Toddlers are much like brides-to-be on a hen do at the end of the night. They stagger around in circles, babble nonsense, crave attention, and then fall over and burst into tears. They also sometimes vomit on themselves.
Jane’s daughter, Norah, is at the stage where she can generally walk around by herself, although she’s like a mini human bumper car. She bumbles around my living room bouncing off the sofa arms and coffee table, before setting herself right again.
Jane is on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea.
‘You saw David?’ I say.
‘Norah likes walking,’ she points to her daughter, who is seemingly trying to prove the point as she does a wobbly lap of the living room. ‘Well, sometimes. Other times, I’ll strap her into her buggy and she’ll refuse to get out for hours. She won’t sit on a chair, she’ll have to be wheeled into the living room in her buggy. Anyway, we were at Elizabeth Park and there was a bloke sitting at the edge of the pond by himself. I’d glanced away for one second – and then Norah was bumbling towards the pond.’
She gives the what can you do? sigh that only mothers can manage. I think there’s an acceptance that deep water is for jumping into; fire is for touching; anything with a danger sign can be ignored. Kids are like lemmings and it’s only parental reflexes that prevent the inevitable.
‘I had to rush to catch her and, when I got there, I looked up and the man on the bench was watching us.’ She gulps and then ends: ‘I could have sworn it was David.’
A week ago, I’d have known she was imagining it. Now, I’m not so certain.
‘How close were you?’
‘One side of the pond to the other. Not far. I started to go around there, but Norah was wriggling and, by the time I got halfway there, he’d gone.’
It’s hard to know what to say. On its own, I’d say it was probably someone else who looked like David. Combined with the hotel photo, the possible break-in and my missing car key, it doesn’t sound so crazy.
‘Have you heard from him…?’ Jane asks.
Sometimes I forget that everyone else thinks David is missing. When people say things like ‘Have you heard from him?’, I have to remind myself that it’s not a ridiculous question. Of course I haven’t heard from a person who’s dead. After the last few days, it definitely doesn’t feel like a ridiculous question.
‘No,’ I reply.
Jane chews her bottom lip and, for a few seconds, all we do is watch Norah toddle around the table. She bumps into the corner and then plops onto her backside. It could go either way – laugh or cry – but she breaks into a grin and starts giggling to herself.
‘I’m not saying it was him,’ Jane says, ‘just that it looked like him. I thought you should know.’
My phone is almost always on vibrate, because otherwise there would be a constant ding-ding-ding as I walk around. Like a dog with a bell. If spam emails were actually printed on paper, there’d be no trees left on the planet. Perhaps it’s because of that, I jump when my phone actually rings. There’s a part of me that expects to see David’s name on the screen – but it reads Veronica instead.
I tell Jane I have to take the call and skirt off to my bedroom and close the door before pressing to answer.
I think I’ve been bracing myself for this type of call ever since Mum moved into the bungalows. A message to say that she’s had a fall and not got up, or that she hasn’t been answering her door. I think everyone does when their parents get to a certain time of their lives. There must be a crossover point from where parents dread the middle-of-the-night call about their children to where the children fear the unexpected call for their parents.
‘This is Morgan,’ I say.
I can tell from Veronica’s first intonation that my mother is fine. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to say that I talked to the security company about the camera footage from the gates.’
In all that’s gone on, I’d almost forgotten about the autograph that appeared next to Mum’s TV.
‘What did they say?’ I ask.
‘That they can only release the footage if there’s some sort of criminal investigation. Something to do with their contract and data protection. To be honest, I think it’s because they don’t want to. They want the police to contact them, so what should I do?’
‘Leave it,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing anyway. I’m really sorry for wasting your time.’
There’s little else I can do considering the last thing I want is go to the police with possible sightings of the husband I killed.
Veronica sounds unsure, like she knows it’s more than I’m letting on. ‘I can keep onto them if you want. If it’s something important…?’
‘No…’
There’s a gap and then: ‘If you’re sure.’
I tell her that I am and then hang up. It takes me a short while to feel ready to face Jane again. There was a moment when my phone rang that I felt certain it would be to say that the worst had happened. Anticipating something and being ready for it are two different things.
Back in the living room, Jane looks up expectantly. There’s a rudeness about asking who was on the phone, even though we all want to know.
‘Nothing important,’ I say.
I can feel her watching me as I sit, as if she’s trying to read my mind.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she asks.
‘Yes… just busy.’
‘You can tell me anything…’
This is the moment where I can either let it out, or I’m going to have to hold onto it. Even with that, there is truth within truth. If I tell her that I think David was in the back of her photo from the hotel, then do I leave it at that? Do I say that David’s dead? That I killed him? It’s the problem with lying. It’s like chocolate digestives with a cup of tea: one is never enough.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say.
Jane continues to watch me and there’s a moment in which we both know it’s a lie. She’s asking if I want help and I’m telling her no, even though the answer is yes.
‘I have to get going,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t meaning to stir things up, or anything like that. I just thought you should know what I saw.’
She calls for Norah, who spins at the sound of her name and fumbles her way around the living room. Jane straps her into a buggy and then I hold the front door.
‘Are you and Andy still all right for later?’ she asks.
I want to say ‘no’, but it feels too late.
‘Sure,’ I reply.
‘Fab. I’ll see you tonight.’
She’s reached the pavement when she stops and turns, offering me a final chance to tell her what’s wrong. I don’t take it and she offers a knowing, slim smile before she turns and disappears out of sight.
I close the door and know I should start packing. It’s only a few more days and I’ll be moving out to put this chapter of my life behind me. My keys are on the otherwise bare kitchen counter and I wonder if the Tigger pot will show up while I’m packing. If I could find it, it would almost make everything else that’s happened seem explainable.
Andy sorted me out with a pile of packed-down boxes, that are now in the corner of the bedroom. I fold the first one out and place it on the bed. I am about to start filling it with summer clothes that I definitely won’t need this week, when the doorbell sounds. My first thought is that Jane has forgotten something and returned to retrieve it. That is instantly forgotten as I get into the living room and spot the police car through the window. I consider finding somewhere to hide and pretending I’m not in. There is no good that can come from answering the door, although I know I have no choice.
It’s the same two officers as from the other day: one a head shorter than the other. I can see in the eyes of the taller one that he recognises me, but I suppose he has to say it anyway.
‘Mrs Persephone…?’
‘You got my name right that time,’ I reply.
He doesn’t smile and instead angles himself towards the police car. He doesn’t need to say it because I know.
Something bad has happened.