The Missing Marriage Page 7

  He knew that losing patience didn’t work, but he hadn’t yet discovered what did so in the meantime he carried on yelling at Bobby Deane who’d just had time – following the Inspector’s departure – to walk into the hallway in search of a staircase that didn’t exist in order to go upstairs to a bedroom that also no longer existed.

  Perplexed at being unable to find any stairs at all, Bobby had gone back into the lounge and sat down in the armchair again when he heard the front door opening. The next minute a man walked into the room who he briefly recognised as one of his sons – he just couldn’t remember which, and had no idea what his name was.

  Then his son started yelling at him and then he stamped on his left foot, which was bare still, and the pain was such a shock to Bobby it blocked out the yelling for a while.

  He became confused and as a result of this confusion, Jamie and the bungalow slipped entirely from his mind as he fell into a profound sense of unfamiliarity, which made him panic and want to leave the chair he was sitting in and go in search of the stairs again. If he could only find the stairs, he’d be able to find Rachel.

  Rachel was upstairs waiting for him; she had something to give him – a flower – and the flower was beginning to wilt; it needed water.

  He tried to get up, but was pushed back down.

  After that, he kept his eyes on the man pacing in front of him.

  There was a dense pain in his left foot that made him feel helpless – then he remembered, momentarily. ‘I told him Rachel would be back soon – that she’d know where Bryan was.’

  Jamie stared at his father. ‘Bryan? It was nothing to do with me then?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Bobby said, managing to get to his feet at last, in spite of the pain, and shuffling to the window.

  ‘I’m your son, you stupid fuck – your son, Jamie.’ He let out a few brief, frustrated sobs. ‘And I did twenty years for you. Twenty years – and you’ve got no idea who the fuck I am.’ He put his hand over his face.

  Bobby, who was looking out the window, said, ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Who’s gone you daft fucker?’

  ‘Our Bryan was parked outside. I thought maybe he’d come to take me for a drive up the coast – I haven’t seen the sea in a while – but he never came in. Why didn’t he come in?’ Bobby appealed briefly to Jamie, who was now smoking one of the Bensons he’d taken from the shop. ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘No,’ Jamie yelled. Then, ‘I don’t fucking believe this. Twenty years and it’s still Bryan. Bryan.’

  Bobby looked down at the windowsill where there was a spider’s web flecked with flies. ‘Are you looking for Bryan too?’

  ‘Why would I be looking for Bryan?’

  ‘He’s gone missing.’

  ‘Bryan?’

  ‘Bryan. The police are looking for him.’

  Bobby turned back to the window, distracted by a woman next door who looked vaguely familiar, wheeling her bin out onto the pavement. The bin had the number eight painted on it, in white. Bobby wondered about the number and the woman, who was staring at him and who looked like she had a freshly pruned rose bush up her arse.

  Laughing quietly to himself, he waved, but she didn’t wave back.

  In fact, she almost ran back up the garden to her front door.

  Still laughing, Bobby mumbled, ‘That’s it – piss off back to where you came from.’ Then, turning away from the window and seeing a man standing in the room behind him, smoking – who he was sure hadn’t been standing there earlier – he said again, ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘Give over.’ Jamie threw the cigarette into the fireplace’s empty grate.

  Bobby followed its course through the air and into the grate, waiting.

  When the man left the room, he called out, ‘Where are you going? I’m hungry.’

  He followed him out into the hallway, desperately trying to think of a way to make him stay, suddenly terrified at the thought of being left alone. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said again.

  Jamie paused at the front door, leaning back against the wall and accidentally turning the light switch on. He seemed preoccupied – bored, even.

  Bobby was fiddling with the zip on his Texaco anorak, wondering where the door in front of him led to.

  ‘You already ate,’ Jamie said. ‘When?’

  ‘Just now. Can’t you smell it still?’

  Looking around him, Bobby gave the air a quick sniff. ‘What did I eat?’

  ‘Sunday roast – the full works . . . beef . . . yorkshires . . . roast potatoes.’ Jamie belched. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘My stomach feels tight.’

  ‘Cause you stuffed yourself silly, that’s why.’

  ‘But, I’m still hungry.’ Bobby was starting to panic again now. ‘Is it Sunday?’

  Jamie pulled open the front door and Bobby saw the crescent of bungalows curving round the green. In the centre of the green there was a yellow bin, lying on its side. It looked like somebody had tried to set fire to it. Tilting his head slightly, which hurt, he could just make out the words Wansbeck Council.

  ‘The man who was here,’ he called out, suddenly, ‘he was Laviolette’s boy. That’s who he was,’ Bobby declared, his voice triumphant.

  Jamie walked back towards him. ‘I don’t know what you’re sounding so pleased about. I don’t know how you can even bear to say that man’s name.’

  ‘I used to sing with Laviolette in the colliery choir – the Ashington Male Voice Choir. We went to Germany together with the choir.’

  ‘And what else, dad? What else did you do? You don’t even remember, do you?’

  Jamie slammed him hard against the wall – the crown of his head catching the bottom of the electric meter.

  Bobby, slumped against the wall, shook his head.

  ‘Mum. D’you remember her?’

  Bobby fought hard to catch at something flitting round inside his head; he shut his eyes and pushed his hand out to take hold of the flower proffered. ‘Red carnations,’ he gasped. ‘The women were in the pit yard, waiting for us. They gave us flowers – carnations for heroes – to take the hurt out of having to go back after the Strike.’ He shook his head sadly, the clarity and sharpness of the women’s faces he’d summoned, already fading. ‘But there were no heroes by then – everything was broken.’

  Jamie shook his head in disbelief. ‘Yeah, everything was broken.’

  ‘I looked for her,’ Bobby insisted suddenly, ‘among the women with flowers, but she wasn’t there. She’d already gone by then, hadn’t she?’ he appealed softly to Jamie, his eyes wet.

  ‘Oh, she’d gone a long time before that only you were too busy with the bloody Strike to see.’

  ‘She was tired – thirty-one pounds a week minus the fifteen the Government took off her saying we got paid by the Union, only we didn’t. What does that make?’ Before Jamie had time to work it out, Bobby said, ‘Sixteen pounds a week. Sixteen pounds a week makes you tired – it would make anyone tired.’

  ‘How the fuck d’you remember that – sixteen pounds a week – and not remember Roger Laviolette?’

  ‘Roger Laviolette,’ Bobby echoed happily. ‘I used to sing with –’

  ‘Yes, you used to sing with him,’ Jamie yelled into his face, holding onto him by his anorak, which smelt terrible up close, ‘and how is it that you remember the singing, but you don’t remember the killing?’

  ‘I never killed anyone,’ Bobby said, frightened.

  ‘Yes you did. You killed Roger Laviolette because of mum and him.’

  ‘Wait – where are you going?’

  But Jamie was no longer there.

  There was washing hanging across the balconies of the flats above the shops and Bobby stared for a moment at a large bedspread with a picture of a leopard on it, before walking, barefoot, out the front door and down the overgrown garden path to the gate as a white van turned the corner out of Armstrong Crescent.

  He was waiting for somebody, he was sure, but he was only sure for a
few moments. Then he forgot who it was he thought he was waiting for.

  Then he forgot he’d even been waiting, and no longer knew what he was doing standing barefoot at the end of the path, leaning against the gate – so he let himself out and crossed the street onto the green opposite, still curious about the yellow bin.

  After contemplating it for a while, he looked about him trying to work out not so much where he was going, but where he’d come from. Neither the bungalows in front of him nor the block of flats behind signified anything much. He only knew that his feet were cold and that the left foot hurt. Looking down, he saw that his feet were bare and that the one on the left was badly bruised.

  The front door to one of the bungalows opposite was open and there was a woman staring at him from the windows of the bungalow next door to that.

  If he just sat down in the grass and waited, it would probably be okay. What would come to pass would come to pass in a world that was as tired of him as he was of it.

  A flock of seagulls flew overhead then circling the upturned bin and its contents, interested. They only came inland when the weather was bad out to sea.

  Bobby tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, the fast moving clouds disorientating him further.

  Was it today he’d been down to the beach and onto the dunes with the pit ponies?

  Was it today he’d seen the small girl in the dress? It couldn’t have been – this was no weather for dresses like that, and the dress had been stained with some kind of fruit, but it couldn’t be blackberries because it was too early in the year for blackberries.

  He looked around to check the trees and see whether they had leaves or not, but there were no trees on any of the horizons. There was no colour in the gardens opposite either – the only thing that stuck out was the yellow door in the bungalow where the woman’s face was staring at him still.

  Then it started to rain.

  He pulled his collar up and carried on sitting there, unsure what else to do or where to go until a woman came walking through the rain. She was wearing a long waterproof coat, and a headscarf – and she had a blue carrier bag in her hand.

  It took him a while to realise that she was walking towards him; walking fast, her shoes slipping on the wet grass.

  ‘Bobby!’ she gasped. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ She turned round on the spot, taking in the flats and the back of the shops and the bungalows as he’d done earlier, only she was more stunned. ‘How long have you been out here for? Where are your shoes? You’ve got a cut on your head – there’s blood.’

  She was on the verge of tears as she pulled him to his feet and led him towards the bungalow with its front door open still.

  ‘I don’t want to go in there,’ he said, pulling his arms away from her.

  ‘Get inside out of this rain, Bobby.’ She pushed him forcibly indoors and he stood in the hallway listening to the sounds of water running, and soon there was steam coming out of the room at the end of the hallway.

  Chapter 6

  The sky was clearing by the time Anna turned back down Quay Road towards the Quayside, and the sun now making its way through the disappearing clouds, was harsh. She was driving straight into it and so didn’t see Martha Deane sitting on the bench opposite the Ridley Arms until she pulled up right beside her.

  Martha had her bike with her.

  Laviolette had been right – here was Martha paying her a visit and sooner even than he’d probably anticipated.

  ‘How long have you been here for?’ Anna asked as she got out of the car, squinting because of the light coming off the water.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Martha mumbled, unsure of her tone. ‘I can’t stand it at home any longer, and . . . you don’t mind?’

  Anna sat down on the bench beside her, sighing and tilting her face instinctively towards the April sun.

  ‘I don’t believe her,’ Martha said suddenly.

  ‘Don’t believe who?’

  ‘Mum. I don’t believe her about anything. Do you?’

  Ignoring this, Anna said, ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I heard dad and Nan talking yesterday morning. Dad said you should have phoned him about a short term let – that he’d have done you a deal.’ She paused. ‘Nan said she told you to phone him.’

  ‘She probably did. I don’t know – I’ve had so much on my mind.’

  This was a lie. She had phoned Tyneside Properties before coming north and asked to speak to Bryan, but found herself unable to – so hung up.

  ‘Nan says your granddad’s dying.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘That’s sad.’ Martha threw something into the sea. ‘I wanted to go out with them this morning on the search – one of the boats, helicopters, anything . . . I just want to be out there doing something. It doesn’t feel like anybody’s doing anything.’ Her voice was loud – tearful – and the next minute she had her head on Anna’s shoulder and her arms round her neck, pulling herself to her.

  Anna put her hand stiffly on Martha’s hair, and tried not to tense up. She could feel Martha’s tears running over her collarbone and beneath her running vest.

  When Martha stopped crying, she let her arms drop but kept her head resting on Anna’s shoulder, staring out to sea, and after a while said, ‘I came home late once from a hockey match, and dad’s car was parked on the drive. It wasn’t until I triggered the security light that I saw he was in the car still, just sitting in the car on the drive, in the dark.’ She paused, thinking about whether she wanted to say what she was going to say next. ‘He waved at me and acted like he’d just got home, but I knew he’d been there a long time.’ She twisted her head on Anna’s shoulder, looking up at her. ‘He just looked so unhappy, and you know what I keep thinking? I keep thinking – what if he just couldn’t cope any more with all the rows they’ve been having?’

  Anna kept looking at the sea, aware that Martha was watching her. ‘Everybody rows.’

  ‘There’s not a night in the past year when I haven’t had to go to sleep with my headphones on to try and cut out the sound of them going on and on at each other about money – always money. That’s what everything comes down to.’

  Anna had a clear picture of Martha curled up in bed with her headphones on, and it was one of a deep loneliness she recognised from her own childhood; a loneliness she had carried into adulthood with her, as an inability to seek comfort – especially physical comfort.

  Martha was picking at a frayed seam in her jeans. ‘Did something happen between dad and you, like – a long time ago?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You knew – about his appendicitis – and he was so pleased to see you yesterday.’

  ‘We barely spoke.’

  ‘He doesn’t get pleased about much these days, but he was pleased about seeing you.’

  Anna paused. ‘We grew up together and haven’t seen each other in a while – that’s all.’

  ‘You, mum and dad used to all live next door to each other. I know from Nan how close you and mum used to be – like sisters, she said, right?’

  Anna nodded.

  ‘So how come mum and dad never – and I mean never – talk about you?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Well, that’s how I know something happened.’

  Martha carried on watching her without comment then suddenly said, ‘I brought something for you.’ She searched in her pockets for a while then handed Anna a photograph – of Bryan Deane sitting alone at a table in a restaurant overlooking a blue, white-capped sea. Despite the view, he was staring down at the check tablecloth. He wasn’t smiling; he wasn’t even looking at the camera, and she could barely make out his face.

  ‘That’s Greece last year,’ Martha was saying. ‘I took it. I’ve got a copy on my windowsill and I know it’ll make me feel better – more hopeful – knowing you’ve got a picture of him as well. We can keep a vigil – I’ve got a candle in front of mine; a scented one �
� cinnamon and vanilla.’

  Anna stood up.

  ‘Wait – where are you going? We don’t have to talk about this any more.’

  ‘It’s fine. I just need to eat, that’s all.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  Anna hesitated, unsure whether she wanted Martha in her apartment. ‘Does your mum know where you are?’

  ‘I told her I was going to my friend, Ellie’s.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I didn’t say how long I’d be – and I don’t even have a friend called Ellie.’ Martha shrugged. ‘She doesn’t give a fuck where I am.’

  ‘Okay – but you’d better bring the bike in with you.’

  Anna watched Martha drift round the apartment. ‘Have you finished nosing around?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Not the bedroom,’ she called out.

  ‘I’ve already done the bedroom. I’m in the bathroom.’

  The next minute Anna heard the medicine cabinet being opened. She went down the hallway. ‘Martha!’

  Martha turned round, smiling. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘What’s so impressive?’

  ‘No medication – not even anti-depressants – nothing.’

  ‘Why would there be?’

  Martha ambled back into the living room and went over to the windows, which were streaked with rain again. ‘Mum’s been on and off Lithium for years – now she takes pills to help her sleep – Nytol. D’you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No – no, I don’t. Why are you asking?’

  Martha was about to say something when Anna’s phone started to ring.

  ‘Is my daughter with you?’ Laura Deane’s voice said.

  Anna hesitated. ‘She is – d’you want to speak to her?’

  Martha had turned away from the window and was now staring at her.

  ‘No – I need her to come home. Can you tell her to do that?’

  Anna thought Laura was going to call off then, but she didn’t. ‘What’s she been saying?’

  ‘Nothing much – she’s just pretty upset.’

  ‘We had a row.’

  Anna was silent.

  Laura laughed. ‘I bet she’s been pedalling all sorts of shit about Bryan and me.’