My Husband's Wife(115)

‘Tell me,’ I want to say. But the words won’t come out. The head is staring. Tom’s chair is about to fall.

‘It’s Ed. There’s no easy way of saying this, I’m afraid. He’s dead. He’s been murdered.’

‘Dead?’ I repeat out loud.

Tom’s chair is back on the ground but his right index finger is digging round his teeth. It’s a sign of stress.

‘Murdered?’ I whisper.

‘Yes.’

A trickle of wee is running down my leg. Not in the headmistress’s study! It seems, ridiculously, more important than this terrible news.

Then the radio announcement comes back to me. The one in the car when Tom and I were parking.

A man has been found stabbed to death in his West London home …

No. NO. People on the radio bear no relation to people in real life. Victims of crashes on the motorway or stabbings in Stockwell, they all belong to other families. Not to mine. Not my husband who isn’t my husband any more.

‘Carla has been arrested.’ Ross sounds like he can’t believe it either.

And then the radio announcement continues in my head. A woman has been arrested in connection with the murder.

Tom is tugging at my sleeve now. ‘Why is your face funny, Mum?’

‘In a minute, Tom.’

Cupping the phone, I turn away from the head and my son. ‘She … she did it?’ I whisper, my words falling out around themselves.

I can sense Ross nodding. See him now standing there. Trying to hold himself together.

‘She’s in a police cell. But that’s not all.’

What? I want to say. What else can possibly have happened that compares with this?

‘Carla wants to see you, Lily.’





There’s a strange sound.

As though someone has just sat on the floor, heaving a big sigh.

If I didn’t know her better, I’d think it was a ‘giving up’ kind of sigh.

Listen, I try to say. Maybe we can sort this out together.

But my words won’t come out.

I don’t have enough breath to speak.

What if I’m dead by the time they find me?

Will they work out what really happened?





56


Carla


No comment.

That’s what you told your clients to say when they were arrested. It was one of the few parts of criminal law that had stuck.

‘No comment,’ she repeated. It was becoming a refrain. A tune that accompanied the pulse that was beating on both sides of her head.

‘Tell me what happened,’ said a voice. It was a woman’s voice, coming from a dark-blue suit sitting opposite her at the desk. But she must not look at her. If she did, she might say something she should not.

Breathe deeply.

No comment.

Inside her head, the events of the last few hours rolled over and over again like a film repeated in quick succession.

Rupert’s visit.

Ed yelling.

A knife.

Blood.

Poppy yelling.

Ed groaning.

A face.

A man’s face.

Then running.

The sudden realization that she’d left Poppy behind.

Mamma’s voice in her head.

Telling her to get rid of the gloves.

A hand on hers.

A firm hand.

Sirens.

Handcuffs.

People staring.

The shame of the police car.

No comment.

Stairs going down.

A mattress.

Morning.

A desk.

Sharp voice on the other side.

No comment.

Relief.

Someone who might believe her side of the story.

Only then did she lift her face, staring at the woman in front of her across the desk. She had a mole in the middle of her right cheek. It stood out like a third eye.

Carla addressed herself to that. Find someone’s weak points. The bits that made them different. It was what they had done to her at school. So it was only fair that she did the same to others. It was how you won.

‘It’s my right to see a solicitor,’ Carla said firmly to the mole. ‘Here’s the number. They’ll find her.’

‘Her?’ said the voice.

‘Lily Macdonald.’

The dark-blue suit looks down at the paperwork on the desk.

‘Same surname as yours?’

Carla nodded. ‘Yes. Same surname.’ And then, as if someone else was moving her lips, she added, ‘My husband’s wife. The first one.’





57


Lily


‘Sugar? Sellotape? Sharp implements? Chewing gum?’

What happened to the crisps? Maybe chewing gum has been used as bribes here instead. Or perhaps it can be employed for other purposes. It’s been a while since I’ve visited a client in a police cell. Since leaving London, my work has revolved around parents like me. Families whose lives have been torn apart by trying to provide for children who aren’t like others. Those who don’t get what they’re entitled to from the system. Not only babies who are damaged at birth and whose hospital notes then ‘disappear’. But children like Tom whose loved ones have to fight to make sure they go to the right school and who, in the meantime, struggle for support.