“Why can’t I at least call Dad?”
She let out a breath, as though the silence were a note she’d been made to hold too long.
“Because Dad is the one who did this to me.”
Him
Tuesday 10:15
Sometimes this job is all about making decisions. I’ve learned over the years that whether those decisions are right or wrong, is often secondary to the ability to make them in the first place. Besides, “right” and “wrong” are highly subjective.
I shouldn’t be here; I know I’m right about that. Loitering outside the house my ex-wife grew up in might be frowned upon—even though I have my reasons—but there are some people we never really let go of in life. Or death. Even when we pretend to. They are always still there, lurking in our loneliest thoughts, haunting our memories with dreams that can no longer come true.
I’m no Casanova; more of a serial monogamist … until Rachel came along. I can count the number of women I’ve slept with on one hand. But, regardless of how many women I have known, I only truly loved one. I left London because it was the right thing to do for Anna. People don’t know what real love is until they lose it. Most never find it in the first place, but when you do, you’ll do anything for that person.
I know, because I did.
It was what was best for her, but it might turn out to be the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
Regardless of whether I should or shouldn’t be here now, I am, and I’m certain I just heard someone scream. I wouldn’t be much of a man or a detective if I didn’t do something about it.
I use my phone to take a picture of the parking ticket showing yesterday’s date in Anna’s car, then head toward her mother’s house. I lift the broken gate and check over my shoulder to see whether anyone is watching me. I conclude that they aren’t and carry on along the uneven, weed-stained path. I ignore the front door, choosing instead to walk down the side of the house, toward the back, where I expect they will be.
I stop when I hear voices inside.
I can’t quite make out what is being said, but also don’t want to risk being seen. I wait for a minute, leaning against the wall, concluding it might be best to just turn around. The sensible thing to do would be to get in my car, head back to HQ, and do my job. But then I hear it again, what sounds like another scream.
It scares the hesitation out of me long enough to look through the kitchen window. I see Anna and her mother, who I notice is taking the kettle off the hob, and realize that must be what I heard. I had forgotten that boiling water that way is one of my former mother-in-law’s many old-fashioned and odd habits. My ex-wife has more in common with her than she would like to believe.
In my experience, there are two kinds of women: those who spend a lifetime trying not to turn into their mothers, and those who literally seem to want nothing more. I often find both varieties get the complete opposite of what they hoped for—one set become carbon copies of the women they didn’t want to be, while the others never live up to their own expectations of who they think they should have become.
I head back to the car, not wanting to be seen.
I have been made a fool of on more than one occasion by the women inside this house. Anna has always been clear that she doesn’t want or need saving. Confusing the sound of a kettle with some kind of cry for help was probably just wishful thinking on my part. You can’t help someone find their way if they won’t admit they’re lost.
Her
Tuesday 10:18
I think my mother might have lost it, but keep my thoughts to myself. The kettle starts to scream and she takes it off the hob. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see something move outside the kitchen window. But I must have imagined it, because when I go to check there is nothing there. I turn back and take in the state of the place again. Knowing her the way I do, I don’t know how she can stand it. When I was a teenager, I sometimes felt embarrassed that my mother cleaned other people’s houses. Now I feel ashamed of myself for caring what they thought. She did what she did for me.
Jack has e-mailed a few times over the last few months, to say that Mum was much worse than before. I thought it was just an excuse to get in touch; I didn’t believe him. When I look at the state of her now, I hate myself for it. Sometimes the roles of parents and children get reversed, and I have not played my part well. I didn’t just forget my lines—I never learned them in the first place.
Mum was constantly cleaning our home when I still lived here, almost obsessively—a habit I confess I inherited—and I have never seen the house, or her, look like this. Presentation was always very important to my mother. We never had a lot of spare cash, but she always dressed nicely—often finding the prettiest clothes in charity shops for us both to wear—and she always, always did her hair and makeup. I rarely remember seeing her without it. She really was rather beautiful, but now she appears, and smells, as though she hasn’t washed for days.