The Day She Died (13 page)

“Treats,” I said. “Sweeties, chocolate, fizzy juice, bubblegum.” She frowned and heaved a sigh up from under the floor. “You are open, right?” I said. The kids were off up the sweetie aisle already, hunkered down, concentrating hard.

“Not really,” she said. “I'm open for deliveries. Half-term next week. There's a big order coming in, only God knows what's in it.” She lifted a handful of papers and let them fall.

“You seem a bit flustered,” I said.

“Aye well,” said the woman. “I've been let down. Wee madam was just supposed to clean the weekly vans for change-over day. Don't ask me how she ended up ordering stock and booking in. And now she's upped and left.”

“When was this?” I said, wondering if she meant Becky.

“Haven't seen her since Saturday,” the woman said. “My friend in Gatehouse that has a B&B said, ‘Get yourself a Pole, Gizzy. They work like black slaves and there's never a word of complaint from them.' So I got myself a Pole and look at me!”

Light dawned, better late than never. “Ros,” I said.

“Aye!” Gizzy barked, loud enough to make Ruby raise her head and look over. “Where's she skipped off to? Do you know?”

“Home to Poland,” I said. “She left a job?” As well as a friend in need.

“A good job. Flexible hours and accommodation. And my friend in Gatehouse had the cheek to say they were grateful.
Grateful
! Even when it's all on the books and contracts to your armpits, they're not to be trusted.”

“So you've got an opening?” I said. “Flexible hours?” Because here's what I was thinking: I couldn't stay at Gus's. Couldn't just move in. Couldn't live with myself if I did. But I'd love an excuse to be nearby every day. For him and the kids. Let it happen more naturally, on less of a sick timescale sort of thing. Plus, four days at the Project and the odd night behind the bar at the leisure club wasn't exactly keeping me in fox furs.

Gizzy looked me up and down. “I'm not interested in a mum,” she said.

“I think that's illegal,” I told her. “But I'm not their mum. I'm just babysitting today.”

“Our mummy's dead in heaven,” said Ruby, coming up and putting an armload of crap on the counter. She turned to go back for more. “Her earthy body is dead, but her soul has flied to heaven.”

“Here!” said Gizzy. “Is this the King kids from the end house?” I nodded. “I heard on the news. What experience do you have?” She didn't even take a breath in between. It couldn't really have been much clearer: she wanted the dirt dished even if she had to give me a job to get it.

“I run the D&G Free Clothing Project for St. Vincent de Paul Church in Dumfries,” I said. “Cash handling, stock control, cleaning and organizing, all that. Supervising other staff. But it's only four days a week—I'm off on Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

“I need Friday, Saturday, Sunday,” she said. “But we can work it round. References?”

“Father Whelan and Sister Avril Kennedy do you?”

“Well, I'm not much of a one for Catholics,” said Gizzy. “At least you're Scottish.” She was giving me a good look up and down, appraising, and so she might have noticed me starting to breathe faster, might have seen me rub my hands on my thighs. I knew I had to ask her.

“The upholstery,” I said. “In the vans. Is it foam? Mostly? Is it microfibre?”

“Don't tell me you're allergic?” she said, with her lip curling.

“Not to microfibre,” I said. Deep breath. “Aretherefeathercushionsinthevans?” The only way I could say it was so quickly that chances were, I'd have to say it again.

“Oh! La-di-dah!” she said. “Twenty featherbeds, eh? Goose-down pillows in satin cases! Eiderdowns to spare! No there bloody aren't, and if you paid the cleaning bills, you'd know why.”

“Good!” I said. Too loud, trying to shut her up before she thought of any more names for them.

“You can start tomorrow on a two-week trial,” she said. “Eight sharp and bring your references.” Dillon came up and tried to heave his own armload up beside Ruby's. I bent to help him. “There's no discount, mind.”

“I can't start tomorrow,” I said. “Not till after four anyway. But I'll work on till it's done.” I stood up and held out my hand. “Jessie Constable.”

“Gisele MacInstry,” she said. “Gizzy.”

“That's us set then,” I said. “Can you put me in the tick-book for this lot and take it off my first week's wage?
I'm kidding
,” I added before she could blow a blood vessel. Slowly, she went back to her usual colour: the deep purplish brown of someone who runs a good seasonal business and spends the winter somewhere warm with cheap drink.

“Aye, well,” she said, “I suppose. Butter wouldn't melt in that Ros's mouth and she's turned out useless.” She cracked open a plastic bag with a flick of her wrist and started ringing up the junk on the register. “Yes to everything. ‘Jess, Gizzy' this and ‘jess, Gizzy' that and then upped and walked. What's wrong with
you
?” Because I was standing staring at her.

“Polish accent,” I said.

“Oh, don't go all offended on me,” said Gizzy, rolling her eyes. “
She
was bad enough. I called her Rosalind once and got an earful. As if I could pronounce what Ros was short for! I meant no harm.”

“Ja
ros
lawa,” I said. Gizzy blinked at me. “He's Ros's friend,” I said. Ruby squinted up at me. “
Ros's
friend,” I said again. “He's nothing to do with Becky. He's looking for
Ros
. Which … ” I looked into their three faces and then settled on Ruby. “Which … makes tons more sense. Why would you be worried enough to come looking for someone after an hour or two? But Ros left on—”

“Saturday,” said Gizzy. “And this
friend
needn't come looking round here for her. I'm sick to the back teeth with the lot of them.”

“I wish I could remember his name,” I said to Ruby and Dillon as we sailed back down the path with the wind at our backs. I could feel the rain soaking through the neck of my coat, but it was a holiday compared with the outward journey.

“Wanna sweetie,” said Dillon.

“Mister!” I shouted. “Kaaaaz? Mr. Wet Man! Mr. Kaaaaaz!” I would have probably shouted
Mr. Polish Guy
if it hadn't been for Gizzy. “Help me shout, kids.” I swung their arms with a one and a two and a one-two-three.

“Mr. Kaaaaaz!” Ruby and me shouted.

“Wanna sweetieeeee!” Dillon shouted louder than both of us.

“Dillsky,” I said. “It's pouring with rain if you haven't noticed. You need to wait till we get home.”

“There he is,” said Ruby. She pointed to the row of cabins and bungalows at the edge of the sand and then pelted off, pumping her arms so hard that her whole body twisted with each step. I could just hear her shouts—“Mr. Wet Guy!”—being torn out of her mouth and hooked away by the wind. I took a tighter hold of Dillon and followed her.

She ran right up to the middle house, the big one, and under the awning thing, halfway between a real garage and a carport.

“Mr. Kaz!” she shouted, and it was suddenly deafening under the roof. I hissed at her to come out.

“There's nobody here, Ruby-doo,” I said. “Come on. This is someone's house, you know.” And they were in too; the tumble drier was going.

“I saw him,” said Ruby. She was standing like Zorro in the middle of the floor, just on the oil stain where the car would be if it was parked there. “He was peeking at us. He was
here
.”

“Aye well, he's not here now,” I said. “And Dillon's shivering. Come on.”

“Mr. Wet Guy,” said Ruby in a come out, come out wherever you are voice, high and wheedling. At the back of the garage, where the canoes were bundled, someone laughed and smothered it.

“Kaz?” I said.

“Kazek,” he said. “Jess.” He stood up from where he'd been hiding behind the canoes and sidled out. He was wrapped in a sheet of bright blue crackling plastic, like for covering a boat or something.

“Right,” I said. “Kazek. Yeah. Good. Okay. Jaroslawa is not dead.”

“Alive?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Where
is
Ros?” said Ruby.

“Where she gone?” said Dillon.

“Why you said is dead?” said Kazek. He came shuffling out from among the canoes. His trainers were so wet I could hear them squel-
ching.

“Misunderstanding,” I told him. “Is this your house?”

“Is here?” he said. “Is back?”

“She's away home to Poland,” I told him. “Why are you wrapped up in that tarpaulin?” What were the chances he'd understand that? He was shaking his head, moving forward all the time, right up close to me.

“No,” he said. “No way. Not go home.”

“Sorry,” I said. I was staring at the space between the edge of the tarp and his neck, the way it stood out from being so stiff. I could see quite a bit of his collarbone, almost out to his shoulder, and I didn't think he was wearing anything under there. I stepped back.

“You good woman,” he said.

I took another step backwards. “Roobs,” I said. “Goan, go back out to the beach, eh? Go on.” She scuttled outside. He must have been pinging her radar too—no way she'd go just because I told her.

“You make me happy, jess?” Kazek said. “Jaroslawa is no dead. You make no cry, jess?”

“No way!” I said, and Dillon flinched against my neck at the sudden loudness. I hadn't even realised he was drowsing. “You're seriously weird, pal.” I hutched Dillon over so I could hold him with just one hand and I stretched the other out, pointed my finger. Jabbed it really. “Just stay out of my way.” Then I turned tail and ran. All the way along the beach, over the rocks and up to the cottage, locked the door, checked the back door was locked too, and still couldn't help looking out the window for any sign of a blue plastic cloak coming our way.

Thirteen

There's a noise the
computer makes at work when you fire it up for the day. It's a bit like the start of
Rhapsody in Blue
from that film, and a bit like a fire alarm that doesn't quite get going. There's silence and then there's a whooshing noise lifting up and then the computer sort of hums all day, except you don't really notice until you switch it off at night. That's what happened to me when Gus came home, eventually, at nearly six o'clock, when it was dark outside again. I thought I was awake and firing on all cylinders until he opened the door and walked through. Then I went
whoosh
and started humming, and it felt like I'd had about half as much again blood pumped into me. I felt the smile break out over my face and couldn't help it. The same daft look spread over his and his neck went red. He picked the kids up, both together, and blew on their necks, but he was looking at me.

It wasn't till after dinner that it all went wrong, and I had no idea what had happened or how to make stop, put it back again. I was washing dishes. He was sitting at the table, drinking up the last of the water from the jug I'd put there. No wine tonight. Family tea. And he was watching me.

“What?” I said.

He smiled, but a miserable smile like you'd never believe. “Nothing,” he said. And we were silent again. He was tracing a pattern in the water Dillon had spilled on the plastic tablecloth, pulling lines of it out from the puddle like spider's legs. It was another five minutes before he cleared his throat and spoke. “So you went for a walk, eh?” he said. The wet clothes were hanging on the pulley, still dripping every now and then. “Meet anyone?”

The obvious thing was to tell him about Kazek. He'd had a flakey when I'd mentioned the guy last time, but that was because he thought Kazek was Becky's boyfriend. And it was the day she died. Now I knew he was Ros's creepy friend and it was two days later.

“Not a soul,” I said. I'd keep Ruby and Dillon away from that house with the awning, and I'd steer pretty clear too. “Apart from the woman in the shop. Oh, by the way—”

“I didn't get any joy about the post-mortem,” he said, interrupting me.

I caught my lip. Couldn't believe I hadn't asked him. That must be why he'd been sitting there silent, waiting for me to remember. “They did the basic examination. But I didn't find anything out. Nobody came to speak to me at all.”

“Isn't it detectives they come and talk to?” I said.

Gus laughed and rubbed his face. Just like that, we were friends again.

“God, yeah, you're right,” he said. “Bloody
CSI
strikes again. Me sitting there for hours!” He stood up and whirled a gob of kitchen roll off the holder, wiped the table, went to the bin, and then froze there with the lid pushed open.

“Gus?” I said. He said nothing and didn't move. It was like that bit in science fiction when the world stops and you can skip about without anyone seeing you. “Gus?”

He cleared his throat. “Did you empty this?” he said.

“Ahhh, yeah?” I said. “I emptied all of them. Dillon did the nappy from hell and it went from there.”

He walked to the back window and looked out. If anyone had asked, I'd have said he was staring at the wheeliebin, but that was crazy.

“Gus?” I said, a third time. “Did I do something wrong?”

He spun round so fast I that I had stepped back before I could help it. “Did I say you did?” he said.

I took another step back.

He sat back down at the table and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Then he started rocking, side to side, like he had one time before. “It can't. God, it can't. It can't be happening again.”

“Hey,” I said, flinging the dishcloth into the sink. “What's wrong? What did I do?”

Slowly he let his arms go, straightened up, and looked at me. “You're not angry,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Oh, I'm fuming,” I said. “I'll turn green and burst out of my clothes any minute as soon as you tell me what I'm supposed to be angry about.”

He held out both his hands and took hold of mine. “That I didn't do it before you had to,” he said. “That I left it for you. Took you for granted. Treated you like a skivvy. Expected you to run about after me, wait on me hand and foot, while I treated the place like a hotel.”

I nodded, understanding like. But the truth was it didn't make sense, not really. He'd lain in his bed while I brought him coffee and gave the kids their breakfast. And he'd lain in the bath while I cleared the lunch and took them out too. So why would shifting a couple of nappies freak him out this way?

“Sometimes,” I began.

“What?”

But I thought the better of it.
You're like two different people
, was what I was going to say.

He was quiet after that, moving through to the living room, lighting the fire, putting the telly on. He didn't watch it, though. I could tell from the way the screen was reflected off the whites of his eyes that he wasn't really looking there. I sat down in the other chair, watched the end of some cooking programme and the start of some dieting one, feeling like I hadn't felt since I was fifteen and Steve Preston took me to see
Pleasantville
and grabbed my hand twenty minutes in. We were paralysed then, the pair of us, our hands warming and sliding so we had to grip even harder on to the other's fingers to keep a hold. Neither one of us knew how to stop it, like someone who's learned how to take off in a plane but had no lessons on landing. And I couldn't help thinking about the pocket of space in between our palms filling up with sweat like a chicken kiev and what would happen when we burst it open.

It was over an hour before Gus spoke again, and I had to ask him to repeat it. I had been back with Steve Preston's sister Sandra, who was my friend, who I'd told all about that very first therapist (what was her name?). And Sandra Preston had told everyone in our class, and the guidance teacher called my mum up and I got hell for it.

Literally. Got hell described, had the best verses of the Bible read out where they talked about it, had it explained why I was going there and why that was what I deserved.

“That's not hell, Mum,” I'd said after a really mad bit. “That's the earth after Armageddon. Get it right, eh?”

“
Therefore shall her plagues come in one day, death and mourning and famine
,” said my mother. “
And she shall be utterly burned with fire: for strong is the Lord God who judgeth her
.”

“There you go again,” I'd said. “That's Armageddon too.”

“I was asking about the bathroom bin,” said Gus.

I turned and stared at him.

“Sorry,” I said. “Miles away.” I smiled. “Nice to be back, though. What about it?”

“I don't suppose you happened to notice what was in it?” he said. “When you put it in the bin bag?”

“I just tipped it right into the wheelie,” I said. “No bag.” He was quiet long enough for me to half turn back to the telly. Some poor cow was weeping in a front of a wrap-around mirror in her underwear, her belly jiggling up and down.

“I was going to save the stick,” he said. “If it was in there. The test stick, you know.” He was staring at the telly too now.

“I didn't notice.”

“Only … that's all there is of that wee baby now,” said Gus. “That's all there ever will be. No photos, no footprint, nothing. Just one blue line.”

“God, I'm sorry,” I said.

“We could tip it out and look through.”

“I suppose so.”

At last, he turned and looked at me. Beamed at me. “Thanks,” he said.

“Thanks?” I said. “You want me to do it?”

“I'm not bothered,” said Gus. “You do it if you'd rather.” He turned back to the telly again and it felt weird looking at the side of his head, so I did too. The poor cow had her clothes back on now, really bad ones, and they were starting on how dry her hair was and what crap teeth she had.

“Will I get you a torch?” said Gus. I looked up at the centre light of the living room, one of those cloudy glass bowls that hangs down on three chains that flies always die in. I seriously thought he was asking me if I needed some extra light for watching the telly by. Then I twigged.

“You want me to get it tonight?”

“Of course not,” said Gus. “I thought
you
meant tonight.”

I
turned and looked out of the window—the curtains weren't drawn—at the perfect square of black out there. “Thought I meant tonight when?” I asked him. “I didn't say anything.”

“Okay,” he said, and his voice was that kind of extra patient that's covering up being dead annoyed.

“I'll get it first thing in the morning,” I said. “Easier in the daylight.”

“Smellier the longer you leave it, though,” said Gus. “I'll get the torch and get it now.”

I stood up and he stood up, and we just looked at each other.

“I'm confused,” I said. He dropped back into his chair like someone had cut his strings. His head went down. His arms came up. I knelt down beside him. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't know what's happening.”

“It's me,” he said, his voice thick and low. “I just assumed you meant right now when you said you'd do it. It doesn't matter.”

But that was wrong. It does matter. The order things happen in makes all the difference in the world. I said I'd do it
after
he assumed I was going to. Totally different from the other way round. And if I started messing with what came first and what came second, I'd be right back at square one again.

“Jessie?”

I blinked and there he was, closer than he'd been a minute ago. He leaned closer still until he was resting against me, forehead to forehead, and it was like a Geiger counter. As soon as he touched me, something unrolled inside me like ink in water and I had to take a big breath.

Then he turned at looked at the telly screen. “Local news,” he said. “There might be a bit about Becky.”

So we sat through the speed-trap budget scandal—hypocrisy and cronyism—and the even bigger Peter Pan scandal—embezzlement and corruption—and all I learned was that someone in the newsroom at
Look North
had a thesaurus. We watched the same grainy film of the cops and divers at the Nith as they'd shown the night before—dead, drowned, body; no dressing that up—and then the bit where a senior copper stood in front of the railings saying the man was unidentified and calling for witnesses. Then, right at the end, just before the weather, suddenly there was a shot of the Wanlockhead road and the newsreader's voice was saying mother of two, Rebecca King, inquiry on Tuesday, post-mortem completed, and police “not seeking any individual in connection with the incident.”

“That means they're sure it's suicide,” said Gus, sitting back in his chair and looking straight up at the ceiling. “They'll never investigate now.”

“I don't believe it,” I said.

“What?” said Gus, rolling his head forward slowly to look at me. His face was drained and grey.

“I just
can't
believe it,” I said. “You're lovely. And the kids are great. This house is gorgeous and the beach and everything. And your work … that pram … and the garden and the cabbages … ”

“What the hell are you talking about, Jessie?” said Gus. “What cabbages?”

“In the garden,” I said. “In rows. Weeded and everything. I can't believe there was any reason for her to kill herself. It's insane. There's abortion and divorce and Prozac. Even if the perfect life wasn't good enough for her, how could she think she wanted no life at all?”

“I really need to stop talking about this,” Gus said. “Stop thinking about it, if I can. I need to go to bed.”

No arguing with any of that. So he went to bed and I went to bed. It wasn't a decision. More like, we'd done it the night before, and what was different now? And things happened, like they had the night before, and why not again? Except it
was
different. It was worse. It wasn't shock and raw grief and living in a dream this time. Tonight there was no excuse for it at all.

And it was different other ways too. It was better. I don't know what kind of cold bitch I had been the night before, rating him, thinking to myself how he measured up. Bloody miracle he was still in one piece at all, was what I thought that second night. And anyway, it was more like therapy, really. Afterwards he was totally different, slumped half over me half under me like a … what it made me think of was a deflated dinghy, a tent with the guy-ropes down. I didn't tell him. Couldn't make that sound like sweet nothings, but it was the best thing I'd ever known.

“Hey?” I said. “Are you asleep?” He shook his head against my neck. “I meant to say earlier. I've got a job.”

“I know,” he said. “At the Free Clothing Project.”

“No, another one,” I said. “Here, actually.”

“Where?” He was still holding me, but he didn't weigh so much now.

“Campsite,” I said. “Becky's old job. With Gizzy. The hours suit—more or less—and I was needing something else as well.” Now it felt as if he was a tree and I was climbing him. Arms and legs rigid around mine. Head up off the pillow on his stiff neck, and I could tell he was staring at me. Even through the dark, I knew he was staring hard.

“Ros,” he said. “Not Becky.”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” I said. “I am so sorry. That's the second time I've done that today.” Then I remembered that the first time was talking to Kazek, who Gus didn't want to think about (and who could blame him?), or who I didn't want to talk about (although I couldn't have said why to save my life), so I bit off my words and hoped he wouldn't ask me.