggling – and carried her through to where our mother stood, putting on her gloves. ‘She walked,’ I said. ‘Katie walked!’ And our mother hugged us both to her, all three of us laughing, delighted.
The weight of my grief presses down and I blink the image away. She puts down her wine. ‘Might it help to go there?’
‘Where?’
‘To the place it happened.’ I shake my head, but she goes on. ‘I went. The other week. I had to see it for myself.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘It’s just an alleyway.
Nothing special. Next to a train line.’
I don’t speak. I can’t tell her how many times I’ve seen it, how many times I’ve imagined my sister there.
‘I left some flowers there. I think it helped.’
Still I say nothing. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to stare Kate’s death in the face. I’m not strong enough.
‘You just need more time . . .’
Time. The thing I have plenty of, the thing Kate ran out of.
‘Come with me?’
I close my eyes. Kate is there, I want to say. Her ghost. She’s trapped there, screaming. She can’t escape, and I can’t help her.
‘No. No. I can’t.’
Something snaps. I feel it give, then there’s a release. I reach for the carafe. The gesture is automatic, I’m barely aware I’ve moved. I’m thinking of Kate, of her sitting at her computer, chatting to strangers, telling them her secrets. I’m thinking of Anna. I’m thinking of Hugh, and of Connor, and of Frosty and Marcus, and before I know what I’m doing my glass is in my hand, and it’s full of wine, and I’m thinking, It can’t hurt now, surely? and, Haven’t I waited long enough?
The answers will come, if I’m not quick. I raise the glass to my lips, I push all thought away, and then, for the first time in fifteen years, I’m drinking, and drinking, and drinking.
Chapter Five
I sit on the train. I’m thirsty, my lips are dry, but my head is remarkably clear. I remember hangovers, and this isn’t one. I didn’t drink that much. I can’t have done, or I’d know it.
I think back to last night. The drink slid down my throat as if it were something that belonged, a key in a lock, something that completed me, and as I swallowed I felt myself relax, the unclenching of muscles I didn’t know I’d been tensing. It felt a little too much like coming home.
This isn’t good. I know that, I tell myself that, over and over. Unless I’m careful I’ll forget that there are no halfway houses, I’ll convince myself that I can handle one drink, here and there, or that I’m fine as long as I only drink wine, or don’t drink before the evening, or drink only with a meal. One excuse will bleed into another.