Page 86 of Pictures of Him

‘There’s no rush,’ says Alison. ‘None at all. Why don’t I make you a cup of tea and you can talk to Catherine about what happens next.’

‘Good idea,’ says Sam, sitting down in the visitors’ chair.

‘The kids are so excited that you’re coming home,’ he says. ‘Liv is with them and they’ve decorated the whole house: flowers, bunting, great big banners everywhere.’

I manage another small smile. My daughter’s handiwork, I can imagine it well. Sam clasps his hands together, fingers interlinked, and rests them on his knee. He’s wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, his roadie gear, we always used to say. His arms are tanned from hours in the garden, or perhaps from being on the boat. His face is leaner than it used to be; he looks healthy and handsome. We sit in silence while my other world tugs at my brain, tempting me. It would so easy to slip and slide backwards until I can find you again.

‘Well,’ Sam says, ‘this is it. I guess we’re ready to go home.’

He gives me one more look and then he says the thingwe’ve both been waiting for, the thing he always says.

‘If you could just show me you can talk, Catherine, it would change everything.’

Four months before: Catherine

It is a strange feeling drawing up to your house, seeing Jack’s black car parked up next to your navy-blue one and now mine completing the row. It’s symbolic really: it’s been about the three of us, you, me and him, all along. I am not nervous as I stand at the front door, waiting for you or Mary or even Jack to answer. This new anger, this quest for justice, has propelled me into a place I’d forgotten. Strong. Calm. Invincible.

Through the door I can hear loud music, instantly recognisable to me after all this time, and it fills me with hope. I know you couldn’t listen to that album without thinking of me. And then I hear shouting. Jack’s voice first, then yours. I hear your anger, your rage, and for a whole minute, perhaps two, I freeze, not sure what to do. But then I barge open the door, and beneath the music I hear wailing, a horrific sound. Not you. Him.

‘No. No. No!’ he cries.

I’m running towards the library as Jack runs out of it. There is blood on his face, his shirt, his hands.

‘Need an ambulance!’ He screams it as he races towardsthe phone, and I am filled with instant fear. Please, that word is in my head. Just please.

At first I see nothing. The room is empty, that’s what I think, as I listen to Mick Jagger’s ragged vocal and remember how once upon a time, you and I knew every word to every song. And then I do see you, lying on your back so close to the fire I think your flesh might burn. There’s a lake of blood beneath your head and your neck is twisted so that you’re facing me, but I don’t think you’ve seen me. You haven’t seen anything. I know you’re not breathing even before I kneel down and cover your body with mine, checking and checking for the faintest rush of warm air, the way I used to hover over my babies in the middle of the night, just to make sure. There is no breath. And when I find your hand, limp, too limp, pushing my thumb into the base of your wrist, there’s no pulse either. My face is against your shirt and I catch the scent of lemons, I cling to the fading warmth of your skin. My love. My love.

Jack is back in the room.

‘Catherine,’ he says. ‘Help me.’

But I don’t want to help him. I don’t want to see him. This man who stole my life and has now taken yours. I press my face against your chest, I hold you so tightly, but there’s nothing I can do.

‘Catherine.’ Jack says my name again. His voice is close. ‘Please, listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you.’

I feel his hand on my arm, trying to pull me away from you, but I will never let go.

‘I’m so sorry, Catherine. I’m so sorry.’

I hear that he is crying, perhaps the last thing I recognise, but his words, his tears have no meaning, just sound,like the background wash of the music that still plays, songs that belong to another time, another place.

You’ve left your body and now I have left mine. I watch, as before, from my place on the ceiling. I see the girl cradling the man, I see her dripping tears onto his face, streaks of salt to wash away the red, I see her wrapping her arms around him, holding on. Lucian, she says. Lucian. She begs him to stay. Please don’t leave me.

And now another voice is in the room, the one she trusts, the one she needs. Sam has come to find her.

‘Jesus,’ he says, and that one word contains all her horror. He says it just right. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have let you come out here on your own. I was so worried about you. Is he dead? Catherine?’

She hears him kneeling beside her. She feels his hands stroking her back, her shoulders, her hair.

‘Let go, darling,’ he says, the first time he has ever called her that. ‘Let go of him now. Catherine? You need to let go.’

His voice breaks on her name.

‘What happened?’ he asks, and Jack’s voice answers but the words come out as sobs, almost unintelligible to her and perhaps to him.

‘He fell … we fought … the nail …’

Sam gets hold of the girl now; he pulls her away from the body, drags her up until she’s standing, flopped against him. There is blood all over her face, her neck, a bitter black pool on the navy of her T-shirt.

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