‘Oh god, was there an accident? Someone you knew?’
Marcus shakes his head, as though he wants to shift the thoughts that have settled there. When he talks I recognise the same relief I’ve seen in hundreds of shocked, wide-eyed relatives I’ve met at Kate’s, longing for comfort, even from a nurse they’ve never met. Marcus is so desperate; he’ll talk to a stranger walking her dog.
‘A young woman, a beautiful young woman, my stepdaughter, so yes, I knew her,’ he says. ‘I knew her,’ he repeats, as though he needs to confirm the fact to himself.
‘Is she going to be OK?’
Marcus shrugs. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know.’ His voice cracks like a shell.
I let the silence ask my question for me.
‘Her husband doesn’t let me see her.’ He turns slightly towards me and looks at me. ‘I never liked him. He’s got a temper, a real temper, on him. They never should have married. He pretended he loves her but he never really knew her, not like me.’
The rain makes a pat-pat sound against my coat. I think of Jack, how certain he was that it was Marcus who told the press about Cassie. Hearing Marcus talk so freely, as though he’s saying his jumbled thoughts out loud unedited to me, a stranger, I now understand now why Jack was suspicious of him.
Marcus breathes out, slowly, by my side.
‘So I come here instead to think about her, to feel close to her. You see, I promised my April I’d look after her.’
He’s staring down into the stream, like he’s lost something in the water. I follow his gaze, to where Cassie fell. Raindrops fall fatly into the stream, making perfect circles dance on the glass surface of the dark water.
‘I used to do this before, you know … before the accident. Just kept an eye on her every now and then, just to make sure she was doing OK.’ Marcus looks up at me quickly.
I ask, ‘And do you think she was? Doing OK, I mean, before the accident?’
Marcus drops his eyes back towards the lane, and his head droops as if in sympathy with the flowers and I realise he’s turning away from me because he’s crying.
‘She wasn’t happy. I remember now. I knew she wasn’t happy. I wanted her to know I was there for her, that I’d help her when she realised her mistake.’
‘What mistake?’
Marcus lifts his head to me, but doesn’t wipe the tears from his cheeks as he says, ‘Marrying that man.’
I tense. I don’t know why Marcus can’t say Jack’s name.
‘Marcus, who do you think hit her?’
I realise my mistake as soon as I’ve said his name but Marcus is too emotional, too confused to realise. Instead he turns to me, his eyes darkening.
The raindrops are even heavier now, striking down from the sky like tiny fists as rain turns to ice.
‘He always seemed angry with her. I don’t think he wanted a wife, I think he wanted freedom. That’s why he …’ Marcus turns to me, his mouth open, as though appalled to see me, listening to him there. ‘You said my name, just now.’ His face clouds. ‘Who are you?’
‘No, no, sorry, I … you misheard …’ Shit, shit, shit. But I’ve lost him.
Marcus shakes his head and starts backing away and he glances up at the sky, as if for guidance to a higher power, as though he thinks his April is there in the clouds. He raises his shoulders to his ears, trying to protect himself from the hail, protect himself from me.
‘No, I promise, I’m …’ but Marcus turns sharply away from me, and I watch as he limps as fast as he can down the lane before I turn back to the pile of flowers, my breath leaving me in thin clouds. Alice, you idiot. Despite the balls of ice that fall from the sky, I feel clammy, too hot in my coat suddenly, as if burnt from meeting Marcus. Something isn’t right with Marcus, something more than grief and age.
Bob whines by my feet. We should go back to the car but I need a moment. I look down at the flowers and bend to pick up a photo propped next to a bunch of browning sunflowers.
It’s of Cassie, around about the time of the Juice-C advert, her face full with youth, and the red-haired woman I saw on Cassie’s Facebook, Nicky Breton. Nicky’s turned to look at Cassie; she’s smiling at her friend, awed, as though she’s close to something celestial. Cassie seems oblivious to the light she casts; she’s turned fully towards the camera, smiling as though there could never be anything wrong with the world.
Bob’s whine becomes a bark; he starts turning circles in alarm by my feet, appalled by the hailstorm, urgently wanting to feel safe again. I put the photo back against the flowers, trying to shield it from the weather, but it’s no good; the photo is hit and flicked by tiny balls of ice. I’ve never been religious, but standing there, at the place where Cassie was hit, my hope turns fluidly into a prayer and above the hammering of the hailstorm and the swell of my own fear I whisper quickly, ‘Please, please.’ I don’t know if I’m begging for Cassie or for myself.
I feel my fear creeping again; like eyes on me, it builds up behind me like smoke, and I wonder whether Marcus has left or if he’s still watching me like he used to watch Cassie. I shiver. I glance one more time at Cassie’s flowers, before I call for Bob and start walking back towards my car. The approaching night feels like dark hands, pushing me away. I want to run, the tarmac iridescent and slick, a pathway to safety before me. A car growls, restless behind me. They haven’t turned their lights on. Can they see us? I grab Bob’s collar and press us both hard against the bank on the other side of the lane to the stream. Marcus only flicks his lights on as he drives past us. I stare at him, but he keeps his eyes fixed forward, as though he’s searching for someone else.
*
The oil cracks and pops in the pan as I add the chicken thighs, skin side down. Bob sits on his hind legs, chest puffed out, eyes fixed on me. Every now and then he works his chops noisily as if to remind me how very, very starving he is. We both know I’ll give in eventually. I move the chicken around in the pan and try and iron out my thoughts.
Marcus isn’t well and he keeps turning up without warning. He was there before Cassie had her miscarriage. I know he’s been at the hospital, and now, today, again at the place Cassie was hit. My stomach curdles, as I remember what he said, that Jack didn’t want to be married, that he wanted freedom. But Marcus was confused, acting strangely. Can I trust him? The noise of the frying meat gets louder, more urgent. Bob, not a fan of strange noises, even if they smell delicious, retreats to his basket in the utility room.