THE NIGHTS ARE ALWAYS LONG HERE. AT LEAST DURING the day there is the routine, things to do, even if they are of little importance. I’m angry at myself for my change of mood. That’s the thing about moods, the way they often take you as they see fit. Maybe over the course of time, these shifts happen to everyone, but in the happening you can lose heart, because the inner core of you, the part that knows you best, knows when the mood is not for turning.
I kick the blankets down, leaving just the sheet over me. It feels clammy in here, although the night outside is anything but. The heating has been on all night and with the small rooms and lack of ventilation, it makes the air unbearable. It feels stale and sparse, as if at any moment I might lose the ability to breathe. I can hear a dog barking outside, it sounds as lonely as I feel. There is no breeze, the rattling gutter is silent, and if the branches on the trees sway, they do so without sound. It’s too early for the birds; perhaps the dog is barking because, like me, he’s unsettled by the silence.
I have felt lonely on many occasions during my time here, but I have for the most part been able to find solace in that form of loneliness. I have seen it as a type of life penance that is, at the very least, deserved. That was something I worked out a long time ago. What had I been trying to achieve yesterday, writing in that copybook? What possible outcome do I hope to gain from it? Why would thinking achieve anything? It’s nearly funny, after all the years of being here I’ve adopted an approach from Joe’s old book of wisdom – don’t think too much. Pathetic. Dr Ebbs asked me to write about the beginning, yet in truth all I found were endings.
By the time I hear the others rising, flushing toilets, the water tank overhead filling, making its gurgling sounds, I’ve made up my mind what to do next. Today when I meet the good doctor, I will tell him he was wrong to ask me about beginnings, because in the beginning I understood nothing. The understanding came later and, when it came, it was like a slow wind that swept up everything in its path, until what was left held a very different answer from the one which I had sought at the beginning.
You think when you lose someone certain memories will come flooding back. But it’s not like that at all. Memories are like life, they don’t obediently do your bidding. Still, even when you know you can’t control them, you keep trying. You reach in and seek them out, as if you were a child going into a sweetshop to pick out sweets.
Immediately after the fire, I wasn’t capable of remembering anything. When the first glimpses came back, I fought hard against them. In part, they were too painful; in part, I felt unworthy. Now, knowing my mood has changed, I equally know I’m not prepared for the change.
I remember the first thing that struck me about memories was how different they were from their reality, how each one possesses a layer that might have been missed first time around. Like how I used to hold Amy in my arms when she was little, sitting her on my lap. In my head, I thought the memory was about the actual holding, the many nights I sat there with Amy when she was small, small enough to be in need of her mother’s arms. But that wasn’t exactly what I remembered. What I remembered were other, less obvious details. How when she left my embrace, a feeling of tension returned to my body. I found myself remembering the ease and joy her weight and warmth had brought me, and how when they left, I felt less whole and, at times, almost abandoned. Layer by layer the memories came back. More often than not, they were just tiny flickers, igniting the months of darkness. After Amy died, the loss was so great it was bigger than anything I believed any human being could bear.
That alone might have been enough to send me to this dismal place. I guess very soon after the real sense of loss took hold of me, after all the dreams and even the guilt were cast away like scattered nothings, they were replaced by something else, a deep and seething anger that was all-consuming. In time, even that passed, and the disbelief over everything became of no consequence. It was all my destiny. That was when I’d given up completely, when I was at my most hopeless. Then I realised the truth – what was left behind, along with all the things I couldn’t change, was my future.
Mervin Road
Saturday, 8 October 2011, 4.00 p.m.
ON HER WAY BACK TO THE APARTMENT, KATE’S MIND was preoccupied with both the investigation and all the other things she needed to organise so that she could devote her time to it. Rescheduling work commitments at Ocean House wouldn’t be a problem – her next court appearance wasn’t for another two weeks – but until she knew how much time this investigation was going to take, she would have to ask Sophie to do after-school care for Charlie. He wouldn’t be happy about it, but there wasn’t any other way.
She parked the car on the street outside the house and gave herself a few seconds before stepping out and clicking open the small wrought-iron gate. She made her way up the stone steps to face Declan and a little boy who would have spent the day wondering where she had gone. She gave herself another few seconds at the front door before sliding her key into the lock and turning it. She found them in the living room.