Jim was trembling now, a full body quiver like a newborn left outside in the snow. The mortuary attendant watching him, an exercise in inconspicuous sympathy, hands folded at his waist, head bowed.
“You know you don’t need to?” said Tom. “The DI, he’s already done the identification. It’s okay.”
“I know. I want to.”
“Look, why don’t you take a little time? Don’t make this decision now. Have a chat with Esther. Maybe…perhaps it would be best to remember her as she was.”
The scent of disinfectant grazed Tom’s throat. Beyond that, something else, darker. The smell of decay.
“I have to see her, Tom. Have to.”
Libby’s hair pooled, dark puddles on purple cloth. They had covered her, pulling a sheet up until it grazed her chin, as if she could still feel the cold.
Jim let out a soft moan.
Tom looked down, not wanting to see any more. There was an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, nausea.
Tried to tell himself that it was because he hadn’t eaten, because hadn’t he done this too many times for it to be anything else? Trying not to think about it, a father mourning his child, that sensation in your gut like your insides have been pulled out and now you have to go on living, even though you’ve been emptied out and there’s nothing left but a hollow shell. Don’t think about it. It’s a body. That’s all it is. Done this a thousand times before. Just part of the job. Narrow hospital hallways. Doors swinging open. Knowing that if you look left or right there will be bodies, inside out. The shriek of a saw on bone. And you laugh, because what else do you do? Just part of the job.
Tom clasped his fingers together, thumb running across soft skin, trying to find it again, that place where he is just a detective and not a person, where all of this can be tinged with an air of unreality, because you can’t look at it like everyone else does, because there are things that you have to see that they can be allowed to miss as they wallow in the tragedy.
But it doesn’t seem to be there today. Today he wants to cry.
“I just…I want you to be sure this is what you want. You don’t have to do this. Not if you don’t want to.”
Jim hadn’t answered. He was already putting on his coat. Ethan watching him. He didn’t want to go. But Jim’s jaw was set, and his shoulders squared and he looked like a bulldog. Tom felt a thrill of something, like when you’re at the top of a roller-coaster and you know that things are going to get worse before they get better. Watching this man who has been stripped of everything, ploughing on regardless, because he understands that you have to fall before you can begin to climb again.
Tom realised that the thrill felt an awful lot like envy.
Jim hadn’t spoken in the car, had stared straight ahead, jaw clenched so tight that the veins pulsed. Hadn’t sat frozen to the seat when they pulled up outside, or hung back as they trudged through slush towards the mortuary door.
Tom had held the door open for him. Had watched him walk through, his head held high. Had wanted to grab for him, say don’t do this. You don’t have to see everything, sometimes it’s okay to pretend. That way you can be a better man than your father and you can keep your family together even if it’s a family in name only. But at least you are staying and you are there, and so what if you’re lying, to yourself, to everyone else. Your son gets a mother and a father. And that’s what matters.
But he hadn’t said a word, of course he hadn’t, had stepped aside, allowing Jim to pass, had sat in silence with him in the claustrophobic waiting room and hadn’t commented when the man’s hands shook so badly he could barely sign the forms.
Once you know, you can’t go back.
Tom had found it by accident, a week or two ago. He had been looking for shoe polish. She had to have some somewhere. She had 10,000 pairs of shoes. He hadn’t opened it right away, had sat there for longer than he would have thought possible, envelope resting on his lap. Then he had pulled at the edges.
A dark image, black, a ghostly grey outline. A baby scan. The whisper of a child.
“Can I go in?” Jim hadn’t turned, still looking straight ahead at his daughter. His voice still the policeman’s voice.
The mortuary attendant’s head raised, expression a struggle between alarm and condolence.
But then Jim shook his head, a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. The PM. I know.” His voice, dropping to a whisper, a different voice now, softer, the father. “My little girl.”
At first Tom had thought that the scan was Ben. He had been surprised, hadn’t thought that she would have kept it. Then he had looked at the date, a year before they met.
Once you know, you can’t go back.
“Cecilia?”
She had been getting ready to go to work, had been slicking her lips with deep crimson lipstick. Hadn’t turned to look at him when he came into the bathroom. “Yeah?”
He stood, frozen to the tiled bathroom floor. “I found something.”
“Okay.” She was blotting her lips, still not looking at him. A quiet sigh of impatience.
“Cecilia? What is this?”
She had turned then, looked at him, face set, like she’s irritated with him. Then her gaze dropped down towards the picture. Froze.
“Where did you get that?”
It seemed like he could hear her heart thrumming, although surely that was memory re-writing what was.
“I found it. I was looking for shoe polish in your wardrobe. It was in a shoe box. What is this?”
She reached out with manicured nails, snatching it from his fingers. “You shouldn’t be in my stuff.”
“It’s not Ben. The date is wrong.”
She had turned away from him, back towards the mirror, but he could see her hands, shaking.
“No. It’s not.”
“So…?” Annoyance built in him. “Who the hell is it?”
Cecilia was looking down. Holding onto the edge of the vanity unit. Her voice quiet. “That was my baby, okay? My first baby.”
Tom had hung there, after a body blow. Had felt it crumbling, then, right there. Because it was, after all, a pretence. This marriage, this life. This family that he had sacrificed so much to preserve. Watched his wife, saw her pushing herself up tall, pulling her long dark hair into a ponytail. Her hands were shaking, even though she was pretending that they weren’t, her lips set into that thin line, the one that says that her contribution is over, that you’ve gone as far as you’re going to go with her and beyond this is nothing, just a no man’s land of silence.
“What happened?”
She didn’t answer him. Tugged at her hair so that the strands yank at her scalp, a fleeting facelift.
“The baby, Cecilia. Did you give it up? Did you have it adopted? Or…”
“For fuck’s sake…” She spun, letting her hair spill down over her shoulders. “It’s gone. Okay? I had an abortion. Are you happy now? I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to be a mother.”
The words sparkled, casting long shadows.
And they had stood there, like they were frozen.
You should know what to do, at times like this. When it is your wife, and the mother of your child. You should know what it is you’re supposed to do. But Tom hadn’t, had just stood there, staring at her, thoughts chasing one another, fighting to clamber their way from his mouth.
She had been shaking properly then, thin tracked tears snaking their way down her cheeks, burning channels through her bronzer. Didn’t look at him, and it had struck him suddenly how rarely she did. And he had stood there, and she had stood there, and the knowledge had settled onto him like a stone. He didn’t know this woman at all.
Tears had begun to spill down Jim’s cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away. Just stood there, staring at his dead daughter stretched out on a mortuary slab. Tom wanted to turn away, even though it wasn’t his tragedy. Because it was all too stark, too raw, and he couldn’t stop thinking of burning planes and how close he had come to being the one standing beside glass, staring at a dead wife. And how his grief would have been a dull mockery of this man’s.
Tom hadn’t wanted Cecilia back. They had dated. They had stopped. She had gone. And that had been fine with him. He hadn’t loved her. At times he had found himself wondering if what he felt could even be described as liking. They had amused each other, a little, for a short time. Then they had gone their separate ways. Just like they were supposed to. And then life had moved on, and then there had been Maddie. His stomach clenched, thinking about her.
And then had come the call, and the knowledge that he was going to be a father, and suddenly all the decisions had already been made. He was a father. He would be there for his child. So he would marry his child’s mother. They would be a family. And he would pretend. For the rest of his life.
It seems like hours although in truth it could have been little more than minutes, before Jim’s hand dropped, and he stepped back from the glass. The mortuary attendant half-turned, watching, and then pulled gently on the curtains.
Jim stood as his daughter disappeared behind thick velvet.
Chapter 24
Freya – Monday, 19th March – 10.30am
“You okay, Rich?” Freya smiled at her brother, his hair all standing on end, fresh from his bed. Tried to keep her voice light. She was still in her pyjamas, hadn’t slept. Seemed now like she couldn’t remember when she had last slept. The landing carpet was warm under her bare feet, caught in a patch of sunlight.
“Yeah.” Richard rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Didn’t sleep too well.”
“I know. Me neither.”
Richard leaned against the frame of his bedroom door, caught in slanting sunlight working its way in through the hallway window. “You see the news last night?”
Freya felt her heart stop in her chest. “Rich.”
He wasn’t looking at her, staring down at the floor, his eyes full. “You heard what they’re saying? About Dad? They’re saying he did it on purpose.”
She hadn’t told him. When she had returned from the crash site, hadn’t told anyone. Because how did you even begin to say that? Our father might have killed himself.
Might have killed everyone else. Felt like there was barely room in her head for it, let alone anything else. Her stomach rolled. “I know, honey.”
He looked up at her then. “Is it true, Frey? Did he?”
She wanted to lie to him. Wanted to lie so desperately. Looked at him, and the words were forming on her lips, ready, right there. “I don’t know.”
Richard nodded. A tear rolling on his cheek. “Yeah.”
Freya leaned, kissing him on the cheek. “Why don’t you go get some breakfast, kiddo? Grandma’s been cooking.”
The ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “Don’t you think I’m a little old for that now?”
Freya smiled. “You’ll always be my baby brother. No matter how old and ugly you get. Go on. Get some food.”
Her brother hesitated, for a moment looked like he would argue like most seventeen year olds do. Then his shoulders slumping, a slow nod, too tired to do anything but agree.
She waited until the kitchen door was closed, then turned.
Her parents’ bedroom was empty. I can’t sleep here. Please don’t make me sleep here. Her mother leaning heavily on her grandfather. I can’t be here without him. They had put her in the spare room. Her grandparents were sleeping on the fold out sofa in the living room.
It smelled of her father. Dolce & Gabbana. Freya leaned against the bedroom door, letting it shut tight behind her. Only then did she realise that she was shaking.
What was going on with your father?
Freya had experimented with pretending, telling herself that the reporter had it wrong, or the investigators did. That somebody did. Because surely it couldn’t be possible. Her grandparents hadn’t asked her about the visit to the crash site, her grandmother contenting herself with the occasional loud sigh, a forlorn shake of the head. Her mother still hadn’t come out of her room. It would be so easy, here in this house, to let it slide. To slip back into the party line. Their father, just one more tragic victim. So, she had showered and dressed and watched TV and pushed her food around her plate, and then undressed and gone to bed, and all the time a vision of her father standing in the snow rolling through her head.
What was going on with your father?
Freya had come home early on Wednesday, the day before the crash - wasn’t supposed to be there. Had said that she would go straight to Carly’s, that she would get changed there. But she had worn the wrong shoes, and it had started to snow, tumbling flakes sneaking inside the thin leather, soaking her feet. She was cold and she was uncomfortable. She would go home, take a hot shower, change her clothes. Her father wasn’t expecting her. It was a rest day for him, wouldn’t be flying until the next evening.
At first Freya had thought the house was empty. Had slipped off her boots in the hallway, leaving behind puddles of melting snow, padded her way into the kitchen, thinking that she would make a quick cuppa, something to warm her from the cold. She had started when she saw her father. He was standing in the back garden, shoulders rolled up tight. One hand was jammed into the pocket of his jeans, the other held his mobile phone to his ear.
Freya had known, with that sinking feeling that children have when they have caught their parent in yet another lie.
Had considered turning, walking out. After all, this wasn’t her fight was it? Her parents had chosen the way their marriage would play out, and if this was their choice then surely that had little to do with her?
Freya pushed herself away from the door, padding softly on the thick carpet. Gripped the bronzed handles of the wardrobe door. Her father’s wardrobe.
Her father’s shirts hung neatly, lined, pressed, a regimental army in whites and blues and greys. Then jackets. Then trousers. And he would walk in, at any moment, and reach past her, plucking a shirt from the rail and then he would be gone again, hidden in plain sight, as his family drowned in the secrets that he kept. She stood there for a moment, staring, and she felt that feeling that she had always felt around her father. Or for as long as she could remember, at least. An unsteadiness, as if she was standing on the deck of a ship, that for a moment or for an hour or for a day would drift on a mill-pond, and then, without warning would hit a wave and buck, throwing you from your feet. Remembering fleeting moments, chasing her and her brother around the swing set in the garden, dropping to all fours so that they could ride on his back, and then the phone would ring or he would remember something and suddenly he wouldn’t be fun daddy any more. Now he was angry daddy, and you would never know why, and even when you asked your mother, you would see that look in her eyes, a wall going up and even though you were little, you would know not to push it any further.