“But you know?”
“I’m going to push for the full PM, obviously,” said Gus. “If they’ll listen to me.”
“Did the cops tell you anything?”
“The engine was off,” he said. “She had her seatbelt on. She died of head trauma. I told them it was an accident. Again. If it was deliberate, the engine would have been on, and she’d have taken her seatbelt off, eh? That’s what I told them.”
“And what did they say?”
“Said suicides nearly always leave their belts on. That woman one-Gail-said she’d heard of someone before, driving off a cliff and switching off the engine. Scared of burning to death if they survived the fall.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, just shook my head.
“But I don’t want suicide on the books. On the record. I want them to keep investigating until they find someone that saw something, or find someone she spoke to, or… I’d rather have anything on the record other than that.”
I nodded again. Pretty useless even if he was looking at me, which he wasn’t. But what was there to say? Then a thought struck me.
“Hey Gus, did you ask the farm guys?”
He shook his head. “We never see much of them unless they’re moving sheep in this field right here.”
“Only I was just coming through the yard there and one of them told me I should go a different way. He asked if it was me driving through yesterday. Maybe it was Becky.”
“She doesn’t go that way,” he said. Then he leapt to his feet, making me jump. “But she might if she didn’t want anyone else to see her! To stop her!” He turned to look at the children, squatting at the high-tide line, poking through the shells with their fingers. “Will you mind the kids? I need to go and ask at the farm if they saw her. What time she left. Maybe someone even spoke to her.”
I could see why it had got to him. Any bit of something to explain anything was going to seem important, state he was in, but he wasn’t thinking clearly.
“Yeah, sure but, Gus?” I said. “They might have meant us last night, eh? We came that way.”
He stared at me, then rubbed his face. “Yeah, we did. Yeah, I remember. You missed the turn. But… ” he shook his head. “No. If the guy said yesterday, not last night… ”
“Worth checking,” I agreed, because he was like a catapult ready to go. “And while you’re there, ask them if there are any foreigners working on the farm. Shearers or pickers or that.”
Because who he really did need to speak to was Mr. Panic from last night, the one that might be Becky’s boyfriend.
“Foreigners?” he said. “The only foreigner here was Ros. If there’d been a few more, she might have stayed.” Then he strode off round the side of the cottage and I heard the car engine start. The children looked up; I waved to them.
“I’ve got six, Jessie,” Ruby called.
“One, two, three, ten!”
“Cool,” I called back. “Keep looking.” I could see Ruby’s little pink bottom sticking down under the hem of her dress from the way she was crouched down, and I wanted to ask if she was warm enough, or go and get her some pants to put on, but I didn’t want to remind her of why she was bare-arsed in the first place, upset her again.
I missed the turn, I thought to myself. He hadn’t said that. He’d sat there like a stone and then said “next left.” I stood up and walked to the far fence, saw what I hadn’t seen before-a double track coming through the gorse. Another way to the cottage. I glanced at the kids, stepped over the fence, and followed it.
So much for poor Becky’s isolation and loneliness! Just round the rocks from the cove where the cottage sat, a sandy beach stretched for a mile or so, and the slopes of the field above it were carved into plots, and on the plots were hulking great static caravans, all painted the same sage green, each with its big end window facing the sea. The site, like the guy said.
And it wasn’t just a site either; she couldn’t have been lonely even in the winter because in the prime spots right along the edge of the beach there was a row of bungalows and cabins, some nearly as rough as Stockman’s Cottage, some over-the-top swanky. Not all inhabited, true. Not in October. But at least three of them had cars parked in their drives, and one had a washing hung out-beach towels and wetsuits-and there was a man working on an upturned kayak in the garden.
“Jessie? Jessie, where are you?” Ruby’s voice sounded farther away than I thought I’d come.
“Right here,” I said, picking my way back through the gorse as fast as I could.
“Jessieeeeeee!” she squealed. The sound of it gripped at my guts. I got the same squeal as Mummy and Daddy now.
“Jessieeeeeeeee!” Dillon sounded like someone stretching the neck of a balloon. It meant even less from him; he was just copying.
“I’m here, I’m here, I’m right here,” I said, crunching down onto the pebbles beside them. Ruby held up her cupped hands, showing me enough pink shells to call it ten any day. Dillon held out his two fists and I let him drop his haul into my palms.
Two pink shells, three blue shells, a twig with a piece of seaweed wrapped round it, and what I should have known to expect. Stupid bitch. What any little boy would pick up on the beach. Right there, right on my hand, touching my skin. Useless bitch. Quite a small one, curled and soft, white-ish with just a bit of sandy colour near the tip, right there on my hand, touching my skin. Stupid, useless, evil bitch. I dropped my arms to my sides and let it fall, feeling my hand pulsing where it had touched me.
Dillon stared at ground where his treasure had dropped, and his face screwed up and turned dark. I stood still and stared at him, did nothing. But I didn’t run. I didn’t look for a corner, didn’t curl up, didn’t squeeze my head. I just stood there trying to get my breathing back to normal, staring at him as his eyes filled with tears and he cranked up for a good loud howl. It had just broken when Gus shouted from the garden.
“What’s up?” he said. “Jess?”
“Jessie,” I muttered under my breath.
“Jessie threw Dillon’s shells away,” said Ruby in the thrilled bossy voice of every four-year-old girl. “And she burnt him.”
Gus jumped over the rocks and landed on the beach beside us. I cringed at the sound of his feet striking the ground.
“Jess?” he said, gently.
“Jessie,” I told him. I was still standing straight, but I needed to wrap my arms round my body and press them in tight. “I gave Dillon his sandwich too hot last night. I had to run his hand under the tap. I’m sorry. I should have told you.” Gus brushed it off with a shake of his head, kept up his close, unpeeling stare. “You’re like a ghost,” he said. He looked at the pebbles around my feet and his eyes flared. He kicked loose grit and shells, covering it.
“It was only a wee one,” I said. “I’m sorr-”
“Tsst!” said Gus. He squatted and took one of Dillon’s hands in his, one of Ruby’s too.
“Listen, kids,” he said. “This is very important. Jessie… ”
“No,” I moaned. “It’s not them, it’s me.”
“… is allergic to feathers. Feathers are very bad for Jessie.”
“Like peanuts,” said Ruby. “Like Kieran.”
“Much, much worse than peanuts,” Gus said. “Dilbert? No feathers. Got it?”
Of course he hadn’t got it. The poor kid. He was sniffling, still staring at the ground.
“Now say sorry to Jessie,” Gus said.
“No!” Louder this time. “He’s wee and I’m big. It’s me who should-I should-If I can’t-it’s crazy anyway. Dillon?” I dropped down beside him. Closer to it. Right down where it was hiding under the scuffed-up sand. But I made myself think Dillon, Dillon, Dillon. He’s two. I have to. I took his hand, the one that might have held it tight for ages, but I made myself not think that either.