WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2013
EVENING
The heat is insufferable, it builds and builds. With theapartment windows open, you can taste the carbonmonoxide rising from the street below. My throatitches. I’m taking my second shower of the daywhen the phone rings. I let it go, and it rings again.
And again. By the time I’m out, it’s ringing for afourth time, and I answer.
He sounds panicky, his breath short. His voicecomes to me in snatches. “I can’t go home,” he says.
“There are cameras everywhere.”
“Scott?”
“I know this is?.?.?. this is really weird, but I justneed to go somewhere, somewhere they won’t bewaiting for me. I can’t go to my mother’s, myfriends’. I’m just?.?.?. driving around. I’ve been drivingaround since I left the police station?.?.?.” There’s acatch in his voice. “I just need an hour or two. Tosit, to think. Without them, without the police, withoutpeople asking me fucking questions. I’m sorry, butcould I come to your house?”
I say yes, of course. Not just because he soundspanicked, desperate, but because I want to see him. Iwant to help him. I give him the address and hesays he’ll be here in fifteen minutes.
The doorbell rings ten minutes later: short, sharp,urgent bursts.
“I’m sorry to do this,” he says as I open the frontdoor. “I didn’t know where to go.” He has a huntedlook to him: he’s shaken, pale, his skin slick withsweat.
“It’s all right,” I say, stepping aside to allow him topass me. I show him into the living room, tell him tosit down. I fetch him a glass of water from thekitchen. He drinks it, almost in one gulp, then sits,bent over, forearms on his knees, head hangingdown.
I hover, unsure whether to speak or to hold mytongue. I fetch his glass and refill it, saying nothing.
Eventually, he starts to speak.
“You think the worst has happened,” he saysquietly. “I mean, you would think that, wouldn’tyou?” He looks up at me. “My wife is dead, and thepolice think that I killed her. What could be worsethan that?”
He’s talking about the news, about the thingsthey’re saying about her. This tabloid story,supposedly leaked by someone in the police, aboutMegan’s involvement in the death of a child. Murky,speculative stuff, a smear campaign on a deadwoman. It’s despicable.
“It isn’t true, though,” I say to him. “It can’t be.”
His expression is blank, uncomprehending. “DetectiveRiley told me this morning,” he says. He coughs,clears his throat. “The news I always wanted to hear.
You can’t imagine,” he goes on, his voice barelymore than a whisper, “how I’ve longed for it. I usedto daydream about it, imagine how she’d look, howshe’d smile at me, shy and knowing, how she’d takemy hand and press it to her lips?.?.?.” He’s lost, he’sdreaming, I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Today,” he says, “today I got the news that Meganwas pregnant.”
He starts to cry, and I am choking, too, crying foran infant who never existed, the child of a woman Inever knew. But the horror of it is almost too muchto bear. I cannot understand how Scott is stillbreathing. It should have killed him, should havesucked the life right out of him. Somehow, though,he is still here.
I can’t speak, can’t move. The living room is hot,airless despite the open windows. I can hear noisesfrom the street below: a police siren, young girlsshouting and laughing, bass booming from a passingcar. Normal life. But in here, the world is ending. ForScott, the world is ending, and I can’t speak. I standthere, mute, helpless, useless.
Until I hear footfalls on the steps outside, thefamiliar jangle of Cathy fishing around in her hugehandbag for her house keys. It jolts me to life. Ihave to do something: I grab Scott’s hand and helooks up at me, alarmed.
“Come with me,” I say, pulling him to his feet. Helets me drag him into the hallway and up the stairsbefore Cathy unlocks the door. I close the bedroomdoor behind us.
“My flatmate,” I say by way of explanation.
“She’d?.?.?. she might ask questions. I know that’s notwhat you want at the moment.”
He nods. He looks around my tiny room, taking inthe unmade bed, the clothes, both clean and dirty,piled on my desk chair, the blank walls, the cheapfurniture. I am embarrassed. This is my life: messy,shabby, small. Unenviable. As I’m thinking this, Ithink how ridiculous I am to imagine that Scott couldpossibly care about the state of my life at thismoment.
I motion for him to sit down on the bed. He obeys,wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Hebreathes out heavily.
“Can I get you something?” I ask him.
“A beer?”
“I don’t keep alcohol in the house,” I say, and Ican feel myself going red as I say it. Scott doesn’tnotice, though, he doesn’t even look up. “I can makeyou a cup of tea?” He nods again. “Lie down,” I say.
“Rest.” He does as he’s told, kicking off his shoesand lying back on the bed, docile as a sick child.
Downstairs, while I boil the kettle I make small talkwith Cathy, listening to her going on about the newplace in Northcote she’s discovered for lunch (“reallygood salads”) and how annoying the new woman atwork is. I smile and nod, but I’m only half hearingher. My body is braced: I’m listening out for him, forcreaks or footsteps. It feels unreal to have him here,in my bed, upstairs. It makes me dizzy to thinkabout it, as though I’m dreaming.
Cathy stops talking eventually and looks at me, herbrow furrowed. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Youlook?.?.?. kind of out of it.”
“I’m just a bit tired,” I tell her. “I’m not feeling verywell. I think I’ll go to bed.”
She gives me a look. She knows I’ve not beendrinking (she can always tell), but she probablyassumes I’m about to start. I don’t care, I can’t thinkabout it now; I pick up the cup of tea for Scott andtell her I’ll see her in the morning.
I stop outside my bedroom door and listen. It’squiet. Carefully, I twist the doorknob and push thedoor open. He’s lying there, in exactly the sameposition I left him, his hands at his sides, his eyesshut. I can hear his breathing, soft and ragged. Hisbulk takes up half the bed, but I’m tempted to liedown in the space next to him, to put my armacross his chest, to comfort him. Instead, I give alittle cough and hold out the cup of tea.
He sits up. “Thank you,” he says gruffly, taking themug from me. “Thank you for?.?.?. giving mesanctuary. It’s been?.?.?. I can’t describe how it’s been,since that story came out.”
“The one about what happened years ago?”
“Yeah, that one.”
How the tabloids got hold of that story is hotlydisputed. The speculation has been rife, fingerspointed at the police, at Kamal Abdic, at Scott.
“It’s a lie,” I say to him. “Isn’t it?”
“Of course it is, but it gives someone a motive,doesn’t it? That’s what they’re saying: Megan killedher baby, which would give someone—the father ofthe child, presumably—a motive to kill her. Years andyears later.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“But you know what everyone’s saying. That I madethis story up, not just to make her look like a badperson, but to shift suspicion away from me, ontosome unknown person. Some guy from her past thatno one even knows about.”
I sit down next to him on the bed. Our thighsalmost touch.
“What are the police saying about it?”
He shrugs. “Nothing really. They asked me what Iknew about it. Did I know she’d had a child before?
Did I know what happened? Did I know who thefather was? I said no, it was all bullshit, she’d neverbeen pregnant?.?.?.” His voice catches again. He stops,takes a sip of the tea. “I asked them where the storycame from, how it made it into the newspapers.
They said they couldn’t tell me. It’s from him, Iassume. Abdic.” He gives a long, shuddering sigh. “Idon’t understand why. I don’t understand why hewould say things like that about her. I don’t knowwhat he’s trying to do. He’s obviously fuckingdisturbed.”
I think of the man I met the other day: the calmdemeanour, the soft voice, the warmth in the eyes.
As far from disturbed as it’s possible to get. Thatsmile, though. “It’s outrageous that this has beenprinted. There should be rules?.?.?.”
“Can’t libel the dead,” he............