Hel had left towels and a change of clothes—not mine; they must be hers—on the foot of the bed, and I took them into the shower with me, dumping them onto the toilet lid before stepping into the cubicle and turning on the water.
It was hot and fast—much better than the stuttering pressure at my house—and I turned my face into the blast and closed my eyes, hearing the deafening hiss of the water in my ears, and feeling the jets pummeling my face—and for a moment I wished that I could stay there, muffled away from the world, eyes closed, ears blocked with water, unable to feel anything except the stinging needles of hot water against my skin.
But I couldn’t. And at last I soaped my hair, dried myself off, and got dressed, ready to go downstairs and face a world without Gabe.
* * *
“OH, JACK.”
Roland looked up as I stepped into the kitchen, my wet hair combed behind my ears, my stomach growling. As I tried for a smile, he stood and held open his arms, and I felt my throat close up. I shook my head, even as I walked into his hug, no, no, no. Please don’t be nice to me, Roland.
But he was—and something about his hug, the feel of his arms around me, made me choke up like nothing else had. He wasn’t Gabe—he was about six inches shorter and a couple of stone lighter, and he didn’t have Gabe’s beard or his heat or his indefinably comforting smell. But he was a man, and he was kind, and he wanted to comfort me—and that was so painfully close to what I wanted right now, just not from him, that it was almost unbearable.
At last I pulled myself away. Roland let me go, but there was something sad in his expression as he did.
“Please, don’t be too nice to me, Rols. I just—” I swallowed, trying to find the words. “I’m only just holding it together, and I can’t—I can’t lose it. If I do, I might not—”
“Got it,” Roland said. His eyes were full of an anguished sympathy, but I saw the way he squared his shoulders, and the smile he tried to put on his lips. “Operation Stiff Upper Lip commences.”
Hel was at the cooker, her back to me, but I knew that she’d seen the little exchange play out, and I knew that she knew that what I needed right now wasn’t sympathy but just to get through the evening without breaking down—and the best way to do that was a semblance of normality.
“How many sausages?” she said to me over her shoulder, her tone determinedly brisk, and I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. “They’re veggie.”
“How many are there?”
“Twelve. The girls are in bed, so they’re all for us.”
“I’ll have my full share then—four,” I said. My throat ached with the effort of trying to speak normally, but my voice was almost steady. “Thanks, Hel. I’m starving.”
“Mash? Gravy?”
“Yes. And yes.”
Hel ladled sausage, mash, and onion gravy into three dishes, while Roland cleared aside sippy cups and Playmobil figures and laid out knives, forks, and glasses. Within just a few minutes we were sitting around their little table, and I was inhaling a glass of red wine that felt so good it was a little frightening. For a moment I just sat, my eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the wine filter through my bloodstream, numbing everything, and I thought… I could stay here. I could stay in this warm, wine-fogged world where Gabe’s absence hurts just a little less. I had never understood substance abuse until that moment; even in the worst moments of my life before—the jackknifing lorry that had crushed my parents’ car when I was seventeen, the grueling breakdown of my relationship with Jeff just a few years later—even in the middle of complete despair, I had never experienced the urge to opt out of feeling. But now—now if I could have made the pain go away, I would. If I could have crawled back into Hel’s spare room and never come out, I would have done it. Because there was nothing left, apart from the tearing pain of Gabe’s absence.
“Jack?” I heard, as if from a long way off. And then, “Jack, are you okay?”
I forced open my eyes. Roland was looking at me with concern.
“Yes, sorry. I’m okay.” I cut a piece of sausage and put it in my mouth, chewing dutifully to show him how okay I was. But it tasted… good. Even with Gabe dead and my whole world crumbling, it still tasted good. I chewed, and swallowed, forcing the mouthful past the painful lump of unshed tears that seemed to be lodged permanently in my throat.
“Top-up?” Roland said, holding out the bottle. He had already started pouring when I spoke, reluctantly.
“That’s fine, thanks, Rols. I don’t want to be—I might need to speak to the police tomorrow.”
“You’re right,” Hel said. She put her hand out and squeezed mine. “You definitely don’t want to be hungover. What time are you seeing them?”
“I’m not sure. They didn’t specifically say they wanted to see me, but they didn’t seem…” I stopped, trying to put into words the uneasiness I’d felt during the interview. “They didn’t seem completely happy with the timeline. They made me go over it several times. They said they might have more questions.”
“The timeline?” Hel frowned and put down her knife. “What do you mean? What timeline?”
“I’m not sure. They started off asking about the car journey—why it took me so long to get back from Arden Alliance, and why my phone was switched off. But the thing they really kept harping on was the length of time I left between finding Gabe and calling the police. They seemed to think it was suspicious.”
“How long was it?” Roland asked. He exchanged a glance with Hel.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe longer. I know—I know it was incredibly stupid, but I just—I think I went into shock. But the thing is, he was so completely and obviously dead. The blood was cold, and sticky. It wasn’t like I could have done anything.”
The memory of it—the butcher shop smell, the mess of tendons and flesh spewing from Gabe’s throat—it rose up in front of my eyes again, and I shuddered and clenched my jaw, holding my knife and fork tightly in my hands so my fingers wouldn’t shake.
“Have they offered you a solicitor?” Roland asked now. His words chased the pictures in my head a little further away, and I looked up, puzzled.
“No, I mean… Actually yes, I think they did ask me if I wanted one, but I said no. Why?”
“I’m just…” He exchanged another glance with Hel, and I saw that both their faces were worried. “Well, look, maybe this is the lawyer in me, but the whole thing… the timing, and what you said about your phone, it’s a bit… concerning.”
“What do you mean?” I was puzzled. “You’re not saying—they can’t possibly suspect me, could they? Why would I—” I felt my throat close again, swallowed hard. “Why the fuck would I—”
Hel took a sip of wine and then set the glass down carefully.
“Because from what you said, this… it sounds like a hit, Jack.”
“A hit?” Her words had stopped me in my tracks. “I’m sorry, did you say a hit?” The idea was so unexpected as to be bewildering. Whatever I had imagined as the root of Hel’s concerns, it wasn’t this. “But what—why?”
“Why do I think it’s a hit? Because the—well, the method.” I could tell she was trying to pick her words, but the picture rose up in front of my eyes again, Gabe’s throat spilling out, raw and bloody through his skin, as if someone had pushed a knife right through behind the jugular and ripped it out, forward, severing arteries, tendons, and everything else in between. “That’s how the professionals do it. I’ve covered a few stories about contract killings and… it’s pretty distinctive.”
“I didn’t mean that.” I gritted the words out through clenched teeth, trying to keep away the images Hel had conjured. “I meant why on earth would anyone want to kill Gabe? A botched robbery or something—okay, I could see that. But a hit? It makes no sense!”
“Well, that’s the issue, isn’t it? Why would anyone kill someone like Gabe, some lovely guy with no shady past, no enemies, and no secrets? But, Jack, it doesn’t sound like a robbery. It just doesn’t. It sounds like someone got in there, slit his throat, and got out, without leaving much of a trace. That’s not a botched burglary—that’s something else.”
I was silent for a moment, her words sinking in as I realized she was right. How had I not seen it before? I thought of the questions that had come up in the police interview, questions about associates, our finances, had Gabe ever gambled, had he been mixed up in anything criminal, did he have any enemies. No, no, and no. Except…
“Well, he… he does have a past.” I said it reluctantly, forcing the words out, feeling disloyal to Gabe, although it wasn’t like he kept it a secret. If it came up, he was honest about it. He even did some outreach work with schools and youth groups, talking about what happened. It wasn’t a secret—but it also wasn’t something he was proud of. And it wasn’t something I had ever shared with Roland or Helena. “Kind of. But I can’t see how it’s relevant.”