The noise of the door didn’t register. Neither did the voice. Crowe could hear the sounds, but it was like the hum of distant traffic. Coming to, she realised she was sitting up straight, rigid, on the toilet seat. Her hands were clasped, resting on her thighs. She mustn’t have moved for ages.
The words of that bitch swirled around her mind.
A dull thud at the side of her head intruded. She heard Tom’s voice.
‘Tara? You in there?’
The doorknob curled and it inched open. Crowe searched for some strength, to look at Tom’s face.
‘You alright? I was calling you . . .’
‘Well, you fuck her?’ Crowe spat.
Tom had stepped into the room by the time she spoke. He frowned, his thick eyebrows, which she used to think were handsome, arched.
‘Don’t,’ was all she could say, sickened at the pretence.
‘What you on about?’
His voice was sheepish. Crowe looked back to the tiles. Tom stood there. She could feel him thinking. His search for some sort of excuse just made it worse. The thud in the side of her head was spreading.
‘Tara, what’s going on?’
She didn’t move her mouth, but inside she chewed.
‘I’ll get you some paracetamol,’ he said.
Crowe bit down on her lips as she thought.
What a pathetic excuse for a man. I’ve been living with him all these years and now I find out, like this. And to think I was going to have kids with him some day, get married, and now . . .
She recalled friends where boyfriends or husbands had done the dirt. She used to pity them.
Now it’s my turn. I am the one to be pitied. At the hands of a layabout, who lives off my money.
She snuffled and wiped her nose as footsteps returned. Tom walked over, two white tablets nestled in one of his hands, a glass of water in the other.
‘Here.’
She recoiled. She couldn’t look at his face. She should have told him to ram it up his arse, like he did with his dick and that whore. But the pain was growing. She picked the tablets up without touching his skin and took the water. Swallowing, she dropped the glass onto the tiles, cracking loudly, but not breaking.
‘What are you doing?’ Tom shouted.
‘What? You’re worried about some crappy glass?’
He didn’t reply, picked up the glass and walked towards the door.
‘Go on, crawl back to your dirty slapper.’
Tom stopped. She was a bit surprised when he turned back around, thinking he would just walk off. It was the first time she actually looked at his face properly. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. Irregular patches of hair sprouted from his cheeks, marooned from his rough beard. Everything about him grated at her now, particularly the baffled, wounded look on his face. She sprang up. He pulled back as she approached and rose his arms to protect himself.
‘Well? What exactly did you do to her?’ she said, smacking his arms. ‘How long have you been doing it?’
The blows were limp. She just didn’t have the strength.
‘Are you on about that . . . that phone call?’
‘At last, you fucking stop pretending.’
‘It’s not what you think, Tara. It’s not.’
‘It’s not like what? That you are fucking someone. Indulging your fantasies on her. Oh, don’t tell me,’ Crowe laughed bitterly, ‘that it’s just sex and you don’t really love her.’ She pressed her finger into his cheek. ‘How could you do that to me?’
Her chest stretched tight with the strain.
‘I didn’t do that, Tara. It’s a . . . it’s a phone sex thing.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a sex line. You ring the number and they ring you back. It’s a fantasy thing. That’s all.’
‘That’s all,’ she thumped him. ‘That’s all. You bastard.’
She turned her back to him as the tears massed.
‘Tara.’
‘Get out.’
She kept her back to him, trying to hold it in.
‘Jesus, Tara, it’s just –’
‘Out.’
The door closed, just in time. She banged down hard onto the toilet seat. The tears ran. She sat there as thoughts collided off each other.
He didn’t have sex with her. But he did as much. He let me believe he did. And I did believe it.
She could hear Tom pacing in the hall. In the sitting room her phone was ringing.
She looked at the bath. They’d made love in it, she recalled, the first night they moved in. Tom had put candles circling the edges. She told him it was a bit tacky, but part of her melted inside at the time. They stayed in the waters clutching each other until their skin shrivelled. They both had to work the following day, but stayed up in the bedroom, wrapped in dressing gowns, drinking wine and talking. That morning they made love again, then rang in sick and spent the rest of the day curled up in bed. He was so happy, she remembered, his face one big boyish smile. She was happy too. She curved in on herself at the memory.
Minutes passed. She was getting stiff leaning against the toilet. She pulled herself up and ran the cold water in the sink, throwing it over her face and head. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was all scraggy and knotted at the ends, wet with water and sweat. Her lips were pale.
Look at the state of me.
‘Tara? You okay?’
The anger and hurt that had subsided rose again. It wasn’t so much what he had done, but the fact everything they had was tainted now, sullied. She could hear her phone ringing again. She pulled the hair behind her ears and wiped her face clean. She studied herself, as if looking for signs of strength. She wasn’t going to stay holed up in the loo. She pulled back the door with a bang and stormed into the sitting room, passing Tom. Behind him the kettle was on.
‘It’s just a phone thing, Tara, that’s all.’
She turned to him sharply.
‘Stop saying “that’s all”. You’re ringing these lines, fantasising about fucking these women. Do you know at the other end is some skanger? You’re pathetic, that’s what you are. I’m living with a pathetic little man.’
She looked at him. He looked like a beaten dog.
‘But the worst thing was me listening to that and thinking you had gone out to shag some tart. How do you think that makes me feel? You’re fantasising about cheating on me.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, but . . . but things haven’t been easy.’
Crowe pointed her finger at him.
‘Don’t you weasel your way out of this. Don’t.’
Her heart was pounding, waiting for him to say more.
‘Well, we haven’t had sex in ages.’
‘Ah, so this is my fault.’
Her phone was ringing again and she turned to the sound.
‘I didn’t say that.’
Crowe grabbed at cushions, throwing them around and scoured shelves, knocking things over, looking for her phone. Her mind was racing.
So because we haven’t had sex he’s allowed to ring sex lines and I’m supposed to be okay with that?
She located the phone. She didn’t recognise the number.
‘Yes?’
‘Detective Crowe. It’s Shay.’
She let him speak, but just wanted to hang up. Shay sounded a bit unhinged and there was a racket behind him.
‘Have you tried to ring the number the sister gave you?’ she asked, composing herself.
‘It’s ringing out. Can you trace it?’
Tara watched Tom skulking in the kitchen. He clicked on the kettle again and placed two cups on the counter.
I should stay and save what’s left of our relationship. This is the last thing I need right now, heading out to some madness. I’m not up to it.
‘Detective Crowe? We need to act, quickly.’
The whistle from the kettle screeched. She thought back to Lynn’s warning in the car. Was this it?
She held the side of her head. The pain throbbed as she wrestled with her thoughts.
Why should I give a flying fuck about the Canal Gang? They killed Grant and the little girl and left Peters a living corpse. Jig’s a little scumbag, like all his family. He sows, he reaps. It will happen now or in five years’ time, like with his brother.
She watched Tom fill one cup, then another. She needed to stay here. She was about to tell Shay to just ring the station.
But he spoke first.
‘I know what’s going through your mind. I’ve thought the same. Who cares what happens to them? Why should we? But Jig is just a boy.’