‘Why did you kill her?’
‘I didn’t. Why do you keep asking that?’
‘Tell us how you killed her then?’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
He looks up from his notepad and smiles over the rim of his glasses.
‘But Mr Smythe, we know you did.’
I’m still here. In this room. I don’t know how long it’s been. Hours. It feels like days. There aren’t any windows letting in the light. And there isn’t a clock on the wall. Why isn’t there? It’s almost like it’s deliberate. I thought it would be over quickly. A simple in and out. I thought I’d sit down, tell them what happened and then we’d move on to the next phase of this. Whatever that might be. It’s all new. Everything that’s happening now is happening for the first time. But it’s not been like that at all. They keep asking questions. Questions beget more questions. Most of them I’ve already answered. Like why did I kill her? ‘You mean him,’ I said, the first time they asked it. But they really did mean her.
There are four of us here. The one who just spoke has done most of the talking. I can’t work him out. I can’t decide if he’s smart or not. He looks smart. With his spectacles and all the notes he’s taking. But then he doesn’t seem to be hearing the answers. Or understanding them. And I’m getting confused by all the writing he’s doing too. I thought it had to do with what I was saying but I don’t know anymore. Because he’s writing far more than I’m saying. He keeps writing even when I’m not talking. I’m beginning to suspect that what he’s actually writing has nothing to do with this. That he’s not even fully engaged. Or listening. That’s why he has to keep asking me the same stuff over and over.
Next to him his partner just sits there silently. Observing. Taking it all in. She looks about fifteen. Like she could be a friend of Grace’s, the one who hates her father. Chantal. That’s what I’ve been calling her in my head. She’s got silver cross earrings in her ears. I didn’t think they were allowed to wear religious symbols. I mean to ask her about it but the opportunity hasn’t presented itself.
The fourth person is my solicitor. Appointed by the state. I keep forgetting he’s here. He’s sitting right back in his chair, out of my eyeline, so when he leans forward to put his hand on my arm it startles me. Every time. He’s urging caution. That’s what his gesture means. I don’t know his name either. I never knew it although he’s told me twice. I didn’t try to remember.
I yawn. I don’t want them to think they’re boring me, although they are, or that I’m disrespecting the process, but I can’t help it. It’s the lack of windows. And the closed door. The air doesn’t move. We keep breathing the same air. It’s been inside all of us many times by now.
‘We won’t keep you much longer.’ It’s the one who thinks I killed her. ‘There are just a few things we don’t fully understand.’
I lean back in my chair. It’s plastic. The chair. The type that flexes around you if you push hard against it. I keep doing that. It hurts. It digs into me. I am waiting for him to tell me what they are, the things he doesn’t fully understand, but I realise he’s not going to. He’s writing again. Or still. Maybe he’s forgotten he even said it. I listen for noises outside of the room. I can’t hear anything. It seems nothing gets in or out. All I can hear is the tape recorder whirring away on the table.
‘Do you want me to tell you it all from the start again?’
I’m pressing the phone hard to my ear to block out the noise. I can only just hear it ringing on the other side. There is a man seated at a counter nearby. I can only see half his face from this angle. There is more of it in the glass partition in front of him but I’m not looking. I close my eyes. To block out the noise. I can still hear it, but it’s different now I can’t see it. The phone is still ringing. It will go to voicemail shortly. I don’t know what I should do when that happens. I try to imagine what sort of message I could leave. I hang up and dial again. I don’t want to give up, although the prospect of someone answering terrifies me. It’s just ringing. I can see it there, on the kitchen counter, on a small shelf in the hall, on a bedside table. I imagine I can. I’ve never been there. In their home. I hang up again. There is no one else I want to call.
Still here. Still going over the same old ground. Still saying the same things in different ways. I’m talking about Flo now. He wants to know all about her. About us. All the tiny, irrelevant details. I’m telling him how I ended up moving in next door, about going to the beach every morning, about her waiting for me on the stairs. Beside her pot plants. He smiles. I think he likes that image. But I’m wrong.
‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘remind me who Flo is again?’
He knows who Flo is. I told him the first time. I’ve told him every subsequent time. I glare at him but he’s not even looking. Scratch, scratch, scratch goes his pen over the paper. This is why it’s taking so long. Questions like this. Deliberately obtuse. I wonder if he’s got troubles at home and wants to drag this out so he doesn’t have to go there. I look for a wedding ring. There isn’t one. Maybe he’s just trying to wear me down for some reason.
‘She was the only person I spoke to in months,’ I say. ‘And the same for her. Do you know what co-dependent means?’
I tell him how I used to go around there every day, almost every day, and how saddened I was when she died. He wants to know how I knew she was deceased. What I did to confirm it. Did I wet a finger and hold it beneath her nose? Did I feel for a pulse? Or try to rouse her? Did I do anything at all?
‘And you didn’t call anyone, either. That’s correct?’
I don’t know what to say to this. I try to remember what I said the other times he’s asked me this same question. He’s asked it a lot. It’s a particular sticking point for him. This must be one of those things he was talking about. That he doesn’t fully understand. I don’t blame him. I don’t fully understand it either. I’ve tried to rationalise my actions – my inactions – since then but it’s not easy. I tell him I was shocked to find her there. That I mean shocked in the medical sense, as in in shock, and that I think I was not ready to say goodbye. I tell him about co-dependence again, our odd version of it, and that I think that must have played a part in denying to myself that she’d really gone. At first at least. I say that when I was able to accept it, if I ever truly have, it seemed too late and that I’m not stupid and I knew how it would have looked by then. I’d used her phone. I’d used her credit card. Every day for weeks.
‘I’m not certain about any of this,’ I say. Or admit. ‘It’s just what I’ve deduced after the fact.’
He nods.
‘You were motivated by money then.’
‘I wasn’t motivated by anything. I have my own money. From the house. I used her credit card because… I don’t know why I used her credit card.’
He pages back in his notebook. Then forwards again. He is looking for something. Or pretending to. Some half-remembered detail that will unlock it all. He points to something written down and Chantal leans over to read it. She nods at him like she agrees, but he ignores her. He finds the next blank page and goes on writing again. I think he’s playing games now. He thinks he’s being clever, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Like that will coax out some new confession. I know you’re withholding something. That’s what his silence is saying to me. He’s wrong though. I’ve told him everything.
‘She was meant to be your friend.’ He surprises me when he says this. After so long a pause.
‘She was my friend.’
‘I’d hate to know how you treat your enemies.’
‘You know how I do. I’ve told you that also.’
The phone is back on my ear. But the room is quieter now. There is a hush. Most people have gone home. I don’t have to press so hard to hear. I’m glad they’re not answering. But I’m annoyed too. Where are they? They’ve gone out somewhere. Living their best life. I wonder if they’ve gone out together or alone. It’s Saturday. I stand up. It feels good to stretch my legs. The man at the counter turns to look at me. It’s a different man to earlier. We stare at each other. I wonder what he knows about me. They must talk. He doesn’t look away. Eventually I do. Or I close my eyes rather. It’s not because I’m tired. I’m not. I’ve been awake I don’t know how long, but I’m alert. It’s the adrenaline. I listen to the phone still ringing. If a phone rings in an empty house, did it even ring at all? Maybe I’m more tired than I thought. I hang up again. Another let-off.
I’ve just realised something. Chantal is really Charmaine. That was Grace’s friend. Charmaine. I look at her and try to change her name in my head. But it’s too late. I can’t do it. Chantal she is, and Chantal she will remain.
She’s the one talking to me now. It’s a welcome change. He’s just sitting there writing in his book again. He doesn’t look up. Not even once. She is not so young as I first thought. But she is still pretty, in a deceptive, understated sort of way. She has a sprinkle of freckles behind the silver crosses in her ears. Maybe it’s the uniform I like. The promise of domination. Her manner is a bit like that too. She is far more authoritative than I ever expected her to be when she was playing the subordinate. I’ve warmed to her. She’s talking to me about the Great White Hope now, about when he arrived and what happened when he did. She hasn’t asked me who Flo is. I’m answering all her questions as fully as I can. I’m even trying to pre-empt her next question and answer that too. To save time. To make her life easier. To show him that a different approach provokes a different response.
‘I’d urinated on myself,’ I say. I don’t want to say this to her, it’s humiliating, but in the spirit of full disclosure and so forth. ‘That’s why he couldn’t smell her. He could smell her. But he thought it was me.’
She doesn’t react. It’s to her credit. Maybe she likes that sort of thing. I could go off on a tangent very easily now. I tell her that she’d given me a key, Flo that is, after her fall, and that I gave it to him and then just waited for him to come back. I explain how angry he was. Not angry, but I don’t know how else to explain it. Actors try to make the face he was making when something awful is meant to have happened in their film. I used to think they did it well until I saw that face for real. I tell her he started coming towards me and then stopped when he saw the ashtray in my hand.
‘We were both surprised to see it there,’ I say. ‘I honestly have no idea when I picked it up.’
I’m on surer ground here. These are just the facts. There is no interpretation required. I tell her that even then I didn’t know I was going to kill him, and that I was probably more stunned than he was when I bonked him on the head. That I wasn’t even sure I’d done it because there was no blood. Not on the ashtray or on him. But then I saw the dent in his head. Just here.
I’m aware this is all quite disturbing, what I’m saying. But it’s just words now. They’ve lost their meaning through constant repetition. I’ve said all this before. How he crawled about a bit on the floor. How he tried to get up. He did get up. How he began pulling himself along the wall towards the door but that I was by the door – I’d closed it by then – and that he saw me there and stopped moving towards it. How I hit him again. And again. I tell her that I’m sorry I just don’t know how many times I hit him. She says it’s not important. She smiles. I think it’s a smile.
‘The Queen of the Fairies is called Chantal,’ I say. ‘Are you also a queen?’
‘My name isn’t Chantal.’
There is a faint tap on my arm. It’s my solicitor again. He is smiling gently at me. I look at the hand still on my arm, with its stubby fingers that belong with nicotine stains. I notice he’s got a briefcase on his lap that he’s not opened since we’ve been here. Maybe there’s just a sandwich and an apple inside.
‘You said he was angry and was coming towards you?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘You said you thought he was going to kill you?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘So I just wondered if it might not have been self-defence.’
The same man from earlier is still behind the desk. He’s lost interest in me now though. He’s sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head. There are sweat patches under his arms. They stand out against his white shirt. I pick up the phone and dial again. One or both of them will be in bed. I look around the walls. Why are there no clocks here either? I’ve not slept in so long. I can hear it ringing. I imagine it startling a sleeping house. Maybe someone is awake now, is walking groggily towards it. Bare feet on lush carpet.
‘Hello?’ A female voice, thick with sleep.
‘Dolores?’
‘Yes? Who is this please?’
‘It’s me.’
I listen to her thinking. She wants to hang up the phone. I want her to as well. I don’t want to have to say it. She is next to me. She is laughing. I think I am laughing too. We’re outside. The smell of cold air. Grace is there. I can’t see her. She is the bundle I’m carrying and the stockinged feet over my shoulders. My hands encircle her ankles entirely.
‘What do you want? Do you know what time it is?’
‘Oh, Dolores. I’ve done something awful. Something truly awful.’
I am suddenly aware of how tired I am. It’s hit me all at once. I feel light-headed. Light all over. When did I last eat anything? I want to sleep. But he is talking to me again. Questions beget questions. He’s not even writing things down now. His notepad is gone. All his attention is on me.
‘You so nearly got to France, didn’t you? To your daughter. How long has it been since you’ve seen her?’
There is a brown folder on the table between us. I’ve just noticed it. I don’t know where it came from. Or how long it’s been there. No one has acknowledged it. I have a bad feeling.
‘Do you want to know how we found you? Before you got there? A member of the public saw you. You walked right past them on the street. As if you didn’t have a care in the world. But you were covered in blood. It was all over your face. Up your arms. Smeared on your shirt. They even took a picture and sent it to us. You had no idea? You’re looking right into the camera. Now, as odd as that is, we only really paid attention when we got another call from someone else. They were only a few miles away, and they’d just found a body, beaten to death in a layby. Quite a thing. The great British public.’
1,991 days. That’s how long it’s been since I saw her. I’m not telling him that though. An image of my shoebox pops into my head. I want it. What have they done with it? I see him reading our letters. Laughing. I can feel my eyes wanting to close. I’m trying to fight it. My head feels heavy. He bangs the table with his flat hand. I look up. He is holding the folder towards me. I don’t take it. He drops it on the table.
‘There are a few photos we’d like you to take a look at.’
There is a new smell in the room. Mixed in with the stale air. Coffee and dried sweat. It’s him. Chantal wouldn’t be so uncouth. Chantal. I try to remember why I thought that was her name. There was a reason. It’s gone. My head is hurting. I close my eyes again. Or they shut by themselves. If no one spoke for ten seconds I’d be asleep. Bang. He hits the table. Harder this time. He’s staring at me. There is a thumbprint on the lens of his glasses. He doesn’t seem to care. I care. If I had the energy I’d slap them off his face.
‘Look,’ he says.
He nods at the folder that’s now right in front of me. I open it and there is a picture of Flo. Of Doris. She is alive. She is wearing a green cardigan. I recognise it. I close the folder.
‘There’s more,’ he says.
After the green cardigan there are a few other photos of her. I don’t know who took them. Derek, I assume. She is next to a Christmas tree. She is outside on the pavement. I look at the building behind her. It looks like where we used to live but there’s not enough of it in the frame to be sure.
‘Keep looking.’
I turn again. I gasp. I close the folder quickly. I look at my solicitor for help but he’s not there. I fired him. I remember that now.
‘You did that to her.’
‘No.’
‘Yes. Tell me why you killed her.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘Tell me how you killed her then.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did.’
‘I didn’t. She was my friend.’ I bunch up my fists and put them into my eyes. I want another pair of hands for my ears. Someone in the room is breathing loudly. But I can still hear the machine whirring away on the desk. I miss her. I only think the words but I hear myself saying them. I am talking about them all. About Flo and Grace and even Dolores. What a mess I’ve made of everything.
‘Look. Look at what you did to her. Your so-called friend.’
‘I want my shoebox back.’