SUNDAY, JULY 21, 2013
MORNING
I wake with my head full of him. It doesn’t seemreal, none of it does. My skin prickles. I would dearlylove to have a drink, but I can’t. I need to keep aclear head. For Megan. For Scott.
I made an effort yesterday. I washed my hair andput some makeup on. I wore the only jeans I still fitinto, with a cotton print blouse and sandals with alow heel. I looked OK. I kept telling myself that itwas ridiculous to care about my appearance, becausethe last thing Scott was going to be thinking aboutwas what I looked like, but I couldn’t help myself. Itwas the first time I was ever going to be aroundhim, it mattered to me. Much more than it should.
I took the train, leaving Ashbury around six thirty,and I was in Witney just after seven. I took thatwalk along Roseberry Avenue, past the underpass. Ididn’t look this time, couldn’t bear to. I hurried pastnumber twenty-three, Tom and Anna’s place, chin tochest and sunglasses on, praying they wouldn’t seeme. It was quiet, no one around, a couple of carsdriving carefully down the centre of the road betweenranks of parked vehicles. It’s a sleepy little street, tidyand affluent, with lots of young families; they’re allhaving their dinner around seven o’clock, or sittingon the sofa, mum and dad with the little onessqueezed between them, watching The X Factor.
From number twenty-three to number fifteen can’tbe more than fifty or sixty paces, but that journeystretched out, it seemed to take an age; my legswere leaden, my footing unsteady, as though I weredrunk, as though I might just slip off the pavement.
Scott opened the door almost before I’d finishedknocking, my trembling hand still raised as heappeared in the doorway, looming ahead of me, fillingthe space.
“Rachel?” he asked, looking down at me, unsmiling.
I nodded. He offered his hand and I took it. Hegestured for me to enter the house, but for amoment I didn’t move. I was afraid of him. Up closehe is physically intimidating, tall and broad-shouldered,his arms and chest well defined. His hands are huge.
It crossed my mind that he could crush me—myneck, my rib cage—without much effort.
I moved past him into the hallway, my armbrushing against his as I did, and felt a flush risingto my face. He smelled of old sweat, and his darkhair was matted against his head as though hehadn’t showered in a while.
It was in the living room that the déjà vu hit me,so strong it was almost frightening. I recognized thefireplace flanked by alcoves on the far wall, the waythe light streamed in from the street through slantedblinds; I knew that when I turned to my left therewould be glass and green and beyond that therailway line. I turned and there was the kitchen table,the French doors behind it and the lush patch oflawn. I knew this house. I felt dizzy, I wanted to sitdown; I thought about that black hole last Saturdaynight, all those lost hours.
It didn’t mean anything, of course. I know thathouse, but not because I’ve been there. I know itbecause it’s exactly the same as numbertwenty-three: a hallway leads to the stairs, and onthe right-hand side is the living room, knockedthrough into the kitchen. The patio and the gardenare familiar to me because I’ve seen them from thetrain. I didn’t go upstairs, but I know that if I had,there would have been a landing with a large sashwindow on it, and that if you climbed through thatwindow you would find yourself on the makeshiftroof terrace. I know that there will be two bedrooms,the master with two large windows looking out ontothe street and a smaller room at the back,overlooking the garden. Just because I know thathouse inside and out does not mean that I’ve beenthere before.
Still, I was trembling when Scott showed me intothe kitchen. He offered me a cup of tea. I sat downat the kitchen table while he boiled the kettle,dropped a tea bag into a mug and slopped boilingwater over the counter, muttering to himself underhis breath. There was a sharp smell of antiseptic inthe room, but Scott himself was a mess, a sweatpatch on the back of his T-shirt, his jeans hangingloose on his hips as though they were too big forhim. I wondered when was the last time he hadeaten.
He placed the mug of tea in front of me and saton the opposite side of the kitchen table, his handsfolded in front of him. The silence stretched out,filling the space between us, the whole room; it rangin my ears, and I felt hot and uncomfortable, mymind suddenly blank. I didn’t know what I was doingthere. Why on earth had I come? In the distance, Iheard a low rumbling—the train was coming. It feltcomforting, that old sound.
“You’re a friend of Megan’s?” he said at last.
Hearing her name from his lips brought a lump tomy throat. I stared down at the table, my handswrapped tightly around the mug.
“Yes,” I said. “I know her?.?.?. a little. From thegallery.”
He looked at me, waiting, expectant. I could see themuscle flex in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Isearched for words that wouldn’t come. I shouldhave prepared better.
“Have you had any news?” I asked. His gaze heldmine, and for a second I felt afraid. I’d said thewrong thing; it was none of my business whetherthere was any news. He would be angry, he’d askme to leave.
“No,” he said. “What was it that you wanted to tellme?”
The train rolled slowly past and I looked outtowards the tracks. I felt dizzy, as though I werehaving an out-of-body experience, as though I werelooking out at myself.
“You said in your email that you wanted to tell mesomething about Megan.” The pitch of his voiceraised a little.
I took a deep breath. I felt awful. I was acutelyaware that what I was about to say was going tomake everything worse, was going to hurt him.
“I saw her with someone,” I said. I just blurted itout, blunt and loud with no buildup, no context.
He stared at me. “When? You saw her on Saturdaynight? Have you told the police?”
“No, it was Friday morning,” I said, and hisshoulders slumped.
“But?.?.?. she was fine on Friday. Why is thatimportant?” That pulse in his jaw went again, he wasbecoming angry. “You saw her with?.?.?. you saw herwith who? With a man?”
“Yes, I—”
“What did he look like?” He got to his feet, hisbody blocking the light. “Have you told the police?”
he asked again.
“I did, but I’m not sure they took me veryseriously,” I said.
“Why?”
“I just?.?.?. I don’t know?.?.?. I thought you shouldknow.”
He leaned forward, his hands on the table, clenchedinto fists. “What are you saying? You saw herwhere? What was she doing?”
Another deep breath. “She was?.?.?. out on yourlawn,” I said. “Just there.” I pointed out to thegarden. “She?.?.?. I saw her from the train.” The lookof incredulity on his face was unmistakable. “I takethe train into London from Ashbury every day. I goright past here. I saw her, she was with someone.
And it?.?.?. it wasn’t you.”
“How do you know??.?.?. Friday morning? Friday—theday before she went missing?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t here,” he said. “I was away. I was at aconference in Birmingham, I got back on Fridayevening.” Spots of colour appeared high on hischeeks, his scepticism giving way to something else.
“So you saw her, on the lawn, with someone?
And?.?.?.”
“She kissed him,” I said. I had to get it outeventually. I had to tell him. “They were kissing.”
He straightened up, his hands, still balled into fists,hanging at his side. The spots of colour on hischeeks grew darker, angrier.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I know this is aterrible thing to hear?.?.?.”
He held up his hand, waved me away.
Contemptuous. He wasn’t interested in my sympathy.
I know how that feels. Sitting there, I rememberedwith almost perfect clarity how it felt when I sat inmy own kitchen, five doors down, while Lara, myformer best friend, sat opposite me, her fat toddlersquirming on her lap. I remember her telling mehow sorry she was that my marriage was over, Iremember losing my temper at her platitudes. Sheknew nothing of my pain. I told her to piss off andshe told me not to speak like that in front of herchild. I haven’t seen her since.
“What did he look like, this man you saw herwith?” Scott asked. He was standing with his back tome, looking out onto the lawn.
“He was tall—taller than you, maybe. Dark-skinned. Ithink he might have been Asian. Indian—somethinglike that.”
“And they were kissing, out here in the garden?”
“Yes.”
He gave a long sigh. “Jesus, I need a drink. Heturned to face me. “Would you like a beer?”
I did, I wanted a drink desperately, but I said no. Iwatched as he fetched himself a bottle from thefridge, opened it, took a long slug. I could almost feelthe cold liquid sliding down my throat as I watchedhim; my hand ached for want of a glass. Scottleaned against the counter, his head bent almost tohis chest.
I felt wretched then. I wasn’t helping, I had justmade him feel worse, increased his pain. I wasintruding on his grief, it was wrong. I should neverhave gone to see him. I should never have lied.
Obviously, I should never have lied.
I was just getting to my feet when he spoke. “Itcould?.?.?. I don’t know. It might be a good thing,mightn’t it? It could mean that she’s all right. She’sjust?.?.?.” He gave a hollow little laugh. “She’s just runoff with someone.” He brushed a tear from his cheekwith the back of his hand and my heart screwed upinto a tight little ball. “But the thing is, I can’t believeshe wouldn’t call.” He looked at me as though I heldthe answers, as though I would know. “Surely shewould call me, wouldn’t she? She would know howpanicked?.?.?. how desperate I would be. She’s notvindictive like that, is she?”
He was talking to me like someone he couldtrust—like Megan’s friend—and I knew that it waswrong, but it felt good. He took another swig of hisbeer and turned towards the garden. I followed hisgaze to a little pile of stones against the fence, arockery long since started and never finished. Heraised the bottle halfway to his lips again, and thenhe stopped. He turned to face me.
“You saw Megan from the train?” he asked. “Soyou were?.?.?. just looking out of the window andthere she was, a woman you happen to know?” Theatmosphere in the room had changed. He wasn’tsure anymore whether I was an ally, whether I wasto be trusted. Doubt passed over his face like ashadow.
“Yes, I?.?.?. I know where she lives,” I said, and Iregretted the words the moment they came out ofmy mouth. “Where you live, I mean. I’ve been herebefore. A long time ago. So sometimes I’d look outfor her when I went past.” He was staring at me; Icould feel the heat rising to my face. “She was oftenout there.”
He placed his empty bottle down on the counter,took a couple of steps towards me and sat down inthe seat nearest to me, at the table.
“So you knew Megan well then? I mean, wellenough to come round to the house?”
I could feel the blood pulsing in my neck, sweat atthe base of my spine, the sickening rush ofadrenaline. I shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t havecomplicated the lie.
“It was just one time, but I?.?.?. I know where thehouse is because I used to live nearby.” He raisedhis eyebrows at me. “Down the road. Numbertwenty-three.”
He nodded slowly. “Watson,” he said. “So you’re,what, Tom’s ex-wife?”
“Yes. I moved out a couple of years ago.”
“But you still visited Megan’s gallery?”
“Sometimes.”
“And when you saw her, what did you?.?.?. Did shetalk about personal things, about me?” His voice washusky. “About anyone else?”
I shook my head. “No, no. It was usually just?.?.?.
passing the time, you know.” There was a longsilence. The heat in the room seemed to buildsuddenly, the smell of antiseptic rising from everysurface. I felt faint. To my right there was a sidetable adorned with photographs in frames. Megansmiled out at me, cheerfully accusing.
“I should go now,” I said. “I’ve taken up enough ofyour time.” I started to get up, but he reached anarm out and placed his hand on my wrist, his eyesnever leaving my face.
“Don’t go just yet,” he said softly. I didn’t stand up,but I withdrew my hand from beneath his; it feltuncomfortably as though I were being restrained.
“This man,” he said. “This man you saw herwith—do you think you’d recognize him again? If yousaw him?”
I couldn’t say that I already had identified the manto the police. My whole rationale for approaching himhad been that the police hadn’t taken my storyseriously. If I admitted the truth, the trust would begone. So I lied again.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think I might.” Iwaited a moment, and then I went on. “In thenewspapers, there was a quote from a friend ofMegan’s. His name was Rajesh. I was wonderingif—”
Scott was already shaking his head. “Rajesh Gujral?
I can’t see it. He’s one of the artists who used toexhibit at the gallery. He’s a nice enough guy, but?.?.?.
he’s married, he’s got kids.” As if that meantsomething. “Wait a second,” he said, getting to hisfeet. “I think there might be a picture of himsomewhere.”
He disappeared upstairs. I felt my shoulders dropand realized that I’d been sitting rigid with tensionsince I arrived. I looked over at the photographsagain: Megan in a sundress on a beach; a close-upof her face, her eyes a startling blue. Just Megan.
No pictures of the two of them together.
Scott reappeared holding a pamphlet, which hepresented to me. It was a leaflet, advertising a showat the gallery. He turned it over. “There,” he said,“that’s Rajesh.”
The man was standing next to a colourful abstractpainting: he was older, bearded, short, stocky. Itwasn’t the man I had seen, the man I had identifiedto the police. “It’s not him,” I said. Scott stood at myside, staring down at the pamphlet, before abruptlyturning and marching out of the room and up thestairs again. A few moments later, he came back witha laptop and sat down at the kitchen table.
“I think,” he said, opening the machine and turningit on, “I think I might?.?.?.” He fell silent and Iwatched him, his face a picture of concentration, themuscle in his jaw locked. “Megan was seeing atherapist,” he told me. “His name is?.?.?. Abdic. KamalAbdic. He’s not Asian, he’s from Serbia, or Bosnia,somewhere like that. He’s dark-skinned, though. Hecould pass for Indian from a distance.” He tappedaway at the computer. “There’s a website, I think.
I’m sure there is. I think there’s a picture?.?.?.”
He spun the laptop round so that I could see thescreen. I leaned forward to get a closer look. “That’shim,” I said. “That’s definitely him.”
Scott snapped the laptop shut. For a long time, hedidn’t say anything. He sat with his elbows on thetable, his forehead resting on his fingertips, his armstrembling.
“She was having anxiety attacks,” he said at last.
“Trouble sleeping, things like that. It started last yearsome time. I don’t remember when exactly.” Hetalked without looking at me, as though he weretalking to himself, as though he’d forgotten I wasthere at all. “I was the one who suggested she talkto someone. I was the one who encouraged her togo, because I didn’t seem to be able to help her.”
His voice cracked a little then. “I couldn’t help her.
And she told me that she’d had similar problems inthe past and that eventually they’d go away, but Imade her?.?.?. I persuaded her to go to the doctor.
That guy was recommended to her.” He gave a littlecough to clear his throat. “The therapy seemed to behelping. She was happier.” He gave a short, sadlaugh. “Now I know why.”
I reached out my hand to give him a pat on thearm, a gesture of comfort. Abruptly, he drew awayand got to his feet. “You should go,” he saidbrusquely. “My mother will be here soon—she won’tleave me alone for more than an hour or two.” Atthe door, just as I was leaving, he caught hold of myarm.
“Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked.
For a moment, I thought about saying, You mighthave done. You might have seen me at the policestation, or here on the street. I was here onSaturday night. I shook my head. “No, I don’t thinkso.”
I walked away towards the train station as quicklyas I could. About halfway along the street, I turnedto look back. He was still standing there in thedoorway, watching me.
EVENING
I’ve been checking my email obsessively, but I’veheard nothing from Tom. How much better life musthave been for jealous drunks before emails and textsand mobile phones, before all this electronica and the............