I’ve escaped the house for a while and am pushing Lily in her pram along the quay and back again, even though it is freezing and my face has started to go numb with the cold.
I needed to get away from the house. It’s been just over two days since the police dropped the bombshell on us and we’ve spent hours talking to different officers. Going through the same details over and over again. They’ve been professional with us, nice even. But I can sense DI Bradley getting frustrated. They’re no closer to finding any answers. None of us are, but I can’t help but feel that they are all looking in my direction.
They’ve kept asking me about my relationship with him. How had we got along? Had there been tension between us? They say things must be stressful for me, with a small baby and now losing my father. I don’t correct them that I have never considered him my father, in any sense of the word.
They’ve asked me repeatedly about the house. Did I really have plans to sell it as soon as possible? They’ve asked about my mental health, any medication I’m on. But I’m not on medication just now. I’ve not been on medication for seven or eight years. I’ve been coping on my own. Doing well. And when I was sick, I directed all my self-loathing towards myself and only myself. I’ve never hurt anyone. I wouldn’t.
They’ve asked if Joe had wanted me to help him die. If I thought someone might have helped him to end his life. I snort. While there was breath in his body, Joe McKee would have wanted to suck up whatever attention and sympathy he could muster. He wouldn’t have willingly skipped out on his grand finale.
Alex has gone to work today to ‘finish some urgent paperwork’ and he couldn’t wait to leave the house this morning. He’ll be back as soon as he can, he says, but I have a feeling I won’t see him for hours and as he’s my only ally in the house, being without him there is too difficult.
After another round of questioning this morning, I’d called him and told him how I felt as if the walls were closing in on me. He said I was being paranoid. But I can hear something in his voice. Worry, or suspicion, maybe.
People stop talking when I walk into the room. I know what that means. I know who they are talking about.
I’m afraid to kick off. Afraid to fight my corner. Afraid to show any sort of strong emotion in case it feeds the narrative that I’m unhinged. What had been a stressful situation to begin with had now become almost unbearable.
So I’d rather face the cold than go home, even though it’s threatening to rain and I should have worn a heavier coat. Keeping moving helps, you see. I focus on what I see, smell and hear. Keep mindful of the exact moment I’m in and ignore the bigger picture because I fear it will overwhelm me if I let it.
When my hands are so cold they start to turn blue, I push Lily’s pram into a nearby coffee shop and order a large latte. I catch my reflection in the window. I look old and haggard. Unkempt, with the dressing still on my hand. My other hand bruised and grazed from my run-in with the peeler. Dark circles under my eyes. No make-up, not that it could perform the miracle I need it to if I’m to look more human.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ the waitress asks as she puts the coffee down in front of me.
I shake my head, lift the cup, immediately using the heat from it to warm my hands. I could almost cry from this small feeling of physical comfort.
I just have to get through the next few days and weeks, I tell myself. I just have to believe in myself. I know I didn’t hurt anyone. I know I’m innocent. I have to believe that will be enough to get me through this.
I feel a heaviness in the pit of my stomach. I look at my coffee. I don’t think I’ve the stomach to drink it any more. My sense of freedom is slipping away.
Suddenly, I have to leave the café, even though I’ve just arrived. It feels, like so much in life, just too small. Much, much too claustrophobic. The scarf around my neck feels too tight. My coat too hot. The chatter of people around me too noisy. I feel as if they are looking at me. Talking about me. And us. Gossiping. The thing with living in Derry is that while it’s a city, it still retains that small-town mentality. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. Ironic really, given that no one stepped in when my life was falling apart after my mother died.
But they will all be talking. The rumour mill will be in full flow. Someone will have heard something and passed it on, and the Chinese whispers will have spread. He’s not home yet. Something must be up. Did someone hurt him? I always thought that girl of his looked like a bad sort! Do you remember the time …
I push the pram out of the shop, out onto the quay again, without making eye contact with anyone. I hear their voices anyway, as I walk as fast as I can, the rain thumping down now – thick, icy drops. I try to focus on my senses. What I see, smell and hear again. But it’s all too much.
I want to scream at everyone to just shut up. I keep my head down trying to block out the noise, but it just seems to be getting louder and louder. It comes as a huge shock to me then when I look up and see that save for a few cars driving past, the street is empty.
I pause as tears roll down my cheeks, mixing with the raindrops. I pause and focus on the real noises around me. Try to slow my breathing.
Then my phone rings.