White Bodies(40)

“Hello,” I say. “I’m Callie.”

She looks into my eyes, puzzled as though she doesn’t understand, her raw exhaustion at odds with her formal clothes and her neat chestnut bob. She says, “Oh yes . . . I remember. Bea described you to me. . . . One of the last conversations we had was about you. She loved it when you came to York.”

I think I might cry, and I sit still, brushing away crumbs of cucumber sandwich that have fallen onto my lap. I compose myself and ask Tricia what age she and Bea had been when they met.

“We were eight. It’s hard to believe that she was thirty-four, like me. She had a childlike quality, didn’t she? In her appearance, and her personality.”

“I loved her bee bag,” I say. “It was so sweet, like her.”

“It’s my fault she died.” Her words come out flatly, like she has no emotions left. “I shouldn’t have moved into her flat. . . . She discussed it with you, didn’t she? How I might escape?”

She sounds accusatory.

“She wanted to help.” I place my hand on her arm, just for a second. “Here . . .”

I reach into my bag, looking for a pen and a scrap of paper. “This is my address and phone number and email. If you need anything, I’d like to help.”

It seemed unlikely that she would follow up—but I’m trying to be more like Belle, kinder and helpful.

I realize also that Tricia is about to go through the horror of Joe’s trial, without her best friend beside her, giving her support. I want to say something reassuring, but nothing comes, and instead I just look at her, noticing that under her prim navy jacket her silk shirt is buttoned up on the wrong buttons. As she takes the paper from me, I notice too that her hands are bare: no rings or bracelets or varnish on her nails.

“Oh, look,” she says. And we both watch as Bea’s mother is led out of the room by a large man, sweaty in the face and wearing an ill-fitting suit.

“I didn’t talk to her.”

“Don’t worry . . .” Tricia is struggling to speak normally. “She can’t talk to anyone, or listen. She’s not taking it in. Send her a card and write about a lovely moment that you spent with Bea; that’s the thing to do. Here . . .” She takes the pen and writes down Mrs. Santos’s address and her own email. Handing it to me, she rises from her chair, picks up her bag and leaves—a ghost of a woman, weirdly dressed in executive clothes.

? ? ?

In the early evening I take the train back to London, miserably, in a carriage packed with shouty, drunk football supporters. At one point, they start singing, and it’s a relief to get away when we arrive at King’s Cross. At home, I run a hot bath hoping to wash away some of the awfulness of the day. I can’t find the strength to hang up my clothes, which lie strewn across the bedroom floor. I don’t care, and I’m about to step into the bath when my phone rings. It’s Wilf.

“Hello, sexy girl,” he says, his voice drawling, and I can hear a commotion in the background.

“Are you in the pub?”

“Yep. Fancy coming down?” I haven’t seen him since Belle died; he doesn’t know.

“No . . . I’ve had a long day.”

“Fair enough . . . I’ve been thinking of you, though. Just thought I’d tell you that. . . . Shall we meet up soon?”

I feel weary. Now isn’t the time to confront him about the story in the Mail. Belle’s death means that I don’t have the energy for it. Or the motivation.

“Let’s speak tomorrow, when I’m not so tired. Good night.”

“Good night, Callie.” He sounds affectionate but unbothered.

? ? ?

We don’t speak the next day, or the next. I don’t answer his calls or reply to his texts, as I’m still not ready to accuse him; instead I spend my time in the bookshop in a sort of daze. As I go about my routine tasks, I’m able to move only in slow motion. I say to myself, One thing at a time, replace books on shelves, empty the till, enter the new orders . . . Mr. Ahmed comes in, and I say to him as clearly as I can, “Thank you, Jeeves is next, Mr. Ahmed, shall I order that?” and he replies, “What’s the matter, Callie? Have you caught a cold?”

Most of the time, I’m not thinking of Belle, but I’m aware of a dead weight in me that signifies her presence, and when I do think specifically of her, images flash into my mind, of her standing at York station and waving when she spots my smiley face T-shirt, of her laying out her fleece on the ground so that we can have our picnic and then sitting down neatly, with her thin brown legs tucked under her, and her back perfectly straight as she reaches into her bag for our food and wine. I can’t quite believe that she’s gone, and when, in the evenings, I log onto controllingmen.com, I half expect to find a message from her, full of enthusiasm for our mission as befrienders.

Instead I find lots of chat about Bea Santos, specifically about her bravery. I learn that on the day of the attack Joe Mayhew had arrived at her house and hammered on the door, shouting up at the windows and demanding to be let in. When he saw Tricia peek out the window, he kicked the door and cursed, causing neighbors to come out of their houses and watch. When he still got nowhere, he retreated down the side passage, where he sat on the ground next to the bins, and waited. It was bad luck that Belle was out while the rumpus was going on, at Tesco buying food. And when she returned home, and was putting her key in the lock, Joe reappeared, shoving a knife at her throat, demanding that she let him into the flat. Belle screamed for someone to call the police, while he forced her through the front door. He stabbed her several times and took her keys upstairs to the flat, and had just unlocked the door when the police did turn up, having been called by a concerned neighbor some time ago. They were in time to prevent anything but a flailing lunge at Tricia, but it was too late for Belle, who died in the ambulance that was taking her to York hospital.