She kept a book by her side, ready to fool anyone who came in, knowing how they’d react if they thought she was just sitting there, looking out at the rain. She wasn’t sure what she was meant to be doing instead, but there seemed a general consensus that it wasn’t good for her to dwell on things. Her family was in the ground now and it was time for her to move on, to put all this unpleasantness aside. That’s how easy it was meant to be.
And yet if anything, she felt worse than she had around the time of the funeral; at least then there had been arrangements and decisions to make, things to take her mind off the blank horror of what had happened. Now she didn’t even have the distraction of the boys, who’d been spirited off to Lucy’s parents for a week.
So she sat in silence, looking out at the rain that had been falling for the best part of two days. In her better moments she thought of the drive with Lucas, through similar weather to the sanctuary of his house. Most of the time, though, her mind was lost in the featureless wastes, latching on wherever it could—a burst of self-pity, a nostalgic recollection and, increasingly, a gnawing desire to destroy the people responsible, a desire that was hollow, eating away at her insides because she didn’t even know who those people were.
She was beginning to hate the police for failing to make any progress. Eventually, she’d undoubtedly begin to hate herself too, because she was still alive, still capable of seeing justice done and yet she was doing nothing; her inertia felt like a betrayal.
She heard a door close downstairs and then low voices. She couldn’t hear who it was, but guessed they were discussing her. They often seemed to talk about her in quiet, concerned voices like that, like she was ill or on suicide watch.
The voices stopped, and for a while she strained to hear more noise. There was nothing and then a knock at her door that startled her. She picked her book up quickly and called out nonchalantly for them to come in. She kept her eyes on the book as the door opened, but glanced at the reflection in the rain-darkened window to see who it was.
The figure she saw there startled her again and she jumped up, her feelings scattering in confusion. She felt like an amnesiac, believing this was the man she loved but not quite sure where she’d hidden the memory of that love inside herself.
Chris almost ran to her, put his arms around her and held her tight. She dropped the book and held him back, a reflexive response to the warmth and touch of his body. He whispered in her ear, about missing her, apologizing for not having come sooner, the reasons he hadn’t been at the funeral.
She stroked his hair. ‘It’s okay, I understand.’ She broke away long enough to kiss him and said then, ‘Shall we sit down?’
He looked troubled, as if she’d said something strange or as if he mistrusted something about her appearance, but he smiled and said, ‘Of course.’
They talked for a while like people from another age, making polite inquiries. She could tell he was finding it hard work, but she could see no way through to the relaxed conversation she knew they should be having.
Finally, as if hitting upon an escape, Chris said, ‘I was talking to your uncle and one of the policemen about the possibility of us going away for a few days.’ She wasn’t conscious of reacting but he appeared to pick up on something and added, ‘I don’t mean right now. Later in the summer. We could just go somewhere quiet, relax.’
‘Somewhere like Montecatini?’
‘That’s why we should go somewhere, to get rid of that association.’
She glanced out at the rain. If the police found the killers, she could imagine going somewhere with Chris, but they wouldn’t find them. She wouldn’t be safe and she wouldn’t be at peace, no matter where they went.
‘The police don’t know what they’re doing.’ He looked confused, so she smiled a little and said, ‘If the police find them, then I’ll go. I just don’t like the idea of . . .’
‘I know. But if the police find them, you’ll consider it?’
She nodded and he kissed her and held her again, whispering once more how he’d missed her but with a different meaning this time, his hand spelling it out, marking its territory across her body, finally securing itself to her left breast, kneading the flesh.
He’d never known how to handle her breasts. A couple of times she’d tried to offer some gentle guidance but had given up, accepting the lack of pleasure and occasional discomfort, telling herself he made up for it in other ways.
He released her suddenly, backing away as he said, ‘What’s up?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you seem uncomfortable, rigid.’