Thursday's Children (28 page)

She pulled Lewis away from Max, put her phone into his hand. She turned the boy over. He lay there in his ill-fitting black jacket. His eyes were closed now. White drool ran from his mouth. The noose was still around his neck.

She put her hands firmly on his chest and began pumping up and down, up and down. Behind her she could hear Lewis giving his address through retching sobs.

Chest compression. Pause. Mouth-to-mouth. Lewis’s son, who looked so like the boy she used to love. Pause. Chest compression. His eyelids were blue. Mouth-to-mouth again. A bitter taste on his lips. She felt Lewis beside her.

‘Is there anything?’ Lewis was crouching at her side. She could hear his hoarse breathing.

She tried not to think or feel. Just to make her body into the machine that would bring Max back. For they had heard that car screeching off as they entered the house. It couldn’t have been long – seconds rather than minutes, even.

‘Feel his pulse,’ she said to Lewis, and he put his thumb against the blue vein on his son’s thin wrist.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell. I don’t know. Frieda.’

They heard the sirens and then they saw the blue lights striping the ceiling. Lewis ran down the stairs. Frieda could hear him crashing, falling. Then the door was opened, and soon the room was full of people, calm voices, instructions, a stretcher. A mask over Max’s chalky, spittled face. The rope removed from his neck. A blanket over his motionless body. She stood up, cramping in all her limbs.

‘Go with him in the ambulance,’ she said to Lewis. ‘And call his mother on the way. I’ll stay here to wait for the police.’

‘Yes,’ He stared at her wildly for a moment, his face a clench of horror, and then was gone.

Frieda could hear the police car coming over the hill. She went quickly into the bathroom and ripped off several sheets of lavatory roll, then returned to Max’s room and to his narrow truckle bed.

Very carefully, making sure she didn’t make contact with it, she picked up the little red squirrel that had lost half its tail and had been Becky’s favourite soft toy. It had gone missing but it was now on Max’s pillow. She wrapped it in the toilet tissue so that no bit of it was exposed. Then she lifted up her dress and tucked it under the waistband, arranging her scarf so that it covered the bulge, before she went downstairs to let the police inside.

In those minutes of searching for Max and cutting him down and struggling to revive him, it had felt as if time was speeding up and slowing down, a wild night in which lights were flashing, sounds coming and going, loud and soft.

When the police arrived it felt as if normality was being restored, except that everything was slightly grey, everything was moving just a bit too slowly.There were three of them, two men and a woman. After they had introduced themselves to Frieda and taken her name, address and relationship to Max, they went upstairs in slow single file and into Max’s room. They picked up the severed rope and put it into a plastic bag. Then they looked around, opening drawers and lifting up books.

‘He didn’t leave a note,’ said Frieda.

‘You can’t be sure.’

‘I am.’

She could see them exchanging glances.

‘Have you moved or touched anything?’ they asked.

‘No.’

Frieda sat on the bed. It was hard to concentrate on anything while she didn’t know if Max was alive or dead, but she needed to order her thoughts. She felt a weight on the bed next to her. The female police officer had sat down beside her. She had light brown hair tied back behind her
head and an eager freckled face. She was young and nervous. She couldn’t have been used to this.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘Can we get you something?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Frieda. ‘But thank you.’

‘We’re almost done here,’ the woman said. ‘We need to check that you’re all right and that the premises are secure.’

‘Because it’s a crime scene?’ said Frieda.

‘Crime scene?’ said the officer. WPC Niven. That was her name, Frieda remembered. ‘He just tried to kill himself and it looks like he succeeded. Poor guy.’

Frieda knew that it was probably pointless, that it had all happened before. But she had to try.

‘You need to treat this as murder, or attempted murder if Max survives.’

‘What?’ said Niven. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You need to do a few things,’ she said.

Niven looked suddenly wary. ‘Like what?’

‘This hanging was staged …’

‘We don’t know that.’

‘So Max must have been drugged. You’ll need to organize a blood test. The sooner the better.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘A member of the public has alerted you, which means you need to investigate. You should write it down in your notebook. Just so you don’t forget it.’

Niven’s face had flushed. Frieda wasn’t sure whether it was out of anger or embarrassment. But Frieda saw her write the words ‘blood’ and ‘test’. Her handwriting was rounded, like that of a small child.

‘Also,’ Frieda continued, ‘you need to talk to Ewan Shaw.’

‘Is he a witness?’

‘He did it. Go on, write his name down.’

Niven seemed paralysed, so Frieda took her notebook out of her hand and wrote Ewan’s name, address and phone number, then handed it back to her.

‘There,’ she said.

‘Is he a friend of yours?’

‘I know him.’

‘Why would he have done that?’

Frieda hesitated. The crucial evidence – Becky’s toy – was no use at all. It would only incriminate Max.

‘What it can’t be,’ said Frieda, ‘is a suicide, or an attempt. Max was seen forty minutes ago at the party at Braxton High School. He was serving there, in good spirits. We found him here, unconscious, with no means of transport. When we arrived, I heard a car drive away at the back.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No, but you could ask Ewan Shaw where he was in the last hour and who saw him.’

‘I’m not sure we can do that.’

‘I know how this works. I’ve notified you of a crime. I’ve informed you of a suspect. At least a witness. You need to respond. The more quickly you do it, the more likely you’ll turn something up.’

‘I’ll talk to my supervising officer,’ said Niven, standing up from the bed.

‘Do it tonight, not tomorrow,’ said Frieda. ‘And while you’re at it, ask him about the death of Rebecca Capel.’

Niven looked puzzled for a moment. ‘The girl who killed herself?’

‘She didn’t kill herself. If it would be any help, I could come with you to see Ewan Shaw.’

Niven looked down at her notebook. ‘Dr Klein,’ she said, ‘it doesn’t really work like that.’ She went across to the other two officers. Frieda saw them conferring, and the two young men glanced round at her. As she stood up, ready to leave, one approached her. He seemed almost resentful.

‘I’ve been talking to my colleague,’ he said. ‘We always investigate occurrences like this. And we’ll conduct interviews.’

‘Including Ewan Shaw.’

‘We’ll talk to him. If you have any relevant information, let us know.’ He wrote a number on a pad, tore it off and handed it to her.

‘Is this a direct line?’ Frieda said.

‘You’ll be put through to the right person.’

Frieda turned on her heel and walked out of the room, out of the front door and into the slanting rain. Her phone rang and she snatched it out. Lewis: only when she saw his name on her screen did she understand how scared she was, clogged with fear for the young man who looked so like the boy she had loved once, and who had touched her heart with his rawness and his troubles.

‘Lewis. Tell me.’

‘He’s alive.’ There was a strangled sound at the other end, and she realized that Lewis was weeping. ‘He’s alive, Frieda.’

‘I’m so glad.’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘All that can come later. Go back to him now.’

‘Yes. Yes. But, Frieda …’

‘Go to your son. He needs you.’

She ended the call and stood for a few moments, letting the knowledge seep through her. Max was alive. She had
discovered her rapist, Becky’s killer. Her job was done now, although nothing seemed quite over. She walked through the maze of roads named after flowers, on to the road that looked down at the centre of Braxton, where the lights glinted in the darkness. Her mother was there, dying. Her school was there, with its corridors and classrooms and ancient, tainted memories. Her past was there, but not her future. She turned her back on the town and started to walk, pressing buttons on her phone as she did so.

‘Reuben?’ she said. She had left her coat at the school, and was wet and cold.

‘Frieda?’ His voice was thick with sleep.

‘Have you drunk anything?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Tonight.’

‘I was at the theatre. I had one glass of wine beforehand.’

‘Can you come and fetch me?’

‘Can’t you get a cab?’

‘I’m in Braxton.’

‘Hang on. Wait.’ She could picture him sitting up in bed, turning on his light. ‘From Braxton?’

‘Yes.’

There was a silence.

‘All right.’

‘Thank you, Reuben.’

‘You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘But you’re all right?’

‘Yes. I really am.’

‘When this is over,’ said Reuben, ‘you’ll need to talk to someone about all of it.’

‘It is almost over,’ said Frieda, staring out of the streaming window of Reuben’s shabby old Prius. ‘And I don’t think there’ll be much to say about it.’

‘Does that mean nothing much has come of all of this?’

She touched his arm. ‘Reuben, I’m grateful that you’ve done this. I feel like you’ve saved me from something.’

‘I think you’ve saved
me
from time to time. Saved me from myself. I had a feeling that at the end of your expression of gratitude you were about to say “but”.’

‘Friends are meant to be the people you can talk to. I was going to say that you’re one of those friends I can be silent with.’

‘That sounds like a funny thing for one therapist to say to another.’

‘I’ve had some good sessions that were largely silent. Sometimes I’m pleased when my patients
stop
talking.’

‘I’d be relieved if almost all of my patients stopped talking,’ said Reuben. ‘But before we descend into silence, where do you want to go? Shall I drop you at home?’

‘Yes,’ said Frieda.

‘You’ll probably be glad to be alone in your own house at last.’

‘Except I don’t think I will be alone.’

Frieda opened the door as quietly as she could, but Chloë came down the stairs before she had time to shut it, rubbing her eyes blearily. She was wearing boxer shorts and one of Frieda’s T-shirts. Her hair was tied up on the top of her head and her face, rubbed clean of any makeup, looked young and anxious.

‘It’s just me,’ said Frieda. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Late.’

‘I didn’t know you were coming back tonight.’

‘It was a last-minute decision.’

‘Your clothes are wet. And what are you wearing that dress for?’

‘Never mind that now. I’m going to have some tea, but you should go straight back to bed.’

‘I’ll have some tea with you. Sasha and Ethan are asleep in your bed, by the way.’

‘I expected that.’

‘Me and Jack are in your study.’

‘The sofa will be fine.’

To her surprise, the house looked all right but there was an unfamiliar smell of talcum power and something she didn’t recognize in the air; Babygros and miniature cardigans were draped over the radiators.

‘How’s it been?’ she asked, as they sat in the kitchen with their mugs of tea and the cat sitting at her feet purring loudly.

‘I’ve made lots of tea,’ said Chloë, ‘and lots of toast and I’ve learned how to change a nappy – it’s not so bad, really. Sasha’s slept a lot. Jack was here after work and he’s even washed the floor and the bath and he said he was going to
clean the windows. But I don’t think he got that far. Ethan’s really cute but it’s tiring having a baby around all the time. I mean, I know it’s only been a matter of hours, really, but you can never just take time out, can you?’

‘You can’t. But you’ve clearly done terrifically,’ said Frieda. ‘I knew you were the person to ask.’

Chloë tried and failed to look modest and unresponsive. ‘How are things in the country?’ she said.

Frieda sipped her tea. ‘I can’t really talk about that now.’

‘Why? I mean, that’s fine. By the way, Sandy’s been here. He said he’d come back.’

‘Did he?’

‘I like him. I don’t see why you have to break up. Do you think there’s a chance …?’

‘No.’

Upstairs they heard a small wail, then a louder one. After a few seconds it stopped.

Chloë went back up to bed. Frieda crept into her room where Sasha lay sleeping in the bed, Ethan’s small dark head beside her. They looked very warm and peaceful. She took her dressing gown from the door and went into the bathroom for a quick shower. Then she took a rug from the airing cupboard and lay on the sofa. What had just happened felt like some disordered, feverish dream. Was it really only a few hours ago that she’d been at Braxton High, surrounded by all the people from her past, or that she’d seen Max swinging from the girder in his room? She stared around at her familiar room: the hearth where tomorrow she would build a fire, the chess table where she would sit and play through a game, the pictures on the wall. She was at home, where she had longed to be, and yet it felt slightly strange to her. Or
perhaps she felt strange to herself, only half returned. It wasn’t over, but the end had begun. She knew at last.

She lay back on the sofa and heard the cat yowling as it made its way towards her. Its behaviour seemed to have changed while she had been away, as if it had to re-establish possession of her. It came into the room and she felt its weight on the sofa and it lay beside her, occasionally licking at her hair. It was quite dark outside, and silent, but it took her hours to fall asleep.

In the morning, she woke Sasha with a mug of coffee and took Ethan while she showered and got dressed. When she came downstairs, Frieda saw that although her hair was clean and her clothes seemed neat and well ordered, there was something askew. She felt as if she was watching a film where the picture and the sound were very slightly out of sync, just enough to make the viewer feel uneasy without quite knowing why.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

‘Better. Definitely better. I saw your doctor friend and she was understanding and helpful.’

‘What did she give you?’

‘Well, it’s got a funny name and a picture of the sun on the box but it’s citalopram. I know all about these things.’

‘And you’re taking it properly?’ said Frieda.

‘I’m doing what it says on the packet. Frank’s coming to collect me today.’

‘Will he take time off to look after you?’

‘Don’t worry. I’m going to be all right.’

‘You know that the pills will take a couple of weeks to work?’

‘I think the placebo effect has already kicked in. I’m really feeling a lot better than when you last saw me.’

‘Did your doctor recommend therapy?’

‘I told her I had friends who could help me with that.’

‘I’ve been talking to a woman called Thelma Scott. She’s very good.’

‘I don’t think it would be a good idea to see a therapist that you’d seen. I’d find it …’ Sasha paused for a few seconds ‘… unsettling.’

‘There’s something else,’ said Frieda. ‘I’ve used your contacts in the labs before and I’ve got something. I want to know if there’s any useful trace that can be recovered from it.’ She reached into her shoulder bag and took out the little toy squirrel wrapped in lavatory paper.

At the sight of it, Sasha pulled a humorous face. ‘Is there a reason why the police aren’t checking it?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Frieda. ‘I got this from a crime scene, but unfortunately it was the wrong crime scene.’

‘I’m not even going to ask what that means. But I’ll make a call.’

‘It’s urgent,’ said Frieda. ‘Really urgent.’

‘I’ll make it right away.’

Frieda felt like a ghost in her own life. She was going to have to start things up, properly see her patients, take on new ones, but on her first day back, she didn’t call anyone and she didn’t check her messages. Sasha and Ethan left before midday, and Chloë an hour later. For years the house had been her refuge, her escape; now it felt empty and abandoned. She needed to reclaim it. But for now she was waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring, for the knock on her door, for justice to be done, for danger to be over.

That day, she tried to work, contacting patients, going through her notes, preparing for a lecture she was to give in the new year. In the evening she took out her pad and pencils and sketched a bottle of water that was standing on a small table in a patch of sunlight. She went to bed early and lay awake with the thought scratching away at her that she was in the wrong place, that she should have stayed in Braxton. No, she said to herself, no. She had done what she could. She had rescued Max and she had told the police about Ewan and it was up to them now. They would interview Max. He might remember being assaulted by Ewan and that would be that. Or there were all the other things that police could do: CCTV, number-plate recognition cameras, tracing mobile-phone signals. He’d had to leave the scene in a hurry. He might have left something or Max might have left traces in his car. There’d be something. It wasn’t much comfort, though, and it didn’t help her to sleep.

The next morning she woke late, drank a black coffee, had a bath, drank another coffee and, almost on impulse, left the house. The day was grey and cold but it was dry, so she headed north into Regent’s Park and walked to the boating lake. She sat down on a bench near the water and watched the runners and the children and the mothers or child-minders pushing buggies. A few yards away an old woman was throwing pieces of bread to a gaggle of Canada geese. Frieda was suddenly aware of someone sitting next to her. She shifted away slightly on the bench.

‘We should start eating them,’ said the voice. ‘They’re pests, but they probably taste good.’

Frieda didn’t need to look round. She knew the voice.
She had heard it in recent days and she had heard it years ago, whispering to her out of the darkness.

‘How did you find me?’

‘It wasn’t too hard,’ said Ewan. ‘Vanessa got your address from Eva and I came up to London with the commuters and waited in the street, then followed you. It’s interesting looking at someone when they don’t know they’re being looked at. You see them in a different way.’

The idea of Ewan spying on her made her feel nauseous.

‘Why didn’t you see me in my house?’ said Frieda. ‘Wouldn’t that have been simpler?’

‘I wanted to make sure you were alone.’

‘There are all these people around.’

‘And the geese. When we were children, these geese were exotic and now they’re shitting everywhere that there’s fresh water.’

Frieda turned and stared at him. He was wearing a thick duffel coat. His hair was tufty and his face was red in the cold air. He looked like a nice, friendly kind of guy, the favourite uncle.

‘Was it Rohypnol?’ Frieda asked.

Ewan’s smile disappeared, and a more wary expression replaced it. Frieda thought of Sarah May and Becky. That expression had been the last thing they ever saw. ‘Have you got a phone?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Show me.’

Frieda took out her phone. Ewan took it and examined it. ‘I want to check you’re not recording this.’

‘I hardly know how to use it for making phone calls,’ she said.

He handed it back to her. ‘You’re due for an upgrade,’ he said. ‘That one’s an antique. Now, you were asking me a question.’

‘Rohypnol.’

‘You mean in the drink I gave poor little Max? No. There are better things than that. You wouldn’t have heard of them.’

‘GHB?’

‘All right, you have heard of it.’

‘Easier to get hold of, traces disappear from the body more quickly.’

‘You should be doing my job,’ said Ewan.

‘A patient of mine used to take it,’ said Frieda. ‘Recreationally.’

‘My turn to ask a question. How did you know?’

‘Many small things that added up to one large thing. And you left evidence at the scene.’

‘Oh, yes, you took Becky’s touching little fluffy toy. It’s funny how teenage girls decorate their beds with the cuddly animals they had when they were toddlers. How would you interpret that? I mean as a therapist.’

‘I’m having it tested.’

‘Good luck with that.’ Ewan seemed utterly unconcerned. ‘Is that all?’

‘It was a sort of feeling,’ said Frieda. ‘That lying story you told me about failing to stand up for Vanessa. It showed you were constructing a persona for me. One you thought I’d like.’

‘It’s not exactly evidence.’

‘I don’t care about evidence. Everything was too perfect. Nobody else remembered the night of the concert properly
except you. You remembered everything, and in the right order.’

‘I always was a bit of nerd.’

‘Everyone else was suspicious but you wanted to help me, to get involved: you and your timeline.’

Ewan leaned forward and Frieda thought he was going to whisper something but instead he gave a sniff as if he was savouring the smell of her. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was thinking of something pleasurable.

‘I can’t tell you what that meant to me,’ he said. ‘It was like experiencing it all over again, being close to you, seeing your skin, your hair, those eyes. I know about you and your psychotherapy. I’ve looked you up. You’re wanting to ask me why I did it.’

‘No. I don’t need to ask you that.’

‘This is part of it. Following you, then sitting here with you. The fact that you now know is even better. You know and yet you have nothing. It’s like doing it all over again but better. Doing a thing like that to someone in the dark is never quite enough. You need them to know who did it. Really, it’s almost like being in love, that special connection between two people. Very few people have it.’

‘Becky was a troubled, vulnerable young woman. You terrified her, attacked her, raped her, and later you killed her.’

‘Yes,’ said Ewan, softly. ‘Troubled, vulnerable young women are just the sort who make things like that up. No wonder the police have trouble believing them.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes for a whole minute. Then he gave a long sigh. ‘You can’t imagine it.’ He opened the fingers of one hand and looked at it as if he were holding something.
‘It’s like taking something and capturing it for ever. Now, I know what you’re going to ask.’

‘What?’

‘Why am I here? Why aren’t I being questioned by the police and charged with multiple offences?’

‘All right, why aren’t you?’

Ewan looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m not an expert on police procedure but I don’t think that blurting out an accusation without any evidence of any kind is much use to anybody. A young police officer asked one or two questions about the reunion. She seemed a bit embarrassed about it. I was in and out in less than half an hour. The only irritating thing is that in the small world of Braxton, when something interesting like that happens, everyone seems to know about it.’

‘They didn’t learn it from me,’ said Frieda.