Good Me Bad Me(78)

‘Yes.’

As I approach the house it looks normal. I don’t want to go to Valerie’s but she’s waiting for me on the road, hurries me inside to hers.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask her. ‘Mike scared me.’

‘We’re not really sure at the moment but it’ll be okay. Come on in, out of the cold.’

Every time I’ve heard those words – it’ll be okay – it never has been.

It doesn’t take long. I hear sirens first, screaming to a halt outside our house. Valerie takes me into the living room overlooking the garden, not the street, asks me if I’d like something to eat or drink.

‘I want to go home, I want to know what’s happened.’

‘Not just now, sweetheart.’

I don’t get to go home for almost two hours. Valerie puts the TV on, does her best to look normal. Relaxed. But when David, her husband, comes home I can tell from the looks they exchange. News is bad. Bad news. The doorbell goes, David answers it, I hear him talking to Mike, brings him into the room. When I see him I burst into tears because his shirt is stained, all over the front, and I know what kind of stain makes that colour. He looks down and says in a monotone voice, ‘I should have changed, I didn’t think.’

His voice is slow, his face terrorized. Aged. He’ll see red too now, a member of the same club as me.

‘Valerie, perhaps we should give them a minute,’ David suggests.

‘Of course, take as long as you need.’

They close the door behind them, the atmosphere in the room serious. Charged. Mike sits next to me. I notice his hands are shaking. Normality, that’s what he’d been hoping for, the conversation with June.

‘I’m frightened, Mike, what’s going on? Please tell me.’

He can’t get the words out, keeps starting and stopping. Mouth. Struggling to release the ugly it knows it has to. Finally, he says, ‘An accident, a terrible accident.’

He covers his face with his hands, also stained, all over his fingers. I want to reach out and touch him but I don’t want any of it on my skin.

‘What do you mean?’

He doesn’t answer initially, shakes his head, looks down at the rug under our feet. Disbelief. I’ve seen it before in the detective I gave my first statement to. Mike takes his hands away from his face but immediately brings one back up to cover his mouth after saying her name. Hyperventilating. He finds it easy to calm other people down, it’s his job, but when it comes to himself he’s lost.

‘What sort of accident? Is she okay?’

Breath laboured, hand reaches up at the tie he’s wearing. Tries to pull it loose. It won’t help I want to tell him, nothing will.

‘No, not okay,’ he says.

But he doesn’t say she’s dead, so much red on his shirt though. So much red.

‘What do you mean not okay? Can I see her? I want to see if she’s all right.’

He pulls at his hair, pulls at his shirt, hands won’t stay still, can still feel the shape of her body. He begins to rock, mutters to himself.

‘Mike, please, talk to me.’

‘She’s gone, the paramedics have taken her away, the police are at the house.’

‘Gone where?’

He turns to look at me, grabs my knees. Hands like claws. The ‘don’t touch Milly’ rule gone out the window. I want to move away, close my eyes. I don’t want to see the look in his when he says what I think he’s going to say next.

‘She’s dead, Milly, my Phoebs is dead.’

Then he starts to cry, removes his hands from my legs, hugs himself. Arms crossed over his chest, he begins to rock again.

‘I don’t understand, I saw her at school just after the bell went.’

He stands up suddenly. Movement to diffuse the bad feelings inside, it helps me too. Sometimes. He walks to the fireplace, back again. Mumbling and muttering as he does. He paces for what feels like for ever then stops, looks at me, as if he’s just remembered somebody else is in the room with him. He comes over, kneels on the floor in front of me, psychologist’s hat inching back on. Solid ground. Knows how to play that role, it’s easier, more comfortable than being on the wrong side of grief.

‘I’m sorry, Milly,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why are you saying sorry?’

‘You’ve already had so much to deal with.’

Then he breaks down, huge racking sobs, every breath an effort. I start to cry again too, his pain flooding the space around me. I try to tell him it’ll be okay, somehow it’ll be okay. I reach out, place my hand on his head. I think it helps as he stops crying so hard, sits back on his heels and begins to massage each side of his temples, runs his fingers through his hair, two, three times. Big breaths, that’s what he takes now, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

‘What happened?’ I ask him.

‘We think she fell, the police are investigating now.’

‘Fell?’

‘I can’t go over the details, Milly. Please. Not now.’

‘Where’s Saskia?’

In hell, I think his answer would be if he could say it out loud, if he could bring himself to. I smell whisky on his breath when he speaks. He said he couldn’t go over the details but he can’t help it, they’re playing on a loop, a broken record inside his head. Her phone was on the floor next to her, he keeps saying. I told her not to sit up there, one day she’d fall. She never listened though, did she. She never bloody listened. He begins to cry again, covers his face.