The Surrogate by Louise Jensen
Later
There is a rising sense of panic; horror hanging in the air like smoke.
‘They’re such a lovely couple. Do you think they’re okay?’ says the woman, but the flurry of emergency service vehicles crammed into the quiet cul-de-sac, the blue and white crime scene tape stretched around the perimeter of the property, indicate things are anything but okay. She wraps her arms around herself as though she is cold, despite this being the warmest May on record for years. Cherry blossom twirls around her ankles like confetti, but there will be no happily ever after for the occupants of this house, the sense of tragedy already seeping into its red bricks.
Her voice shakes as she speaks into the microphone. It is difficult to hear her over the thrum of an engine, the slamming of van doors as a rival news crew clatters a camera into its tripod.
He thrusts the microphone closer to her mouth.
She hooks her red hair behind her ears; raises her head. Her eyes are bright with tears.
TV gold.
‘You don’t expect anything bad… Not here. This is a nice area.’
Disdain slides across the reporter’s face before he rearranges his features into the perfect blend of sympathy and shock. He hadn’t spent three years having drama lessons for nothing.
He tugs the knot in his tie to loosen it a little as he waits for the woman to finish noisily blowing her nose. The heat is insufferable; shadows long under the blazing sun. Body odour exudes from his armpits, fighting against the sweet scent of the freshly cut grass. The smell is cloying, sticking in the back of his throat. He can’t wait to get home and have an ice-cold lager. Put on his shorts like the postman sitting on the edge of the kerb, his head between his knees. He wonders if he is the one who found them. There will be plenty of angry people waiting for their post today. ‘Late Letter Shock!’ is the sort of inane local story he usually gets to cover, but this… this could go national. His big break. He couldn’t get here fast enough when his boss called to say what he thought he’d heard on the police scanner.
He shields his eyes against the sun with one hand as he scouts the area. Across the road, a woman rests against her doorframe, toddler in her arms. He can’t quite read her expression and wonders why she doesn’t come closer like the rest of them. At the edge of the garden, as close as the police will allow, a small crowd is huddled together: friends and neighbours, he expects. The sight of their shocked faces is such a contrast to the neat borders nursing orange marigolds and lilac pansies. He thinks this juxtaposition would make a great shot. The joy of spring tempered by tragedy. New life highlighting the rawness of loss of life. God, he’s good; he really should be an anchor.
There is movement behind him, and he signals to the cameraman to turn around. The camera pans down the path towards the open front door. It’s flanked by an officer standing to attention in front of a silver pot containing a miniature tree. On the step are specks of what looks like blood. His heart lifts at the sight of it. Whatever has happened here is big. Career defining.
Coming out of the house are two sombre paramedics pushing empty trolleys, wheels crunching in the gravel.
The woman beside him clutches his arm, her fingertips pressed hard against his suit jacket. Silly cow will wrinkle the fabric. He fights the urge to shake her free; instead, swallowing down his agitation. He might need to interview her again later.
‘Does this mean they’re okay?’ asks the woman, confusion lining her face.
The trolleys are clattered into the back of the waiting ambulance. The doors slam shut, the blue lights stop flashing and slowly it pulls away.
From behind the immaculately trimmed hedge, hidden from view, he hears the crackle of a walkie-talkie. A low voice. Words drift lazily towards him, along with the buzz of bumblebees and the stifled sound of sobbing.
‘Two bodies. It’s a murder enquiry.’
1
Now
Don’t turn around.
Behind me, the laughter rings out again. I tell myself it can’t be her, but I know, even after all this time, it is. The world falls away from me and I grip the counter so hard my knuckles bleach white.
Don’t turn around.
In front of me, Clare’s mouth forms the question: ‘whipped cream?’, but I can’t hear anything above the thrumming in my ears. I shake my head as though I can dislodge the buzzing that’s growing louder and louder. Clare lowers her arm; the nozzle to the cream had been poised over my mug. I always have the same drink every time I come here, but today the sound of laughter has thrust me back into the past. The smell of the hot chocolate I usually find so tantalising is causing my stomach to roll.
‘Are you okay, Kat?’
I’m hot, tugging at my scarf as though it is choking me. White frost still patterns the pavement outside, but in here it is stifling; the coffee machine hisses and spits and steam rises towards the oak beam ceiling.
An impatient cough from the man shuffling his feet behind reminds me I have not yet answered Clare.
‘I’m fine,’ I say but my mouth is dry. My voice a strange croak. Pushing coins over the counter with one hand, I pick up my drink with the other. Hot liquid slithers down the side of the mug, trickling over my fingers, scalding my skin. Reluctantly I turn around. There it is again.
Laughter.
Her laughter.
My eyes dart around the café, and when I see her, everything else fades into the distance. She has her back towards me but I’d recognise that glossy black bob anywhere. She runs her fingers through her hair as she speaks animatedly to the elderly lady sat opposite her; tilting her head to the side she listens to the response. It seems like I saw her only yesterday, but of course I didn’t.
Lisa.
My palms feel hot as they start to tingle. I haven’t had a panic attack for such a long time, but underneath the mounting anxiety is an inevitability about it all, a resignation almost.