A green long-sleeved wool dress catches his eye. Green is her favorite color. At least it is Leigh’s. Who knows whether Kai had her own favorite color. He moves closer to the green dress, instinctually buries his head in it and inhales. He expects it will smell of dry-cleaning fluid, or maybe an expensive unfamiliar perfume. But no. There she is. In every fiber. Leigh. The smell of her deodorant, perfume, body, so faint it is just a breath but so familiar that it’s a typhoon. She was here. She is Kai. Of course, he knows it, but now he feels it. He has been ravaged by such anger this past week, fury, uncontrollable, unstoppable. He hasn’t been able to think clearly, plan properly. His actions have been irrational. The boys have been neglected, barely spoken to. Thank God for Fiona. For a moment he considers ripping every garment from its hanger, clawing at them, tearing at them, destroying her, or at least this embodiment of her—just as he did with Leigh’s clothes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the green wool dress off the hanger, holds it close to his body and drapes the sleeves over his shoulders as though she is embracing him. He starts to sway from side to side, dancing with her. Like she had wanted him to.
His heart breaks.
He thinks he can hear it crumble; the destruction rolls through him like an avalanche. The last time he cried was at Frances’s funeral; then as now, overwhelmed by regret and sadness, a yearning for things to have turned out differently. Fat tears slide down his face now for the same reasons.
“Your coffee is ready.” The firm, foreign voice startles Mark back into himself. He is glad he has his back to the door and while Janssen must have seen him swaying, and quite possibly saw the dress too, he could not have seen the tears. Mark wipes his face on the dress and then drops it on the floor. He follows Janssen back into the kitchen and never wonders what is behind the third door.
They sit at the breakfast bar, staring at the cups of coffee. Mark wishes now he had said yes to the vodka. Fuck it, what does he have to lose? What more does he have to lose? He reaches for the bottle and splashes a generous measure into his coffee. He’s glad Janssen doesn’t comment but just reaches for the bottle and mirrors the action. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Janssen asks.
“I don’t know what I was looking for. I found something.” Mark isn’t normally cryptic. He considers himself an easygoing, straightforward bloke but he doesn’t know how to explain what he’s thinking. The anger is no longer pulsing in his throat, an emotional hairball threatening to suffocate him. He hasn’t swallowed it down, or spat it out exactly, but he’s no longer choked with fury. It is some improvement.
“Can I see your home?” Janssen asks. He then tries to clarify or be more tactful, perhaps. “Her home. The home she has with you?”
“No, I don’t think so,” replies Mark gruffly. “You know, the boys. It wouldn’t be fair on them.”
Mark knows he’s not playing ball. It ought to be quid pro quo, but he can’t do it. He can’t be that generous. He can’t let this man into his home. This man who has been inside his wife. This man who is married to his wife. He doesn’t want to see his eyes flicker with judgment, curiosity or superiority and surely there would be at least one of these things. The cork pin board, with curling scribbled notes pinned to it, muddy shoes tumbling out of the understairs cupboard as though they can walk on their own. The gleaming cleanliness of this place had been enlightening, all the mess and chaos of his would be exposing.
“Well, will you tell me about it at least?” Janssen pursues.
Mark is momentarily irritated that this man hasn’t googled him and looked up their address, turned Google Maps on to photo mode to scope out the streets she spent half her time in, as Mark had done for the section of her life that was a mystery. The lack of interest is somehow a snub, a sign of superiority or laziness. What else has Janssen had to do with his time this past week? Mark considers, maybe he has searched but as Mark Fletchers are more abundant than Daan Janssens possibly the search wasn’t fruitful.
He takes a deep breath and says, “It’s nothing like this. It’s—” He breaks off, he doesn’t want to call it ordinary, although it is. Or scruffy, although it is. The scruffy normality is not the heart of the house that Leigh lives in with him, and presumably that is what Janssen needs to hear about. The heart. Would telling him comfort him or torture him? Mark doesn’t know which he wants to achieve. “Lots of the houses in our street have cigarette packs and empty bottles pocking the small area from front door to road, others have well-kept gardens and hanging baskets. It is varied. Disinterest lives cheek by jowl next to pride.” He is circling, starting wide and then getting closer to the target. “It is amazing how contrast can cohabit, coexist.”
Janssen gives one quick little nod, his long blond hair falling over his eyes. It irritates Mark. Leigh always swore she didn’t fancy blond men. Bitch. Liar. The spiteful words slice through his consciousness. He is startled by them. He thought he was feeling calmer. He barely feels responsible for the spite. He is not responsible, is he, if it is in his subconscious? The fury has not gone, it’s in flux. Mark should not be surprised. Deep wounds take a long time to heal and some scars never fade.
“Where do you live?” Janssen asks.
“Balham.”
“A Victorian terrace?”
“Yes.”
Janssen nods again, no doubt quickly able to visualize where his wife spent half her life. People know what terrace houses in South London look like. Imagining her life here had been harder. Mark doesn’t know where to start. He clings to small details, unable to supply a broad picture. “I walk past a supermarket trolley every day, a different one. Sometimes Oli and Seb push them back to the supermarket, to collect the pound. Oli does that less now. A quid isn’t worth the walk and effort once you’re sixteen.”
“Oli and Seb? Those are your boys?”
“Yes, our boys—my boys. Oliver and Sebastian.” Mark colors. He hadn’t meant to talk about them. He doesn’t want them in this place. He realizes he can’t do this. He can’t talk about his home to this man. He owes him nothing. It’s better to focus on getting answers, rather than providing them. He decides to change the subject. “Did you think you were going to get old and die with her?”
“I don’t think about getting old,” replies Janssen. “You?”
“No one knows when they are going to die,” Mark comments. Janssen raises his eyebrows. “My first wife died of cancer. I’ve never taken long life for granted.”
“I see.”
“You know the police will be looking at one or the other of us right now, and thinking we are responsible for her disappearance?”
“I do.”
“Well, I didn’t hurt her,” Mark says.
“You are bound to say that,” points out Janssen.
“You haven’t said it,” counters Mark. The men meet one another’s gaze and try to read the rules of the game they are playing. Mark notices Janssen is sweating; there are dark patches under his arms. It looks like he slept in that T-shirt. Seeing the man disheveled, chaotic and vulnerable is a relief. Mark has been imagining that he’d still be crisp, confident, in control; most likely continuing to wear pristine white shirts and sharp dark suits. It helps to think they are leveled; equally disturbed, distraught, desperate. “What I can’t work out is why she stayed with me, considering all this luxury.” Mark gestures about. “Coming here must have been quite the holiday from her real life.”