8.30 a.m.
He knew his fingers would tear through the soft felt brim of his fedora if he clutched it any tighter. But he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
He watched as she turned back from closing the door and noted how she avoided his gaze when she walked towards the centre of the living room. Time hadn’t eroded her natural grace. The crow’s feet around the cool flint of her eyes were new to him, and the narrow lines across her forehead stretched further than he remembered, but none of it mattered. Her loveliness was altered, but not in the least bit dimmed. Her grey hairs were like perfectly placed brushstrokes in an oil painting, all the better for not being disguised by artificial colouring. Her bloom had far from faded, and that made him feel awkward and dusty in comparison.
For Catherine’s part, she had so much to say but nowhere to begin. So she remained silent and knotted her fingers together tightly so he couldn’t see them shake. Try as she might, she did not want to look at him, but it was a struggle. Eventually she allowed her eyes to cautiously run over him.
His face had filled out, leaving his cheeks jowlier. His waistline had expanded, but was kept under restraint by his leather belt. His feet looked larger, which she realised was a peculiar thing to focus on.
Then her eyes became glued to him, fearing that if they became unstuck, he would vanish. And if he was to disappear again, she wanted to be there to see it. It had been years since she’d last glimpsed his image in any of the few remaining photographs left hidden in the attic. She’d forgotten how handsome he was. How handsome he was even now, she admitted, then immediately chastised herself for thinking that.
He stood awkwardly and surveyed the living room, trying to recall what had been where when he was last inside it. The layout appeared familiar, albeit with fresh wallpaper, carpets and furnishings. But it felt so small in comparison to what he now called home.
‘Do you mind if I sit?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply, so he did so anyway.
There were pictures of people in frames scattered across the sideboard, but without his reading glasses, their faces were blurs. It was the same when he’d tried to remember what his children looked like – clouds always masked the finer details. Well, all apart from James. He knew the man James had become, and he’d never forget that.
The silence between them lasted longer than either noticed. As the uninvited visitor, he felt the need to begin.
‘How are you? You look well.’
She gave him a look of disdain, but it failed to unsettle him. He was prepared for that.
‘I like what you’ve done with the cottage,’ he continued.
Again, nothing.
He scanned the sandstone chimney breast and the wood-burning stove they’d had a devil of a time installing soon after they’d moved in. He smiled. ‘Is that old thing still working? Do you remember when we almost set the chimney alight because we hadn’t cleaned it out before—’
‘Don’t.’ Her curt response prevented him from reaching the end of memory lane.
‘Sorry, it’s just being in this room after so long brought it back . . .’
‘I said don’t. You do not turn up at my house after twenty-five years and begin speaking to me like we’re old friends.’
‘I’m sorry.’
An uneasy, foggy quiet filled the room.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘What do I want?’
‘That’s what I asked. What do you want from me?’
‘I don’t want anything from you, Kitty.’ It was a partial truth.
‘Don’t call me that. You lost any right to call me that a long time ago.’
He nodded.
His voice sounded a little raspier and deeper than back then, and contained traces of an accent she couldn’t place.
‘And spare me your apologies,’ she continued. ‘They’re a little late in the day and unwelcome.’
He’d played out this opening scenario dozens of times in his imagination before Luca had booked his flights over the Internet. Would she remain in shock or slap him, embrace him, yell at him, cry or just refuse to let him in? There were countless reactions she could have had, but somehow he’d failed to anticipate this icy hostility. He didn’t know how to respond to it.
‘Where did you go?’ she asked. ‘While I was out searching for your dead body, where the hell were you?’
CHAPTER FOUR
SIMON
Calais, France, twenty-five years earlier
10 June
I’d not made acquaintance with motion sickness before last night, locked in the back of the truck. I’d lost track of how often I vomited. My stomach had become nothing more than a hollow trunk.
The driver had warned me the crossing would take about an hour and a half, but the festering storm outside soon put paid to his estimate. An uncaring English Channel picked up our ferry and tossed it around like a rag doll. I felt my way around in the pitch black and wedged myself behind two packing cases strapped in place to the sides of the truck.
I’d buried my history with my mother’s bones, but to truly shed my skin, an unfettered, unspoiled me could only thrive far away from the past. France’s geographical location made for an obvious starting point. Reaching it without a passport or money was, however, an obstacle. But a haggard truck driver with a nicotine-stained moustache and disdain for authority offered me a solution.
Earlier in the day, he’d picked me up near Maidstone and we’d enjoyed a rapport over the state of British football and the Conservative government’s penchant for privatising anything and everything. At no point did he enquire as to my hidden motives when I explained where I was headed and how my lack of means might hamper me. However, he’d come to his own conclusions.
‘I did a bit of prison time back in the day,’ he began, rolling a cigarette as he steered. ‘As long as you ain’t murdered anyone or touched any kids, I’ll get you over there.’
Minutes before he drove through the customs checkpoint, he locked the trailer doors behind me, leaving me hidden behind wooden boxes with a torch, a can of supermarket beer and his homemade cheese and chutney sandwich. But neither the food nor the drink remained inside me once the storm exploded into life.
The conditions outside were clearly too chancy for us to dock, so we remained mid-Channel until the white squall played out. With each dip, my stomach touched my toes until the ferry finally docked safely in the port.
‘Look at the state of you!’ the driver laughed when he set me free in the car park of a French hypermarket.
He helped my unsteady feet back onto land and I shed my vomit-stained clothes behind the truck, throwing them into a bin. I climbed into his cab in just my underwear and changed into new clothes I’d taken from someone else’s bag at a homeless shelter I’d slept at in London.
‘This is as far as I can take you,’ he said back outside. ‘Good luck, son.’
‘Thank you. By the way, I didn’t catch your name?’