Page 73 of Close to You
Unlike the last time I was here two years ago with David’s body, there is a smattering of vehicles across the car park. The surface of weeds poking through the tarmac is almost identical to how I remember it.
As I wait, a man emerges from the path to the lake. He has his hands in his pockets, his hood up, and barely looks in my direction before hurrying across to a battered Ford. A few seconds later and he’s gone.
I’m as convinced as can be that I wasn’t followed, so get out of the car and set off towards the lake. Almost instantly, I pass a woman with a dog. I’m not sure of the breed, but it’s one of the big, fluffy ones who would probably try to make friends with Godzilla if it came stomping down the High Street. The dog sniffs at my ankles and I stop to ruffle its collar as the owner and I share a quick ‘hello’. They head back to the car park, so I continue onto the bridge.
When I get to the deep water sign, I stop and lean on the bridge rail, turning and waiting in case a police officer does appear. Mr Patrick said they had no reason to hold me as there’s nothing to indicate I was driving the car. That is, of course, because I wasn’t. My DNA will be all over it – but that’s because I drove it not long before it was stolen. It proves nothing. He seemed to think the police were on a fishing expedition because they have no clue who was driving. There isn’t a lot of crime around Gradingham and, perhaps because of that, very few resources to look into anything that does happen.
Minutes pass and nobody emerges. A breeze is fizzing across the water, sending a gentle flurry of waves across the surface. The bridge is coated with a delicate layer of frost that’s dented by intersecting, scuffed footprints.
I used to visit the woods most weekends, either for a walk with David, or some sort of training run around the trails. I found the soft soil easier on my joints than the harsh concrete of the pavements around Gradingham. Anything’s better than the monotony of a treadmill. It’s only now that it occurs to me that not coming here for two years is far more suspicious than continuing what used to be predictable. If anyone was watching my day-to-day routine, they would surely conclude that something happened here. I was consumed by those news reports or TV shows, in which experts say that criminals always return to the scene of the crime. I live in the scene of mine – but this place means something, too. I always thought David’s body would be found sooner or later. That didn’t mean it would be linked to me, but I’ve expected a knock on the door ever since I kicked him into the water. It’s not happened.
As I stand in the centre of the lake, I picture David’s body below me, still weighed down by the bricks. In the aftermath of that night, I thought the string might erode and David’s body would float to the surface, to be found by an unfortunate dog-walker. That hasn’t happened, either.
Sometimes the thought flitted through my mind that the reason I’ve heard nothing for two years is because David was somehow alive. That the bang from the rear of the car was him and not roadkill or a pothole. That, after I turned my back and headed back across the bridge, David hauled himself out of the water. The thought always evaporated as quickly as it arrived – until I saw him in the back of the photo at the hotel.
I’m not sure what I expected by returning here. All I have is an eerie sense of déjà vu. I keep thinking it might rain, even though it feels more like it might snow. I’ll always picture this bridge with splattering raindrops and the noise of water crashing into water. I eye the surface of the lake as the ripples continue to ebb towards the bridge, spurred on by the bristling wind. I can hardly jump in and dive down to see if there’s a body there.
‘You OK?’
I spin to see a woman standing behind me with a forlorn-looking dog. I’m not sure how she managed to get so close without me hearing anything. The animal doesn’t seem too keen to be out in the cold and is straining in the direction of the car park.
‘I, um…’
‘Are you looking for something?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I say.
She looks past me towards the water and then shrugs asuit yourselfdismissal. ‘Have a good walk,’ she says.
‘You, too,’ I reply.
She turns and heads along the bridge. The dog continues to watch me, as if it somehow knows the reason I’m here.
‘David,’ I say – as with the last time I was here, there is no answer.
Thirty-Five
The evening’s Zumba class is enough to take my mind off the police investigation, even if it is temporarily. I’m supposed to be on an evening off, but my body is itching to do something that doesn’t involve moping around. I end up taking a space at the back of a class that’s being hosted by one of the trainers who rent a space at my studio. We all have something of an agreement that any of us can tag onto anyone else’s sessions if there is room.
I can tell that the trainer is nervous as she goes through the routine. She tells everyone to move left while simultaneously heading right, and then misses the beat on a couple of the track changes. It’s still plenty enough to help me work off the restless energy I’ve felt since being at the police station.
I shower, change and check my phone after the class – though there are no further messages from the ‘Miss me?’ number. There’s nothing from the police or my solicitor, either. All I have is a text from Andy asking if I’m going to meet him at Jane’s, or if we’re going to go together. I’d almost blocked it out, though there’s no getting out of it now.
I take the alternative route to Kingbridge, avoiding the country road that would have taken me past the rugby club and Little Bush Woods.
Andy’s work van is already parked on the road outside Jane and Ben’s when I arrive. I parallel park behind him, all the while cursing him for not pulling further forward.
It’s only when Jane answers the door and beckons me in that I glance towards the stairs and remember when David and I met. So much can happen in three years. At the time, this house felt like glorified student digs, as if Jane and I had never quite grown up properly. Now, there is a child gate at the bottom of the stairs and another at the top. When we get into the living room, Ben has a framed diploma on the wall. There’s a child monitor on the side, with a blinking green light. The kitchen counter has a soft polystyrene sphere covering what would have been a sharp edge. We act as if everything is the same as it’s always been, but I suppose that’s life. We spend large parts of it telling everyone else we’re perfectly fine, even when the opposite is true.
I’ve been interviewed twice by the police because they think I drunk-drove and hit an innocent pedestrian in the early hours of a morning – and yet I’m acting as if it’s nothing. I’ve seen my dead husband in a photo – and then gone to bed and got up the next day. Everything is an illusion.
Jane doesn’t mention being at my flat earlier, or the fact that she says she might have seen David. She’s put on a dress for the occasion, for which I don’t blame her. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her in anything other than loose clothes that are cheap enough to cope with being vomited on. She’s pushed the sofa to the side and set up the dining table in the living room. Andy and Ben are sitting next to one another, although, when I enter, they are silent like kids outside a headmaster’s office.
Andy stands and we share a misplaced fumble in which neither of us seems sure whether we’re trying to hug or kiss.
‘You got here,’ he says.
‘What gave it away?’
