“Go on, then! Don’t make me suffer!”
“You were right. Top information, Ronnie, but there’s more.”
Twenty-six
MONDAY, AUGUST 26, 2019
Dee
Mum!” Cal shouts. “Where’s my sandwiches? Mikey’s mum is waiting to take us to camp.”
I’ve got the knife in my hand. I’ve buttered the bread. But I can’t think what goes on it next. I’m trying, trying hard, to keep it together, getting Cal’s packed lunch ready for summer camp, making him laugh with a silly joke I’d heard. But I can hear how false I sound.
“Come on, Mum,” Cal says, patting me on the back and hopping up and down on the spot. “Hey, how did you hurt your face?”
I put my hand to the tender spot under my cheek. The bruise is coming out and my finger catches on the small scab at the center and I don’t want to think about what happened. Can’t think about it. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” And I stroke my boy’s head.
I stuff some ham from the back of the fridge in the bread—it’s the last slice and I shred it so it goes further and get the cling film out.
“Here, here you are,” I say, and pull him into me so tightly, he struggles out of my arms. “Sorry, Liz,” I shout through. “All over the place today. Thanks so much for having him last night—hope he was good?”
“He’s always good,” Liz shouts back. “I’d have done his lunch but he didn’t want peanut butter. Anyway, he can come for a sleepover anytime.”
“See you at teatime, Cal.”
In all that time, Liam has sat at the table, staring into space. On his own planet.
“Have you been smoking?” I say as I pass and catch a whiff of smoke in his hair.
“No. I was up at the Old Vicarage, wasn’t I? The fire . . .”
“Oh, yes.”
He’s moody about me making him sleep in the spare room.
“Why?” he said, all hurt last night when I came back from my walk. He hates sleeping alone. “I’ve said I’m sorry for going off on one about you going to London.”
“Look, I’ve got a terrible headache, that’s all. I’ll only keep you awake.”
It felt weird when we met on the landing this morning like we were guests in a hotel, but Liam just said: “How did you sleep through all that noise last night?”
“What noise?”
“The fire engines, Dee. The arson at the Old Vicarage.”
“Arson? What are you on about?”
“The gym that the illegals built on the sly has burned to the ground. I looked in on you when I left, told you where I was going, but you were dead to the world. I didn’t get back until the early hours.”
“Poor Millie.”
* * *
—
I feel like I’m on automatic pilot this morning when I get to Elise’s. She’s sitting in the window. As usual. I can’t imagine what she finds to look at all day.
“Hi, Dee,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d be working on a bank holiday Monday.”
“Oh, I work every day.”
Ronnie Durrant suddenly comes out of the kitchen with cups. She always seems to be here.
I get on with the kitchen floor so it can dry while I do the rest of the house and they sit together talking. Elise has left the radio on in the kitchen and I can’t hear what they’re saying properly. The fire, I think. But then I hear Charlie’s name. Is there news? Elise is a police officer. What’s she heard? I turn the music down a bit. Just enough so they don’t notice.
I keep swishing my mop but I’m cleaning the same tile by the door over and over.
“What do you think has happened?” Ronnie says. “If you were in charge, where would you be looking?”
They haven’t found him.
“The festival site initially—it was the last known sighting. I’d be fanning out the search, looking at footage from security cameras in the town. He didn’t have a car with him—it’s still parked on the drive—and you’ve checked with the local taxi firm. They didn’t pick him up, so he must have been on foot. Someone must have seen him. Or maybe taken him somewhere . . .”
I start coughing and they stop talking. I’ve made myself visible, so I come in and start wiping down the shelving unit. At least I’ll be able to hear properly.
“You clean for the Perrys, don’t you, Dee?” Ronnie says.
“Er, yes,” I say, and carry on.
“What do you think has happened to him?”