(2013) Four Widows (8 page)

I thought about clothes folded in drawers, aftershave and razor blades still at large.

“He went out to get some cigarettes and never returned. Our joint bank account hasn’t been used and he didn’t take any clothes. His passport is still in the drawer upstairs.” She chewed down on her nails. “I just want to know what
happened
. I want him to be safe.”

Even after all this time she still sounded baffled and with good reason.

I was definitely baffled. “
No one
has seen him?” I studied the photograph, searching for clues. “He didn’t call
anyone?
”

She shook her head. “He vanished into thin air. Can you believe that? He’s an unsolved disappearance.”

I stopped staring at the photo and glanced at her. She was wearing a cream crocheted dress with prim neckline over purple footless tights, fragile looking under the helmet of curls. She sat back in her chair with an other-side-of-the-world expression on her face–with you but not with you.

“He’s a photographer,” she explained, present tense, pointing to work on the wall. “Got an excellent eye. I met him through a tutor who recommended Ted shoot my first-ever collection at college when we were in London. Here…more of his work.”

She pulled out a portfolio from underneath the coffee table. He did have an eye. It was indulgent and dark but he knew how to lavish attention on his subject.

How the hell could someone just disappear? We were the communication generation and yet couldn’t find someone who went for a packet of Marlboro Lights and never came back. I tried hard not to sound too disbelieving. “
No one
saw him?”

“No one. Well, no one saw him after he was spotted at the bus stop not far from here.”

“What about his family? Didn’t he try to contact them?”

“His parents are dead–old age and ill health.”

“Siblings?”

“One sister. She lives in Australia. There isn’t much of an extended family and whoever there is, is just getting on with their lives, as you would, I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

“I guess you could say there is no one else to keep up the search but me. I can’t give up on him, even though he’s been gone longer than the time we had together.”

There was a small silence as she slid the portfolio back in its place. “Sometimes I wonder did he ever exist.”

I waited for her to go on.

“I thought he might have gone to Australia but his sister says no. Our friends in London haven’t heard from him. His passport is here, although,
obviously
, he could be anywhere in the world.”

Or nowhere
, I thought,

She shrugged. “I miss him. There is no closure.”

“Ah, closure–easier said than done.”

“I’ve stopped the obsessive behaviour, though,” she added, brighter. “I went into overdrive handing out his photo, calling hospitals, reading obituaries. The stuff that makes you go mad.”

She smiled, apologetically, handing me an A4 poster that had been tucked at the back of her design book.

It was a full-length shot of Ted under a MISSING banner.
Please Help: Ted Holmes has been missing since 16 October 2004. The last confirmed sighting was on Washington Road, Leith, at X19 bus stop. Ted is about 5”9” (1.79m) tall with medium build. He has light brown hair and blue eyes.
Contact details and a web address followed.

“We made sure the posters were available in different languages on his website. Friends helped me set up a campaign–we just kept looking and looking.”

“What did the police do?”

“Not much. I answered endless questions: were there problems in the relationship; money worries or illness.”

“Nothing?”

“I was told that people either run
from
something or
towards
something.”

I felt a jolt of shock and thought about Harrison but Suzanne didn’t seem to notice.

“Either way, someone is running, which isn’t much to go on. All I do is go to church and pray that he’ll come home.

I nodded, wishing I had a window of hope like this.

“But I’m not a God botherer,” she added hastily.

I smiled. “Funny, you sound
just
like Cece.”

Suzanne relaxed and smiled. “You don’t think I’m crazy–the church stuff?”

“Why would I? As far as I know, it could be God out there or a firefly,” I said. “I like to keep an open mind.”

“I’m flexible, too. I just need to believe someone or something is out there who can help.”

“Seriously, you don’t need to explain.”

After a moment she said, “I was told that if someone doesn’t want to be found, there’s nothing I can do. The police are not legally allowed to tell me where he is.”

“Has there been any indication of this–that he is out there but doesn’t want to be found?”

Suzanne shook her head, frustrated. “I’ve no idea.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She looked unconvinced. “I felt so
useless
at the time; couldn’t think of
anything
. He wasn’t the kind to self-harm or attempt suicide, wasn’t on meds. The police had no crime reports and we didn’t have relationship problems… I don’t think…” Her voice tailed off.

“The police now?”

“Nothing. There never was much action; low-risk case. It all comes down to a file report–a Missing Person who has ‘voluntarily gone missing’. Reference number 4598.”

Again, I thought about Harrison and the distance between us, not just through work; voluntarily gone missing in marriage.

“Here I am, still waiting,” said Suzanne, interrupting my thoughts.

“Still
working
,” I said, gently. “Look at this fabulous debut collection.”

You know, perhaps it
is
time to move on. Distract me,” she said, smiling. “Let’s talk about anything but Ted.”

“Back to fashion?”

“Definitely
yes
.”

While we selected dresses, I continued to think about Ted. And I reckon Suzanne knows as well as I do that you can’t find someone who doesn’t want to be found. You can’t make them come home when they’ve made up their mind to go. Can’t make them love you when they don’t. Won’t.

Later at Hotel Missoni, Suzanne returned to form and didn’t mention Ted again. I think it was an effort on her part to move forward. We didn’t linger long at the hotel bar once the interview was done. Suzanne headed home and I returned to the office to pick up the latest proofs to read at home with a bottle of red.

It was late. I left the building too exhausted to feel threatened by ghosts. Suzanne’s revelations had drained me. Another purple night. The full moon had diluted the effects of the darkness down to a lilac glow. I was preoccupied while I walked but watchful.

I inhaled the night air, hot spices from restaurants, cigarette smoke and aftershave, while listening to the continual chink of glassware and voices chattery with news. It was an ordinary evening and I could tell there would be no haunting or chase tonight from The Watcher. I suspected spirits were circling too high above the city, fearing illumination from the moon. It was just me in the world walking through cobbled streets to a rented apartment I now called home.

I wanted to know the truth, that’s what I remind myself whenever I look back. No, I suppose I didn’t
want
to know but I’m not stupid. Romantic, yes, not stupid. It all has to come out in the end but, Christ, does it hurt.

Truth is a rocket in reverse–you travel at speed downwards on a propellant with liquid oxygen mixing with liquid hydrogen, blasting through pavements and hearts, until you reach a place where there’s no further place to fall. When I finally dropped to a stop in the darkness, it would take more than a damn piece of hospital equipment to kickstart my heart.

Suzanne, on the other hand, will tell you that the truth never comes close to killing you. Faith and forgiveness make a great bullet-protection vest, she argues.
The truth can shake you, knock you down even, but can’t break you.

It
can’t
break you, she repeats.

I still don’t know how to answer that.

Chapter Thirteen

Widow Be Damned

I write down times and places whenever I get a feeling I’m being watched or followed. It’s all there in a reporter’s notebook. The audacious stranger following me home from Ribbons seems ever present but never shows his face again. One look at the notebook and people would conclude I was paranoid. Do you see what death does to you?

Darkness, I decided, was a contributing fear factor so I made sure I lived a floodlit life and also jumped in the car where once I would have walked.

Jim said we encourage spirits. I rubbished this. Then I thought about it so much I was convinced I’d given myself a cerebral aneurysm. Had I brought this on myself? I had to stop the blood flow to these thoughts, otherwise I wouldn’t make it through another week. My head ached and I even had blurred vision at times–all brought on whenever I wondered if Harrison was trying to tell me something; communicate from the dead. You could argue with hindsight that this is
exactly
what he was doing or believe it was simply the truth working its way to the top.

I soon fell into the routine of meeting the girls twice sometimes three times a week–breakfast or lunch. Occasionally, we’d meet for dinner, hoping our presence in Ribbons would draw a crowd.

The heat seemed to suck the life out of everyone. There was an ongoing lethargy that not even the most sophisticated air conditioning could shift. Babies took on the permanent appearance of bright pink boiled sweets, hot and bothered. People shuffled, exhausted.

There was a lull in the world and even the anonymous envelope failed to deliver a follow-up, although, I suspected unfinished business on that front. I was more concerned at this time with lack of sleep, which was infuriating me with its persistence. Insomnia is a formidable force; it learns to control you–not the other way round. No matter how much pressure you apply, it doesn’t break unless you drill deep into your consciousness with persistent force and excavate the problem causing the problem.

I talked to Cece, Kate and Suzanne, to Jim, anyone who had thoughts on a cure for sleeplessness. The answers varied from sex to counting sequins and
“there is no bloody cure, you just get over it
.”

My sister helpfully pointed out that insomniac rhymes with maniac for a good reason and offered me enough pills to tranquilise ten thousand men. True, you can flatten it with drugs but it peels itself off the floor and slips back into the bedroom the next night and the next. It has strong-man arms to shake you awake until your teeth rattle before it abandons you abruptly in the dark, on your own, until first light. Then you sleep for an hour or so. You might not.

Unlike me, Jim thrived on insomnia. He managed it more efficiently than me. He was a wind-farm manager of sleeplessness; harnessing its power for creative output. He liked to list leaders and winners–the talented ones who thrived on just four hours’ sleep each night. Vincent Van Gogh, for example. Look how well that worked out for him, I said.

Jim glued
Corset
together and I saw ambition in him as well as perfectionism at work: fact-checking, spelling people’s names with care, confirming ages and relationship connections over and over. He also liked to take a chance on new designers, which was why he was so approachable when I pitched Suzanne’s collection to him.

I had a great relationship with the team but also had dead-spouse baggage, which caused an acute state of embarrassment for everyone in the office at the time of Harrison’s death. Radioactive sadness is considered to pose health risks to the general public.

I was unapproachable at first because no one had a clue what to say. “Hi, sorry to hear that your husband is dead. Can you sign my expenses form?”

Jim became the go-between. He buffered me from people until the awkwardness retreated. There is something about death that can be catching. I’ve seen people recoil. I understand Cece’s thinking that her business was cursed; you become paranoid. Losing a spouse needs an upper age limit. Under the age of 40 is too much for everyone.

On a technical note, even copy editors on the magazine don’t like a widow: a lone word stranded on a line.

I told Jim about Ted. “He walked out seven years ago. Disappeared.”

He whistled. “Man, and she’s still holding out for him? After all this time?”

“It would seem so.”

“I get that. Hell, I still believe Richey Edwards is alive. Private investigator?”

“I’m not sure she wanted to go down that route.”

“Because?”

“The police told her that if he’s determined not to be found there isn’t much they can do. They have a point. She can’t drag him home kicking and screaming.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t you want to know? Either way.”

“I would, but everyone is different.” I chose my next words carefully. “Suzanne puts her faith in God–and he helps.”

Jim took a moment. “But not so hot at tracing missing persons?”

“I’m guessing he has quite a schedule.”

“Guess so.”

We left it at that and got back to work.

Corset Magazine
might not be adept at handling recent bereavement but I had a talented team. Natalie, office gem, our favourite fashionista, had the edge on me; could tell who was wearing what from her insatiable coverage of fashion shows and editorial campaigns. It was useful to have someone so slavishly devoted to the cause: someone who could spot a blue Max Azria gown worn back-to-front on the red carpet before the stylists did.

Everyone loved Suzanne when she came into the office. Jim was straight over at her, talking ideas for the cover shoot while she hung on his every word, enchanted.

While Suzanne was in the fashion cupboard with Jim and Natalie discussing models and dresses, I arranged for Kate and Cece to pop over to the office, suggesting a quick lunch at our roof-level canteen whenever Suzanne was released from Q&A interrogation.