For three hours, Art’s wife watched officers at the front desk plod through morning duties without any personal sense of time. From habit she would glance at the stainless steel analogue clock positioned above the sliding glass entrance, but it could have been a handless face for all that it meant. Even so, time and necessity made their subtle pact, and what at first was a peculiarly unnerving space rapidly became intensely familiar. It was almost comforting, despite its institutional formality and myriad of advisory posters reminding anyone and everyone of their own vulnerability. Even the steady and secretive interactions of the police as they worked their way through piles of paper, shifted from mildly intimidating to vaguely reassuring.
At first, every click of the door from the inner sanctum made her jump in anticipation, before shrinking back with disappointment. But soon she was accustomed to the flow of people through the station, via both the inner door and the main entrance, and somewhere along the way she stopped expecting Art. A watched pot never boils, her mother used to say, and how true it was.
Eventually, at eleven o’clock, when she had finally stopped waiting and worrying and was instead drifting through unrelated thoughts, Art was released. He was brought through the front office and she was so shocked by what she saw, that only a deceptive smile weakly warmed her face. Was it really only yesterday morning that they last saw each other, she wondered, because yesterday morning he did not look like an old man. He never looked like an old man. It was always a vital person she watched in the garden, not broken. Art looked as if all the lustre of life had been trampled from him and been carelessly replaced with litter from the street. His face was baggy and pale, cheeks collapsed, the dreadful look of worry accentuated by almost two days worth of stubble. In his eyes not even a trace of the familiar sparkle remained.
She could see Art was afraid, intensifying her own anxiety. His was a face heavy with defeat and shame, every bit the innocent man who had killed someone, guilt and innocence not necessarily the opposing states they seem. She wanted to hug and comfort him more than she had ever wanted to, but he looked as though he would break if they so much as brushed against one another. The walk from the alien world of the police station was separate and silent.
*
Outside, the sky was the same clear blue it had been the day before, and the intensity of natural light made eyes feel bruised and stiff in their sockets. The air was startlingly fresh and crisp, as if overnight the very last of summer had finally acceded, stepping down in deference to the new and terrible circumstances swamping their lives. Walking nearer to each other now, the pair navigated a scattering of police cars parked on the forecourt, soon rounding into the entrance of the neighbouring public car park. Still no words were exchanged, but as Art looked along the road to the place his mother would have stood waiting for him after the coach dropped off, he suddenly drew his wife close and buried his face in her hair.
‘I love you,’ she said, holding him, ‘it’s alright. It’ll be alright.’ She could feel the shudder of silent sobs, tension from the last twenty-four hours breaking free. ‘I love you,’ she said again.
When eventually Art pulled away, he scrubbed the wetness from his eyes with a forefinger and thumb. The release of emotion left him marginally less pale than he had been. His wife reached out and touched his face, smiling a little.
‘I missed you,’ Art said quietly, as he tilted his face into her hand.
‘I missed you too. Come on. Let’s go home. Your mum’s waiting.’ She rolled her eyes, but in a manner meant only to tease and refocus Art on the world to which he belonged, rather than the unhealthy half-existence she feared for them both.
‘How is she?’
‘Very quiet.’
‘Ah.’
Quiet was never a good sign with his mother, they both knew.
‘It’s fine. She’s fine. I’ll make you some breakfast when we get home and you can soak in the bath, or whatever you want. You’ll feel like a new man.’
She paused, noting with sadness that the opportunity to use her words to make a joke had been allowed to pass. The Art she knew would have said ‘I don’t want a new man…’ or something similar.
He nodded his head to acknowledge he had heard her words, but it was clear he wasn’t prepared to agree that he would feel better. ‘Were you waiting long?’
‘A few hours.’
She could see Art stifling more tears as she unlocked the car. She climbed in but Art remained outside. Art’s wife beckoned him but he did not move. Leaning across she could see he was wiping his eyes.
‘I can’t get in.’
‘Come on. You have to. It’ll be fine.’
‘No.’
‘Art.’
‘No. I mean I really can’t get in. Part of my bail conditions.’
‘What?’
‘I can only travel in the back seat, and clearly there isn’t one.’
‘Art, you’ve made a mistake.’
‘No mistake.’
‘It must be. That can’t be right. Why bar a person from travelling in the passenger seat? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It does. It’s to stop people breaking their driving ban … to stop them seat swapping if they’re pulled over.’
‘Are you banned? You’re not banned, not yet. You can’t be.’
Art became irritable, ‘No, I am not banned. I am bailed. My bail conditions state I cannot travel in the front passenger seat. Jesus, Pet!’
Art’s wife thought for a moment, got out and locked the car. ‘Let’s get a taxi, then I’ll come straight back and collect it. Come on, the train station is only down the road and there’ll be plenty of cabs there.’ She began to walk, linking her arm in his, ‘So when will I get my car back, do you know?’
‘Maybe in a week or so. They want to examine it, for defects. You’ll have to use mine. Make sure you fill it up. I don’t want the engine buggered.’
The irony was not lost on her that she only ever drove his car when he was drunk.
‘It may as well be sold,’ he continued, ‘to have it sit and rot on the drive would be an unforgivable waste of a beautiful piece of engineering.’
*
‘If your mother could have accepted travelling in your car; if I filled my car more often; if you hadn’t insisted on the dinner party; if I had just said no to it; if we hadn’t slept in; if you had found a parking space instead of driving up and down that damn street. Bloody hell, Art, how many what ifs do you have to hear before you accept it was an accident?’
It was then Art’s mother spoke out properly for the first time since her son arrived home, her face having lost the appalling look of anguish straining though every crease. ‘That instructor, you know the one, the young man who put me off driving. Hopeless he was, imagine an instructor so bad his pupils can’t bear to drive anymore? Anyway, he told me there was no such thing as an accident. That everything that goes wrong on the road is avoidable, the result of carelessness or lack of foresight and nothing more.’
‘And that is helpful how?’ asked Art’s wife, allowing her frustration to sound.
‘Let me finish. An accident is an event brought about unintentionally, chance circumstances coming together. I suppose you could say it is also something occurring without apparent cause, in which case he was correct to say that a crash is not an accident, because the cause is obvious.’
‘Come on!’ Art’s wife snapped.
‘Please let me finish. Often, as with so many situations like this, using one definition to defend a position is simply not enough. So to say that poor person died only because of you isn’t true, Arthur, just as to say an accident is always avoidable isn’t true. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but usually about as useful as a sandcastle in the desert. Where is that poor person’s responsibility in all of this? Did she look before crossing?’
‘Your mother is right,’ added Art’s wife, quietly.
‘I appreciate your thoughts, Mum, but I was over the limit. It
was my fault and no one else’s. It’s not quite the same thing.’
His mother returned her gaze to the garden beyond the window and fell back into silence.
‘Tea anyone?’
‘Yes please. Tea, Mum?’ Art looked about, ‘Pet, where’s Rawa? She’s very quiet.’
‘Sorry?’ Art’s wife felt a flutter of nausea. She left the sitting room for the kitchen.
‘Rawa. Where’s Rawa?’ he called after her, ‘She in the garden? I haven’t seen her at all since I got back.’
She’s in the freezer, remembered Art’s wife. ‘Actually …’
‘What?’ Art had an edgy impatience in his voice.
Art’s wife returned from the kitchen and stood in the doorway. ‘I am so sorry. You couldn’t have known but … well, during Friday night …’ a sigh escaped, halting her words momentarily. ‘What I mean is when I came down on Saturday morning I found Rawa in her basket, after you’d gone. You were in such a hurry you wouldn’t have noticed. You didn’t, obviously. It was all very peaceful.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘She’s gone, Art. Passed away.’
Art stared at his wife, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I am telling you.’
‘Sooner! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘Like when?’
‘So where is she?’
Art’s mother was now paying full attention to the conversation. ‘In the freezer, dear,’ she said, but before an incredulous Art could form a single word in response she added, ‘and very wise. How else would you be able to share in it all, Arthur? You do want to bury her, don’t you?’
‘Of course. But the freezer …’
‘And what else was your wife supposed to do, having been alarmed by an urgent telephone call from the police? Throw that lovely dog in the bin? Leave her to rot in her basket?’
‘Mum!’
‘Well?’
Art’s wife quietly went off to finish making the tea, astounded by the apparent alliance offered by a woman always petulantly loyal to her son. Three cups were poured, when the sound of angry footsteps and the slam of the front door hastened her return.
‘Pay no attention to Arthur, dear. This is exactly how he behaved when he was nine after I gave away his guinea pigs.’ Art’s mother took her tea, ‘If you had children you would know to ignore it. You did the right thing. Perhaps, when he has calmed down a little, you might suggest burying Rawa? It may help.’
What normally would have been taken as a deliberate jibe about the lack of grandchildren passed by as nothing more than an ill considered remark, and the two women sat in unusually close proximity, the old lady in the chair and the daughter-in-law perched on the arm. Art’s wife could see that her husband was ahead of them and already digging, exactly in the spot where she herself had thought their beloved dog should lie.
She placed Art’s drink on the table. ‘He’s already started digging. Stopping him might be the problem.’
No reply came, so Art’s wife watched in silence as the mound of freshly dug soil grew into a large heap. When at last the hole was finished, the focus of the women’s interest marched back into the house. ‘I’ll get her. You coming outside, Mum?’
‘Yes I am. I’ll get my shoes.’
In the small utility room adjoining the kitchen, Art raised the lid of the chest freezer and lifted Rawa without the slightest change in expression. He walked briskly by, as if his wife were not there, and proceeded back outside.
The two women in Art’s life followed him into the garden and watched in dismay as Rawa, plastic nappy and mask removed and body now carefully wrapped in a red and green tartan rug, was put in the hole only to be taken straight back out.
‘Poor Rawa,’ Art’s wife said, thinking only of the similar saga the previous day.
But Art took it as criticism, ‘The hole’s not quite the right shape for her to fit and lie flat, she’s too stiff.’ He raised his eyes to meet his wife’s. ‘You see, Pet, Rawa is frozen solid. That’s what happens when you put things in the freezer. You should have left her in the garage.’
‘She would probably still be in rigor anyway,’ commented his mother, and Art’s wife offered a small smile of gratitude.
Art expanded the bottom of the pit and lowered Rawa into her final resting place. Without further ceremony he refilled the hole, returned the washed spade to the shed and then strode off down the lane. His wife watched him walk away and then turned to Mother-in-law. ‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’
‘The privileged few dread it, the disadvantaged fear it. By its very nature it dooms all to a cycle consisting more of relegation than promotion, because if you dare to acknowledge you are good then you are vain and an honest thief is still a thief. Whichever way you look at it the only way is down. Even the pious are self-righteous.’
‘Oh. I was thinking about Rawa.’
‘I don’t believe in it, load of rubbish.’
‘I see. Top up of tea?’
‘I was thinking perhaps something stronger.’
*
When Art finally came home it had been dark for hours. The table was laid and dinner ready.
‘What did they say would happen next Arthur?’ His mother asked, once the three of them had relaxed into their meal. ‘You’re on bail, but then what?’
‘Forty seven three,’ said Art. ‘The police say forty seven three. Not bail. Forty seven three.’
‘Oh. I wonder why.’ Art’s mother tried to sound light and interested.
‘It’s a section of the Bail Act. I asked.’
‘Oh,’ said his mother and wife, simultaneously.
‘So what will happen next?’ Art’s wife asked, repeating Mother-in-law’s question. ‘Do you know?’
Art refilled his glass, passing over those of his mother and wife. He threw back a few large mouthfuls of wine before topping up again, only then attending to the others. ‘Back to the station to see if they’re going to charge me.’
Concerned eyes were on Art. ‘And?’ prompted his mother.
‘Which they will.’
‘Then?’
‘Then magistrates in a few weeks, then Crown Court. Then prison.’
‘Dear God, Arthur.’
‘I know.’ Art looked steadily at them both. ‘Apparently, if it was a first offence it may not be too bad, but ...’
Art’s wife laid down her cutlery and pressed her fingers to her mouth. She was trying not to cry. It was not news to her, this likely outcome, but hearing it left her despairing of the future.
‘Prison, you say. Is that a maybe?’ asked his mother, voice hopeful.
‘No. Straight to prison and do not pass go. But really it’s all down to the Judge on the day.’ Art drank again.
‘How long for? A few months, Arthur?’
‘A few years, Mum. A few years.’
Chapter 10
HERE LIES MOIRA, FRIDAY MORNING
Little more than twenty-four hours prior to the moment she ceased to be, the day before the morning that found her unable to remain in bed waiting for the beeps, Moira awoke ahead of the alarm as usual.
A motionless mound under neat covers she watched the numbers change on the digital alarm clock, not willing them to speed up or to slow down but simply studying the unstoppable passing of time. Someone else might have mused that superficially one could stop it by unplugging the clock, but this was not the type of thought Moira was inclined to have. Her hair lay dry and ragged across the smooth white pillowcase, and when the alarm finally beeped at six-thirty, she slid out of the cocoon and headed to the bathroom to relieve her full bladder and to shower.
After drying her body with gentle pats in front of the mirror, Moira returned to the bedroom. Naked, she made the bed as always by smoothing it flat and re-tucking any looseness so the whole thing looked square and even. It was a deliberately efficient use of time, for by the time the bed was returned to perfection, her skin would have lost the tacky dampnes
s towels cannot remove, making putting on close fitting clothing infinitely easier.
Once dressed in all but her shoes, Moira made and consumed three pieces of toast and Marmite and a large glass of pulp filled orange juice, before washing up and returning to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Rarely did she meet anyone with teeth as fine as hers apart from her brother, and even his were not quite as white, she thought. Recently Moira had learned that a gap of twenty minutes or so should elapse between drinking acidic juice and using abrasives such as toothpaste and bristles on enamel, but twelve minutes was all she could reasonably spare. Someone else said twelve hours, but she thought it ridiculous.
Bathroom towels hung up and spread out, dishes dried and put away, the apartment immaculate, Moira slipped on her heels and made her way down to the car park. She felt good. Fulfilled. So far the day was going exactly as it should. It seemed to her that by running a tight ship she left no room for error, no cracks where bad luck might seep in; the few occasions her day had begun without routine were abysmal days that couldn’t end soon enough.
Friday always proved to be an easy drive to work, and this Friday was no exception. Nothing of the agonising tension that would accompany her the following day was apparent, and she sailed past slow traffic and through green lights with levity, a high mood so early in the day consistent only with luck behind the wheel. Moira was soon in Bath city centre, parked up and walking briskly to the studio. Often the case, she arrived much earlier than everybody else and had to wait for more senior personnel to arrive before she could get into the building. She had given up asking to be a key holder, immune now to the insult of being too junior for such responsibility despite so many years loyal service.
‘Morning Moira.’ A familiar voice broke her thoughts, ‘Bright and early as always I see.’
Moira was ill prepared for the encounter. She liked to have a sense of it in advance when this particular man was going to speak to her. Of course, knowing made her anxious, but at least she could prepare a possible response. ‘Morning,’ she said, after this momentary reflection, ‘You’re very early yourself.’