Double Fault (32 page)

‘Here we are.' He pulled on the handbrake. ‘And I am going to help you out, whatever you say, because you seriously do not want to tear your dress. Silk, isn't it?'

She waited obediently, and, taking his arm, walked solemnly into the church. The kids fell into step behind.

Mark turned towards her, and smiled.

Bother the slow march the organist was playing, bother her injured legs: she hitched up her skirt and ran towards him, arms outstretched.

S
he comes here every year, the anniversary of the day she saw him for the last time. No flowers, of course. If he was the victim of a car crash, she could leave a bouquet on the spot. But there was nothing dramatic like that. He just walked away, hands in pockets, not even turning to wave.

All she can do is peer down the road. Most times she's had to cover her mouth to stop herself calling out because she thinks she's seen him there. But it's another lad in the same jeans and hoodie uniform walking away. In any case, he won't be a kid now. He'll be a man.

One last stare, one last sigh. She hunches away. She tells herself she'd know if he'd died – if he was one of the kids behind that wall. Is it wicked to envy their parents? At least they know, even if it is the worst that they know. At least there's been a service for each one; at each she's been part of the congregation, standing slightly apart at the back, not wishing to crowd the family or friends who were lucky enough to be able to say a last goodbye.

She even made a bit of a scene at one of them, when someone pointed out that the tall woman on crutches was one of the detectives. She grabbed her arm: ‘Are you sure,' she wailed, ‘that there weren't any other bodies? Are you sure you've identified them properly?'

The tall woman didn't flinch. ‘The scientists promised me that each child – because they were no more than children, were they? – was properly identified. Promised me. There are no mistakes.'

‘At least they can bury theirs!' she said, knowing her voice was carrying more than it should. ‘And my son – when will I know what's happened to him?'

‘I wish I knew, Mrs—?' the detective's eyes had dropped to her ring finger.

‘I'm Ms now. It broke us up, losing him. We blamed each other. And I went back to my maiden name. Years ago. Oh, when will someone find him? When will I know what happened?'

The detective gripped her hand tightly. ‘I wish I could tell you. I just wish I could tell you.'

Then a mourning mother claimed the detective's attention. But she swore that the detective looked back at her over the sobbing woman's head with extra compassion.

It's only now that she realizes she never told the officer her names, now and then. How silly. But perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference.

No, there's no sign of him today. And dimly, painfully, she comes to realize there never will be.