RACHEL

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 roundthen, banged on the door and asked her what thehell she thought she was up to? Would she still beout there, on her terrace?
I close my eyes. At Northcote, someone gets on andsits down in the seat next to me. I don’t open myeyes to look, but it strikes me as odd, because thetrain is half empty. The hairs are standing up on theback of my neck. I can smell aftershave undercigarette smoke and I know that I’ve smelled thatscent before.
“Hello.”
I look round and recognize the man with the redhair, the one from the station, from that Saturday.
He’s smiling at me, offering his hand to shake. I’mso surprised that I take it. His palm feels hard andcalloused.
“You remember me?”
“Yes,” I say, shaking my head as I’m saying it. “Yes,a few weeks ago, at the station.”
He’s nodding and smiling. “I was a bit wasted,” hesays, then laughs. “Think you were, too, weren’t you,love?”
He’s younger than I’d realized, maybe late twenties.
He has a nice face, not good-looking, just nice. Open,a wide smile. His accent’s Cockney, or Estuary,something like that. He’s looking at me as though heknows something about me, as though he’s teasingme, as though we have an in joke. We don’t. I lookaway from him. I ought to say something, ask him,What did you see?
“You doing OK?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.” I’m looking out of the window again,but I can feel his eyes on me and I have the oddesturge to turn towards him, to smell the smoke on hisclothes and his breath. I like the smell of cigarettesmoke. Tom smoked when we first met. I used tohave the odd one with him, when we were outdrinking or after sex. It’s erotic to me, that smell; itreminds me of being happy. I graze my teeth overmy lower lip, wondering for a moment what hewould do if I turned to face him and kissed hismouth. I feel his body move. He’s leaning forward,bending down, he picks up the newspaper at myfeet.
“Awful, innit? Poor girl. It’s weird, ’cos we werethere that night. It was that night, wasn’t it? Thatshe went missing?”
It’s like he’s read my mind, and it stuns me. I whipround to look at him. I want to see the expression inhis eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“That night when I met you on the train. That wasthe night that girl went missing, the one they justfound. And they’re saying the last time anyone sawher was outside the station. I keep thinking, youknow, that I might’ve seen her. Don’t remember,though. I was wasted.” He shrugs. “You don’tremember anything, do you?”
It’s strange, the way I feel when he says this. Ican’t remember ever feeling like this before. I can’treply because my mind has gone somewhere elseentirely, and it’s not the words he’s saying, it’s theaftershave. Under the smoke, that scent—fresh,lemony, aromatic—evokes a memory of sitting on thetrain next to him, just like I am now, only we’regoing the other way and someone is laughing reallyloudly. He’s got his hand on my arm, he’s asking if Iwant to go for a drink, but suddenly something iswrong. I feel frightened, confused. Someone is tryingto hit me. I can see the fist coming and I duckdown, my hands up to protect my head. I’m not onthe train any longer, I’m in the street. I can hearlaughter again, or shouting. I’m on the steps, I’m onthe pavement, it’s so confusing, my heart is racing. Idon’t want to be anywhere near this man. I want toget away from him.
I scramble to my feet, saying “Excuse me” loudly sothe other people in the carriage will hear, but there’shardly anyone in here and no one looks around. Theman looks up at me, surprised, and moves his legsto one side to let me past.
“Sorry, love,” he says. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”
I walk away from him as fast as I can, but thetrain jolts and sways and I almost lose my balance. Igrab on to a seat back to stop myself from falling.
People are staring at me. I hurry through to the nextcarriage and all the way through to the one afterthat; I just keep going until I get to the end of thetrain. I feel breathless and afraid. I can’t explain it, Ican’t remember what happened, but I can feel it, thefear and confusion. I sit down, facing in the directionI have just come from so that I’ll be able to see himif he comes after me.
Pressing my palms into my eye sockets, Iconcentrate. I’m trying to get it back, to see what Ijust saw. I curse myself for drinking. If only my headwas straight?.?.?. but there it is. It’s dark, and there’sa man walking away from me. A woman walkingaway from me? A woman, wearing a blue dress. It’sAnna.
Blood is throbbing in my head, my heart pounding.
I don’t know whether what I’m seeing, feeling, is realor not, imagination or memory. I squeeze my eyestightly shut and try to feel it again, to see it again,but it’s gone.