I’d dressed in my gym gear early that following morning, whispered to Paul that I was going for a run, and was out of the house before he could wake. I drove to the walkway along the banks of the River Foyle, where the weekly park-run event set off from, but I knew I had no intention whatsoever of taking part.
I was exhausted. I’d barely slept. My body seemed to have been acutely aware of Paul beside me in the bed with his livid red scratches and his tousled hair and his deception. I’d spent the night clinging to the edge of the bed, reticent to touch him.
When I’d finally come out of the bathroom after we’d had sex, he’d put on his boxers and T-shirt, like he did every night before going to bed, and was sound asleep. I couldn’t get another glance at the scratches and while a part of me wanted to shake him and ask him to explain himself, I held back. Had I been scared of where the conversation might have led? Perhaps, but I’d also been aware of the three glasses of wine swirling around in my stomach, my fuzzy head and my emotional exhaustion. In the cold light of the following morning I knew I’d been overdramatic, jumping from scratches on his arms to murder. It would be laughable if it weren’t so serious.
But jumping from scratches to an affair? That wasn’t overly dramatic at all, especially given that I’d slept with another man just two nights before. Given that I wasn’t sure if I was falling dangerously in love with another man. A man who I’d told myself I’d push aside so I could work on my ailing marriage.
Just five years ago I’d have very confidently said Paul Walker would never, ever have an affair. But I’d have said the same of myself. Things change. We’d changed.
Sitting in my car, I watched the runners stretch and limber up in preparation for setting off on their race. I didn’t envy them given the heat, but it appeared they didn’t want to let anything deter them. I sipped from my coffee cup, the air-con on full in the car. I felt a little lost.
I knew I shouldn’t, but I took my phone from my bag anyway and scrolled down until I got to Michael’s number. I hit the call button and listened as it went straight to his voicemail. I was surprised at just how disappointed I felt that it had. I scrolled up my phone until I saw Clare’s name. I wondered whether the police had uncovered any information from her phone – were they any closer to catching who was responsible? I dialled her number, listened to her voice telling me to leave a message or, better still, to send a text because she never checked her voicemail.
I ached for her, in that moment. Wanted to say all the things I never had because you never think you’re going to run out of time. Certainly not so quickly. So violently. You assume the world is good and kind. You assume bad things won’t happen to the people you love. You assume these kind of things only happen on late night TV dramas.
A strange notion overcame me, and I put my phone and my coffee down, put the car into first gear and drove off.
The road had been reopened on Friday evening. You wouldn’t have known driving along it that just three days before something so horrific had happened here. The faint buzzing of bees filled the air and a heat haze sat over the long grass of the fields. The tarmac road was dusty, the potholes long since dried up of their puddles of stagnant water.
I wasn’t sure where on the long road she’d been found. I drove slowly, imagining what had been going through her mind as she’d driven down this road last. Had she known what was awaiting her? Did she know what this monster had intended to do? If it was, indeed, the man she’d been in a relationship with, did she know that he didn’t love her, after all? That he was going to hurt her? I hoped she hadn’t known until the very last minute. I hoped she’d been blissfully unaware: calm, not scared. I couldn’t bear to think of her trying to scramble to safety.
I followed a small bend in the road and saw them. The Taylors, walking with their backs to me towards their car. At the side of the road, Ronan stood at a gap in the hedgerow, his head bowed, his eyes closed. I slowed the car, pulled over to the side, and waited for Mr and Mrs Taylor to set off before I switched off my engine and walked up to where Ronan stood.
I said his name softly, reached out and touched his shoulder. He turned to look at me.
‘I just came for a drive,’ I said. ‘Felt the need to come past here. This … this is where it happened?’
He nodded, reached his arm out to me and pulled me close to him, and I slinked his arm around my waist as we stood side by side. I looked to the ground. There was nothing there to show that something so unthinkable had happened apart from a few bunches of flowers, some chalk circles not yet washed away. The smallest remnant of yellow police tape attached to a twig. I wondered if I should have brought some flowers myself. Felt foolish for not doing so. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.
‘My parents wanted to come up here. Wanted to lay flowers. I don’t know why, really. I find it mawkish when people leave flowers at the scenes of a tragedy. It’s not like the dead person is there. I don’t want to think of any part of her here,’ he said, his eyes not leaving the ground.
I looked at the flowers, a bouquet of lilies. A couple of supermarket bouquets. A posy of forget-me-nots, tied with thick twine, the stems wrapped in thick black satin, which looked out of place against the delicate light blue petals of the flowers.
Macabre, even. I had a bad feeling and despite the heat, I shuddered.