Wednesday 08:45
“You need to come back,” I say, as soon as I find Anna in the woods.
It wasn’t hard. There is a place right at the basin of the valley, not far from the school, where all the naughty girls used to sneak off to after lessons, and sometimes during them. It was used for smoking, drinking, and other things. Each year, the new class of “cool” kids thought of it as their own secret outdoor den, but its existence was common knowledge—even boys like me knew—and its whereabouts were passed down from one teenage generation to the next. The small clearing is defined by three large fallen tree trunks, dragged together to form a triangular seating area. There is evidence of a recent fire in the middle, surrounded by stones.
Anna looks at me as though she has seen a ghost.
“How did you know where I was?” she asks.
“I remember you telling me about this place.”
“Did I?”
No.
“How else would I know?” I say.
She looks so confused. Her face wears what looks like a secondhand expression inherited from her mother. I almost feel bad not confessing that it was Rachel who told me that they used to come here together, not Anna.
“You look a bit like her, you know,” I tell her.
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
“Thanks.”
I can see her comparing herself to the forgetful old woman living in the cottage at the top of the hill, but that isn’t what I meant. Everyone in the village remembers how beautiful Anna’s mother used to be twenty years ago. I always thought of her as a suburban Audrey Hepburn. I might have had a bit of a crush on my future mother-in-law back then, when I was a teenager. The wild gray hair used to be long, dark, and shiny, and she was the best-dressed cleaner I ever saw. I think a hard life stole her looks. Funny how age can be kind to some and cruel to others when it comes to beauty.
“I mean when she was younger. It was meant to be a compliment,” I say, but Anna doesn’t respond. “Are you okay?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know anymore.”
The subject of Anna’s mother is always a sensitive one; I should have known better.
“I’m sorry that you think I interfered with your mum. You’re right, I should have told you that she was getting significantly worse. I did try, and I only wanted to help.”
“I know. It’s just that she never wanted to leave that house, and I feel like I’ve let her down—”
I take a step toward her.
“You haven’t let anyone down. I understand why you stayed away, and what being here does to you. Maybe you should go back to London?”
Her body language instantly translates into something completely different.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jack?”
“What does that mean?”
“How old is Detective Patel? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”
I’ve never known Anna to be jealous before.
“She’s actually in her thirties”—I checked her HR record myself recently—“she’s good at her job, and she’s not my type.”
“What is your type now it’s no longer me?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or kiss her, and both options seem inappropriate.
“You’ll always be my type,” I say, and her face strains to hide a smile.
“I’ll try to remember that if you ever need a blood donor.”
I laugh. I think I’d forgotten my wife can be funny. Ex-wife. Mustn’t forget that.
A magpie swoops down onto the path behind us, and Anna can’t stop herself from saluting in its direction. Some superstitious nonsense her mother taught her.
“Come on, everything will be okay,” I say, holding out my hand.
I’m surprised when she takes it. I always loved the way her fingers seemed to fit right inside my own. I find myself pulling her closer without really meaning to, and she lets me. The hug feels rusty, the kind you have with someone who hasn’t had much practice. Anna starts to cry, and all at once, I am back in her mother’s house again that night two years ago. Holding my wife just after we discovered that our daughter was dead. I’m sure the memory comes back to haunt her too, because she pulls away.
I take a clean hanky from my pocket, and she uses it to wipe the tears and smudges of mascara beneath her eyes.
“People will wonder where we both are,” I say.
“Sorry, I just needed to be on my own for a moment.”
“I know. Me too. It’s okay.”
We start to walk back toward the parking lot, and my eyes are drawn to the magpie that landed on the forest floor just ahead of us a few moments ago. It doesn’t fly away, or even look remotely distracted from its task, and it’s only when we get closer that I can see what it is doing. The living magpie is pecking at the flesh of a dead one. Despite my line of work, the sight still turns my stomach a little. Anna sees it too and I can’t help wondering whether, given her superstitious beliefs, this sighting still counts as two for joy.