Amber has been crying, I can tell. Her skin is blotchy and her eyes are stinging red. My heart bleeds for her as she tries to carry on like nothing is wrong. Which is not like Amber, she usually faces things straight on with a shot gun.
‘There’s no need for you to worry, Amber.’
Taking a can of Sprite out of the fridge, Amber yawns. ‘I’m so tired, Mom.’
‘I know, sweetheart, you go to bed. I promise, nothing’s wrong.’
I’m not sure she bought the story about the accident, saying it was a bit of a big deal to drag her dad down the station especially on a Friday night when the cops should be busy dealing with drunk Dublin. I explained to her the officer on the case was only back on duty tonight and that’s why they called now. Tuts, huffs, then finally a kiss on the cheek.
‘Did you make much money?’ I ask her, trying to lighten the atmosphere as she walks out of the room.
‘Slave labour,’ she replies, lifting my spirits ever so slightly. At least this nightmare hasn’t erased Amber’s sense of humour.
There’s still no news from Tom and now my body is aching all over so I’m going to lie down on the bed. If I can read, it will drag my thoughts somewhere else for a while. I take one last look out the window. The night is still. Fewer lights shining from the opposite side of the street.
Tom must be exhausted down there at this hour of the night. What could he be telling them that would take this long? They must be finished with him soon. Lifting my cell, I decide to ring the station again. A male voice answers this time but he can’t tell me anything except that Tom is still there. I try to engage him in conversation, ask him if he had any idea when Tom would be home but he knows nothing.
Anxiety is lying in the bed with me. Holding me hostage. Reading doesn’t help. The words on the page are blocked from entering my head by the big question that has now set up camp there. What if Tom has got something to do with the woman’s murder?
Don’t be silly, I tell myself, Tom wouldn’t hurt a fly. I know this. I love him and I’ve been married to him fifteen years. He’s never once raised a hand to me. He rarely even raised his voice to me. His idea of being angry is to say nothing and head to the pub. He hasn’t got a violent gene flowing through his blood. I know, I’ve seen what that gene looks like.
So why is he still down there?
Moments later I get my answer. Tom pushes open the bedroom door and walks over to my side of the bed.
‘You’re back!’ Dragging a misplaced smile across my face I sit up straight.
He rushes over to me, his hug almost crushing me. ‘I’m so sorry, Sal, you must have been up the wall but they wouldn’t let me ring you.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Did Ma tell you?’
‘Yes, she said they wanted to ask you questions about the dead woman.’
Tom stands and walks towards the en suite. I wonder why he asked that? Was he checking to see if I already knew why he was brought in, was he planning to spin me the line about the bicycle accident like I did to Amber?
He opens the door of the en suite, about to walk inside when I say, ‘What happened, Tom?’
Turning to face me, a shadow in the low light cast from the bedside lamp, Tom stretches both arms out to the frame of the door.
‘Nothing much, they just want to speak to anyone who knew the woman, nothing for you to worry about, Sal.’ He walks into the en suite and closes the door.
I’m confused – is his casual, just-another-day-at-the-office voice an attempt to keep me calm or confuse me? Pulling back the duvet, I move to the en suite door.
‘Tom,’ I call after him. ‘You didn’t know her, did you?’
My stomach hurts, acid leaks into my mouth. Surely Tom didn’t know the woman. Did he? Suddenly I have this picture in my head of him sitting having lunch with his ‘other’ family. The woman, the kid, Tom at the top of the table laughing out loud with them. The waiter comes along, Tom rushes to pull out his wallet. Hugs and kisses all round, plans for next week.
I rush to the closed door and push it open. With one hand kneeling against the wall Tom stands peeing into the toilet.
‘You didn’t know her, Tom, did you?’
‘I wouldn’t say I knew her… as such.’
‘Did you ever meet her, Tom, did you? Did you ever see her since that one night seventeen years ago when that thing in your hand got us all into this trouble?’
I want to push him, knock his head off the tiled wall in front of him, the lovely shimmery silver tiled wall. I picture his blood dripping down it.
‘No, not like you think.’
Unable to stay in the same room, lie in the same bed, I take my pillow and drag the duvet with me. I was hoping he would come home and tell me the police just wanted to know about the kid. What he was like? Did Tom think the boy could have killed his mother? And all those types of question. I didn’t count on Tom knowing the dead woman. What if he did meet her and they rekindled their love from that one night of passion?
Shit, were they having an affair? No, don’t go there, Sally. Because if you do go there, you might never come back.
Lying between the folded duvet I rest my head on the pillow, hoping to fall asleep, but my mind is racing. If the newspapers said she was murdered sometime on Sunday afternoon, why were they questioning Tom? He was with them Sunday afternoon at the station, when the accident with the bicycle happened, when he was given the test to see if there was any alcohol in his blood. At least that’s what he told me.
I’m too warm. Kicking my legs out from under the cover the thought suddenly crashes into my mind. What if there was no accident, no bicycle, no alcohol testing. What if Tom made it all up to keep me from going berserk on him for not showing up to the birthday party? No, he wouldn’t, would he? Or worse still. What if he killed the woman? It’s not in his nature, I know, he’s not violent. But accidents can happen when knives and angry people hang around in the same space. Maybe he killed her by mistake. Got angry, lifted the knife to enforce his demands. She could have slipped. He could have slipped. We’re all slipping now.