I looked up the address of the hospital – not far from West Croydon station – and headed there without clearly knowing why (to send healing vibes through the walls? To whisper anonymous apologies?). But approaching the main entrance, I spotted the CCTV cameras by the doors and turned on my heel.
Instead, I took the northbound hopper bus that served Silver Road, grimly pleased to get a window seat on the right side for viewing the accident site. Both the Fiat and the Peugeot had been removed, but the drive was still cordoned off by the police. The gate post had been obliterated, shrubbery flattened and two of the windows in the front bay boarded up, presumably shattered in the impact. A police board stood nearby – WITNESS APPEAL. A SERIOUS COLLISION OCCURRED HERE FRI 16/09 6 P.M.–6.15 P.M. – with a phone number to call with information.
It was 6.05, I thought. I’d noticed the time on my dashboard clock as I fled the scene.
Near the shrubbery lay a collection of bouquets, most still in their supermarket wrappings. You could see that each separate bunch had been placed in its spot with care.
15
Friday, 13 January 2017
London, 1.45 p.m.
Two days off, Bram’s boss Neil is saying. It wasn’t ideal, so soon into the New Year, but to be honest he hasn’t been himself since . . . well, since his marital troubles began. But anyway, they haven’t seen him since mid-afternoon on Wednesday and don’t expect him back until Monday.
‘I thought he was helping his mum put some stuff in storage?’ he says from his mobile, voice loud and bright. She can hear the Friday lunchtime laughter of a restaurant or bar in the background.
‘No, he’s definitely not with her,’ Fi says. She doesn’t tell him about the decorating ruse Bram used on Tina. The idea of storage can’t be a coincidence, though: if not Tina’s things, then surely theirs?
‘Hang about,’ Neil says, and exhales in a low whistle. ‘He hasn’t gone and checked himself into rehab, has he?’
‘Of course not!’ Even through the fog of shock, she’s taken aback by this suggestion.
‘Good, because that would be a hell of a lot longer than a couple of days. He’ll turn up, Fi. You of all people know what he’s like.’
But what if she doesn’t, she thinks, hanging up. What if she doesn’t know what he’s like? Not anymore.
‘They haven’t seen him either,’ she tells Lucy Vaughan, who is back at her kettle in a renewed attempt to civilize Fi with tea. Fi can tell from the subtle alteration to her manner since the business with the school that she thinks she might be dealing with someone of unsound mind. Not amnesiac, but psychotic. She is humouring Fi, managing her as best she can until backup arrives in the form of her husband, en route with the second van. She’s no doubt regretting telling the removals guys they can grab a coffee on the Parade while they wait.
In fact, Fi is managing herself better now. She must be because she’s started noticing details, like the fact that Lucy has a chrome kettle where hers is black, white mugs where hers are sage green, an oak-topped table instead of the industrial-style steel one Alison helped Fi choose. All items that have, like the rest of her Trinity Avenue reality, evaporated.
‘When was the last time you actually saw Bram?’ Lucy asks, pouring steaming water into the mugs and dropping the squeezed teabags into a Sainsbury’s carrier, her makeshift moving-day bin.
‘Sunday,’ Fi says. ‘But I spoke to him yesterday and Wednesday.’
The gulf between the innocent arrangements of the last few days and the nameless mysteries of today already feels unbreachable. Bram was leaving work after lunch on Wednesday to pick up the boys from school and allow Fi her early start to her two-night break, which was also supposed to involve a leisurely return this evening and an overnighter in the flat. She wasn’t due to relieve Bram of the boys until Saturday morning, a departure from their usual bird’s nest routine, but normal service was to be resumed the following week. Had she not needed to dash back for her laptop, or had she left it in the flat and not here, she wouldn’t have known the boys were at their grandmother’s; she wouldn’t have known the Vaughans were in her house. Not yet. She’d be in a state of grace.
Lucy unpacks a carton of milk and adds a dash to each mug. ‘Here, finally.’ She hands Fi hers with an air of it being a leap of faith on her part to expect that Fi will not throw it back at her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be back in touch soon and we’ll sort this misunderstanding out.’
She keeps using that word – misunderstanding – as if it’s some farcical mix-up, like when Merle’s Biscuiteers delivery went to Alison’s house and the Osborne kids ate them without checking the card. Easily solved, quickly forgiven.
Fi stares past Lucy, out to the garden. This, at least, is exactly as she left it, every plant rooted loyally to its spot. The goal net. The swing. The slide snaking from the roof of the playhouse to the patch of lawn worn to dirt.
‘I was planning on taking a sledgehammer to that playhouse,’ she says, ‘when the kids grow out of it.’
Lucy tries to conceal a look of shock, licks dry lips. As if pre-empting further violent impulses, she tries another helpful suggestion: ‘Should we phone the school and let them know the boys have been located? You probably gave them quite a scare.’
‘Oh yes, I should do that . . .’ Startled from her reverie and unable to locate her phone immediately, Fi starts to shower the table with the contents of her handbag before remembering the phone is in her pocket. Having redialled the school, she goes through to voicemail and leaves Mrs Emery a garbled apology.
Hanging up, she sees that Lucy’s attention is fixed on the items spilled from her bag, specifically on a slim box of pills lodged in its mouth. Her face is that of someone whose worst suspicions have just been confirmed.
‘They’re not mine,’ Fi tells her and she stuffs everything back into her bag, keeping the phone in front of her.
‘Right.’ Pity crosses Lucy’s eyes, followed by redoubled wariness. Perhaps she suspects that Fi has a personality disorder and has somehow appropriated the name of the former owner, presenting herself here in some dissociative state. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but is the medication new? Did the doctor warn you about side effects? Maybe short-term memory loss or something . . .’
‘I just told you, it’s not mine!’ Fi can feel her expression distorting, struggles to straighten it. She can’t predict her emotions any more than she can control the way they express themselves.
Lucy nods. ‘My mistake. Oh!’ At the sound of the doorbell, relief floods her face and she springs to her feet in near joy. ‘They’re here!’
She hurries to the door and soon Fi hears two new voices, one male, belonging to one of the removals team or perhaps Lucy’s husband, the other immediately identifiable as Merle’s.
Merle! She was at the window, watching. She must have waited until the second van arrived and then decided she could delay intervening no longer. She’ll be on Fi’s side, won’t she? See this as Fi does, know that Lucy is the deluded one, not her.
Lucy returns first, newly emboldened: ‘Right, now David’s here, I suggest we both try to get hold of our solicitors.’
Before Fi can protest that she doesn’t have one, because she hasn’t sold her house, Merle bursts in, all but forcing Lucy against the kitchen counter to take command of the space.
‘Have you invited these people to move in, Fi?’ Ardent with indignation, her scarlet top billowing, Merle is like a guru, her energy magical, transformative.
‘No,’ Fi says, with a surge of spirit, ‘definitely not. I don’t know who they are or why their things are here. This is all completely against my will.’
As Lucy begins to object, Merle silences her with a raised palm inches from her nose. ‘In that case, this is illegal occupation and harassment.’ (Merle worked years ago as a housing officer, which is always worth remembering.) ‘And I’m reporting them to the police!’
Geneva, 2.45 p.m.