RACHEL

FRIDAY, JULY 19, 2013
MORNING
The 8:04 is almost deserted. The windows are openand the air is cool after yesterday’s storm. Meganhas been missing for around 133 hours, and I feelbetter than I have in months. When I looked atmyself in the mirror this morning, I could see thedifference in my face: my skin is clearer, my eyesbrighter. I feel lighter. I’m sure I haven’t actually lostan ounce, but I don’t feel encumbered. I feel likemyself—the myself I used to be.
There’s been no word from Scott. I scoured theInternet and there was no news of an arrest, either,so I imagine he just ignored my email. I’mdisappointed, but I suppose it was to be expected.
Gaskill rang this morning, just as I was leaving thehouse. He asked me whether I would be able tocome by the station today. I was terrified for amoment, but then I heard him say in his quiet, mildtone that he just wanted me to look at a couple ofpictures. I asked him whether Scott Hipwell had beenarrested.
“No one has been arrested, Ms. Watson,” he said.
“But the man, the one who’s under caution?.?.?.??”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
His manner of speaking is so calming, so reassuring,it makes me like him again.
I spent yesterday evening sitting on the sofa injogging bottoms and a T-shirt, making lists of thingsto do, possible strategies. For example, I could hangaround Witney station at rush hour, wait until I seethe red-haired man from Saturday night again. Icould invite him for a drink and see where it leads,whether he saw anything, what he knows about thatnight. The danger is that I might see Anna or Tom,they would report me and I would get into trouble(more trouble) with the police. The other danger isthat I might make myself vulnerable. I still have thetrace of an argument in my head—I may havephysical evidence of it on my scalp and lip. What ifthis is the man who hurt me? The fact that hesmiled and waved doesn’t mean anything, he couldbe a psychopath for all I know. But I can’t see himas a psychopath. I can’t explain it, but I warm tohim.
I could contact Scott again. But I need to give hima reason to talk to me, and I’m worried thatwhatever I saw will make me look like a madwoman.
He might even think I have something to do withMegan’s disappearance, he could report me to thepolice. I could end up in real trouble.
I could try hypnosis. I’m pretty sure it won’t helpme remember anything, but I’m curious about itanyway. It can’t hurt, can it?
I was still sitting there making notes and going overthe news stories I’d printed out when Cathy camehome. She’d been to the cinema with Damien. Shewas obviously pleasantly surprised to find me sober,but she was wary, too, because we haven’t reallyspoken since the police came round on Tuesday. Itold her that I hadn’t had a drink for three days,and she gave me a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re getting yourself back to normal!”
she chirruped, as though she knows what mybaseline is.
“That thing with the police,” I said, “it was amisunderstanding. There’s no problem with me andTom, and I don’t know anything about that missinggirl. You don’t have to worry about it.” She gave meanother hug and made us both a cup of tea. Ithought about taking advantage of the good will I’dengendered and telling her about the job situation,but I didn’t want to spoil her evening.
She was still in a good mood with me this morning.
She hugged me again as I was getting ready to leavethe house.
“I’m so pleased for you, Rach,” she said. “Gettingyourself sorted. You’ve had me worried.” Then shetold me that she was going to spend the weekend atDamien’s, and the first thing I thought was that I’mgoing to get home tonight and have a drink withoutanyone judging me.
EVENING
The bitter tang of quinine, that’s what I love about acold gin and tonic. Tonic water should be bySchweppes and it should come out of a glass bottle,not a plastic one. These premixed things aren’t rightat all, but needs must. I know I shouldn’t be doingthis, but I’ve been building up to it all day. It’s notjust the anticipation of solitude, though, it’s theexcitement, the adrenaline. I’m buzzing, my skin istingling. I’ve had a good day.
I spent an hour alone with Detective InspectorGaskill this morning. I was taken in to see himstraightaway when I arrived at the station. We sat inhis office, not in the interview room this time. Heoffered me coffee, and when I accepted I wassurprised to find that he got up and made it for mehimself. He had a kettle and some Nescafé on top ofa fridge in the corner of the office. He apologized fornot having sugar.
I liked being in his company. I liked watching hishands move—he isn’t expressive, but he moves thingsaround a lot. I hadn’t noticed this before because inthe interview room there wasn’t much for him tomove around. In his office he constantly altered theposition of his coffee mug, his stapler, a jar of pens,he shuffled papers into neater piles. He has largehands and long fingers with neatly manicured nails.
No rings.
It felt different this morning. I didn’t feel like asuspect, someone he was trying to catch out. I feltuseful. I felt most useful when he took one of hisfolders and laid it in front of me, showing me aseries of photographs. Scott Hipwell, three men I’dnever seen before, and then B.
I wasn’t sure at first. I stared at the picture, tryingto conjure up the image of the man I saw with herthat day, his head bent as he stooped to embraceher.
“That’s him,” I said. “I think that’s him.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I think that’s him.”
He withdrew the picture and scrutinized it himselffor a moment. “You saw them kissing, that’s whatyou said? Last Friday, was it? A week ago?”
“Yes, that’s right. Friday morning. They wereoutside, in the garden.”
“And there’s no way you could have misinterpretedwhat you saw? It wasn’t a hug, say, or a?.?.?. aplatonic kind of kiss?”
“No, it wasn’t. It was a proper kiss. It was?.?.?.
romantic.”
I thought I saw his lips flicker then, as though hewere about to smile.
“Who is he?” I asked Gaskill. “Is he?.?.?. Do youthink she’s with him?” He didn’t reply, just shook hishead a little. “Is this?.?.?. Have I helped? Have I beenhelpful at all?”
“Yes, Ms. Watson. You’ve been helpful. Thank youfor coming in.”
We shook hands, and for a second he placed hisleft hand on my right shoulder lightly, and I wantedto turn and kiss it. It’s been a while since anyonetouched me with anything approaching tenderness.
Well, apart from Cathy.
Gaskill ushered me out of the door and into themain, open-plan part of the office. There wereperhaps a dozen police officers in there. One or twoshot me sideways glances, there might have been aflicker of interest or disdain, I couldn’t be sure. Wewalked through the office and into the corridor andthen I saw him walking towards me, with Riley at hisside: Scott Hipwell. He was coming through the mainentrance. His head was down, but I knew right awaythat it was him. He looked up and nodded anacknowledgment to Gaskill, then he glanced at me.
For just a second our eyes met and I could swearthat he recognized me. I thought of that morningwhen I saw him on the terrace, when he waslooking down at the track, when I could feel himlooking at me. We passed each other in the corridor.
He was so close to me I could have touchedhim—he was beautiful in the flesh, hollowed out andcoiled like a spring, nervous energy radiating off him.
As I got to the main hallway I turned to look at him,sure I could feel his eyes on me, but when I lookedback it was Riley who was watching me.
I took the train into London and went to thelibrary. I read every article I could find about thecase, but learned nothing more. I looked forhypnotherapists in Ashbury, but didn’t take it anyfurther—it’s expensive and it’s unclear whether itactually helps with memory recovery. But reading thestories of those who claimed that they had recoveredmemories through hypnotherapy, I realized that I wasmore afraid of success than failure. I’m afraid notjust of what I might learn about that Saturday night,but so much more. I’m not sure I could bear torelive the stupid, awful things I’ve done, to hear thewords I said in spite, to remember the look onTom’s face as I said them. I’m too afraid to ventureinto that darkness.
I thought about sending Scott another email, butthere’s really no need. The morning’s meeting withDetective Gaskill proved to me that the police aretaking me seriously. I have no further role to play, Ihave to accept that now. And I can feel at least thatI may have helped, because I cannot believe it couldbe a coincidence that Megan disappeared the dayafter I saw her with that man.
With a joyful click, fizz, I open the second can ofG&T and realize, with a rush, that I haven’t thoughtabout Tom all day. Until now, anyway. I’ve beenthinking about Scott, about Gaskill, about B, aboutthe man on the train. Tom has been relegated tofifth place. I sip my drink and feel that at last I havesomething to celebrate. I know that I’m going to bebetter, that I’m going to be happy. It won’t be long.
SATURDAY, JULY 20, 2013
MORNING
I never learn. I wake with a crushing sensation ofwrongness, of shame, and I know immediately thatI’ve done something stupid. I go through my awful,achingly familiar ritual of trying to remember exactlywhat I did. I sent an email. That’s what it was.
At some point last night, Tom got promoted backup the list of men I think about, and I sent him anemail. My laptop is on the floor next to my bed; itsits there, a squat, accusatory presence. I step over itas I get up to go to the bathroom. I drink waterdirectly from the tap, giving myself a cursory glancein the mirror.
I don’t look well. Still, three days off isn’t bad, andI’ll start again today. I stand in the shower for ages,gradually reducing the water temperature, making itcooler and cooler until it’s properly cold. You can’tstep directly into a cold stream of water, it’s tooshocking, too brutal, but if you get there gradually,you hardly notice it; it’s like boiling a frog in reverse.
The cool water soothes my skin; it dulls the burningpain of the cuts on my head and above my eye.
I take my laptop downstairs and make a cup of tea.
There’s a chance, a faint one, that I wrote an emailto Tom and didn’t send it. I take a deep breath andopen my Gmail account. I’m relieved to see I haveno messages. But when I click on the Sent folder,there it is: I have written to him, he just hasn’treplied. Yet. The email was sent just after eleven lastnight; I’d been drinking for a good few hours bythen. That adrenaline and booze buzz I had earlieron would have been long gone. I click on themessage.
Could you please tell your wife tostop lying to the police about me?
Pretty low, don’t you think, trying toget me into trouble? Telling police I’mobsessed with her and her ugly brat?
She needs to get over herself. Tellher to leave me the fuck alone.
I close my eyes and snap the laptop shut. I amcringing, literally, my entire body folding into itself. Iwant to be smaller; I want to disappear. I’mfrightened, too, because if Tom decides to show thisto the police, I could be in real trouble. If Anna iscollecting evidence that I am vindictive and obsessive,this could be a key piece in her dossier. And whydid I mention the little girl? What sort of persondoes that? What sort of person thinks like that? Idon’t bear her any ill will—I couldn’t think badly of achild, any child, and especially not Tom’s child. Idon’t understand myself; I don’t understand theperson I’ve become. God, he must hate me. I hateme—that version of me, anyway, the version whowrote that email last night. She doesn’t even feel likeme, because I am not like that. I am not hateful.
Am I? I try not to think of the worst days, but thememories crowd into my head at times like this.
Another fight, towards the end: waking, post-party,post-blackout, Tom telling me how I’d been the nightbefore, embarrassing him again, insulting the wife ofa colleague of his, shouting at her for flirting with myhusband. “I don’t want to go anywhere with youanymore,” he told me. “You ask me why I neverinvite friends round, why I don’t like going to thepub with you anymore. You honestly want to knowwhy? It’s because of you. Because I’m ashamed ofyou.”
I pick up my handbag and my keys. I’m going tothe Londis down the road. I don’t care that it’s notyet nine o’clock in the morning, I’m frightened and Idon’t want to have to think. If I take some painkillersand have a drink now, I can put myself out, I cansleep all day. I’ll face it later. I get to the front door,my hand poised above the handle, then I stop.
I could apologize. If I apologize right now, I mightbe able to salvage something. I might be able topersuade him not to show the message to Anna orto the police. It wouldn’t be the first time he’dprotected me from her.
That day last summer, when I went to Tom andAnna’s, it didn’t happen exactly the way I told thepolice it had. I didn’t ring the doorbell, for starters. Iwasn’t sure what I wanted—I’m still not sure what Iintended. I did go down the pathway and over thefence. It was quiet, I couldn’t hear anything. I wentup to the sliding doors and looked in. It’s true thatAnna was sleeping on the sofa. I didn’t call out, toher or to Tom. I didn’t want to wake her. The babywasn’t crying, she was fast asleep in her carry-cot ather mother’s side. I picked her up and took heroutside as quickly as I could. I remember runningwith her towards the fence, the baby starting to wakeand to grizzle a little. I don’t know what I thought Iwas doing. I wasn’t going to hurt her. I got to thefence, holding her tightly against my chest. She wascrying properly now, starting to scream. I wasbouncing her and shushing her and then I heardanother noise, a train coming, and I turned my backto the fence and I saw her—Anna—hurtling towardsme, her mouth open like a gaping wound, her lipsmoving, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
She took the child from me and I tried to runaway, but I tripped and fell. She was standing overme, screaming at me, she told me to stay put orshe’d call the police. She rang Tom and he camehome and sat with her in the living room. She wascrying hysterically, she still wanted to phone thepolice, she wanted to have me arrested forkidnapping. Tom calmed her down, he begged her tolet it go, to let me go. He saved me from her.
Afterwards he drove me home, and when hedropped me off he took my hand. I thought it was agesture of kindness, of reassurance, but he squeezedtighter and tighter and tighter until I cried out, andhis face was red when he told me that he would killme if I ever did anything to harm his daughter.
I don’t know what I intended to do that day. I stilldon’t. At the door, I hesitate, my fingers graspedaround the handle. I bite down hard on my lip. Iknow that if I start drinking now, I will feel better foran hour or two and worse for six or seven. I let goof the handle and walk back into the living room,and I open my laptop again. I have to apologize, Ihave to beg forgiveness. I log back in to my emailaccount and see that I have one new message. Itisn’t from Tom. It’s from Scott Hipwell.
Dear Rachel,Thank you for contacting me. I don’tremember Megan mentioning you tome, but she had a lot of galleryregulars—I’m not very good withnames. I would like to talk to youabout what you know. Pleasetelephone me on 07583 123657 assoon as possible.
Regards,Scott HipwellFor an instant, I imagine that he’s sent the email tothe wrong address. This message is intended forsomeone else. It’s just the briefest of moments, andthen I remember. I remember. Sitting on the sofa,halfway through the second bottle, I realized that Ididn’t want my part to be over. I wanted to be atthe heart of it.
So I wrote to him.
I scroll down from his email to mine.
Dear Scott,Sorry for contacting you again, but Ifeel it’s important that we talk. I’mnot sure if Megan ever mentioned meto you—I’m a friend from thegallery—I used to live in Witney. Ithink I have information that wouldinterest you. Please email me back onthis address.
Rachel WatsonI can feel the heat come to my face, my stomach apit of acid. Yesterday—sensible, clearheaded,right-thinking—I decided I must accept that my partin this story was over. But my better angels lostagain, defeated by drink, by the person I am when Idrink. Drunk Rachel sees no consequences, she iseither excessively expansive and optimistic or wrappedup in hate. She has no past, no future. She existspurely in the moment. Drunk Rachel—wanting to bepart of the story, needing a way to persuade Scott totalk to her—she lied. I lied.
I want to drag knives over my skin, just so that Ican feel something other than shame, but I’m noteven brave enough to do that. I start writing to Tom,writing and deleting, writing and deleting, trying tofind ways to ask forgiveness for the things I said lastnight. If I had to write down every transgression forwhich I should apologize to Tom, I could fill a book.
EVENING
A week ago, almost exactly a week ago, MeganHipwell walked out of number fifteen Blenheim Roadand disappeared. No one has seen her since. Neitherher phone nor her bank cards have been used sinceSaturday, either. When I read that in a news storyearlier today, I started to cry. I am ashamed now ofthe secret thoughts I had. Megan is not a mystery tobe solved, she is not a figure who wanders into thetracking shot at the beginning of a film, beautiful,ethereal, insubstantial. She is not a cipher. She isreal.
I am on the train, and I’m going to her home. I’mgoing to meet her husband.
I had to phone him. The damage was done. Icouldn’t just ignore the email—he would tell thepolice. Wouldn’t he? I would, in his position, if astranger contacted me, claiming to have information,and then disappeared. He might have called thepolice already; they might be waiting for me when Iget there.
Sitting here, in my usual seat, though not on myusual day, I feel as though I am driving off a cliff. Itfelt the same this morning when I dialled hisnumber, like falling through the dark, not knowingwhen you’re going to hit the ground. He spoke tome in a low voice, as though there were someoneelse in the room, someone he didn’t want tooverhear.
“Can we talk in person?” he asked.
“I?.?.?. no. I don’t think so?.?.?.”
“Please?”
I hesitated just for a moment, and then I agreed.
“Could you come to the house? Not now, my?.?.?.
there are people here. This evening?” He gave methe address, which I pretended to note down.
“Thank you for contacting me,” he said, and hehung up.
I knew as I was agreeing that it wasn’t a good idea.
What I know about Scott, from the papers, is almostnothing. What I know from my own observations, Idon’t really know. I don’t know anything aboutScott. I know things about Jason—who, I have tokeep reminding myself, doesn’t exist. All I know forsure—for absolutely certain—is that Scott’s wife hasbeen missing for a week. I know that he is probablya suspect. And I know, because I saw that kiss, thathe has a motive to kill her. Of course, he might notknow that he has a motive, but?.?.?. Oh, I’ve tiedmyself up in knots thinking about it, but how could Ipass up the opportunity to approach that house, theone I’ve observed a hundred times from thetrackside, from the street? To walk up to his frontdoor, to go inside, to sit in his kitchen, on histerrace, where they sat, where I watched them?
It was too tempting. Now I sit on the train, myarms wrapped around myself, hands jammed againstmy sides to stop them from trembling, like an excitedchild caught up in an adventure. I was so glad tohave a purpose that I stopped thinking about thereality. I stopped thinking about Megan.
I’m thinking about her now. I have to convinceScott that I knew her—a little, not a lot. That way,he’ll believe me when I tell him that I saw her withanother man. If I admit to lying right away, he’llnever trust me. So I try to imagine what it wouldhave been like to drop by the gallery, chat with herover a coffee. Does she drink coffee? We would talkabout art, perhaps, or yoga, or our husbands. I don’tknow anything about art, I’ve never done yoga. Idon’t have a husband. And she betrayed hers.
I think of the things her real friends said about her:
wonderful, funny, beautiful, warmhearted. Loved. She made a mistake. It happens. We are none ofus perfect.