I could think of no reason why I had been summoned to her office, so I shook my head. I can still picture the twisted expression resembling a smile on her face. I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was the kind or cruel variety.
“Is everything all right at home?” she asked.
I knew enough to know that meant she suspected it wasn’t.
My father never came back after the night he hurt my mother. I had heard them argue before, and I knew he had hit her on several occasions. I’m ashamed to say that back then—having seen them behave like that my whole life—I thought it was normal. People will go to extraordinary lengths to hurt those they love; far more than they ever do for those they hate.
From the day he disappeared onward, my mother was either selling her jewelry at the pawnbroker’s, planting things in her new and expanding vegetable patch—because we could no longer afford to shop at the supermarket—or drinking what little money we had left, pouring it into wineglasses. At all other times she was asleep in front of the fire in the living room, as though guarding the front door. She didn’t like to sleep upstairs anymore, in the bed she had shared with him, and we couldn’t afford a new one. Anything belonging to my dad that she couldn’t sell, she burned to keep us warm. So, the answer to the headmistress’s question was most definitely no.
“Yes, everything is fine at home,” I said.
“Nothing that you might want to talk about?”
“No. Thank you.”
“It’s just that your school fees weren’t paid last term and, despite writing several letters to your parents, and calling, we haven’t managed to speak to either of them about it. I’d hoped that your mother or father might have come along to parents’ evening last week. Do you know why neither of them was able to attend?”
Because my mother was too drunk, and my father was too busy not being my father anymore.
I shook my head.
“I see. And you’re sure everything is okay at home?”
I waited a while before answering. Not because I had any intention of telling her the truth. I just hadn’t had enough time to come up with the right lies, to fill the gaps her questions kept making.
Everyone stared at me again when I got back to class, and I felt like they all knew things about me that they couldn’t, didn’t, and mustn’t ever know. I’ve hated people staring at me ever since. It might make my choice of career—presenting the news every day to millions of people—seem a little odd. But it’s just me and a robotic camera in the studio. If I can’t see them looking at me, it’s okay. Like a child who thinks nobody can see them if they cover their own eyes with their hands.
* * *
I slip the photo back in my pocket, and notice the red-and-white friendship bracelet I’m wearing. I remember making it all those years ago, along with four identical others. It seemed like a good idea at the time, one that has often come back to haunt me. I pull the end until it tightens around my wrist. I deserve the pain, so I feel bad when I start to enjoy it.
A noisy bird catches my eye and I look up at my mother’s house. It feels like I need to get away from this place; it’s bad for me in more ways than one. I get back in the Mini and rest my hands on the steering wheel. Then I look down at the bracelet again, pulled so tight that it hurts. I loosen it a little, and see the angry red groove it has cut into my skin.
We pretend not to see the scars we give one another, especially those we love. Self-harm is always harder to ignore, but not impossible. I rub the line, as though trying to erase it with my fingertips, to undo the hurt I’ve caused myself. The mark on my wrist will fade, but the scar on my conscience because of what happened the first time I wore this bracelet will be there forever.
Him
Tuesday 11:25
Anna’s face did nothing when I told her the dead woman was Rachel Hopkins. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but a normal person would have given some kind of reaction. Then again, normal was something my ex-wife never aspired to be. That was one of the things I loved most about her.
I stop at the gas station to buy cigarettes on my way to meet Priya. From what she said in her text I know I’m going to need them. The roads are empty, so it doesn’t take long to get where I am going, and I decide to have a quick smoke before getting out of the car. Something to stop my hands from shaking.
Visiting a mortuary is something I’ve done a hundred times before—a regular part of my job when I was in London—but it’s been a while and this feels very different. I can’t stop thinking about last night and how I left Rachel the way I did. What happened wasn’t my fault, but I doubt other people would see it that way if they knew the truth.