‘It’s not, it’s not money…’ What could I say? I’m scared. I’m a coward. Someone killed your daughter and they might do the same to me. I sighed and looked
over at Mrs Williams. She stood, head up, waiting for my answer. It was a foregone conclusion. ‘Alright, if I find Martin and if I get the chance, I’ll see whether he knows anything about Janice. And if other information comes my way, I’ll let you know; but that’s it. I haven’t the resources or the authority to take it as far as the police can. And if they hear about this – you’ve employed me. It wasn’t my idea.’
‘Fair enough.’ I saw her shoulders relax. The clock on the mantelpiece had traced the afternoon round. I had to go. She saw me to the door.
‘When you find him…’
‘If I find him.’
‘Yes, if it’s alright, if you don’t think he’s…’ she paused, searching for a word other than guilty ‘…involved, will you tell him I’m here, if he ever needs anybody, if he wants to know about her?’
I nodded, struggling again with sudden tears, impressed by her dignity and generosity.
Mrs Williams stood on the doorstep, watching, while I got in the car. She waved once and disappeared into the house.
I started back for Manchester.
I’d agreed to do more than I wanted and that promise sat like a stone in my stomach. Why couldn’t I have said no? Admitted my fears and inadequacies? Just said no.
Because you feel guilty, you feel responsible for Janice and you feel you owe her mother.
I sighed and hit the accelerator. I just wanted to get home.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
I walked in on mayhem. Maddie, her face red with rage, was screaming at Ray, who was on his knees trying to mop up a pool of stuff that looked like cooking oil. Tom was standing on a chair at the kitchen table doing something creative with salt, ketchup and milk.
I’d hoped for a little attention myself when I got back. Some idiot had cut straight across me, where the motorways merged, on the way back into Salford and Manchester. One of those get-in-lane-quick spots. I’d practically done an emergency stop to avoid him. If there’d been anyone close behind me…I say ‘him’; I was too busy watching my life pass before my eyes to take note of the driver, or even the make of car, but I assume it was a man. I’ve never yet been in a car with a woman who drives like a maniac.
By the time I reached home, the shakes had subsided and I’d run through my gamut of revenge fantasies. It looked like tea and sympathy was off.
‘For Christ’s sake, Maddie, shut up or go somewhere else and make that noise. I’ve had enough.’ Ray’s outburst was heartfelt. And harsh enough to make me wince and Maddie draw breath. For a split second, I wanted to defend her, criticise Ray for his lousy handling of the situation. The moment passed. I’d been there myself, many times, at the end of my tether, running out of tactics and lashing out with my tongue. But I felt dispirited all the same. Why was it so hard to be the parents we wanted to be? Humane, mature – giving our children respect and dignity. Wasn’t the verbal slap, the belittling comment, part of the same continuum that also dished out beatings and child rape?
I moved over and disengaged Tom from his collage, hoisted him onto my hip, took Maddie by the hand.
‘Come on, you two, let’s go to the shop.’
‘Can we get sweets?’ Maddie’s voice rose in hope. Ray shot me a look.
‘No. We’re going to get a drink for Ray and then we’ll come back and help clean up.’
‘Shoes,’ demanded Tom.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. I carried him piggy-back and took Maddie’s hand. Mr Mohammad at the corner shop knew us well enough to make a joke about the grimy, tear-stained faces of the kids. I bought cheap white wine and lager from the fridge and a bag of Hula-hoops each for them. If it didn’t have sugar in it, it wasn’t really a bribe.
As I waited for my change, a ripple of fatigue washed through me, tangible enough to make me steady myself on the counter. My back ached, not just from the drive or carrying Tom, but my period was due. Self-pity. I went with the flow. Saw myself throwing in the towel, giving in to the pressures. Walking out of the shop, leaving the children there, leaving Ray to his floor, giving up on the case, crawling to my bed. I reined in the fantasy, disturbed at how shaky I felt. The revelations of the afternoon had upset me more than I’d realised and I was shattered. I picked up the shopping, pulled myself together and carried on coping.
I helped myself to beans on toast and tea. Ray had calmed down a lot, but there was still an edge to his voice as he took the children up to get ready for bed. I fought the impulse to make a martyr of myself and offer to do bedtime. I wandered out to the garden, watered the tubs and the window-boxes. Digger was out there, sprawled under the table. He raised an eyelid in answer to my greeting, then lowered it again.
When I could tell the children were out of the bath, I went up to say goodnight and then retreated to the bath myself. I ran it up to the overflow, covered my face with a flannel and steeped. Fragments of the afternoon came and went; Mrs Williams’ face, attractive, mobile, listening, smiling, crumpling with grief. I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to go to bed.
It was nine-thirty when I padded into the kitchen. Ray had started the wine but I made cocoa. I could hear the television on in the lounge and went through to say goodnight to Ray.
‘I’ve fixed up a meeting with Clive,’ he announced. ‘Friday, after the kids are in bed.’
My heart sank.
It took us another hour to sort out our line for the meeting. We kept getting waylaid by exchanging gossip and bits of news about our lives. Ray was furious about rumours that the council were going to start charging for nursery places.
‘They can’t,’ I protested. ‘People only get those places if they really need it. People couldn’t possibly afford to pay…’
He shrugged. ‘It’ll be means-tested, but even so…’
‘But the principle, as well; free childcare, provision for under-fives…’ We rumbled on about that for a while, too.
In bed, I nestled round the slow groping pains of my period and soon sank into a thick, heavy sleep.
There was a child crying. It was my fault. I’d locked her in the coffin and there wasn’t enough air. She’d die. It was a mistake. I lurched awake and placed the crying. Tom. I went through to him. In the dim light, his face was shiny with tears. His hair formed damp whorls on his forehead.
I lifted him up, murmuring reassurance. He burrowed into my neck, sharp little breaths jolting his body. I walked round the room, patting him on the bottom and whispering lullabies. Longing for him to settle. When I felt his body slacken, I did a couple more circuits, then lowered him gently down, trying not to tense myself and so alert him to the change.
I stole back to my room. So heavy, so tired. Craving sleep. Tom was bawling again. My stomach lurched with dismay. Anger and resentment surged through me. I need to sleep, I need to fucking sleep. Stop it. Be quiet. Leave me alone. I reached their bedroom door, ready to seize him too swiftly, stalk round batting his bottom a little too hard, the ache of frustration ringing my throat. I checked myself, knocked on Ray’s door. ‘Tom’s awake, I’ve put him down once but he won’t settle.’
‘Shit!’
I escaped, dived back to my dreamless sleep.
The next day I felt spacey. Pains came and went, blood seeped. I felt fizzy with fatigue. Over breakfast, I speculated how civilised it would be if I could withdraw from the world for the duration. Go off and commune with myself, while other people cared for the kids and cleaned the house. Fat chance.
I’d lain in bed till the kids had gone and I was trying to cut through the fog in my brain, to sort out what I was meant to be doing. I couldn’t focus on anything. I wanted to go in the garden and play with the plants. I made another cup of tea.