Seven Days(29)

There’d be no more baths. No more laughter and splashing. No more anything.

She wanted this moment to never end. She wanted him to stay in the bath, happy and clean and naked and perfect, forever.





Twelve Years Earlier, 29 July 2006


1


Martin stirred milk into his tea and stared out of the kitchen window. It had been three weeks since she had gone. He looked at the orange pill container in his hand. Only a few left.

There should have been more. At a rate of one a day there should have been a lot more.

But one a day wasn’t enough to quiet the voices in his head. Not nearly enough. Two muted them; three turned them into background noise.

For a while. And then the volume slowly turned up again.

Sometimes the voices blamed him. Told him he was useless. He should have protected her, taken her to Anne’s house, made sure she got there safely.

Sometimes it was Sandra’s voice saying those things. Even though she’d never said it in real life, she probably thought it. She must do. He did, after all.

Other times it was Maggie’s voice. That was when it was the worst. That was when he took more of the pills, took as many as he needed to quiet her voice.

Hi, Dad. Door slamming. What’s for tea? Can I have a lift to Kevin’s house?

Can I have a lift to Anne’s house?

And he’d turn and look but she wouldn’t be there and it would all come back. The loss, the pain, the terror.

And she would speak again.

Help me, Daddy. Why can’t you help me? Why can’t you find me? I’m your daughter? Why can’t you find me?

And he would clap his hands to his head and try to shake the voices loose but it was impossible. There were reminders of her everywhere. Her bedroom door was closed; Martin didn’t want to see inside it, didn’t want to be slapped in the face with a reminder of the fact she was gone, but he was anyway, she was everywhere in the house. It wasn’t the objects, the photos of her, the shoes she had left on the mat in the hall and her coats in the closet, ready for her return, it wasn’t the things themselves which bothered him.

They were just objects. They could be ignored or hidden or put away.

It was the memories that haunted him, and they were everywhere.

When he went up the stairs he saw her sitting on the top step, back to the wall, phone to her ear. When he sat in the armchair he saw her lying on the couch, feet dangling over one arm, a hole in the toe of her socks. When he switched on the hallway light he remembered installing the dimmer switch with her, watching as she screwed the wires into place, her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated.

The house was full of her, but she was nowhere to be found.

And so he would take a pill, or two.

Or three.

And now there weren’t many left. He’d explain it to Doctor Chalmers. She’d understand. She’d known Maggie since she was a baby; when she’d come to the house to see him and Sandra and given them the prescription she’d been in tears herself.

He unscrewed the lid and emptied the contents on to his palm. Three left. He felt a rising panic. He’d call Dr Chalmers later and get some more.

‘Hey.’

He turned. Sandra was in the doorway. She was wearing jogging pants and a sweatshirt. Her hair was scraped back in a bun and her face was lean.

Gaunt, nearly. She’d lost weight.

They both had. For the first time in years – decades, maybe – he had a flat stomach.

‘Tea?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘Have you got any more of those?’

He showed her the pills in his hand. ‘This is it.’

‘Share?’

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to at all, but he nodded and handed her a pill. Her eyes rested on the two he still had in his palm, the two to her one, but she said nothing. He lifted them to his mouth and swallowed, then took a sip of tea.

‘You’ve not got any left?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘I thought I had more. But they’re gone.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘We can get more.’ He looked at her, his lip quivering. ‘When will this get better, Sandy? When will it stop hurting so much?’

‘When she’s back.’

For a second he didn’t reply. When he did, the words were ash in his mouth. ‘When she’s back.’





2


Martin sat on the couch, staring into space. The cup of tea in his hand was cold. The living room door opened.

‘Dad,’ James said. ‘I’m going out. With Andy.’

Martin swallowed. This was the second time James had gone out alone. It had been hard to let him, when, two days before, his friend Andy had knocked on the door. They had promised to stay together, and so Martin and Sandra – after giving him one of their mobile phones – had agreed.

Be back at six p.m. Promise.

He had promised, and then come home much earlier than six, pale and strained, and gone straight to his room. Martin had followed and found him curled up on his bed.

OK? he asked.

James nodded. He was crying, softly.

I miss her, he said. I miss her, Dad.

Martin hugged him. Me too, son.

And now he was going out again. Martin didn’t know how he could. He hated leaving the house. Outside, he saw her face in the windows of each bus or car or truck that passed him. Every girl of her age that he saw in a crowd was her. Twice, he had glimpsed someone, and, convinced it was Maggie with a different haircut and new clothes, had run after them.