RACHEL

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 says. He falls silent for amoment, then says, “They’ve assured me that theywon’t release the information about this?.?.?. about herpregnancy. Not yet. Perhaps not at all. But certainlynot until they know for sure.”
“Until they know?”
“It’s not Abdic’s child,” he says.
“They’ve done DNA testing?”
He shakes his head. “No, I just know. I can’t sayhow, but I know. The baby is—was—mine.”
“If he thought it was his baby, it gives him amotive, doesn’t it?” He wouldn’t be the first man toget rid of an unwanted child by getting rid of itsmother—although I don’t say that out loud. And—Idon’t say this, either—it gives Scott a motive, too. Ifhe thought his wife was pregnant with another man’schild?.?.?. only he can’t have done. His shock, hisdistress—it has to be real. No one is that good anactor.
Scott doesn’t appear to be listening any longer. Hiseyes, fixed on the back of the bedroom door, areglazed over, and he seems to be sinking into the bedas though into quicksand.
“You should stay here a while,” I say to him. “Tryto sleep.”
He looks at me then, and he almost smiles. “Youdon’t mind?” he asks. “It would be?.?.?. I would begrateful. I find it hard to sleep at home. It’s not justthe people outside, the sense of people trying to getto me. It’s not just that. It’s her. She’s everywhere, Ican’t stop seeing her. I go down the stairs and Idon’t look, I force myself not to look, but when I’mpast the window, I have to go back and check thatshe’s not out there, on the terrace.” I can feel thetears pricking my eyes as he tells me. “She liked tosit out there, you see—on this little terrace we’ve got.
She liked to sit out there and watch the trains.”
“I know,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. “Iused to see her there sometimes.”
“I keep hearing her voice,” he says. “I keep hearingher calling me. I lie in bed and I can hear hercalling me from outside. I keep thinking she’s outthere.” He’s trembling.
“Lie down,” I say, taking the mug from his hand.
“Rest.”
When I’m sure that he’s fallen asleep, I lie down athis back, my face inches from his shoulder blade. Iclose my eyes and listen to my heart beating, thethrob of blood in my neck. I inhale the sad, stalescent of him.
When I wake, hours later, he’s gone.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 8, 2013
MORNING
I feel treacherous. He left me just hours ago, andhere I am, on my way to see Kamal, to meet onceagain the man he believes killed his wife. His child. Ifeel sick. I wonder whether I should have told himmy plan, explained that I’m doing all this for him.
Only I’m not sure that I am doing it just for him,and I don’t really have a plan.
I will give something of myself. That’s my plan fortoday. I will talk about something real. I will talkabout wanting a child. I’ll see whether that provokessomething—an unnatural response, any kind ofreaction. I’ll see where that gets me.
It gets me nowhere.
He starts out by asking me how I’m feeling, when Ilast had a drink.
“Sunday,” I tell him.
“Good. That’s good.” He folds his hands in his lap.
“You look well.” He smiles, and I don’t see the killer.
I’m wondering now what I saw the other day. Did Iimagine it?
“You asked me, last time, about how the drinkingstarted.” He nods. “I became depressed,” I say. “Wewere trying?.?.?. I was trying to get pregnant. Icouldn’t, and I became depressed. That’s when itstarted.”
In no time at all, I find myself crying again. It’simpossible to resist the kindness of strangers.
Someone who looks at you, who doesn’t know you,who tells you it’s OK, whatever you did, whateveryou’ve done: you suffered, you hurt, you deserveforgiveness. I confide in him and I forget, once again,what I’m doing here. I don’t watch his face for areaction, I don’t study his eyes for some sign of guiltor suspicion. I let him comfort me.
He is kind, rational. He talks about coping strategies,he reminds me that youth is on my side.
So maybe it doesn’t get me nowhere, because Ileave Kamal Abdic’s office feeling lighter, morehopeful. He has helped me. I sit on the train and Itry to conjure up the killer I saw, but I can’t seehim any longer. I am struggling to see him as a mancapable of beating a woman, of crushing her skull.
A terrible, shameful image comes to me: Kamal withhis delicate hands, his reassuring manner, his sibilantspeech, contrasted with Scott, huge and powerful,wild, desperate. I have to remind myself that this isScott now, not as he was. I have to keep remindingmyself of what he was before all this. And then Ihave to admit that I don’t know what Scott wasbefore all this.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 9, 2013
EVENING
The train stops at the signal. I take a sip from thecold can of gin and tonic and look up at his house,her terrace. I was doing so well, but I need this.
Dutch courage. I’m on my way to see Scott, and I’llhave to run all the risks of Blenheim Road before Ido: Tom, Anna, police, press. The underpass, with itshalf memories of terror and blood. But he asked meto come, and I couldn’t refuse him.
They found the little girl last night. What was left ofher. Buried in the grounds of a farmhouse near theEast Anglian coast, just where someone had toldthem to look. It was in the papers this morning:
Police have opened aninvestigation into the death of achild after they found humanremains buried in the garden ofa house near Holkham, northNorfolk. The discovery cameafter police were tipped offabout a possible unlawful killingduring the course of theirinvestigation into the death ofMegan Hipwell, from Witney,whose body was found in CorlyWoods last week.
I phoned Scott this morning when I saw the news.
He didn’t answer, so I left a message, telling him Iwas sorry. He called back this afternoon.
“Are you all right?” I asked him.
“Not really.” His voice was thick with drink.
“I’m so sorry?.?.?. do you need anything?”
“I need someone who isn’t going to say ‘I told youso.’”
“I’m sorry?”
“My mother’s been here all afternoon. She knew allalong, apparently—‘something not right about that girl,something off, no family, no friends, came fromnowhere.’ Wonder why she never told me.” Thesound of glass breaking, swearing.
“Are you all right?” I said again.
“Can you come here?” he asked.
“To the house?”
“Yes.
“I?.?.?. the police, journalists?.?.?. I’m not sure?.?.?.”
“Please. I just want some company. Someone whoknew Megs, who liked her. Someone who doesn’tbelieve all this?.?.?.”
He was drunk and I knew it and I said yesanyway.
Now, sitting on the train, I’m drinking, too, and I’mthinking about what he said. Someone who knewMegs, who liked her. I didn’t know her, and I’mnot sure that I like her anymore. I finish my drinkas quickly as I can and open another one.
I get off at Witney. I’m part of the Friday-eveningcommuter throng, just another wage slave amongstthe hot, tired masses, looking forward to gettinghome and sitting outside with a cold beer, dinnerwith the kids, an early night. It might just be the gin,but it feels indescribably good to be swept along withthe crowd, everyone phone-checking, fishing inpockets for rail passes. I’m taken back, way back tothe first summer we lived on Blenheim Road, when Iused to rush home from work every night, desperateto get down the steps and out of the station, halfrunning down the street. Tom would be workingfrom home and I’d barely be through the doorbefore he was taking my clothes off. I find myselfsmiling about it even now, the anticipation of it: heatrising to my cheeks as I skipped down the road,biting my lip to stop myself from grinning, my breathquickening, thinking of him and knowing he’d becounting the minutes until I got home, too.
My head is so full of those days that I forget toworry about Tom and Anna, the police and thephotographers, and before I know it I’m at Scott’sdoor, ringing the doorbell, and the door is openingand I’m feeling excited, although I shouldn’t be, but Idon’t feel guilty about it, because Megan isn’t what Ithought she was anyway. She wasn’t that beautiful,carefree girl out on the terrace. She wasn’t a lovingwife. She wasn’t even a good person. She was a liar,a cheat.
She was a killer.