The Fallout (33 page)

“Mrs. Busfield, we're outside your house. Can you let us in?”

“But what—?”

“The front door, Mrs. Busfield. Please?”

The hollow voice is firm, and I find myself obediently slipping my arms into my new waffle bathrobe. From long-ingrained habit I make a quick detour into the en-suite bathroom to run a comb through my hair. The familiarity of the action wards off the panic I can feel bubbling up inside me.
Keep things normal. That's the key. Don't think about what a policeman at the door in the middle of the night might mean. That way everyone will be safe.
Glancing into the mirror, I'm reassured at how calm and ordinary I look, although my eyes are those of someone I don't altogether recognize.

Opening the front door takes time. The alarm has to be deactivated (the day and month of Felix's birthday. Mustn't panic and mess it up), top and bottom bolts drawn, chain taken off its latch. Amazing that Josh remembered to do all that last night for once. All my nagging must be paying off! I don't rush. If I can control the opening of the door, I can control whatever is coming next.
Thump, thump, thump.
How loud my heart sounds.

Detective Inspector Bowles is a pointy-faced man with the sort of hair that changes from blond to ginger like a two-tone suit, depending on the light. He is wearing a rather hideous thigh-length black leather jacket with a wide elasticated band around the bottom, and a camel-colored scarf that blends so seamlessly into his freckles, it makes him seem like he's naked under his jacket. With him is a heavy-set young woman in a police uniform, who introduces herself with a name I instantly forget.

“Mrs. Busfield.”

What if I don't let them in? Then they won't be able to say whatever it is they're here to say. But of course, my years of social conditioning kick in.

“Come in,” I say, and hate myself for minding that Josh has left his trainers strewn messily on the floor at the foot of the stairs. Who thinks about mess at a time like this? Instinctively, I lead them into the kitchen rather than the living room. I've watched enough TV detective shows to know bad news comes to people perched stiffly on the edge of sofas, not casually arranged around a blond-wood table in a warm family kitchen. I'll be safe here because of the dentist reminders pinned to that awful monolithic fridge by circular, jolly-colored magnets and the remains of a pot noodle next to the sink. All this is protection against something bad having happened to Flora or Simon. Or Felix.

“Is your husband here, Mrs. Busfield?”

The gingery policeman sits opposite me, turning his mobile phone around between the fingers of his right hand. A fidgeter.

“No, he's away. Saudi Arabia somewhere. Or Bahrain.” In my nervousness it comes out sounding like brain.

The woman, who is sitting at the end of the table, glances away at this point, seeming to find something intensely interesting about the all-singing, all-dancing espresso machine Simon bought but which neither of us has ever managed to master. She has on thick orange foundation, which stops at her jaw, making her neck appear to belong to someone else.

“Is there something wrong?”

Idiot! As if there might yet exist the possibility of there being nothing wrong, of two strange police officers dropping in at 3:42 a.m. for a random social visit.

The ginger policeman clears his throat slightly. He's obviously the designated spokesman.

“I'm sorry to tell you, Mrs. Busfield, that a man's body was found in the Thames near Limehouse earlier tonight. Your husband's wallet was in his pocket.”
Limehouse?
The panic that has been bubbling in the pit of my stomach like simmering stock is washed away by a tide of relief. A mistake, then. Simon is abroad. In the East somewhere. He isn't in Limehouse. Where is Limehouse anyway? It is some other Simon. Some other poor woman's husband.

“I'm afraid you're wrong, Detective.” My voice is calm and authoritative. Someone used to dealing with crises. Someone used to clearing up muddles. The kind of voice a police officer can respect. “My husband is several thousand miles away on business.”

“I very much hope you're right, Mrs. Busfield,” the policeman replies, although he sounds as if he very much believes I'm not. “But we need to make sure. I know this must be extremely hard for you, but perhaps you could pop upstairs and get dressed and come with us to make an identification. Is there anyone you'd like to call to come with you?”

I shake my head and get heavily to my feet. Denial fits around my skull like a crash helmet.
Not him. Limehouse. The idea!
At the bottom of the stairs, I pause to pick up Josh's trainers. That boy! How often do I have to tell him?

I'm conscious of my composure, my purposeful walk. The two police officers must be grateful not to be dealing with the type of woman who gets hysterical and falls apart.

Entering my bedroom, done out in its shades of white and ivory, I look at the bed. The duvet is thrown carelessly aside, and the plump feather pillow is still softly dented like a mound of just-started basmati rice.
Oh!
I feel a sudden sharp sense of loss for the woman who raised her head from the pillow (can it really be just minutes ago?) and fumbled for the phone, her thoughts full of sleep and time zones.

Completely calm, I sit down on the edge of the bed, immovable, inscrutable, sphinx-like. A woman in control. Moments later I'm surprised by a commotion at the bedroom door. Josh bursts in, and it's a shock to see his normally unruffled, practically catatonic expression replaced by wide-eyed panic.

“What?” he yells, and his seventeen-year-old voice breaks, exposing the child's squawk hiding underneath like new skin. His big boy-man's hands are on my shoulders, and he's shaking me, quite roughly. “Mum! What?
What?
”

I haven't seen him like this for an awfully long time. Nakedly afraid. Not for years, I suppose. It's quite awkward, really. He'll be embarrassed afterward, I'm sure. Poor Josh.

I summon my maternal impulses and try to formulate some kind of verbal reassurance, more from habit than anything else. There is a sudden and terrible silence.

That's when I realize I've been screaming—an awful, high-pitched, reedy wail that, now that I've stopped, is noticeable only by its absence.

Copyright © 2015 by Tamar Cohen

ISBN-13: 9781488010217

The Fallout

Copyright © 2016 by Tamar Cohen

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