The Day She Died (3 page)

“My wife,” he whispered. “Ruby's mum. She's gone.”

“Oh,” I said. Big help.

“Dad?”

“Can you call someone?” I asked him. He lifted one of his feet and his phone was under it, smashed and flattened. “Here,” I said, rummaging. “Use mine.”

“I don't know any numbers.”

“God, I know,” I said. “Everybody's on speed dial. If you—”
If you stamp on your phone you've had it
, was what I was going to say.

“I've got to go,” he said, pulling himself up, holding onto the shelf. But he swayed, and his ruddy face went grey in streaks under his eyes.

“Yeah,” I said. “Go out and get some fresh air. Do you actually need any of this stuff?” I nodded at the bags of apples and bread rolls around the wee girl's feet. He nodded. “Do you need anything else?” He just stared at me. “Milk? Tea? Bog roll?”

“Nappies,” he said, and I flicked a glance at the kid in the trolley. I was usually great at guessing ages. “Pull-ups, I mean. Twenty-four to—Oh my God!” And his feet went out from under him again. He sat down like a load of washing someone had dropped there, right down on the floor.

“Okay,” I said. Too bad if I offended him. I twisted the cap off the posh juice. “Have a slug of this, it's pure sugar. Are you in a car? Yeah? Well, you can't drive. Take the wee one outside—Ruby, is it?—and I'll get your shopping and meet you. I'll drive you home.” I lifted Ruby out of the trolley, setting her down on her feet, waiting for her hands to let go of my arms, once she was steady. “What kind of car is it?”

“Skoda,” he mumbled, standing again.

“Go,” I told him. “I'll get this. For real this time.”

“What?” His eyes were blank in his blank face.

“Doesn't matter.”

He didn't remember me. No clue. Not from the cakes day, or the time he'd been in the Project, or even the day I'd been skulking about the library when he was getting those copies done, and I thought for sure he'd clocked me that time. He must have looked away like that, quick and sure, because … because he doesn't smile back at strange women who smile at him in Marks and Spencer's food hall? Because he's a happily married man? Not anymore he wasn't, from the sound of things. Or maybe his wife was the jealous type? Only it looked like she'd set him free.

I stood and watched as he walked away. He was bent over to one side a bit so he could steer his daughter with a hand on her back, and it made him look kind of broken, like he kind of was.

There was no sign of them at the back door. I scanned the street both ways, looking for a Skoda, wishing I'd asked what colour instead of what kind. But there was no one sitting in any of the parked cars. Maybe he'd hoofed it; maybe these apples and nappies were mine to keep now. I almost went back inside to get a refund—good old Marks—and go out through the front and home. Then I wondered. Irish Street, the back street, was all offices and permits. He'd never have parked right here. He'd be down in the proper car park at the Whitesands, like everyone else. Because, even while I was standing there, I could see that this time of day, half-past five, everybody was headed down there. Like Irish Street was draining out through the side alleys, people all pouring the same way down to the river.

Worth a try
, I told myself.
Last thing he needs is another let-down now
. So I hoisted the shopping bags off the wall and joined the stream. Funny thing, though. You'd think at half-past five folk would be tired—plodding back to their cars—but I was getting passed, people hurrying nearly, and there was a bit of a thrum going. At the bottom of the street, they all crossed the wide road, edged around the rows of parked cars, and made for the railings. I followed them with my eyes, and there he was. His car—a battered hatchback, no hubcaps, paint dulled down to a matte finish with age—was right by the edge, and he was leaning against the door, facing the water.
Staring
down into the water, in fact, so I hurried, scuffling over the four lanes with the bags hitting my calves, swept up in all the crowd hurrying with me.

Ruby was strapped into a booster seat, still holding the bag of figs—shoplifted without me noticing—but not eating, and he was looking straight down into the water, like I said. He was the only one, though. The folk who'd hurried down the alleys were staring at the far bank and taking pictures with their phones. On the other side of the river, a police van and an ambulance were parked on the grass, half a dozen guys in high-vis jackets milling about.

“What's going on?” I asked him.

“Divers,” he told me. As he said it, two heads popped up like seals from the rolling grey of the river, and the high-vis jackets lined up at the fence to look over. The crowd on this side made a noise all together like they'd been practising.

“Poor buggers,” I said. “It'd take more than a wetsuit and mask before I'd jump in the Nith. Has somebody hoyed a dead dog off the bridge again?”

He shrugged. I put the bags in the boot and got in behind the wheel. He slid in to the passenger side.

“Seatbelt,” I said. He didn't move. “Seriously, when you see me reversing out of this space, you'll wish you had.” But his lips didn't so much as twitch. “What's your address?”

“That's a lot of cops for a dead dog,” he said.

I looked in the mirror. “What's your address, hunny-bunny?” Fingers crossed it wasn't too far.

“Fifteen stroke three Caul View, Dumfries,” she said, triumphant.

“Clever cookie,” I told her. Caul View was just across the river. Five minutes away, even in Dumfries's excuse for a rush hour, as long as the road wasn't closed for the divers. In fact, if the dead dog had been lobbed in off a balcony instead of the bridge this time, a Caul View balcony was a contender.

As I had that thought, I felt a wee cold trickle of something down inside. Why would that be? Maybe it came from the way he was staring at the cops and divers. And what he'd said too.
That's a lot of cops for a dead dog
. Just for a minute I was glad we weren't alone, him and me. I caught Ruby's eye again and smiled.

“Caul View, eh?”

“Only but we moved,” she said. “To the seaside.”

“Right,” I answered. “Okay. Listen, sweetie, what's your daddy's name?” He was still sitting like a carved rock beside me.

“Daddy,” she said. I remembered thinking that about my dad too.

“Okay, Daddy,” I said, tapping him on his knee. I started the engine and put the car in gear. “Where am I going? Eh? Say Becky's not finished packing yet? Where will we go to find her?”

“Bypass,” he said, at last. “A75 to Stranraer.”

“Right,” I said again, thinking I'd already shelled out for Marks and Spencer's pull-up nappies and, even if I felt like a pig for asking, I'd need him to chip in for my taxi back. The chances of getting a bus after dark were exactly nil.

I'd no idea how long it would be before the next time I went home.

Three

And how weird is
it that I enjoyed the journey? He never said another word for twenty miles and Ruby went into a car trance, thumb in her mouth and eyes glazed, but I like driving and I don't get to do it much. I hadn't been out of Dumfries for weeks, hadn't been west since spring, and I could feel the town lifting off me in big grey flakes, like that kiddy-on microscope film from the washing powder advert, that shows the dirt floating away.

Dumfries and Galloway; there's a clue in the two separate names. Flat grey plains by the sea, flat grey moors up above them, and wee grey towns from when Scotland had mines, just the spot for a free clothing project. In Dumfriesshire, they'll put a car park on the banks of the river instead of picnic tables and, if a beautiful old house is falling down, they'll give it a shove to help.

And it is a beautiful house, even without the magic garden, but it was the garden that swung it. JM Barrie came to visit there—a family with a sister and little brothers and a big smelly dog—and he sat in the
garden and wrote
Peter Pan
. Right here in Dumfries, while the
brothers played at pirates. So of course it should be a children's centre, but it took a shed load of people donating and protesting before the council gave in. And even then someone on the committee took on cowboys to save a quid, and they nicked the lead off the roof or something (Father Tommy knows the story but he won't tell me) and vanished. Nicking the lead off the roof of a children's respite centre. That was Dumfriesshire for you.

But Galloway? Out of the world and into Galloway, as my granny used to say. Can't fling a stick without hitting an artist's studio, or a cheese-makers' commune, or a stone barn that's been turned into a theatre. Cottages painted like ice cream, harbours full of sailing boats, folk eating scallops. In Galloway, if you get more than six miles from a handmade candle, an alarm goes off and a beeswax SWAT team copters one out to you. I'd have moved there from Caul View too. We even had to stop for dairy cows crossing the road. Pain in the neck it must be if you did it every day, but it made me happy.

Only, when we'd got past Castle Douglas, a road sign said Stranraer 45 Miles and I thought I'd better check.

“Uh, how far are we actually going?”

“Gatehouse,” he said. “Sandsea.” Then silence for another ten miles, as we drove into the sea-light, towards the sinking sun, until I heard, “Next turn.”

The “next turn” was onto a farm track between two fields. And not even a good one—grass up the middle and deep ruts from tractors so that the belly of the Skoda scraped along. I winced and clenched myself up off my seat is if that would help us, but the man didn't seem to notice. He didn't move in all the time it took to cross the fields in that flat milky light from the water, not until we'd passed under some trees and came to the farmyard itself, the usual dilapidated war zone, with its pallet gates and string hinges, piles of tractor tyres and oil drums. Then he jerked right forward, craning out of the windscreen and either side, gripping the dashboard, holding his breath. I slowed.

“Keep going, keep going,” he said. “There's no one here.”

“Is this your place?” I asked him, but he motioned me to drive on. The track went right past the yard, through an open gate, and then the trees closed around it again. I fumbled for the lights, got the windscreen wipers first, and then there were two patches of yellow ahead of us. All of a sudden, like always, the dark was darker.

“Stockman's Cottage,” he said. “Over the fields.” Then he twisted in his seat and looked behind. “Definitely no one there.”

“So … no point asking if someone saw her leave?” I guessed, wondering what was getting to him. He didn't answer. And between the dark and the woods and the way he was jumping around, I was really starting to wish I was at home in my flat with my juice in a wineglass after all. Then the trees cleared and the land unfolded, and suddenly we were right on the bay—wet sand gleaming in the last of the sunlight, the stink of seaweed, and the line of the far hills looking as sharp as a knife edge against the pink of the sky.

“Bear left,” he said. Right into the blaze of the setting sun, blinding us, filling the car with flames.

“I can't see a goddamn thing, by the way,” I told him, and I slowed to a crawl. His hair looked like his head was on fire and the stubble on his cheeks was like gold glitter scattered there. Then we drew into the shadow of a rowan tree (like they always have beside houses here, to keep the witches away), and the world was grey again, proper twilight, the last sliver of sun winking out, snuffed for the night.

“Where's Mummy's car?” said Ruby. “Where have they gone?”

We were parked at the back of a cottage; not the colour of ice cream this one, it was a farmworker's place for sure. Grey walls, metal window frames painted dark red like a railway station, pebbled glass in the bathroom window, and a lean-to porch against the back door.

“Can you come in with me?” he said. He hadn't turned—he was sitting staring straight ahead at the house—but he had to be talking to me. He couldn't be asking his daughter. His hands were gripping his knees, patches of red and white all up and down his fingers from the pressure.

“Of course,” I said. I hate going into strangers' houses, people who don't know about—. Well, usually I've got my excuse ready before they even ask, but this was different. The state of him for one thing, plus what else was I going to do miles from anywhere with it nearly dark now? He fumbled the door open and hauled himself out. Ruby was unbuckling herself, scrambling down.

“I'll get the kettle on and you can call a friend on your landline,” I said as I followed him, making it clear that I'd stick to the kitchen. Kitchens were usually fine. “I'll even stay till they come if you want me to.” I felt sick and my heart was banging inside my ribs, making me think of my granny with her carpet beater—
bam bam bam
—but my voice sounded fine. I'm a star turn at sounding like I'm a-okay in much worse states than this one.

He stepped over a low fence into a garden, lifted Ruby over, and kept her riding on his arm as he disappeared round the corner to the front. I followed him. The path was red brick and the edges were bricks sticking up like saw teeth. Two patches of grass and two flower beds against the house. Blue front door and a window on either side, like a drawing. And beyond the garden gate, a few feet of that dead short grass from sheep eating it and then rocks and the beach and the sea—just a ribbon of light in the distance and the slow sound of low tide and the feel of the breeze with a hint of salt in. I looked at him standing there with the kid on his arm, picking over his keys.

This “Becky” must be mad leaving here. Walking away from everyone's dream life. Stark raving bonkers.

He was struggling with the keys like a drunk, so I took them out of his hands and opened up for him. The wee girl wriggled down and burst into the house shouting.

“Mummy! Mummy?”

From one of the rooms came a sound. I couldn't have said what it was, but beside me, on the doorstep, he swayed again.

“No way,” he said. “She'd never.” And he took the length of the hallway in three strides, his hair flapping and his heavy boots booming on the thin carpet runner, then he shoved a door open and stood on the threshold. I edged up behind him and peered over his shoulder, standing on my tiptoes.

The blinds were closed, but I could see a double bed—sheets and blankets, flat foam pillows, no cushions, thank God—and beyond it a cot wedged in, in front of a tiled fireplace. And in the cot was a baby. A toddler, a boy by the look of him, standing up in footy pyjamas, holding on to the bars. He lifted his arms and squealed.

“Daddeeee!”

The man sat down hard on the edge of the bed and put a hand through the cot bars. The baby grabbed on, wrapping his whole fat little fist round one finger and tugging. He started bouncing up and down, his nappy—pull-ups, twenty-four months—rustling, saying “Da-ddy, Da-ddy” over and over in time with each bounce.

“She left him,” said the man, looking up at me. “She locked him in and left him. What if something had happened to me? How long … ”

I sat down too then, right down on a stranger's bed, and I could feel the stale close air of a stranger's bedroom pressing in, the private smell of sleep and worn clothes.

“It's okay,” I said. “He's fine.” He really was too. In fact, the boy was in the best shape out of the three of us, actually, but he'd picked up enough of the feelings in the room to stop bouncing. He was standing still now with the end of the man's finger in his mouth, looking at him with the same big dark eyes as his sister.

“Are
you
all right?” The man stretched out his other hand and touched my bare arm where I'd pushed my sleeves up for driving.

“Me?” I said. Yelped, really. “Don't worry about me! Time like this. God!” And now I put a hand on him. It was a shock to feel him burning through his padded shirt, damp with sweat.

“You need … ” I said. What? He needed his wife back, was what he needed. Nothing that I could give him anyway. “Jeez, you're roasting.”

“I'm … When she phoned,” he started. He had lowered his head and he was mumbling again. “All I could think was she'd left me. She'd left
me
. Didn't even think of trying not to scare Ruby and I forgot—” His throat closed. He cleared it and spoke again. “Until you asked about the nappies. I forgot—” He was trembling.

“You'd had a shock,” I said. “Don't beat yourself up.”

“I forgot him!” He was whispering. “What kind of dad am I?”

“A brilliant one,” I said. “You remembered the nappies. And you nearly broke the door down getting in here.”

I was trying to help, but what the hell did I know about any of this? Well, truth was, a bit more than I'd want to tell him. Luckily he wasn't paying attention. He stood, stooped over the cot, and swiped the baby up into his arms. Buried his face into the fat little neck and blew raspberries, just like he had with the girl. The baby kicked against his chest, squealing. I could smell the sour stink of his nappy, overdue for changing.

“A brilliant dad?” he said, but he looked hopeful, like he just needed to hear it maybe one more time.

“For sure.” I tried to sound as definite as could be. “Or she wouldn't have left them with you, would she?” Which didn't come out the way I meant it, but he was okay. He nearly smiled.

“Roobs!” he shouted. “What are you doing so quiet through there, you wee monkey?” And he turned and left the room, clomped through the house, still shouting. I could hear her giggling somewhere.

Maybe it was just a fight. Maybe she'd gone round to a friend's to give him a scare, bring him to his senses, stop him … coming in late or putting his boots on the couch. (Except he'd been wheeling a trolley round M&S, buying figs for the kid.) Or maybe the poor cow was happier in Caul View near her mum or her pals and had just had enough of the cottage—taken off, back by bedtime. (Except she had her own car, so how bad could it be?) Storm in a teacup. Someone needed to get her told about leaving the baby alone, right enough, but there was no harm done, so—

I'd been letting my eyes drift over the cosy mess of the bedroom, being quite brave really, now I knew the big dangers were behind me. The floor was littered with toys and clothes—but boys' toys, quite safe. The dressing-table top was crowded with bottles and brushes and a row of Playmobil knights in armour ready for battle. I didn't think much of them and looked away. Something was propped against the mirror. Something that didn't belong. I stepped closer and read. It wasn't in an envelope, wasn't even folded.

I'm sorry,
it said.
I can't go through it again. I can't go on.