Page 85 of Close to You
‘She liked being strapped into her buggy,’ I say, fighting away those feelings of guilt about theemptybuggy.
He nods and the smile trickles its return. ‘It depends on the day of the week. Sometimes she wants to walk everywhere, other times she’ll point to her buggy and cry if we don’t put her in it. We have to wheel her into the living room to watch her shows, or read her a story.’
The smile fades sadly. It would have disappeared more quickly if I’d told him that I’d lost his daughter for ten minutes.
‘I should get off,’ Ben says. ‘Thank you for having her.’
‘See you around,’ I reply, not thinking about the words. It’s a reflex of a reply. A thank you/you’re welcome of an exchange. There was something firm and final in his tone.
He stops and stares: ‘No,’ he says pointedly. ‘You won’t.’
I don’t bother waiting to see him leave. Instead, I head inside and lock the door. It feels as if the world is imploding.
I text one of the other trainers from the studio, asking if she can take my evening classes because I have a sore throat. The reply pings back almost immediately that she will. ‘Something going around,’ she adds – which is the explanation for everything. Got a cough? Something’s going around. Flu? Headaches? Herpes? Split ends? Everything’s always going around.
There is more paperwork to do – there always is – but I can’t even look at my laptop. There’s the baby clothes that turned up out of nowhere – and then Norah’s disappearance almost seems like a dream now. It felt like hours, but I can tell from the time of Mr Patrick’s call through to the text message arriving that it was a little under ten minutes. It was nothing and yet it was an age.
You know where.
Of everything from the text message, that’s the bit that really gets me – because Idoknow where.
The minutes tick by slower than ever and there are moments in which it feels as if 9 p.m. will never come around. I’m a kid waiting for Christmas morning – except nothing good is going to happen when the time finally arrives.
It’s ninety minutes after Ben leaves that I text Jane:
How did the op go?
A reply comes back almost immediately:
Good.
That’s it. She doesn’t mention any specifics, or Norah. I try typing out a couple of replies, but nothing feels right. I wonder if Norah has moved up from single words to full sentences in the last hour-and-a-half and is busy singing like someone’s nephew in a Scorsese movie. I end up leaving it at that. If Jane wants to tell me anything more, then she will.
It’s a little after eight when I can wait no longer. I’m going to be early – but that will be better than late.
After a warmer, cloudier day, the night feels like the panicky moments directly before something goes horribly wrong. The hedgerows are painted a speckly white and the car windscreens are already crusted with ice. I can feel the cold in my bones as I sit, waiting for the windows of Andy’s BMW to defrost. Warm air blasts from the vents, though the conditions outside the car are apt for whatever’s about to happen.
Nobody sensible is braving the roads tonight and, as soon as I get past the boundary of Gradingham, I’m swallowed by the night. The car’s headlights barely make an imprint on the countryside’s cavernous depths of black. The once familiar lanes that lead towards Kingbridge are now like looking down and seeing someone else’s hand.
It’s such a surprise to see the sign for the rugby club that I almost swerve towards it, instead of around the bend. The hedge rushes towards me and, when I turn the steering wheel, I half expect the wheels to lock and the car to spin. In the split-second, I’m almost certain I close my eyes, but it’s hard to know for sure because, all of a sudden, everything is fine. I’m on the carriageway as I should be.
By the time I pull into the car park at Little Bush Woods, my heart is still pounding. I’ve not seen a single vehicle since leaving home.
You know where.
Where else could it be? Everything leads back to the place where I rolled David’s body into the water.
It’s almost ten minutes to nine. There are two cars parked at opposite ends of the parking area, neither of which seem to have anyone in them. I doubt anyone has come here for a late-night walk around the park and yet I can’t think of another legitimate reason why they might be here. I suppose the same is true of me.
I wait a couple of minutes to see if anyone will appear. When nobody does, I get out of the car. The cold instantly leaves me gasping, like vines snaking into my lungs. I’ve forgotten my hat and gloves – and there’s nothing for it other than to jam my hands into my coat pockets as I set off for the bridge. The spindly, bare tree branches rustle steadily around me; a fanfare heralding my arrival. There are no secrets here.
You know where.
It is 8.58 when I get to the ramp of the bridge. I almost expect to see the shadow there in the centre, forearms leaning on the rail. David back from the dead. It only now occurs to me that I’m utterly unprepared. I have no idea how he could have survived – but he’s hardly going to be happy about everything that happened. It’s not like I’m here for a cheery reunion.
The centre of the bridge is deserted, but I set off towards it anyway. The wood underfoot is clammy and sodden, though there’s a hint of frost clinging to the rail.
The time on my phone reads precisely 9.00 as I stand in the centre. I wait and then turn in a circle, expecting someone to be there. ExpectingDavidto be there. He’s not. Nobody is. There are no animals, no people, no anything. The night is still except for the gentle bristling of the tree branches.
