RACHEL

TUESDAY, JULY 23, 2013
MORNING
It takes me a while to realize what I’m feeling whenI wake. There’s a rush of elation, tempered withsomething else: a nameless dread. I know we’re closeto finding the truth. I just can’t help feeling that thetruth is going to be terrible.
I sit up in bed and grab my laptop, turn it on andwait impatiently for it to boot up, then log on to theInternet. The whole process seems interminable. I canhear Cathy moving around the house, washing upher breakfast things, running upstairs to brush herteeth. She hovers for a few moments outside mydoor. I imagine her knuckles raised, ready to rap.
She thinks better of it and runs back down thestairs.
The BBC news page comes up. The headline isabout benefit cuts, the second story about yetanother 1970s television star accused of sexualindiscretions. Nothing about Megan; nothing aboutKamal. I’m disappointed. I know that the police havetwenty-four hours to charge a suspect, and they’vehad that now. In some circumstances, they can holdsomeone for an extra twelve hours, though.
I know all this because I spent yesterday doing myresearch. After I was shown out of Scott’s house, Icame back here, turned on the television and spentmost of the day watching the news, reading articlesonline. Waiting.
By midday, the police had named their suspect. Onthe news, they talked about “evidence discovered atDr. Abdic’s home and in his car,” but they didn’t saywhat. Blood, perhaps? Her phone, as yetundiscovered? Clothes, a bag, her toothbrush? Theykept showing pictures of Kamal, close-ups of his dark,handsome face. The picture they use isn’t a mugshot, it’s a candid shot: he’s on holiday somewhere,not quite smiling, but almost. He looks too soft, toobeautiful to be a killer, but appearances can bedeceptive—they say Ted Bundy looked like CaryGrant.
I waited all day for more news, for the charges tobe made public: kidnap, assault or worse. I waited tohear where she is, where he’s been keeping her.
They showed pictures of Blenheim Road, the station,Scott’s front door. Commentators mused on the likelyimplications of the fact that neither Megan’s phonenor her bank cards had been used for more than aweek.
Tom called more than once. I didn’t pick up. Iknow what he wants. He wants to ask why I was atScott Hipwell’s house yesterday morning. Let himwonder. It has nothing to do with him. Noteverything is about him. I imagine he’s calling at herbehest, in any case. I don’t owe her anyexplanations.
I waited and waited, and still no charge; instead, weheard more about Kamal, the trusted mental healthprofessional who listened to Megan’s secrets andtroubles, who gained her trust and then abused it,who seduced her and then, who knows what?
I learned that he is a Muslim, a Bosnian, a survivorof the Balkans conflict, who came to Britain as afifteen-year-old refugee. No stranger to violence, helost his father and two older brothers at Srebrenica.
He has a conviction for domestic violence. The moreI heard about Kamal, the more I knew that I wasright: I was right to speak to the police about him, Iwas right to contact Scott.
I get up and pull my dressing gown around me,hurry downstairs and flick on the TV. I have nointention of going anywhere today. If Cathy comeshome unexpectedly, I can tell her I’m ill. I makemyself a cup of coffee and sit down in front of thetelevision, and I wait.
EVENING
I got bored around three o’clock. I got bored withhearing about benefits and seventies TV paedophiles,I got frustrated with hearing nothing about Megan,nothing about Kamal, so I went to the off-licence andbought two bottles of white wine.
I’m almost at the bottom of the first bottle when ithappens. There’s something else on the news now,shaky camera footage taken from a half-built (orhalf-destroyed) building, explosions in the distance.
Syria, or Egypt, maybe Sudan? I’ve got the sounddown, I’m not really paying attention. Then I see it:
the ticker running across the bottom of the screentells me that the government is facing a challenge tolegal aid cuts and that Fernando Torres will be outfor up to four weeks with a hamstring strain andthat the suspect in the Megan Hipwell disappearancehas been released without charge.
I put my glass down and grab the remote, clickingthe volume button up, up, up. This can’t be right.
The war report continues, it goes on and on, myblood pressure rising with it, but eventually it endsand they go back to the studio and the newsreadersays: “Kamal Abdic, the man arrested yesterday inconnection with the disappearance of Megan Hipwell,has been released without charge. Abdic, who wasMrs. Hipwell’s therapist, was detained yesterday, butwas released this morning because police say there isinsufficient evidence to charge him.”
I don’t hear what she says after that. I just sitthere, my eyes blurring over, a wash of noise in myears, thinking, They had him. They had him andthey let him go.
Upstairs, later. I’ve had too much to drink, I can’tsee the computer screen properly, everything doubles,trebles. I can read if I hold my hand over one eye.
It gives me a headache. Cathy is home, she calledout to me and I told her I was in bed, unwell. Sheknows that I’m drinking.
My belly is awash with alcohol. I feel sick. I can’tthink straight. Shouldn’t have started drinking soearly. Shouldn’t have started drinking at all. I phonedScott’s number an hour ago, again a few minutesago. Shouldn’t have done that, either. I just want toknow, what lies has Kamal told them? What lies havethey been fool enough to believe? The police havemessed the whole thing up. Idiots. That Riley woman,her fault. I’m sure of it.
The newspapers haven’t helped. There was nodomestic violence conviction, they’re saying now. Thatwas a mistake. They’re making him look like thevictim.
Don’t want to drink anymore. I know that I shouldpour the rest down the sink, because otherwise it’llbe there in the morning and I’ll get up and drink itstraightaway, and once I’ve started I’ll want to go on.
I should pour it down the sink, but I know I’m notgoing to. Something to look forward to in themorning.
It’s dark, and I can hear someone calling her name.
A voice, low at first, but then louder. Angry,desperate, calling Megan’s name. It’s Scott—he’sunhappy with her. He calls her again and again. It’sa dream, I think. I keep trying to grasp at it, to holdon to it, but the harder I struggle, the fainter andthe further away it gets.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 24, 2013
MORNING
I’m woken by a soft tapping at the door. Rainbatters against the windows; it’s after eight but stillseems dark outside. Cathy pushes the door gentlyopen and peers into the room.
“Rachel? Are you all right?” She catches sight of thebottle next to my bed and her shoulders sag. “Oh,Rachel.” She comes across to my bed and picks upthe bottle. I’m too embarrassed to say anything. “Areyou not going into work?” she asks me. “Did you goyesterday?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, just turns to go,calling back as she does, “You’ll end up gettingyourself sacked if you carry on like this.”
I should just say it now, she’s already angry withme. I should go after her and tell her: I was sackedmonths ago for turning up blind drunk after athree-hour lunch with a client during which Imanaged to be so rude and unprofessional that Icost the firm his business. When I close my eyes, Ican still remember the tail end of that lunch, thelook on the waitress’s face as she handed me myjacket, weaving into the office, people turning to look.
Martin Miles taking me to one side. I think youshould probably go home, Rachel.
There is a crack of thunder, a flash of light. I joltupright. What was it I thought of last night? I checkmy little black book, but I haven’t written anythingdown since midday yesterday: notes aboutKamal—age, ethnicity, conviction for domestic violence.
I pick up a pen and cross out that last point.
Downstairs, I make myself a cup of coffee and turnon the TV. The police held a press conference lastnight, they’re showing clips from it on Sky News.
Detective Inspector Gaskill’s up there, looking paleand gaunt and chastened. Hangdog. He nevermentions Kamal’s name, just says that a suspect hadbeen detained and questioned, but has been releasedwithout charge and that the investigation is ongoing.
The cameras pan away from him to Scott, sittinghunched and uncomfortable, blinking in the light ofthe cameras, his face a twist of anguish. It hurts myheart to see him. He speaks softly, his eyes castdown. He says that he has not given up hope, thatno matter what the police say, he still clings to theidea that Megan will come home.
The words come out hollow, they ring false, butwithout looking into his eyes, I can’t tell why. I can’ttell whether he doesn’t really believe she’s cominghome because all the faith he once possessed hasbeen ripped away by the events of the past fewdays, or because he really knows that she’s nevercoming home.
It comes to me, just then: the memory of calling hisnumber yesterday. Once, twice? I run upstairs to getmy phone and find it tangled up in the bedclothes. Ihave three missed calls: one from Tom and twofrom Scott. No messages. The call from Tom was lastnight, as was the first call from Scott, but later, justbefore midnight. The second call from him was thismorning, just a few minutes ago.
My heart lifts a little. This is good news. Despite hismother’s actions, despite their clear implications (Thank you very much for your help, now get lost), Scott still wants to talk to me. He needs me. I’mmomentarily flooded with affection for Cathy, filledwith gratitude to her for pouring the rest of the wineaway. I have to keep a clear head, for Scott. Heneeds me thinking straight.
I take a shower, get dressed and make another cupof coffee, and then I sit down in the living room,little black book at my side, and I call Scott.
“You should have told me,” he says as soon as hepicks up, “what you are.” His tone is flat, cold. Mystomach is a small, hard ball. He knows. “DetectiveRiley spoke to me after they let him go. He deniedhaving an affair with her. And the witness whosuggested that there was something going on wasunreliable, she said. An alcoholic. Possibly mentallyunstable. She didn’t tell me the witness’s name, but Itake it she was talking about you?”
“But?.?.?. no,” I say. “No. I’m not?.?.?. I hadn’t beendrinking when I saw them. It was eight thirty in themorning.” Like that means anything. “And they foundevidence, it said so on the news. They found—”
“Insufficient evidence.”
The phone goes dead.
FRIDAY, JULY 26, 2013
MORNING
I am no longer travelling to my imaginary office. Ihave given up the pretence. I can barely be botheredto get out of bed. I think I last brushed my teeth onWednesday. I am still feigning illness, although I’mpretty sure I’m fooling no one.
I can’t face getting up, getting dressed, getting ontothe train, going into London, wandering the streets.
It’s hard enough when the sun is shining, it’simpossible in this rain. Today is the third day of cold,driving, relentless downpour.
I’m having trouble sleeping, and it’s not just thedrinking now, it’s the nightmares. I’m trappedsomewhere, and I know that someone’s coming, andthere’s a way out, I know there is, I know that Isaw it before, only I can’t find my way back to it,and when he does get me, I can’t scream. I try—Isuck the air into my lungs and I force it out—butthere’s no sound, just a rasping, like a dying personfighting for air.
Sometimes, in my nightmares, I find myself in theunderpass by Blenheim Road, the way back isblocked and I cannot go farther because there issomething there, someone waiting, and I wake inpure terror.
They’re never going to find her. Every day, everyhour that passes I become more certain. She will beone of those names, hers will be one of thosestories: lost, missing, body never found. And Scottwill not have justice, or peace. He will never have abody to grieve over; he will never know whathappened to her. There will be no closure, noresolution. I lie awake thinking about it and I ache.
There can be no greater agony, nothing can bemore painful than the not knowing, which will neverend.
I have written to him. I admitted my problem, thenI lied again, saying that I had it under control, that Iwas seeking help. I told him that I am not mentallyunstable. I no longer know whether that’s true ornot. I told him that I was very clear about what Isaw, and that I hadn’t been drinking when I saw it.
That, at least, is true. He hasn’t replied. I didn’texpect him to. I am cut off from him, shut out. Thethings I want to say to him, I can never say. I can’twrite them down, they don’t sound right. I want himto know how sorry I am that it wasn’t enough topoint them in Kamal’s direction, to say, Look, therehe is. I should have seen something. That Saturdaynight, I should have had my eyes open.
EVENING
I am soaked through, freezing cold, the ends of myfingers blanched and wrinkled, my head throbbingfrom a hangover that kicked in at about half pastfive. Which is about right, considering I starteddrinking before midday. I went out to get anotherbottle, but I was thwarted by the ATM, which gaveme the much-anticipated riposte: There areinsufficient funds in your account.
After that, I started walking. I walked aimlessly forover an hour, through the driving rain. Thepedestrianized centre of Ashbury was mine alone. Idecided, somewhere along that walk, that I have todo something. I have to make amends for beinginsufficient.
Now, sodden and almost sober, I’m going to callTom. I don’t want to know what I did, what I said,that Saturday night, but I have to find out. It mightjog something. For some reason, I am certain thatthere is something I’m missing, something vital.
Perhaps this is just more self-deception, yet anotherattempt to prove to myself that I’m not worthless.
But perhaps it’s real.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Monday,”
Tom says when he answers the phone. “I calledyour office,” he adds, and he lets that sink in.
I’m on the back foot already, embarrassed,ashamed. “I need to talk to you,” I say, “aboutSaturday night. That Saturday night.”
“What are you talking about? I need to talk to youabout Monday, Rachel. What the hell were you doingat Scott Hipwell’s house?”
“That’s not important, Tom—”
“Yes it bloody is. What were you doing there? Youdo realize, don’t you, that he could be?.?.?. I mean, wedon’t know, do we? He could have done somethingto her. Couldn’t he? To his wife.”
“He hasn’t done anything to his wife,” I sayconfidently. “It isn’t him.”
“How the hell would you know? Rachel, what isgoing on?”
“I just?.?.?. You have to believe me. That isn’t why Icalled you. I needed to talk to you about thatSaturday. About the message you left me. You wereso angry. You said I’d scared Anna.”
“Well, you had. She saw you stumbling down thestreet, you shouted abuse at her. She was reallyfreaked out, after what happened last time. WithEvie.”
“Did she?.?.?. did she do something?”
“Do something?”
“To me?”
“What?”
“I had a cut, Tom. On my head. I was bleeding.”
“Are you accusing Anna of hurting you?” He’syelling now, he’s furious. “Seriously, Rachel. That isenough! I have persuaded Anna—on more than oneoccasion—not to go to the police about you, but ifyou carry on like this—harassing us, making upstories—”
“I’m not accusing her of anything, Tom. I’m justtrying to figure things out. I don’t—”
“You don’t remember! Of course not. Rachel doesn’tremember.” He sighs wearily. “Look. Anna sawyou—you were drunk and abusive. She came hometo tell me, she was upset, so I went out to look foryou. You were in the street. I think you might havefallen. You were very upset. You’d cut your hand.”
“I hadn’t—”
“Well, you had blood on your hand, then. I don’tknow how it got there. I told you I’d take you home,but you wouldn’t listen. You were out of control, youwere making no sense. You walked off and I went toget the car, but when I came back, you’d gone. Idrove up past the station but I couldn’t see you. Idrove around a bit more—Anna was very worriedthat you were hanging around somewhere, that you’dcome back, that you’d try to get into the house. Iwas worried you’d fall, or get yourself into trouble?.?.?.
I drove all the way to Ashbury. I rang the bell, butyou weren’t at home. I called you a couple of times.
I left a message. And yes, I was angry. I was reallypissed off by that point.”
“I’m sorry, Tom,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
“I know,” he says. “You’re always sorry.”
“You said that I shouted at Anna,” I say, cringing atthe thought of it. “What did I say to her?”
“I don’t know,” he snaps. “Would you like me to goand get her? Perhaps you’d like to have a chat withher about it?”
“Tom?.?.?.”
“Well, honestly—what does it matter now?”
“Did you see Megan Hipwell that night?”
“No.” He sounds concerned now. “Why? Did you?
You didn’t do something, did you?”
“No, of course I didn’t.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Well, why are you askingabout this then? Rachel, if you know something?.?.?.”
“I don’t know anything,” I say. “I didn’t seeanything.”
“Why were you at the Hipwells’ house on Monday?
Please tell me so that I can put Anna’s mind at ease.
She’s worried.”
“I had something to tell him. Something I thoughtmight be useful.”
“You didn’t see her, but you had something usefulto tell him?”
I hesitate for a moment. I’m not sure how much Ishould tell him, whether I should keep this just forScott. “It’s about Megan,” I say. “She was having anaffair.”
“Wait—did you know her?”
“Just a little,” I say.
“How?”
“From her gallery.”
“Oh,” he says. “So who’s the guy?”
“Her therapist,” I tell him. “Kamal Abdic. I sawthem together.”
“Really? The guy they arrested? I thought they’d lethim go.”
“They have. And it’s my fault, because I’m anunreliable witness.”
Tom laughs. It’s soft, friendly, he isn’t mocking me.
“Rachel, come on. You did the right thing, comingforward. I’m sure it’s not just about you.” In thebackground, I can hear the prattle of the child, andTom says something away from the phone,something I can’t hear. “I should go,” he says. I canimagine him putting down the phone, picking up hislittle girl, giving her a kiss, embracing his wife. Thedagger in my heart twists, round and round andround.
MONDAY, JULY 29, 2013
MORNING
It’s 8:07 and I’m on the train. Back to the imaginaryoffice. Cathy was with Damien all weekend, and whenI saw her last night, I didn’t give her a chance toberate me. I started apologizing for my behaviourstraightaway, said I’d been feeling really down, butthat I was pulling myself together, turning over anew leaf. She accepted, or pretended to accept, myapologies. She gave me a hug. Niceness writ large.
Megan has dropped out of the news almostcompletely. There was a comment piece in theSunday Times about police incompetence thatreferred briefly to the case, an unnamed source atthe Crown Prosecution Service citing it as “one of anumber of cases in which the police have made ahasty arrest on the basis of flimsy or flawedevidence.”
We’re coming to the signal. I feel the familiar rattleand jolt, the train slows and I look up, because Ihave to, because I cannot bear not to, but there isnever anything to see any longer. The doors areclosed and the curtains drawn. There is nothing tosee but rain, sheets of it, and muddy water poolingat the bottom of the garden.
On a whim, I get off the train at Witney. Tomcouldn’t help me, but perhaps the other mancould—the red-haired man. I wait for thedisembarking passengers to disappear down the stepsand then I sit on the only covered bench on theplatform. I might get lucky. I might see him gettingonto the train. I could follow him, I could talk to him.
It’s the only thing I have left, my last roll of the dice.
If this doesn’t work, I have to let it go. I just haveto let it go.
Half an hour goes by. Every time I hear footstepson the steps, my heart rate goes up. Every time Ihear the clacking of high heels, I am seized withtrepidation. If Anna sees me here, I could be introuble. Tom warned me. He’s persuaded her not toget the police involved, but if I carry on?.?.?.
Quarter past nine. Unless he starts work very late,I’ve missed him. It’s raining harder now, and I can’tface another aimless day in London. The only moneyI have is a tenner I borrowed from Cathy, and Ineed to make that last until I’ve summoned up thecourage to ask my mother for a loan. I walk downthe steps, intending to cross underneath to theopposite platform and go back to Ashbury, whensuddenly I spot Scott hurrying out of the newsagentopposite the station entrance, his coat pulled uparound his face.
I run after him and catch him at the corner, rightopposite the underpass. I grab his arm and hewheels round, startled.
“Please,” I say, “can I talk to you?”
“Jesus Christ,” he snarls at me. “What the fuck doyou want?”
I back away from him, holding my hands up. “I’msorry,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to apologize,to explain?.?.?.”
The downpour has become a deluge. We are theonly people on the street, both of us soaked to theskin. Scott starts to laugh. He throws his hands upin the air and roars with laughter. “Come to thehouse,” he says. “We’re going to drown out here.”
Scott goes upstairs to fetch me a towel while thekettle boils. The house is less tidy than it was a weekago, the disinfectant smell displaced by somethingearthier. A pile of newspapers sits in the corner ofthe living room; there are dirty mugs on the coffeetable and the mantelpiece.
Scott appears at my side, proffering the towel. “It’sa tip, I know. My mother was driving me insane,cleaning, tidying up after me all the time. We had abit of a row. She hasn’t been round for a few days.”
His mobile phone starts to ring, he glances at it, putsit back into his pocket. “Speak of the devil. Shenever bloody stops.”
I follow him into the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” I say.
He shrugs. “I know. And it’s not your fault anyway.
I mean, it might’ve helped if you weren’t?.?.?.”
“If I wasn’t a drunk?”
His back is turned, he’s pouring the coffee.
“Well, yes. But they didn’t actually have enough tocharge him with anything anyway.” He hands me themug and we sit down at the table. I notice that oneof the photograph frames on the sideboard has beenturned facedown. Scott is still talking. “They foundthings—hair, skin cells—in his house, but he doesn’tdeny that she went there. Well, he did deny it atfirst, then he admitted that she had been there.”
“Why did he lie?”
“Exactly. He admitted that she’d been to the housetwice, just to talk. He won’t say what about—there’sthe whole confidentiality thing. The hair and the skincells were found downstairs. Nothing up in thebedroom. He swears blind they weren’t having anaffair. But he’s a liar, so?.?.?.” He passes his handover his eyes. His face looks as though it is sinkinginto itself, his shoulders sag. He looks shrunken.
“There was a trace of blood on his car.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah. Matches her blood type. They don’t know ifthey can get any DNA because it’s such a smallsample. It could be nothing, that’s what they keepsaying. How could it be nothing, that her blood’s onhis car?” He shakes his head. “You were right. Themore I hear about this guy, the more I’m sure.” Helooks at me, right at me, for the first time since wegot here. “He was fucking her, and she wanted toend it, so he?.?.?. he did something. That’s it. I’m sureof it.”
He’s lost all hope, and I don’t blame him. It’s beenmore than two weeks and she hasn’t turned on herphone, hasn’t used a credit card, hasn’t withdrawnmoney from an ATM. No one has seen her. She isgone.
“He told the police that she might have run away,”
Scott says.
“Dr. Abdic did?”
Scott nods. “He told the police that she wasunhappy with me and she might have run off.”
“He’s trying to shift suspicion, get them to think thatyou did something.”
“I know that. But they seem to buy everything thatbastard says. That Riley woman, I can tell when shetalks about him. She likes him. The poor,downtrodden refugee.” He hangs his head, wretched.
“Maybe he’s right. We did have that awful fight. ButI can’t believe?.?.?. She wasn’t unhappy with me. Shewasn’t. She wasn’t.” When he says it the third time, Iwonder whether he’s trying to convince himself. “Butif she was having an affair, she must have beenunhappy, mustn’t she?”
“Not necessarily,” I say. “Perhaps it was one ofthose—what do they call it?—transference things.
That’s the word they use, isn’t it? When a patientdevelops feelings—or thinks they develop feelings—fora therapist. Only the therapist is supposed to resistthem, to point out that the feelings aren’t real.”
His eyes are on my face, but I feel as though heisn’t really listening to what I’m saying.
“What happened?” he asks. “With you. You leftyour husband. Was there someone else?”
I shake my head. “Other way round. Annahappened.”
“Sorry.” He pauses.
I know what he’s going to ask, so before he can, Isay, “It started before. While we were still married.
The drinking. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’tit?”
He nods again.
“We were trying for a baby,” I say, and my voicecatches. Still, after all this time, every time I talkabout it the tears come to my eyes. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” He gets to his feet, goes over to thesink and pours me a glass of water. He puts it onthe table in front of me.
I clear my throat, try to be as matter-of-fact aspossible. “We were trying for a baby and it didn’thappen. I became very depressed, and I started todrink. I was extremely difficult to live with, and Tomsought solace elsewhere. And she was all too happyto provide it.”
“I’m really sorry, that’s awful. I know?.?.?. I wanted tohave a child. Megan kept saying she wasn’t readyyet.” Now it’s his turn to wipe the tears away. “It’sone of the things?.?.?. we argued about it sometimes.”
“Was that what you were arguing about the dayshe left?”
He sighs, pushing his chair back and getting to hisfeet. “No,” he says, turning away from me. “It wassomething else.”
EVENING
Cathy is waiting for me when I get home. She’sstanding in the kitchen, aggressively drinking a glassof water.
“Good day at the office?” she asks, pursing her lips.
She knows.
“Cathy?.?.?.”
“Damien had a meeting near Euston today. On hisway out, he bumped into Martin Miles. They knoweach other a little, remember, from Damien’s days atLaing Fund Management. Martin used to do the PRfor them.”
“Cathy?.?.?.”
She held her hand up, took another gulp of water.
“You haven’t worked there in months! In months!
Do you know how idiotic I feel? What an idiotDamien felt? Please, please tell me that you haveanother job that you just haven’t told me about.
Please tell me that you haven’t been pretending to goto work. That you haven’t been lying to me—day in,day out—all this time.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you?.?.?.”
“You didn’t know how to tell me? How about:
‘Cathy, I got fired because I was drunk at work’?
How about that?” I flinch and her face softens. “I’msorry, but honestly, Rachel.” She really is too nice.
“What have you been doing? Where do you go?
What do you do all day?”
“I walk. Go to the library. Sometimes—”
“You go to the pub?”
“Sometimes. But—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She approaches me,placing her hands on my shoulders. “You shouldhave told me.”
“I was ashamed,” I say, and I start to cry. It’sawful, cringeworthy, but I start to weep. I sob andsob, and poor Cathy holds me, strokes my hair, tellsme I’ll be all right, that everything will be all right. Ifeel wretched. I hate myself almost more than I everhave.
Later, sitting on the sofa with Cathy, drinking tea,she tells me how it’s going to be. I’m going to stopdrinking, I’m going to get my CV in order, I’m goingto contact Martin Miles and beg for a reference. I’mgoing to stop wasting money going backwards andforwards to London on pointless train journeys.
“Honestly, Rachel, I don’t understand how you couldhave kept this up for so long.”
I shrug. “In the morning, I take the 8:04, and inthe evening, I come back on the 5:56. That’s mytrain. It’s the one I take. That’s the way it is.”
THURSDAY, AUGUST 1, 2013
MORNING
There’s something covering my face, I can’t breathe,I’m suffocating. When I surface into wakefulness, I’mgasping for air and my chest hurts. I sit up, eyeswide, and see something moving in the corner of theroom, a dense centre of blackness that keepsgrowing, and I almost cry out—and then I’m properlyawake and there’s nothing there, but I am sitting upin bed and my cheeks are wet with tears.
It’s almost dawn, the light outside is just beginningto tinge grey, and the rain of the last several days isstill battering against the window. I won’t go back tosleep, not with my heart hammering in my chest somuch it hurts.
I think, though I can’t be sure, that there’s somewine downstairs. I don’t remember finishing thesecond bottle. It’ll be warm, because I can’t leave itin the fridge; if I do, Cathy pours it away. She sobadly wants me to get better, but so far, things arenot going according to her plan. There’s a littlecupboard in the hallway where the gas meter is. Ifthere was any wine left, I’ll have stashed it in there.
I creep out onto the landing and tiptoe down thestairs in the half-light. I flip the little cupboard openand lift out the bottle: it’s disappointingly light, notmuch more than a glassful in there. But better thannothing. I pour it into a mug (just in case Cathycomes down—I can pretend it’s tea) and put thebottle in the bin (making sure to conceal it under amilk carton and a crisp packet). In the living room, Iflick on the TV, mute it straightaway and sit downon the sofa.
I’m flicking through channels—it’s all children’s TVand infomercials until with a flash of recognition I’mlooking at Corly Wood, which is just down the roadfrom here: you can see it from the train. CorlyWood in pouring rain, the fields between the tree lineand train tracks submerged underwater.
I don’t know why it takes me so long to realizewhat’s going on. For ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, I’mlooking at cars and blue-and-white tape and a whitetent in the background, and my breath is comingshorter and shorter until I’m holding it and notbreathing at all.
It’s her. She’s been in the wood all along, just alongthe railway track from here. I’ve been past thosefields every day, morning and evening, travelling by,oblivious.
In the wood. I imagine a grave dug beneathscrubby bushes, hastily covered up. I imagine worsethings, impossible things—her body hanging from arope, somewhere deep in the forest where nobodygoes.
It might not even be her. It might be somethingelse.
I know it isn’t something else.
There’s a reporter on screen now, dark hair slickagainst his skull. I turn up the volume and listen tohim tell me what I already know, what I canfeel—that it wasn’t me who couldn’t breathe, it wasMegan.
“That’s right,” he’s saying, talking to someone in thestudio, his hand pressed to his ear. “The police havenow confirmed that the body of a young woman hasbeen found submerged in floodwater in a field at thebottom of Corly Wood, which is less than five milesfrom the home of Megan Hipwell. Mrs. Hipwell, asyou know, went missing in early July—the thirteenthof July, in fact—and has not been seen since. Policeare saying that the body, which was discovered bydog walkers out early this morning, has yet to beformally identified; however, they do believe that thisis Megan that they’ve found. Mrs. Hipwell’s husbandhas been informed.”
He stops speaking for a while. The news anchor isasking him a question, but I can’t hear it becausethe blood is roaring in my ears. I bring the mug upto my lips and drink every last drop.
The reporter is talking again. “Yes, Kay, that’s right.
It would appear that the body was buried here inthe woods, possibly for some time, and that it hasbeen uncovered by the heavy rains that we’ve hadrecently.”
It’s worse, so much worse than I imagined. I cansee her now, her ruined face in the mud, pale armsexposed, reaching up, rising up as though she wereclawing her way out of the grave. I taste hot liquid,bile and bitter wine, in my mouth, and I run upstairsto be sick.
EVENING
I stayed in bed most of the day. I tried to get thingsstraight in my head. I tried to piece together, fromthe memories and the flashbacks and the dreams,what happened on Saturday night. In an attempt tomake sense of it, to see it clearly, I wrote it alldown. The scratching of my pen on paper felt likesomeone whispering to me; it put me on edge, Ikept feeling as though there was someone else in theflat, just on the other side of the door, and Icouldn’t stop imagining her.
I was almost too afraid to open the bedroom door,but when I did, there was no one there, of course. Iwent downstairs and turned on the television again.
The same pictures were still there: the woods in therain, police cars driving along a muddy track, thathorrible white tent, all of it a grey blur, and thensuddenly Megan, smiling at the camera, still beautiful,untouched. Then it’s Scott, head down, fending offphotographers as he tries to get through his ownfront door, Riley at his side. Then it’s Kamal’s office.
No sign of him, though.
I didn’t want to hear the sound track, but I had toturn the volume up, anything to stop the silenceringing in my ears. The police say that the woman,still not formally identified, has been dead for sometime, possibly several weeks. They say the cause ofdeath has yet to be established. They say that thereis no evidence of a sexual motive for the killing.
That strikes me as a stupid thing to say. I knowwhat they mean—they mean they don’t think shewas raped, which is a blessing, of course, but thatdoesn’t mean there wasn’t a sexual motive. It seemsto me that Kamal wanted her and he couldn’t haveher, that she must have tried to end it and hecouldn’t stand it. That’s a sexual motive, isn’t it?
I can’t bear to watch the news any longer, so I goback upstairs and crawl under my duvet. I emptyout my handbag, looking through my notes scribbledon bits of paper, all the scraps of information I’vegleaned, the memories shifting like shadows, and Iwonder, Why am I doing this? What purpose doesit serve?