44

The back door slid, footsteps across the kitchen. Brigitte hauled herself up as Aidan rounded the breakfast bar.

He dropped his gym bag, glanced at the radio, and said, with the wrong timbre in his voice, ‘It was Ray.’ There were stains on his clothing the sombre colours of his Rothko Four Darks in Red — he’d been to the accident scene.

She shook her head slowly as she wrapped her arms around him. She felt his ribs through his cold, damp shirt. They clung to each other for a while before he pushed her away gently and went to the bathroom. She leaned against the breakfast bar staring at the photos on the wall, wishing she could step back into that petrol-blue wedding dress and press ‘Play’ again from there.

The shower ran for a long time, steam and the aroma of vanilla-bean soap slid from under the door. She tried Carla’s number. No answer. She left a message bubbling on about how sorry she was; call if there was anything she needed. Should have said nothing — there were no appropriate words. When the water stopped, she heard Aidan put his clothes into the washing machine.

He came out with a towel around his waist, and padded to the bedroom. She followed, and lay beside him on the bed. After a while, he said, ‘My shift was nearly over, so Ray said he’d go.’

She reached for his hand.

‘He was in the middle of the car, the windscreen, his eyes were open, but his head … Sorry.’

‘It’s OK. You have to tell somebody, Aid. Tell me.’

He hesitated, and then it poured out: ‘So much blood.’

She laced her fingers through his, and squeezed tight.

‘It reminded me of Drew Borchardt. And for a second, I imagined I saw Laurie Hunt in the driver’s seat.’

She looked into his eyes, saw the monster there, and for a moment thought she’d caught its tail.

He flipped to talking about Maree Carver. ‘She was almost decapitated.’

Red light on glass.

‘And at the Carver crime scene — Maree must have been held down and bled out like an animal at an abattoir, same as Zippy. That’s why there was no spatter pattern from severed arteries, just stains from a big pool of blood.’ He was shivering. ‘At Laurie Hunt’s, there was so much of it. And then when they took off Hunt’s balaclava and I saw …’

‘Talk to me, Aid.’

‘I can’t. I can’t breathe.’

‘You’re OK.’ She placed a hand low on his stomach. ‘Try to breathe from here. In through your nose, out through your mouth.’ She counted slowly, watching the rising and falling of her hand become less erratic. At 150, he had his breathing under control.

She cradled him like a baby in her arms, with the sensation of holding sand, or light. When he’d found some peace in falling asleep, she moved to get up and turn off the lights.

He reached out. ‘Please don’t leave me.’

They slept with the lights on.