Dark Place to Hide (18 page)

The room percolates the familiar blend of sweaty feet and high-class perfume; the open windows failing to generate a through flow of air. There are little piles of socks and water bottles around the edge and one by one they are collected as everyone troops out.

‘I stayed upside down for too long,’ Tara complains. ‘I can’t see straight.’ She stands barefoot in blue lycra, her weight slung to one side and waits for Diane. She’d look gorgeous in anything, Diane decides – baggy overalls, a nun’s habit, fisherman’s dungarees.

The changing room is humid. Someone has just sprayed deodorant and it catches in her throat.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Tara suggests as she runs a line of cherry-red lipstick over her lips. She ruffles up her thick dark bob and looks ready to hit the dance floor. A twenty-second transformation.

‘Sure – not for long, I’m a bit tired.’

‘Harper been keeping you awake?’ she says coyly.

Diane gives her a stern look and doesn’t answer.

The studio belongs to the gym where Alexa works at Gunwharf Quays in Portsmouth. Diane hopes they don’t bump into her on the way out; she doesn’t want to spend the next hour
regenerating the stress she’s managed to let go of in the class. Alexa is fine on her own, but as soon as other people are there, she gets prickly and possessive. She doesn’t like any of Diane’s friends and Harper seems to get the brunt of her animosity, purely because he had the audacity to walk into her life. She has no other reason to feel that way; Harper always tries his best to welcome her. When they get to the bottom of the stairs, Diane puts her head down and charges for the wide glass doors. Tara knows the drill – they do this every week.

‘Clean and dry,’ Tara confirms as they scuttle across the concourse towards
The Skipper
wine bar that overlooks the harbour. They skirt the edge of the water and cross over an inlet covered with decking. Diane loves this spot, where the refined estuary reaches out to nearby Gosport, then stretches far away into the Solent towards the Isle of Wight. On a still day like today, she feels like she could walk on the water.

They brush through people gathering at the door and manage to find an outdoor seat overlooking the water. There’s a breeze and the water below curls into gentle fluffy rolls. Harper would love this, she concludes. She makes a mental note to suggest they come one weekend for lunch.

While Tara gets the drinks, Diane looks out at the picturesque view and her mind wanders off towards the idea of holidays. It’s one of few areas where she and Harper are at odds. Diane likes to leave things open ended, to wait and see, whereas he likes everything to be pinned down and settled months in advance. She likes the process of mulling it over, looking at brochures and websites, exploring possibilities, trying places out in her imagination. Harper wants to book their holiday right that instant – so he knows where and when they’re going. It’s the same with restaurants. Diane likes to turn up to an area and see where there are free tables;
Harper is not so keen to rely on fate. He likes certainty. She knows her dallying drives him mad. He’s always been organised and decisive, whereas she prefers to have her head in the clouds.

Tara jogs her arm with her elbow. ‘Wake up – two cool and tangy G&Ts. Dive in. Cheers.’ She doesn’t wait for Diane, throwing back half the glass. ‘Ah – that’s better.’

Tara seems to be one of those people who swings drastically between unhealthy and wholesome. She goes on carb binges then fasts, she drinks too much, then goes on a detox, slobs in front of the television for weeks, then joins a gym and resumes yoga, Pilates and kick-boxing classes in the same week. Diane feels stable in comparison. She’s never had an eating disorder, like the one Alexa endured for most of her adolescence. She’s only occasionally felt so stressed or overwhelmed that she’s turned to alcohol as a crutch. Drugs have always been out of the question, together with any form of self-harm. She’s lucky, she supposes, that circumstances in her life have never truly tested her to her limits.

Tara slaps her hand down on the table. ‘So…’ she says, dragging out the word. ‘How about those photos on your phone – how are you coping…really?’

‘I’m okay, honestly.’

Diane wonders in an oblique way, if the baby issue could ever be a situation that pushes her over the edge. If they were another twelve months down the line and there was still no pregnancy, would she be quite so calm? She tosses the idea aside. ‘It’s still early days,’ she adds.

Tara’s delving green eyes won’t let her get away with a brush off. ‘Have you talked to Harper yet about how much you want a baby?’

‘No. Not really. I think he knows.’

‘You didn’t tell him about the photographs?’

‘I’ve wiped them off, actually. It was silly…’

Tara straightens up. Diane can see that plenty of faces around the room have already fixed the two of them on their radar. ‘It’s not silly,’ Tara insists. ‘It’s totally normal to want to have a child. Maybe you should have some tests or something – see if there’s a problem.’

‘I’ve been thinking that, actually – but I hadn’t wanted to admit that it’s got to that stage. Maybe another few months.’

‘And another few months…and another few after that?’

‘I know.’ Diane sits back, feeling the weight of her reluctance dragging at her shoulders.

‘Would you talk to Harper or just get the tests done?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far, yet. I’m not sure the timing is that great…with Dad being so unstable. Perhaps we should wait…’

‘Don’t change the subject.’ Tara leans forward, her voice lowered. ‘Are you concerned about how he’ll react?’

‘Harper? No, of course not.’

‘Only – a while ago you said you were a bit frightened of him.’

Diane makes a dismissive rasping sound. ‘No –
you
said that. It was your word, not mine.’

‘Okay – so what exactly
did
you mean, that time?’

‘It’s just how he is – he has…you know – got some unresolved issues from his past.’ Diane props her elbow on the table and rests her cheek. ‘This is because you came across that book, isn’t it?’

Tara does a see-saw movement with her head that implies Diane is right. ‘There’s nothing you want to tell me, is there – nothing you’re worried about…?’

Diane leans forward; she can feel Tara’s breath on her face. Strands of her thick hair tickle her skin. She stops to think. She doesn’t want Tara to worry about her; it’s something she has to sort out on her own with Harper. ‘There’s a side of him that’s dark and enigmatic…he’s got a shade of Daniel Craig in him, but there’s nothing to worry about.’

She swallows loudly and hopes Tara doesn’t hear. It’s not the whole truth. She
is
worried, but it would feel like she was betraying him to mention it to anyone else, even her best friend.

She decides to share only part of it. ‘Okay, look – sometimes Harper acts a bit oddly. It’s not strange to me anymore, because I’m used to it, but it might sound weird to other people.’

‘Like what?’ Tara looks intrigued and horrified in equal measure.

‘Now and again…he locks himself in the chicken coop in the garden. I found him by accident once when I was feeding the birds. I heard a noise in there and thought we had rats. It was…a delicate situation.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Nothing much.’ She doesn’t want to mention that her husband was wailing like a hyena and his knuckles were torn and full of splinters from punching the walls. ‘He was staring into space. I called his name, but he didn’t seem to hear me. When I tapped him on the shoulder, he looked shocked as if he didn’t know where he was.’

‘Why does he go there of all places?’

‘I don’t know. It’s when he’s upset. He sits on a crate, he stews, rants, thinks – paces back and forth. He kind of zones out.’

‘Are you worried about him?’

‘Not really.’ She knows she’s playing it down. She doesn’t want Tara to think there’s a major problem and wade into their private life to try to fix it. ‘We all cope in different ways. It’s not harming anyone.’

Tara won’t let it go. ‘It sounds a bit extreme. Most people slam a door or swear, or throw something across the room when they get cross.’

‘It’s his way of controlling it, so he
doesn’t
do something he regrets.’

‘So, he’s not taking it out on you?’ Tara holds Diane’s gaze to be sure.

‘Honestly – no. He’s embarrassed about it. It’s an outlet for him, like thrashing the ball at squash. It’s a way for him to let off steam. Like I used to pound the water when I swam.’

‘Like Neanderthal man retreating to his cave?’

‘Exactly.’ Diane says, crunching an ice cube. ‘I think it’s about his childhood. I don’t think he ever got over his dad leaving when he was little. He’s still knotted inside about it, more cut up than he lets on and sometimes it gets too much for him, I reckon.’

‘Do you think he needs…help? Therapy or treatment or something?’

Diane sighs. ‘I don’t know. As I say, we both know about it and it’s not harming anyone.’ Diane grips Tara’s long fingers. ‘
Please
don’t say anything, will you? To him or anyone else?’

‘Of course not.’ She taps her nose, then her heart.

‘You know when I first met Harper,’ Diane goes on. ‘I thought he was squeaky clean, with impeccable manners and completely without any hang-ups.’

‘First impressions,’ says Tara pensively, ‘they can set your heart on fire, but they never warn you about the disasters ahead.’

Diane drifts away from Tara for a moment, recalling the time she met her husband. During that first encounter at Trafalgar Square, he struck her immediately as friendly and
earnest. He laughed easily, but had a hint of shyness in his eyes. Diane loved that; she can’t bear arrogance. Harper had a quaint public school accent, softened with northern inflections – from his time at university in Manchester, then Liverpool. He coughed and seemed embarrassed when she took up the offer of his umbrella as the rain got heavier. He was expecting her to brush him off, she was sure, and was glad she surprised him.

‘There’s always been a hidden restraint about him,’ Diane concludes.

‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ Tara muses aloud. ‘How well do we really know anyone?’

Diane finishes her drink with a flourish. ‘Okay – here’s his worst habit.’ She can’t help smiling. ‘He eats peanut butter straight from the tub with a
soup
spoon…’ She bursts out laughing at the thought.

‘Ah – but that’s cute,’ Tara admits.

‘See – I told you. Nothing to worry about.’

9 August – Tenth day missing

When I get back from taking Frank out the following morning, there’s a parcel from the police on the doormat. It’s your hairbrush, back from the lab. I sit on the back step, slip it out of the package and press it against my chest, like it’s alive. I look at the strands caught up in the prongs – all long and dark – and I pull one out, then don’t know what to do with it. It’s part of you. It seems wrong to discard it, so I drape it over my shoulder. Who knows where it will end up?

If you’ve chosen to be with someone else, who is he? What has he offered you that outweighs everything we have here? You’re not interested in money, so it wouldn’t be that. Nor would you be enticed by a flashy lifestyle – a big car, a boat, the promise of cruises or cocktails on Malibu Beach. That’s where I get stuck. I can’t see anything that would tempt you away from me. We’ve just started. We are in the process of building our nest, making it warm and dry in readiness for the next stage – aren’t we? I know we’ve hit a rocky patch – but it’s salvageable, isn’t it? I still love you – more than anything – and I thought you loved me enough to overcome something like this, devastating as it has been.

I feel a chill and come inside. The calendar in the kitchen flaps open as I close the door and I notice a scribble to indicate my next prison visit is tomorrow. I’d forgotten all about it. I call the volunteer co-ordinator at Parkhurst and tell the woman who takes my call I have to cancel my trips over to the Isle of Wight for the time being, for ‘personal reasons’. She doesn’t sound overly impressed, but I refuse to go into details. Every time I utter the words
My wife has
gone missing
, I have to recognise yet another day without you must be added to the tally and it’s a further stab in my flank.

To appease my conscience over letting them down, I look up Victor’s number and give him a call. I’m hoping he has some good news about his life to inject into my flagging morning.

After the initial opening banter, he tells me he’s working as a painter and decorator.

‘That’s great,’ I say, fully aware that Victor’s intellectual capabilities are being wasted, but he probably hasn’t had a great deal of choice in the matter.

‘Not that far from you, actually,’ he adds, ‘in Gosport.’

That really isn’t far and I struggle with how I feel about it. Victor was manageable when he was in Manchester, at a distance – the idea of him being round the corner feels too onerous. It’s not because of his past – he’s paid heavily in regret, guilt and even self-harm for his crime, it’s more that he can be emotionally needy and clingy. In my current situation, I don’t have reserves deep enough to cope with him.

‘It’s just a start,’ he says. ‘I’m doing a few guitar gigs at the weekends, too. You and Diane should come sometime.’ He’s only met you once, but I could see how bowled over he was. He let it slip, not long ago, that he thought you were one of the most ‘divine creatures’ he’d ever met.

‘Definitely,’ I say, trying to keep my voice buoyant. I don’t want to tell him about you. I don’t want him rushing over here intending to help, then getting in the way as he sinks into his habitual maudlin navel-gazing.

Our conversation takes a detour through sport, TV programmes, art-house films, his new interest in ancient maps, my ongoing inexplicable love of old typewriters and finally grinds to a halt. ‘Listen, mate,’ he says after an awkward pause. ‘I’ll never forget what you did for me.’

‘You deserved it,’ I tell him. ‘You worked hard to turn your life around.’

‘You never once missed a visit – did you know that? Not once did you let me down.’ His voice falters. ‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’