‘Only when Marcel Lang came to my aid and said he’d heard me do it. He said he was late pressing the button on the recorder.’
‘He lied?’
Hannah nodded. This was only one of many things over the years for which she had Marcel to thank.
Ben sighed. ‘Come and sit down. Take your coat off.’
They eased themselves onto the stools at the breakfast bar. Hannah could hear the whirring of the fans in the oven and the extractor unit. A smell of goulash wafted across to her, but she had no appetite for it, even though Ben was a great cook. His health regime might consist of drinking beverages that smelled like piss, and tying his ankles together behind his neck, but so far he had resisted crossing the Styx into the darkness that was vegetarianism.
He took her hand. ‘Hannah,’ he said, ‘do you think maybe you do need to take some more time off ? It’s not like you to make mistakes like that.’
She was silent for a moment, but it was only to convince her husband that she was giving it serious consideration.
‘I can’t sit at home doing nothing. I tried that and it killed me. I need to work.’
‘Then . . . then maybe your boss was right. Maybe you need to think about making a change.’
She yanked her hand away from his. ‘I don’t want a fucking change. I’m good at what I do. What I need is for people to start believing in me.’
She meant her police superiors, but realised it came across as being directed at Ben. He looked hurt.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s okay. You’ve had a tough time. We both have.’ He looked at the oven and got to his feet. ‘That goulash is nearly ready. I’ll put some rice on.’
She didn’t stop him. He also needed to be busy. That was how they lived their lives now: keeping themselves distracted. When she wanted to talk about it, she wasn’t sure he did; and she was sure there were also times that he was afraid of bringing up the topic.
It shouldn’t be like this, she thought. We can’t keep pretending that things are back to normal. They’re not, and never will be.
She watched as he put a pan of water on the hob and turned on the gas. He remained staring at the pan, his back to her, as though his gaze was essential to the boiling process.
‘I see her,’ Hannah said.
Ben turned his head slightly. ‘What?’
More confessions, she thought. Seems to be the night for them.
‘Tilly. I see her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She keeps appearing to me, and at the strangest times. I’m usually not even thinking about her when it happens. She’ll just walk right out in front of me, or I’ll see her in the distance. But when I try going to her, she disappears.’
Ben said nothing. Just stood and waited to hear more. Hannah looked at the light bouncing off the surface of her wine as she remembered.
‘It happened at Suzy Carling’s house. She came out of the kitchen while we were talking. She was in her school uniform. She looked . . . proud. And then afterwards – after the train – I saw her again. She was far away, looking back at me as if she wanted me to follow.’
‘You . . . you see her a lot, then?’
‘Not a lot. But enough. And I know she’s not real. It’s just my mind playing tricks. But she’s so clear. So solid. She’s there, Ben.’
His response of silence demanded her attention, and she looked up to see that his eyes were glistening.
‘Oh, what’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘What’s the matter?’
He looked so helpless, so at a loss. ‘I don’t see her. I never see her. I look, but she’s never there. Every time I walk into a room, I think she’ll be there. Every time I hear a sound in the house, I expect it to be her. And it’s not. It never is. I don’t see her, Hannah. I don’t see her.’
She went to him then. Held him tightly as his tears flowed.
Sometimes she forgot that she wasn’t the only one who needed consoling.
And sometimes she felt that the thing most tightly binding them together was their shared pain.
4
For Scott, working with his son was always beautiful.
Daniel liked to pretend. He would watch his dad working on a car, and then he would mimic the actions on his own invisible vehicle, his eyes constantly roving to his father to check he was doing it right. He would even hitch up his trousers when his father did, or rub his hands at the same time, or sigh and tut in concert.
In those moments, Scott could easily forget that his son was nearly twenty-three.
He was fully aware that his boss didn’t approve of Daniel being in the garage. ‘It’s dangerous,’ Gavin would say. ‘He could get hurt, or damage something.’ But Gavin wasn’t working today, and Scott had jumped at the opportunity to spend time alone with his son. No offence to Gemma, but the father–son bond was like epoxy resin: it worked best without a third ingredient.
Right now, Scott was labouring beneath a jacked-up 4x4. He looked across at Daniel, lying flat on his back and staring up at his own imaginary car while making twisting motions with his imaginary spanner. The simplicity and purity of it brought a lump to Scott’s throat.
‘Daniel,’ he called. ‘I’m nearly done here. Could you bring over the wheels for this Audi, please?’
Scott came out from beneath the car and stood up, stretching his aching back.
