I would give anything for a glass of wine but I don’t want to give away my secret stash.
‘Tea would be lovely,’ I reply. ‘Make it strong.’
I go into the living room and turn on the light. I see a pile of papers on the coffee table, Paul’s work, and I feel bad that he has missed another day at the office on my account.
‘Here we are,’ he says, coming in with a mug of tea.
‘Thanks, Paul,’ I say as he puts it on the table in front of me.
He sits down and sips his tea while I wait for mine to cool down. Neither of us speaks, and the quiet makes me feel nervous. The bird is back. It’s flying around the ceiling, making me feel dizzy. Round and round it goes, its cold dead eyes boring into me until I can’t stand it any longer. I get up and grab the remote control from the shelf then switch on the TV.
‘Sally, do you have to?’
I ignore Paul’s protests as I sit back down in the armchair and stare at the screen. TV has a soothing effect on me when I feel like this, when the nerves spike up on the surface of my skin like tiny knives. It always has done. When I was a kid I would drown out my parents’ shouting by staring at the television. In my favourite programmes the towns were green and sunny, everyone was happy and safe, nobody shouted or argued. If I put my hands over my ears I could pretend I lived there too. I was such a scared little girl but I knew that in the hours between three thirty and five in the afternoon – children’s telly time – no one could hurt me.
I turn the volume up as the local news bulletin starts.
‘Sally?’
‘Blimey, he’s been presenting this show since I was a kid,’ I say, pointing at the lizard-skinned anchorman. ‘Donkey’s years. Surprised he hasn’t been pensioned off.’
‘Can we at least turn it down?’ says Paul, reaching for the remote control that is still within my grip. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’
‘No,’ I say, holding it to my chest as the image on the screen changes. ‘I want to hear this. He’s talking about Kate.’
The presenter is saying that she grew up in the area and attended the local school.
‘Oh, Kate would love this,’ I say. ‘She bloody hated Herne Bay Comp.’
‘As far as we know, Kate Rafter is missing presumed dead,’ he goes on.
I lean forward in my chair.
‘See,’ I say to Paul, pointing at the screen. ‘He’s saying it as well: missing. I told you. There’s still a chance.’
‘Sally, he said missing presumed dead. They –’
‘Shhh,’ I hiss as they cut to a scene from the place where it happened: a field full of tents and body bags.
‘Oh my God,’ I gasp. ‘Look at that.’
‘Sally, turn it off,’ says Paul. ‘This isn’t going to help.’
The lizardy presenter is back. His face is grey and serious as he tells us that Kate’s friends and colleagues are holding a vigil in some church in London. St Bride’s in Fleet Street. Then he smiles and hands over to Christine for the weather.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, jumping to my feet.
‘Go where?’
Paul grabs the remote control and turns the television off just as Christine is warning of strong westerly winds.
‘Sally, breathe,’ he says. ‘You need to slow down or you’ll have a panic attack.’
I pat my pockets, though I have no idea what I’m looking for. Keys. I always used to have car keys in my pocket though that’s another thing I’ve lost.
‘Stop,’ says Paul, grabbing hold of my arms. ‘Come on, love, just sit down and I’ll make us another cup of tea.’
‘I don’t want another cup of tea,’ I tell him as I rush into the hallway to get my shoes. ‘I need to go to London. They’re having a vigil; he just said that. I’ll have to check the train times but they’re pretty regular, aren’t they?’
‘Sally,’ he yells. ‘For God’s sake, stop it.’
He’s in front of me now, holding my arms with both his hands.
‘You have got to calm down or you’re going to make yourself ill,’ he says. ‘Nobody is going to London. Okay? Nobody. You need to rest and let yourself grieve properly. You’ve had a huge shock and barely any sleep. I mean, for Christ’s sake, you spent most of last night digging up the garden.’
‘But he said –’
‘Listen, it’s okay,’ says Paul as he takes me in his arms. ‘The vigil isn’t for another two days. If you promise me you’ll get some sleep and eat some proper food then I’ll take you to it. Now let’s get you back to bed. You need to rest.’
But as I settle between the sheets and close my eyes all I can see is the bird. It presses its beak against my ear and whispers with Hannah’s voice:
Just let me go, Mum.
33
I can smell burnt toast and my stomach lurches as I turn over in the bed. The streetlight filters through the white linen curtains and I can see the shadow of a bird sitting on the ledge, its beak opening and closing.
Just let me go, Mum.
I pull the covers over my head, willing myself to go back to sleep. But then the door opens.