The Game (5 page)

Everyone watched as Jackie’s hand flew to her mouth.

‘What’s the matter, love?’ Neil coaxed.

‘Her coat’s in her wardrobe, she didn’t take it in because of the play! I’ve only just remembered. She’ll be cold.’ Jackie’s hot tears fell hard and fast, clogging her nose and throat as she slumped against her husband’s chest. ‘I want her home, Neil, I want her back!’

‘It’s bedtime, Stacey.’ Jackie’s voice was no more than a cracked whisper.

The girl nodded and stood, bending to kiss her mum on the forehead before wordlessly treading the stairs. Her deep sigh was as much an expression of relief at being able to escape the insufferable silence of her parents’ pokey lounge as it was recognition of the tiredness that dogged her waking hours. When your sleep tumbled on a sea of nightmares and imaginings, it made functioning normally almost impossible.

Neil came into the lounge from the kitchen, drying his hands on a red-checked tea towel.

‘Stacey gone up?’

Jackie nodded.

Neil sat by her side and removed the folded local paper from her lap. He ran his hand over his stubble, which now grew in yellowed skin. ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat, love?’

She shook her head. Food had become tasteless and pointless; every mouthful felt like wet cardboard that choked in her throat. How could she be expected to eat food prepared in their warm family kitchen, by the loving hand of her husband, and served on clean white china, when her little girl might be hungry, scared, hurt?

Jackie picked at the already torn nails that had been ripped and bitten from the nail bed. The momentary flare of pain gave her something to focus on; the dots of blood that peppered the quick on each finger were strangely satisfying.

‘It would do you good, Jacks, to get something inside you, even if it’s just a bit of toast.’

‘Would it, Neil? Just how exactly would it do me good to eat a bit of toast?’ she snapped. ‘Would it give me a night of rest or bring Gemma waltzing through the door?’ Tiny flecks of spit flew against the sweatshirt that hung from Neil’s frame. He was used to it, every suggestion was barked at or rebuked, and tears always followed this. It was exhausting for them both.

Jackie didn’t bother with a tissue or hankie anymore; she had learnt they were pointless. It was easier to let her body shed its tears and allow them to soak into her hair and clothes, becoming part of the fabric, part of her, like a fountain on a timer. Constantly reaching for, refreshing or binning sodden loo roll or tissues only slowed the process.

Neil stood and ambled to the window. He did this a lot, staring out through the net curtains into the black void of night, hoping for a glimpse of something and grateful not to have to be in such close proximity to his wife. He was sick of bolstering her, he wished that she would stop crying, if only for a while. He longed for respite from the soundtrack of their misery.

‘I’ll pop out for a wander, see you in a bit.’

Neil collected his coat from the row of hooks in the hallway and closed the door behind him; he didn’t know if she had heard him, it was hard to tell. Jackie’s expression no matter what was happening or who was talking to her remained the same. Her eyes darted from beneath swollen lids, her teeth chewed at her bottom lip, which was sore, and her head almost lolled against her chest, as though keeping it upright required strength that she did not possess.

Neil spent his days and a large part of his nights wandering, looking and searching. His job took him all over the south of England, giving him the chance to peek up alleyways and peer into windows. He prodded at mounds in skips, looked under every mattress discarded on a country verge and stared into the murky depths of drains. It was madness, but it was how he now lived.

Jackie swallowed three shiny pink pills daily.
‘Just to take the edge off.’
That was what the doctor said. She hadn’t really understood what that meant, but she did now. They took the edge off her, leaving her less like herself, muted, and for that she was grateful.

It was as if she functioned on power-saving mode, with even the smallest chore using up her fragile reserves. A couple of minutes spent concentrating on a photograph of Gemma taken at nursery school, or trying to remember how they had celebrated her last birthday would leave her in a state of confusion; then a quick glance at the cuckoo clock would reveal that several hours had passed.

This worked in reverse too. Extreme fatigue would carry her to bed, where the duvet would envelop her in a cocoon of apathy. A deep, dark slumber would take over, offering relief from the wearying yoke of grief. Yet when her eyes darted open, her breath coming in shallow pants as the ghost of the nightmare returned, she would realise that it had been only minutes since the warm space had offered solace.

The phrase ‘spending time’ went round in her head. She concluded that if time was a currency, it was the emotionally stable that had the biggest reserves. When your mind flitted between distress and chaos, time was not yours to spend. It flipped you over and usurped you at will.

Jackie Peters was now a shell; all the marrow and matter of her former self had been sucked out. In their place was a person she didn’t recognise. The face that stared back at her from the mirror was only vaguely familiar.

She stared at this face to see if it would move or talk. It began to scare her; she could feel the cold cloak of madness wrapping itself around her in those minutes. There was something tempting about the idea of sliding into an abyss in which she could hide, just for a little while. The tidal pull of insanity within her was strong, but she would not give in to it, not yet. She needed to be strong for when Gemma came home; she would need looking after, and that was her job.

It was nearly nine o’clock. Jackie clicked the lamp on and ran her bitten nails along her teeth.

Neil flicked the indicator and eased the van into the lay-by behind the all-day breakfast caravan and its oversized Union flag fluttering in the breeze. A large whiteboard was propped by the open hatch: the menu advertised numerous fried breakfast combinations. His mobile flashed from its plastic cradle on the dashboard. He took several calls a day on his hands-free set; it was usually the control room issuing new jobs, pick-ups within a short drive of the postcode in which he found himself. His day was without routine, he lived at the mercy of clothes manufacturers whose samples needed to get to buyers, householders who derived a good income from eBay, shipping all manner of junk across county borders, and retailers without their own logistics operations. This call, however, was not one he wanted to take whilst navigating roundabouts and traffic lights. It was DS Gavin Edwards.

‘This a good time, Neil?’

‘Yes, just pulled over. Everything okay?’ Neil’s breath came in short bursts, as it always did when Gavin called him. The excitement and expectant flip of his stomach that had been there in the first days of Gemma’s disappearance was now replaced with a nervous bile, as if the news he was dreading was about to hit his brain. His hands shook against the steering wheel and he was sweating.

‘Where are you, Neil?’

‘Just off the A13.’

There was a pause. Neil held his breath, waiting.
Please God, no. Please let her be safe.

‘I haven’t contacted Jackie, thought it best to speak to you first.’

Neil nodded, forgetting that he was on the phone.

‘Can you meet me at Queen’s Hospital?’

‘Queen’s? Yes of course. Is it Gemma? Have you found her, is she okay?’

He heard Gavin’s sharp intake of breath, pictured him at his desk in his grey suit, pinching the bridge of his nose as he had seen him do several times before when concentrating.

‘There’s no easy way to say this, Neil.’

Oh God, oh no, Oh God, please no, not my little girl.

‘But we’ve found a body.’

Neil opened the van door and was instantly sick on the ground. He remained hunched over long after his stomach had emptied itself, staring at the watery splat and wanting to stay there forever, not wanting to move or face what came next.

‘Jesus, mate! Some of us are trying to eat – you fucking twat!’

Neil looked up at the two men in high-vis jackets, chomping on bacon butties and holding scalding Styrofoam cups of strong tea. They shook their heads in his direction. He didn’t have the strength to respond.

The three men walked abreast along the wide corridor. Neil was conscious that his rubber-soled steel-toe-capped boots were squeaking with every step, heralding his presence. He wished he was wearing different shoes, like Dr Mitchell’s or Gavin’s, whose walk was stealthy in comparison. They walked a little too quickly, all three very keen to get the episode over with, for very different reasons. Neil could only think ahead to going home and telling Jackie. He started to rehearse the phrases in his head, not sure which he would choose, all sounding equally horrific, surreal.

‘Oh, Christ, please give me the strength.’

‘You okay?’ Gavin placed a hand on his back.

Neil was perplexed, unaware that he had spoken out loud.

The trio stopped at an innocuous-looking door. The doctor gave him a brief flicker of a tooth-hiding smile, consolatory.

Neil exhaled. The idea of entering a mortuary was abhorrent to him. He didn’t know what to expect and his gut heaved in nervous anticipation. He felt sick and confused. He exhaled again, trying to calm his pulse.

Gemma had spent a night at Queen’s three years ago, when she’d broken her arm; it felt like minutes ago. And now here he was in the basement, a section of this disinfected building he had never considered before. A building where misery and joy, the entire human condition, was spread over eight linoleum-covered floors.

He had never seen a corpse before. His stomach knotted and he swallowed the nausea that swept his body.

‘You okay?’ Gavin asked for the second time.

Neil nodded. No one commented on the lie: he was far from okay. He thought of the day she was born, the moment he had been handed the tiny, wrapped, bloodied bundle. He had loved her, instantly and without measure; his little girl.

He stepped inside behind the doctor. His tongue stuck to the dry roof of his mouth, his vision blurred and his heart threatened to leap from his chest. The desire to run was strong. He swallowed, his breath coming in odd bursts. His eyes were drawn to the sheet-covered body.

He walked hesitantly towards the bed in the middle of the room. Neil was trembling, his limbs jerked involuntarily. His stomach muscles were tightly clenched.

Dr Mitchell held the edge of the cloth in his hands and hesitated. ‘Are you ready?’

Neil nodded.

The doctor pulled the sheet away from the face and stood back.

Neil glanced at her face and looked away, only able to take small glimpses. She looked cold, her complexion bluish grey. He let his eyes follow the line from the soft brow, over the eyelids, along the nose and mouth. An ugly cut severed the colourless top lip on one side, which butterfly stitches did their best to hold together. The skin looked smooth, she reminded Neil of a mannequin. Her hair was matted on the crown and thick with clots of dark blood that was black and treacle-like.

Neil shook his head. ‘It’s not Gemma.’

Outside in the corridor, Neil leant against the wall, battling with the new image that would haunt his thoughts in the restless early hours, but also struggling with the shame at the sense of disappointment that engulfed him. He had wanted it to be over.

He cried. For only the second time since Gemma’s disappearance, he cried.

‘Could… could you get her a pillow? I know my girls are much comfier with a pillow.’

‘Sure, mate.’ Gavin patted his back. ‘Someone will sort that out.’

Neil was late home, not that it mattered: things were exactly as he had left them that morning. The cold, silent, semi-dark rooms where his wife sat on the sofa, a fretful sentinel with one eye on the front door and an ear cocked for the telephone; and Stacey in her bed. He hated the way Jackie’s body twisted towards the door and her hand flew to her breast every time his key was placed in the lock. He sometimes thought it would be easier not to go home at all, spare them all the disappointment.

‘Any news?’ This was her standard, futile greeting. Both knew that if there were any developments, he would not wait until he got home before putting her out of her misery.

‘No, love.’ He shook his head and placed his hands on his hips. ‘No news.’

She rose to seek out the brief respite of her bed, where, if she was lucky, she might sleep for an hour or so.

‘Don’t forget to leave the lamp on.’

Again he nodded. It was the same instruction she gave every night, afraid that Gemma might not be able to find her way in the dark.

Jackie turned from the doorway and stared at her husband as he sank down onto the sofa. ‘I’m worried you’ve given up on her, Neil.’ She panted, open-mouthed, as if the effort of getting the words out had left her physically exhausted.

Neil shook his head slightly, blinking, gathering his thoughts.

Jackie stepped forward, back into the room, her fingers fidgeting against her face, hooking inside her mouth, pushing her front teeth. ‘Because if you’ve given up on her…’ She paused, trying to properly phrase what she had to say. ‘I… I don’t think I could cope.’

It took him a second to realise he was sobbing. It felt strange, embarrassing. This was something he usually did in private, as if it was shameful. Jackie felt something akin to relief at the sight of his tears. She placed the pads of her fingertips against his cheek and gently tapped the wet stubble. Neil caught her wrist and placed her flat palm over his mouth, pushing a kiss against it. The hand onto which he had slipped a thin gold band and from which he had lifted not one but two perfect tiny newborns. When his words came, they were barely more than a whisper. Jackie had to lean close to hear him.

‘I loved her from the first moment I saw her. That very second you put her into my arms, I swore that I’d never let her down and that I’d look after her and keep her safe.’ He paused to swallow the next wave of tears that clogged his throat. ‘I see her every waking second and she is in all of my dreams, always just a little bit out of reach. I will only give up on her when we reach the end, whatever that is, but not until then, Jacks, not until it is over. Do you understand me?’ He gripped her wrists a little too tightly.