SUNDAY, AUGUST 4, 2013
MORNING
It’s different, the nightmare I wake from thismorning. In it, I’ve done something wrong, but Idon’t know what it is, all I know is that it cannot beput right. All I know is that Tom hates me now, hewon’t talk to me any longer, and he has toldeveryone I know about the terrible thing I’ve done,and everyone has turned against me: old colleagues,my friends, even my mother. They look at me withdisgust, contempt, and no one will listen to me, noone will let me tell them how sorry I am. I feelawful, desperately guilty, I just can’t think what it isthat I’ve done. I wake and I know the dream mustcome from an old memory, some ancienttransgression—it doesn’t matter which one now.
After I got off the train yesterday, I hung aroundoutside Ashbury station for a full fifteen or twentyminutes. I watched to see if he’d got off the trainwith me—the red-haired man—but there was no signof him. I kept thinking that I might have missed him,that he was there somewhere, just waiting for me towalk home so that he could follow me. I thoughthow desperately I would love to be able to run homeand for Tom to be waiting for me. To have someonewaiting for me.
I walked home via the off-licence.
The flat was empty when I got back, it had thefeeling of a place just vacated, as though I’d justmissed Cathy, but the note on the counter said shewas going out for lunch with Damien in Henley andthat she wouldn’t be back until Sunday night. I feltrestless, afraid. I walked from room to room, pickingthings up, putting them down. Something felt off, butI realized eventually that it was just me.
Still, the silence ringing in my ears sounded likevoices, so I poured myself a glass of wine, and thenanother, and then I phoned Scott. The phone wentstraight to voice mail: his message from anotherlifetime, the voice of a busy, confident man with abeautiful wife at home. After a few minutes, I phonedagain. The phone was answered, but no one spoke.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Rachel,” I said. “Rachel Watson.”
“Oh.” There was noise in the background, voices, awoman. His mother, perhaps.
“You?.?.?. I missed your call,” I said.
“No?.?.?. no. Did I call you? Oh. By mistake.” Hesounded flustered. “No, just put it there,” he said,and it took me a moment to realize he wasn’t talkingto me.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Yes.” His tone was flat and even.
“So sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you?.?.?. did you need to talk to me?”
“No, I must have rung you by mistake,” he said,with more conviction this time.
“Oh.” I could tell he was keen to get off the phone.
I knew I should leave him to his family, his grief. Iknew that I should, but I didn’t. “Do you knowAnna?” I asked him. “Anna Watson?”
“Who? You mean your ex’s missus?”
“Yes.”
“No. I mean not really. Megan?.?.?. Megan did a bitof babysitting for her, last year. Why do you ask?”
I don’t know why I ask. I don’t know. “Can wemeet?” I asked him. “I wanted to talk to you aboutsomething.”
“About what?” He sounded annoyed. “It’s really nota great time.”
Stung by his sarcasm, I was ready to hang upwhen he said, “I’ve got a house full of people here.
Tomorrow? Come by the house tomorrow afternoon.”
EVENING
He’s cut himself shaving: there’s blood on his cheekand on his collar. His hair is damp and he smells ofsoap and aftershave. He nods at me and standsaside, gesturing for me to the enter the house, buthe doesn’t say anything. The house is dark, stuffy,the blinds in the living room closed, the curtainsdrawn across the French doors leading to thegarden. There are Tupperware containers on thekitchen counters.
“Everyone brings food,” Scott says. He gestures atme to sit down at the table, but he remains standing,his arms hanging limply at his sides. “You wanted totell me something?” He is a man on autopilot, hedoesn’t look me in the eye. He looks defeated.
“I wanted to ask you about Anna Watson, aboutwhether?.?.?. I don’t know. What was her relationshipwith Megan like? Did they like each other?”
He frowns, places his hands on the back of thechair in front of him. “No. I mean?.?.?. they didn’tdislike each other. They didn’t really know each othervery well. They didn’t have a relationship.” Hisshoulders seem to sag lower still; he’s weary. “Whyare you asking me about this?”
I have to come clean. “I saw her. I think I saw her,outside the underpass by the station. I saw her thatnight?.?.?. the night Megan went missing.”
He shakes his head a little, trying to comprehendwhat I’m telling him. “Sorry? You saw her. Youwere?.?.?. Where were you?”
“I was here. I was on my way to see?.?.?. to seeTom, my ex-husband, but I—”
He squeezes his eyes shut, rubs his forehead.
“Hang on a minute—you were here—and you sawAnna Watson? And? I know Anna was here. Shelives a few doors away. She told the police that shewent to the station around seven but that she didn’trecall seeing Megan.” His hands grip the chair, I cantell he is losing patience. “What exactly are yousaying?”
“I’d been drinking,” I say, my face reddening with afamiliar shame. “I don’t remember exactly, but I’vejust got this feeling—”
Scott holds his hand up. “Enough. I don’t want tohear this. You’ve got some problem with your ex,your ex’s new wife, that’s obvious. It’s got nothing todo with me, nothing to do with Megan, has it? Jesus,aren’t you ashamed? Do you have any idea of whatI’m going through here? Do you know that thepolice had me in for questioning this morning?” He’spushing down so hard on the chair, I fear it’s goingto break, I’m steeling myself for the crack. “And youcome here with this bullshit. I’m sorry your life is atotal fucking disaster, but believe me, it’s a picniccompared to mine. So if you don’t mind?.?.?.” Hejerks his head in the direction of the front door.
I get to my feet. I feel foolish, ridiculous. And I amashamed. “I wanted to help. I wanted—”
“You can’t, all right? You can’t help me. No onecan help me. My wife is dead, and the police think Ikilled her.” His voice is rising, spots of colour appearon his cheeks. “They think I killed her.”
“But?.?.?. Kamal Abdic?.?.?.”
The chair crashes against the kitchen wall with suchforce that one of the legs splinters away. I jumpback in fright, but Scott has barely moved. His handsare back at his sides, balled into fists. I can see theveins under his skin.
“Kamal Abdic,” he says, teeth gritted, “is no longer asuspect.” His tone is even, but he is struggling torestrain himself. I can feel the anger vibrating offhim. I want to get to the front door, but he is in myway, blocking my path, blocking out what little lightthere was in the room.
“Do you know what he’s been saying?” he asks,turning away from me to pick up the chair. Ofcourse I don’t, I think, but I realize once again thathe’s not really talking to me. “Kamal’s got all sorts ofstories. Kamal says that Megan was unhappy, that Iwas a jealous, controlling husband, a—what was theword?—an emotional abuser.” He spits the wordsout in disgust. “Kamal says Megan was afraid of me.”
“But he’s—”
“He isn’t the only one. That friend of hers,Tara—she says that Megan asked her to cover forher sometimes, that Megan wanted her to lie to meabout where she was, what she was doing.”
He places the chair back at the table and it fallsover. I take a step towards the hallway, and he looksat me then. “I am a guilty man,” he says, his face atwist of anguish. “I am as good as convicted.”
He kicks the broken chair aside and sits down onone of the three remaining good ones. I hover,unsure. Stick or twist? He starts to talk again, hisvoice so soft I can barely hear him. “Her phone wasin her pocket,” he says. I take a step closer to him.
“There was a message on it from me. The last thingI ever said to her, the last words she ever read,were Go to hell you lying bitch.”
His chin on his chest, his shoulders start to shake. Iam close enough to touch him. I raise my hand and,trembling, put my fingers lightly on the back of hisneck. He doesn’t shrug me away.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it, because althoughI’m shocked to hear the words, to imagine that hecould speak to her like that, I know what it is tolove someone and to say the most terrible things tothem, in anger or anguish. “A text message,” I say.
“It’s not enough. If that’s all they have?.?.?.”
“It’s not, though, is it?” He straightens up then,shrugging my hand away from him. I walk backaround the table and sit down opposite him. Hedoesn’t look up at me. “I have a motive. I didn’tbehave?.?.?. I didn’t react the right way when shewalked out. I didn’t panic soon enough. I didn’t callher soon enough.” He gives a bitter laugh. “Andthere is a pattern of abusive behaviour, according toKamal Abdic.” It’s then that he looks up at me, thathe sees me, that a light comes on. Hope. “You?.?.?.
you can talk to the police. You can tell them that it’sa lie, that he’s lying. You can at least give anotherside of the story, tell them that I loved her, that wewere happy.”
I can feel panic rising in my chest. He thinks I canhelp him. He is pinning his hopes on me and all Ihave for him is a lie, a bloody lie.
“They won’t believe me,” I say weakly. “They don’tbelieve me. I’m an unreliable witness.”
The silence between us swells and fills the room; afly buzzes angrily against the French doors. Scottpicks at the dried blood on his cheek, I can hear hisnails scraping against his skin. I push my chair back,the legs scraping on the tiles, and he looks up.
“You were here,” he says, as though the piece ofinformation I gave him fifteen minutes ago is onlynow sinking in. “You were in Witney the night Megan went missing?”
I can barely hear him above the blood thudding inmy ears. I nod.
“Why didn’t you tell the police that?” he asks. I cansee the muscle tic in his jaw.
“I did. I did tell them that. But I didn’t have?.?.?. Ididn’t see anything. I don’t remember anything.”
He gets to his feet, walks over to the French doorsand pulls back the curtain. The sunshine ismomentarily blinding. Scott stands with his back tome, his arms folded.
“You were drunk,” he says matter-of-factly. “But youmust remember something. You must—that’s whyyou keep coming back here, isn’t it?” He turnsaround to face me. “That’s it, isn’t it? Why you keepcontacting me. You know something.” He’s saying thisas though it’s fact: not a question, not an accusation,not a theory. “Did you see his car?” he asks. “Think.
Blue Vauxhall Corsa. Did you see it?” I shake myhead and he throws his arms up in frustration.
“Don’t just dismiss it. Really think. What did you see?
You saw Anna Watson, but that doesn’t meananything. You saw—come on! Who did you see?”
Blinking into the sunlight, I try desperately to piecetogether what I saw, but nothing comes. Nothing real,nothing helpful. Nothing I could say out loud. I wasin an argument. Or perhaps I witnessed anargument. I stumbled on the station steps, a manwith red hair helped me up—I think that he waskind to me, although now he makes me feel afraid. Iknow that I had a cut on my head, another on mylip, bruises on my arms. I think I remember being inthe underpass. It was dark. I was frightened,confused. I heard voices. I heard someone callMegan’s name. No, that was a dream. That wasn’treal. I remember blood. Blood on my head, blood onmy hands. I remember Anna. I don’t rememberTom. I don’t remember Kamal or Scott or Megan.
He is watching me, waiting for me to say something,to offer him some crumb of comfort, but I havenone.
“That night,” he says, “that’s the key time.” He sitsback down at the table, closer to me now, his backto the window. There is a sheen of sweat on hisforehead and his upper lip, and he shivers as thoughwith fever. “That’s when it happened. They thinkthat’s when it happened. They can’t be sure?.?.?.” Hetails off. “They can’t be sure. Because of thecondition?.?.?. of the body.” He takes a deep breath.
“But they think it was that night. Or soon after.”
He’s back on autopilot, speaking to the room, not tome. I listen in silence as he tells the room that thecause of death was head trauma, her skull wasfractured in several places. No sexual assault, or atleast none that they could confirm, because of hercondition. Her condition, which was ruined.
When he comes back to himself, back to me, thereis fear in his eyes, desperation.
“If you remember anything,” he says, “you have tohelp me. Please, try to remember, Rachel.” Thesound of my name on his lips makes my stomachflip, and I feel wretched.
On the train, on the way home, I think about whathe said, and I wonder if it’s true. Is the reason thatI can’t let go of this trapped inside my head? Isthere some knowledge I’m desperate to impart? Iknow that I feel something for him, something I can’tname and shouldn’t feel. But is it more than that? Ifthere’s something in my head, then maybe someonecan help me get it out. Someone like a psychiatrist.
A therapist. Someone like Kamal Abdic.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 6, 2013
MORNING
I’ve barely slept. All night, I lay awake thinking aboutit, turning it over and over in my mind. Is thisstupid, reckless, pointless? Is it dangerous? I don’tknow what I’m doing. I made an appointmentyesterday morning to see Dr. Kamal Abdic. I rang hissurgery and spoke to a receptionist, asked for himby name. I might have been imagining it, but Ithought she sounded surprised. She said he couldsee me today at four thirty. So soon? My heartbattering my ribs, my mouth dry, I said that wouldbe fine. The session costs ￡75. That ￡300 from mymother is not going to last very long.
Ever since I made the appointment, I haven’t beenable to t............