SATURDAY, AUGUST 3, 2013
MORNING
I dreamed last night that I was in the woods, walkingby myself. It was dusk, or dawn, I’m not quite sure,but there was someone else there with me. I couldn’tsee them, I just knew they were there, gaining onme. I didn’t want to be seen, I wanted to run away,but I couldn’t, my limbs were too heavy, and when Itried to cry out I made no sound at all.
When I wake, white light slips through the slats onthe blind. The rain is finally gone, its work done. Theroom is warm; it smells terrible, rank and sour—I’vebarely left it since Thursday. Outside, I can hear thevacuum purr and whine. Cathy is cleaning. She’ll begoing out later; when she does I can venture out.
I’m not sure what I will do, I can’t seem to rightmyself. One more day of drinking, perhaps, and thenI’ll get myself straight tomorrow.
My phone buzzes briefly, telling me its battery isdying. I pick it up to plug it into the charger and Inotice that I have two missed calls from last night. Idial into voice mail. I have one message.
“Rachel, hi. It’s Mum. Listen, I’m coming down toLondon tomorrow. Saturday. I’ve got a spot ofshopping to do. Could we meet up for a coffee orsomething? Darling, it’s not a good time for you tocome and stay now. There’s?.?.?. well, I’ve got a newfriend, and you know how it is in the early stages.”
She titters. “Anyway, I’m very happy to give you aloan to tide you over for a couple of weeks. We’lltalk about it tomorrow. OK, darling. Bye.”
I’m going to have to be straight with her, tell herexactly how bad things are. That is not aconversation I want to have stone-cold sober. I haulmyself out of bed: I can go down to the shops nowand just have a couple of glasses before I go out.
Take the edge off. I look at my phone again, checkthe missed calls. Only one is from my mother—theother is from Scott. A message left at quarter to onein the morning. I sit there, with the phone in myhand, debating whether to call him back. Not now,too early. Perhaps later? After one glass, though, nottwo.
I plug the phone in to charge, pull the blind up andopen the window, then go to the bathroom and runa cold shower. I scrub my skin and wash my hairand try to quieten the voice in my head that tells meit’s an odd thing to do, less than forty-eight hoursafter your wife’s body has been discovered, to ringanother woman in the middle of the night.
EVENING
The earth is still drying out, but the sun is almostbreaking through thick white cloud. I bought myselfone of those little bottles of wine—just one. Ishouldn’t, but lunch with my mother would test thewillpower of a lifelong teetotaller. Still, she’s promisedto transfer ￡300 into my bank account, so it wasn’ta complete waste of time.
I didn’t admit how bad things were. I didn’t tell herI’ve been out of work for months, or that I wasfired (she thinks her money is tiding me over untilmy unemployment check arrives). I didn’t tell herhow bad things had got on the drinking front, andshe didn’t notice. Cathy did. When I saw her on myway out this morning, she gave me a look and said,“Oh for God’s sake. Already?” I have no idea howshe does that, but she always knows. Even if I’veonly had half a glass, she takes one look at me andshe knows.
“I can tell from your eyes,” she says, but when Icheck myself in the mirror I look exactly the same.
Her patience is running out, her sympathy, too. Ihave to stop. Only not today. I can’t today. It’s toohard today.
I should have been prepared for it, should haveexpected it, but somehow I didn’t. I got onto thetrain and she was everywhere, her face beamingfrom every newspaper: beautiful, blond, happyMegan, looking right into the camera, right at me.
Someone has left behind their copy of the Times,so I read their report. The formal identification camelast night, the postmortem is today. A policespokesman is quoted saying that “Mrs. Hipwell’scause of death may be difficult to establish becauseher body has been outside for some time, and hasbeen submerged in water for several days, at least.”
It’s horrible to think about, with her picture right infront of me. What she looked like then, what shelooks like now.
There’s a brief mention of Kamal, his arrest andrelease, and a statement from Detective InspectorGaskill, saying that they are “pursuing a number ofleads,” which I imagine means they are clueless. Iclose the newspaper and put it on the floor at myfeet. I can’t bear to look at her any longer. I don’twant to read those hopeless, empty words.
I lean my head against the window. Soon we’ll passnumber twenty-three. I glance over, just for amoment, but we’re too far away on this side of thetrack to really see anything. I keep thinking about theday I saw Kamal, about the way he kissed her,about how angry I was and how I wanted toconfront her. What would have happened if I haddone? What would have happened if I’d gone roundth............