Tom took another sip of the coffee. Really did taste like shit. He didn’t answer for a moment, thinking about Jim staring at his dead daughter, about Ben, looking to his father to tell him the right way to live. Thinking about their home, stuffed with so much silence that you can barely breathe.
“It’s rubbish, mate.”
Dan pursed his lips. Nodded slowly. “Yeah. I figured.”
“We’re a mess. We don’t speak. Hardly look at one another.”
“Since the crash?”
“Since forever.”
“Oh.” Dan was watching him now. “You never said.”
“I know.” Tom smiled. Didn’t really feel like it. “Didn’t really know what to say.”
“Then why…”
“Why have I stayed?”
“Yeah. Ben?”
“Partly. Partly because…it’s just what you do, isn’t it? When you’re married.”
“Not for a lot of guys. A lot of guys would be long gone. Most, probably.”
“Yeah, well…I didn’t want to be that.”
“Your Dad?”
Tom almost laughed. “Jesus, Doctor Phil.”
“I’m saying, is all. I know you two’ve got issues.”
“You could say.”
Dan shook his head. “So what are you going to do?”
Tom leaned back against the chair, not looking at him, staring at a spot somewhere above his head where the windows are dark, and the snow has stopped and, somewhere in amongst all the blackness, he can see stars. “It’s got to end, mate.” Glanced back over his shoulder, at his sleeping son. “For him and for her. It’s got to end.”
“Yeah.” Dan nodded slowly, thoughtful.
They didn’t say anything, for long quiet moments, because what do you say after something like that? Dan was watching him, waiting for something more. But there wasn’t anything. Tom was spent. Finally, Tom pushed himself up, digging his elbows into the desk. “There’s one thing I don’t get.”
“What’s that?” asked Dan
“Who the hell set fire to the house?”
Chapter 45
Cecilia – Tuesday, 27th March – 12.55am
Cecilia was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, heeled boots resting on wooden floorboards. An encyclopaedia salesman in a customer’s home. The television was on, even though she wasn’t watching it; flashing lights that looked like fire. They weren’t home yet, Ben and Tom. She wondered distantly where they were. Wondered if she should call. But she didn’t. Because it wasn’t what they did and it wasn’t the way they were and old habits die hard. So instead she sat, waited, even though she wasn’t really sure what it was she was waiting for.
She had stood in the snow, staring at Richard, feeling like the world had turned upon itself. Had she known that he was Oliver’s son? Should she have known? Was there a protocol as to what you did next? Ring his mother perhaps. He had mentioned a sister…but he was standing in the snow, shaking with cold, so she had pulled him into the house. Made him a cup of tea.
“Did you speak to him? My Dad.”
“I, um…” Cecilia hadn’t looked at him, had concentrated on pouring the boiling water into the cup, paying more attention than she would have normally. “Yes. I guess.”
“What did he say?” His fingers had gripped the kitchen counter, looked like he was afraid he would fall down without it.
“Nothing.” She turned away from him, pulling milk from the fridge. “I just, I mean, you know, just the usual. We didn’t talk, talk.” She poured the milk slowly, keeping her eyes averted so that he wouldn’t see that she was lying.
“So, he seemed all right to you. He wasn’t…I mean, you weren’t worried?”
How to tell the boy dripping melted snow on her kitchen floor that she couldn’t have been worried because she had barely noticed his father? Had known Oliver too long, had learned to look beyond his charm and his patter. How did you tell someone that you weren’t worried because, in truth, you hadn’t cared? Because you were running away from your son and that was all you would ever care about again.
“No.” She had handed him the tea. “I wasn’t worried.”
Cecilia didn’t hear the car pulling into the drive, the key in the lock. Just the front door swinging open, her husband cradling her son, sagging under the weight of a dead sleep. Tom glanced at her, but, if he was surprised to see her sitting there, he didn’t let on. He was looking at her, and Cecilia felt a turn in her stomach. The sense of something changed. Ben, gave a tiny harumph, small hands clutching at his father’s coat. Cecilia watched them, and there was something, unsaid words waiting.
Tom sighed. Sounded like an old man. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Cecilia nodded, watching as he turned. Footsteps creaking on the stairs.
Richard had cried. After the tea had gone cold, sitting untouched on the kitchen table. Had leaned on his hands and sobbed. She had stroked his back. Thinking again that this was so wrong. That she could do this for someone else’s child but not for her own. Thinking that there was something so wrong with her.
He had cried until he had nothing left in him. Then he had pushed himself to his feet, movements abrupt.
“I have to go.”
“Well,” Cecilia had stood too, pulled by the intensity in him, that look like he’s decided something she can’t even begin to fathom. “let me run you.”
He hadn’t looked at her. Shook his head. “I have a car.” Had stopped, then had looked up at her. “Thank you.”
Then he was gone.
She had watched him walk down the drive. Had tried not to think too hard about the lie she had told.
Thought instead about her hand on his back. The ease with which strangers cried on her. The fact that her own son barely seemed to know her. Was it possible that she was two people? One, strong and brave and kind, when she was out there, amongst those she barely knew. And another, weak and afraid and distant, when she was in here, with her family, the ones best equipped to hurt her. A part of her wanted to run. Her eyes looked around for the keys, mind running through what she would need, what she would take. But of course everything she would take, she had taken. And it had fallen from the sky, just like she had.
She had stood there at the window, looking out at the snow. Thinking of Maisie. Frail and little and tough. Standing, facing down what life had to throw. Not turning from it, pretending. An inimitable hope. Then, when all hope was lost, quiet, unyielding acceptance. The high-pitched trilling had startled her, her mobile phone vibrating harsh against the wooden cabinet, and she had stared at it, wondering who in the hell would be calling her.
Number withheld. Again. Her heart beat a little faster. Her brain had no idea why.
“Hello.” Cecilia’s voice came out as a rasp, one she didn’t recognise.
“Oh hi. Is that Mrs Allison?”
Was she? Was that who she was? Wasn’t it only a minute ago she was Cecilia Williams, most popular girl in her sixth form? Now, she had been a fun girl. Young, exciting and excited. Whatever happened to her?
“I…yes.”
“This is Yvonne, from Morriston hospital? Maisie’s nurse.”
“Oh.” Fear gripped her stomach. Please no. Please don’t say it.
“You left your number the first time you came. Maisie, she…”
“Is she dead?” The words blurted out of Cecilia, a sob buried within them.
“What? No. No. God, I’m sorry. No. It’s just that she wondered if you could bring some stuff in for her. Her daughter’s coming tomorrow, and she says she’d like to look…ah…I think ‘less like death’ is the way she phrased it. She said if you’re coming in to see her, would you bring her some lipstick and a hairbrush.”
“Lipstick.” Repeated Cecilia faintly.
“Pink, if you have it.”
“Pink. I…sure. Yes. Okay.” Cecilia turned, sinking onto the sofa, her head in her hands. “Of course.”
Her heart beating in her mouth. She said goodbye. Hung up. Stared into space. And suddenly knew, more clearly than she could remember knowing anything, that she couldn’t pretend any more. She couldn’t keep hiding, hoping that if she kept her eyes closed for long enough then the past would vanish, become just a dream she once had.
The creaking floorboards came from a lifetime away, closer, closer. She didn’t look up as Tom came down the stairs. An amorphous vision in her periphery. Cecilia waited as he walked into the living room, sinking down onto the sofa next to her.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
It took her a moment to work out whose words they had been. Hers or his. Which one of them had finally said it, ripping the plaster off.
He was looking at her.
“I’m sorry, Cecilia. But we can’t go on. I’m not happy. And I know you’re not happy.”
She was watching his lips move. Felt a flush flooding through her. Tears sparking in her eyes. Realised that it was gratitude she was feeling. She didn’t say anything, couldn’t speak. Just nodded.
“I think, for Ben’s sake, we need to call it a day. I…I don’t know what your thoughts are about the house, and about…”
“I’ll go.” She didn’t want him to say it, didn’t want to have to hear herself admit that it wasn’t her that Ben needed, that it wasn’t her who should stay. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cecilia didn’t say anything for a moment. Then reached out, took his hand. “It was never right, was it? For you either?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, Cecilia. It’s not your fault. It’s…it’s us. We were never meant to be here. If not for…”
“Ben.”
“Ben.” Tom hung his head, his voice cracking. “I wanted to try. I so wanted to try. Give him a proper family.”
“I know. But it’s…”
“…pretending.”
“Yeah.” Tears were spilling down her cheeks. “This way. It’ll be better.”
“I guess.” He squeezed her fingers. “I wish it could have been different. I really, really do.”
“Me too.”
They sat there, for a long, long time. And then Cecilia leaned forward, and kissed Tom on the lips. A kiss that seemed to last longer than their entire marriage.
“Thank you.” She was crying now, openly, and when she pulled back she realised that so was he.
“You don’t have to…I mean, there’s no hurry.”
“No. I’ll go now. I’ll come back for my stuff.” Cecilia stood, picking up her handbag, her coat, her keys. “Tell Ben…” Her voice cracked, and she let it. “Tell him that I love him very much. Okay?”
She didn’t wait for Tom’s response, but turned on her heel and walked out of her life.
She made it to the car. Was sitting in the driver’s seat, letting the tears fall, when her mobile phone began to ring again. She reached for it without thinking, never stopping to wonder if it was Tom, asking her back. Knowing that it wasn’t.
Richard.
Her finger moved to the answer button.
Outside, a few stray flakes of snow fell.
Chapter 46
Freya – Tuesday, 27th March – 12.55am
Dan drove steadily, taking his time on the quiet midnight motorway. They had sat for a while, hadn’t said much. Freya risked a glance at him. He was, she thought again, good looking. Strong in a kind looking way. Then she looked back out of the window, pretending to study the banked up snow, headlights hitting it, making diamonds of it.
“So, you’re doing a PhD?” Dan glanced sideways at her.
Freya smiled. “Yes. In Psychology.”
“God. That’s impressive.”
She laughed. “Yeah. You think that. Until you get in there. Then you realise that what you’ve become is a crazy person who works in a lab, has no connection to reality, and that after three years or four years, however long it takes, you’ll be so overqualified you’ll be pretty much unemployable.”
“But you keep going?” He was smiling wryly.
Freya shrugged. “I know. I’m stubborn. Can’t bear to give up.”
You need a boyfriend, sis.
Did she? Could that possibly be true? How was it possible that she could have moved through her life, all twenty three years of it, and never had this most fundamental of relationships? There had been men, of course there had. She wasn’t a nun. But the moments had been fleeting at best. A few dates here. A month or so there. And it was, she had to admit, always the same. It was always her who ran. Once it got past a certain point, when it wasn’t just about the fun of it any more, she would suddenly get this feeling, her skin crawling with impatience. Would feel like she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move for them. Would have to go.
Freya stared out of the window, into the snow, thought of the men that she had hurt. It’s not you. It’s me. And they were always perfectly pleasant guys. And it was true. It was her. Because after a while, once the thrill had died down and the excitement began to fade, they all began to look like her father.
“So, have you been a police officer long?”
Dan shrugged, a pause as he works it out. “Nearly ten years. It’s a good job. The guys are great.”
“I imagine it can be tough though.”
“Yeah. Yeah. CID can be, especially. Long hours. But it’s worse for those with families. I’m lucky like that. The hours don’t really matter to me.” Said in a tone that suggested he didn’t think that was very lucky at all. “How, um, I mean, this thing, with your dad. It must be really hard on you. You know, and your family.”
They were coming close now, only a mile or so to go til the exit. The snow was light here, only patches of slush remaining.
“Yes. It has been. For my mother the most. And my brother.”
“And you?”
And me? Suddenly Freya felt a heat behind her eyes. “Yes. I suppose. For me too.”
Then they were sliding up the off ramp, and slowing at the traffic lights, tires splashing in puddles of melted snow.
“The tow truck is a couple of minutes behind us. It won’t take long. We’ll just pop your Dad’s car on it, get it out of your hair.”
Freya nodded, strangely grateful that he hadn’t used the words. See if there has been a dead body in there. Snuck another glance at him. Thinking that he looked nothing like her father.
“Okay.”
But it wasn’t okay, was it? Because this couldn’t possibly be her life.
Then they were rounding the corner. Into the dead quiet street where the snow had all but vanished, melting away, revealing all of its secrets. And there, where her father’s Mercedes should have been, was the empty drive, slush outlining the empty space, chalk around a corpse.