Missing You (5 page)

‘
Your
house?’

‘I’m sorry!’ says Amy urgently. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t use the tissue!’

Sean closes his eyes and wishes he could rewind. He doesn’t like himself at all. He used to think he was a decent bloke but now he’s someone else, someone riddled with resentment and bitterness and spite, someone who goes off like a firework at the slightest provocation.

‘Darling Amy,’ he says, ‘it’s not your fault. Nothing is your fault.’

‘Mummy and Daddy are just a bit cross with each other at the moment,’ says Belle.

‘We’re not behaving very well,’ says Sean. ‘We should both go and sit on the naughty step.’

Amy tries to smile but it is not convincing.

‘Listen,’ says Sean, leaning down and picking Amy up and swinging her onto his lap. She is tangled in the duvet. Her head is hot and sweaty. She is a bundle of duvet and elbows and damp hair in his arms. She’s grown taller lately. Her limbs are long and thin. She doesn’t sit comfortably on his knees as she used to. He puts his lips against her head, to taste her. ‘I’m going to go now. I need you to get better and then you can come and see my new –’ he pauses:
room
seems too pathetic – ‘my new house.’

Amy nods.

‘We’ll do something nice, OK?’

‘Mmm.’

He wipes his daughter’s face with his sleeve, kisses her forehead, and holds her close for a moment.

Belle is staring into her teacup. Her knees are clamped together and her elbows are tight to her side. She is sitting very straight.

‘Belle, I’m sorry,’ Sean says quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have come. It’s too . . . difficult.’

She nods. Still she does not raise her head.

He is surprised to see a tear drop from her chin. It spatters on the thigh of her trousers, making a tiny dark stain on the fabric.

None of us is happy, he thinks.

Sean plays his music as he drives along the darkening road back to Bath. He plays Faithless: ‘Mass Destruction’, ‘Don’t Leave’, ‘Insomnia’. He has the volume turned up very loud so that he cannot think or feel; all he can do is drive the car and hear the music. Sean lets the music and the road take over. He drives too fast. The old car roars as he forces it down the fast lane, overtaking newer, shinier, more powerful vehicles. Every now and then his eyes flick to the mobile phone lying on the passenger seat beside him, but its screen remains inert. Belle does not call.

He braces the palms of his hands against the steering wheel and listens to his music. He watches the road roll out shakily before him like a film he has seen many times before: the M4 with its bridges, its banks, its hills and vistas, its promise of going somewhere and leaving something behind. What he used to like best about the M4 was its geography. In the mornings he started in the east and travelled west, like the sun; in the evenings the skies reddened behind him as he made his way home.

It doesn’t work like that any more, because now there is no home.

Sean pushes the accelerator pedal down as far as it will go and drives close to the rear of a banana-yellow Mercedes, until the Mercedes’ driver concedes and drops into the middle lane. Sean’s car rattles, the temperature gauge creeps towards red. One day, Sean will push the old engine too far and it will explode. It will shatter all over the M4, bits of metal flying into the air, hurtling into windscreens, hot oil arcing across the carriageway, and the car will spin and the tyres will burn as the car bounces and rolls and smashes into the other vehicles. It will be a spectacular crash of biblical proportions, a testosterone-fuelled destruct-fest. Sean turns up the volume as high as it will go and he keeps his foot down hard on the pedal. The car trembles and groans, the road disappears beneath its wheels, the music screams through his head like wind in the desert, and he tries not to think about anything that has gone before.

seven

Fen walks the short distance to the city centre, weaving through the shoppers clotting around the stalls and looking at hand-made jewellery, scarves and pictures of Bath. She goes through the arcade, crosses the road and walks by the river to Pulteney Bridge. Its beauty, as always, catches her off guard. The three perfect vertical arches and, beneath them, the water rushing towards the longer, distorted, horizontal arcs of the weir – the stone, the architecture, the reflections of the trees, their leaves progressing from green to red and gold, and the berries in the bushes – it’s all so perfect. People lean over the stone balustrades, gazing across the water, taking photographs. Seagulls stand reflected in the shallowest part of the river, where the water goes smooth and glassy, just before it foams down the weir. Sometimes it worries Fen that Tomas might, somehow or other, find himself in Bath and spend days walking among the crowds looking for her, and then give up and move on somewhere else. Or else he might fall in with the wrong crowd. Bath has its problems; it’s the same as any other city underneath all its beauty and its World Heritage Site umbrella. Fen has seen the dealers. She knows how to spot them. She has spent enough time with Tomas to recognize how they stand, how they keep their hands in their pockets, how they pretend to stare at the ground but how their educated eyes scan the crowds. They are on the lookout for people like Tomas. They know what to look for.

Tomas might be here, in the city, right now, walking a parallel journey, destined to turn left when Fen turns left, so that their paths never cross. It would be possible, in theory, to walk the streets forever and never bump into one another. But, in truth, it’s unlikely. It is surprising how often Fen has met somebody from her old life, an old school friend from Merron, or the wife of one of her father’s colleagues, and they have always just been down for a weekend, or for a day or two. It’s not a big city.

Bath is less crowded now that autumn has set in and there is space on the benches outside the Abbey. Most of the street entertainers, like most of the birds, have gone to warmer cities and the pigeons have room to strut and peck without the constant harassment by children. Lina and Fen sit close together, for warmth, and they open their packs of sandwiches and balance cardboard mugs of hot coffee on the slats of their bench. The October sunlight slants across the pale Abbey stone, staining it yellow. People stride across the square: shoppers clicking in their heels, business professionals with their dark coats and tourists, more relaxed, looking at their maps or eating food from paper wrappers. Fen crumbles bread between her fingers and throws it to the pigeons and they scuffle and peck in a huddle of pale grey, mauve and white feathers that reflect the sky like petrol spilled in a puddle.

They talk about this and that, but Lina is quieter than usual.

‘Is something on your mind?’ asks Fen, and Lina lets out a deep breath. It makes a small cloud in the cold air. ‘What is it?’

Lina extracts a sliver of onion from her sandwich and drops it into the bin. Fen puts her sandwich back in the box. The dread unfurls inside her. She feels its tentacles in her stomach, her throat, her bowels.

‘I spoke to my parents last night and they said there’d been a story about Tomas and Joe in the
Gazette
.’

Fen sighs. She peels the lid from her coffee carton and inhales the steam.

Lina glances at her friend sideways, unsure of whether to carry on.

‘It’s the tenth anniversary of the accident.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘There were picture of Tomas, pictures of your whole family.’

Fen puts her coffee down.

‘They ought to ask permission,’ she says. ‘They shouldn’t use those pictures without asking. They should give them back. It’s not fair.’

‘No.’

‘They don’t know what they’re writing about,’ Fen says, protective as ever about her brother. ‘I bet they got it all wrong. Everything they said about Tomas before was wrong, it was all twisted. And the terrible things they wrote after Joe’s inquest . . .’

Lina shakes her head. ‘No, no, I don’t think it was anything like that. Mum said it was a very sympathetic article.’

Fen exhales through her lips and gazes up towards the sky. She follows the trail of an aeroplane as it lazily skews white across the blue. She misses her brother so dreadfully.

‘The reason I’m telling you about it, Fen,’ Lina continues carefully, ‘is because there was also an interview with Joe’s mother, Mrs Rees.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mmm. Did you know she’s still working in the kitchens at Merron College? Still supervising?’

Fen shakes her head. It’s not that she doesn’t care; it’s just so difficult to think about Emma Rees.

‘She still wants to get to the bottom of what happened the night Joe died,’ says Lina. ‘She wants to know who it was who dialled 999 from Joe’s phone after the accident.’

‘It doesn’t change anything.’

‘No . . . But it is a mystery, it is odd. It was definitely a girl. It can’t have been Tomas.’

Fen lowers her head. Her eyelashes mask her eyes.

Lina speaks softly. ‘They’re speculating that another car was involved, or at least that somebody in a second car may have seen what happened, but didn’t want to stay at the scene for whatever reason. They’re appealing for whoever it was who made the call to come forward. Mrs Rees told the journalist she wouldn’t rest until she knew the truth.’

Fen sighs. ‘Oh God,’ she says. ‘It’s awful for her, I know it’s awful, but what’s the point? Nothing can bring Joe back.’

‘Honey, the point is that Joe Rees was killed when a car driven by your brother crashed, and his mother wants to know exactly what happened. That’s all. She wants to know who called the ambulance and she can’t understand why Tomas left Joe on his own, dying out there in the rain, in the woods. She knows how close those two boys were and it doesn’t make sense. She says she needs to know and she can’t let go of her grief until she does.’

Fen is overwhelmed with waves of hopelessness, helplessness and sadness.

‘I just thought you ought to know about the newspaper article,’ says Lina. ‘I thought it would be better if I told you, rather than you hearing about it from someone else.’

Lina puts her hand over Fen’s.

‘Fen, I’m not saying you should, but maybe it would help you to go back to Merron and talk to Mrs Rees. You’re in the same boat, you and her. You’re both anchored to what your brother did that night. Maybe if you talked to one another you could make sense of it all. You’ll both understand how the other is feeling. You might be good for each other.’

Fen stares down into her coffee. Steam evaporates gently in wispy curls from its surface.

‘I can’t,’ she whispers. ‘Not yet. Not until Tomas comes back.’

‘Fen, Tomas isn’t ever—’

Fen shakes her head. ‘Please don’t say that, Lina. You don’t know for sure.’

They are both quiet for a moment. A brightly coloured sightseeing bus trundles past at the periphery of Fen’s vision. She catches the tune of the cheerful commentary, the up-and-down male voice, and hears the laughter of the sprinkling of passengers. Bath is full of historical anecdotes.

She sighs and stares at her knees. A tear runs down her cheek.

Lina puts her arm around Fen’s shoulder and squeezes.

‘It’s OK,’ she says. She licks her finger and gently wipes the tear from Fen’s chin. ‘I understand why you don’t want to go back. It was a horrible time for you, Fen. Joe dying like that and Tomas . . . disappearing and your father being so ill and all.’

‘Lina, you don’t know how much of it is my fault. I could have—’

‘Shhh. Stop it. Nothing you did or didn’t do would have made any difference. Tomas would still have had a drugs problem, Joe would still have followed him everywhere, your father would still have had cancer.’

Lina brushes the crumbs from her lap in a practical manner. She screws up her sandwich box and drops it into the waste bin at her side.

‘Come on,’ she says, ‘don’t start dwelling on it. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.’

Fen picks up her bag. ‘No, you were right. You’re such a good friend to me, Lina.’

‘I do my best,’ says Lina.

In the evening, when Connor is in bed, Fen calls her sister, back in Merron.

‘Lucy? Hi, it’s me. How are you feeling?’

‘Hello, you. I’m OK. Still a little nauseous in the mornings.’

‘Have you tried eating a ginger biscuit before you get up?’

‘I have. It doesn’t help. How are things with you? How’s my favourite nephew?’

‘He’s good, fine.’

‘You sound tired, Fen. Is everything all right?’

‘Yes. Oh . . . It’s just . . . I had lunch with Lina and she said there was a feature about the anniversary of the accident in the
Gazette
and I was worried . . . I was worried the press might have been bothering you.’

‘No, we’re fine,’ says Lucy, in her calm, big-sisterly voice. ‘We’re absolutely fine. A reporter did come round but she was very nice and she let us see what she had written before it went in the paper, which she wasn’t supposed to. It was all very civilized.’

‘Good,’ says Fen, quietly.

‘They’ve set up a drugs-awareness campaign in Joe’s name, did Lina tell you? The
Gazette
’s put some money in – a lot of money. They’re asking people to join in and organize events and sponsored runs and things to raise funds. They want to get enough to employ a specialist youth worker to go around the schools looking out for vulnerable young people. It’s all good stuff.’

‘But it means they’ll keep going over what happened the night Joe died. Every time they mention the campaign they’ll write about the accident again as if it’s the only thing that mattered . . . as if it was all . . .’

Lucy exhales. ‘All Tom ever did in his whole life?’ she asks.

‘He did so many good things,’ says Fen. ‘So many people loved him. He was,
is
, such an amazing person. And they don’t know what happened that night. They don’t
know
that it was Tom’s fault.’

‘Fen, you have to accept the facts. We think this campaign is a good thing, Alan and I. It’s something positive to come out of Joe’s death . . .’