Gone (7 page)

He could hear her moving around upstairs. Drawers slamming, the wardrobe door banging against the wall, no doubt making even more of a dent in the paintwork. She didn’t even know he was there and she was still slamming things. She was all about the drama.

He knew he should go up and face the music but instead he walked through into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. There was a bottle of vodka on the worktop, holding a lot less than it had two days ago, but he ignored it.

There were dishes in the sink. Looked like she’d got her appetite back. And nice of her to leave him the washing-up.

‘Michael.’

He hadn’t heard her come down the stairs. Hadn’t had time to put his game face on. Hadn’t had time to work out what his game face was.

‘I was worried about you,’ she said, leaning against the door frame, her red hair falling in front of her eyes. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Gardner ignored her. He didn’t want her to know he’d been staying in a crappy B&B. The thought of knocking on someone’s door and asking for refuge on their sofa-bed was too depressing. A single bed in a damp room was far more appealing.

‘You’re going, then?’ he said. Annie crossed her arms and sighed. ‘You’re not even going to bother talking about it? You don’t even care what I’ve got to say?’

‘I assumed you didn’t have anything to say, Michael. You ran away from it. I haven’t seen or heard from you for two days. What was I supposed to think?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe that you told me you were cheating on me and I needed to let it sink in?’

‘You could’ve at least called me and told me that,’ Annie said and turned to walk away.

‘Wait a minute. I’m not the one in the wrong here. You’re the one fucking someone else.’

Annie shoved the cerise suitcase out of the way and stomped back upstairs. Gardner followed, dodging the luggage.

‘And if we’re talking about people running away from things, how about you announcing you’re seeing that prick and that’s it. End of conversation. No explanation or anything.’

Annie spun around, halfway up the stairs. ‘What do you need me to explain? I’d say it was pretty self-explanatory.’

‘Oh, sure. Fucking someone else needs no explanation at all. It was bound to happen about now. I must’ve forgotten to check the calendar.’

‘Fuck off, Michael,’ she said and ran up the rest of the stairs and into the bedroom.

‘All I want to know is why,’ Gardner said, following her in, taking in the mess. The room looked like a bomb had hit it. ‘Why is that too much to ask for?’

Annie picked up her make-up bag, clinging to it like it was a life raft. ‘Why do you
think
?’

Gardner shrugged. He honestly didn’t know. Things weren’t perfect. They were hardly romantic novel material, but they were all right. They were
married
. They shared a bed. They had sex when it hadn’t been a long week. They ate in front of the telly most nights when he was home. They talked about crap they’d seen on the news. Occasionally they went out. They were married. They were like his parents, her parents. Like
everyone
who’s married.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘How about the fact you’re never here. Or that everything is about your job or this stupid fucking exam. Or that you come home and barely speak to me because you’re too busy thinking about some poor bastard’s family who’ve just buried their son.’

Gardner laughed. ‘Is that why you’re fucking another copper, then?’

‘He’s different.’

‘Is he? I’ll give you six months and you’ll change your tune.’

Annie looked away from him, lips pursed.

‘It’s been going on for more than six months?’ Gardner asked. He could feel the familiar burning in the back of his throat, behind his eyes. ‘How long?’ Annie’s eyes filled up. ‘How long?’ he said again, slowly.

‘Almost a year,’ she said.

Gardner looked at his wife. His chest was tight. She’d been lying to him for a year. Stuart Wallace had been laughing at him for a year. Who else knew? He sat down on the bed amongst the detritus of their marriage.

‘I’m sorry,’ Annie said and sat beside him. She put her hand on his. He wanted her to move it but it was probably the last time he’d touch her.

They sat there for a long time. The light changed outside. Next door’s cat was on their fence. He hated that cat. He’d always wanted a dog but Annie didn’t like them and she’d only end up looking after it while he worked day and night.

The cat jumped down and slunk away until he couldn’t see it any more in the rapidly dimming light. Annie stood up and carefully folded her work clothes into a holdall.

‘Stay,’ he said.

Annie stopped. She bit her bottom lip and shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Please,’ Gardner said and took the holdall from her. ‘Please. We can talk it through. We can get through this. Please.’

Annie shook her head again. ‘I’ve already made my decision. I decided weeks ago.’

‘That’s why you told me?’

Annie nodded.

‘Where are you going to go?’

‘Where do you think?’ Annie said.

‘What, Wallace’s wife and daughter are going to put you up in their fancy fucking house?’

Annie’s fist clenched. ‘We’ve got a flat. He’s already there,’ she said.

Gardner tried to keep the quiver from his voice but failed. ‘I don’t understand why you’re choosing him over me.’

Annie picked up her holdall and took one last look around the debris of the wardrobe.

‘Because I love
him
,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back for the rest later.’

Gardner watched as she hauled her bags out of the room. He wanted to call out to her, to stop her. But what was the point? She didn’t love him. She didn’t love
him
.

The front door slammed shut and Gardner slid off the bed onto the floor. He let the tears come for the first time, let them come until he was sitting in the dark, exhausted.

He thought about Ray Thorley. He wondered how the man had felt when his wife had gone, taken by cancer rather than by some fat, fucking bastard copper. He knew deep down that death was worse but the way he felt now it was pretty stiff competition.

Gardner shifted and realised his foot had gone to sleep. He hauled himself back on to the bed, not bothering to move the remains of Annie’s stuff. He felt overwhelmingly tired. As he started to drift off he thought that even though he’d let Annie go, Wallace wouldn’t get it so easy. Stuart Wallace would pay for what he’d done.

Chapter 12

13 December 2010

Adam Quinn walked in with the post and flicked through it. ‘Boring, boring,’ he said and then held one letter up. ‘You have your first Christmas card.’ Louise came in, towelling her hair. There were dark brown splodges around her hairline where she’d been dyeing it. She turned down Lady Gaga, who was blaring out at him. He hated Lady Gaga. Couldn’t see what Louise liked about her or how she tallied with the folky-Americana music she usually listened to. But that was Louise. A surprise around every corner. He handed her the envelope, expecting her to tear into it like she normally did. Instead she turned it over in her hand before leaving it on the mantelpiece, unopened.

‘What’s up?’ Adam asked, pulling her towards him, arms around her waist.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I just don’t feel too good.’

‘Need me to give you a check-up?’ he asked and kissed her neck. Louise pulled away from him. ‘What?’ he said.

‘Nothing. I told you – I don’t feel well.’

Adam looked at her with more concern. He reached his hand to her face, brushing his fingers across her cheek. ‘Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit? I’ll make us something to eat.’

‘I’m not really hungry,’ Louise said and Adam dropped his hand from her face, wondering if he’d done something to upset her. She’d been quiet the night before, went to bed before him, something she rarely did. Unless he’d managed to piss her off somehow.

‘All right. Let me know if you change your mind.’ He slumped onto the settee and turned on the TV. The news was on – something about a body being found. He’d heard about it the day before so went to switch over to something less depressing. Before he could pick up the remote, Louise turned the TV off, and stood in front of him, about to say something. Here it is, he thought. The reason I’m in the doghouse.

‘I might put the Christmas tree up tomorrow,’ Louise said, glancing at the space beside the window.

Adam tried to get his brain around the shift in mood. But if it meant she wasn’t pissed off at him, he didn’t really care. Instead he played into their yearly ritual. ‘Tomorrow?’ Adam said. ‘It’s too early.’

‘No it’s not. It’s December.’

‘Yes. December the thirteenth. It’s wrong.’

‘You’re such a Grinch,’ Louise said. ‘Loads of people have got them up by now.’

‘So?’

‘So? You get your money’s worth if you put it up early.’

Adam laughed at her logic. The same argument every year. The same one he lost every year.

‘Please?’ she said, making puppy-dog eyes; Adam rolled his and gave in.

‘Fine. I’ll get it out of the loft in the morning.’

‘Thank you,’ Louise said.

‘But you’re doing the lights. I hate doing the lights.’

‘Deal,’ she said and bent down to kiss him. He took her face in his hands and held her there. Her eyes glistened and he knew there was something else. She gave him an almost smile and he let her go.

Chapter 13

14 December 2010

‘Emma.’

He couldn’t help it. Every time he slammed into her the name came out. Like a mantra. Emma. Emma. Emma.

His hands were tangled in her hair. Caught like a trap. He could feel the sweat dripping from his body onto hers. But he couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t bear to see her face.

He needed this. Needed to let all the anger out. The hatred.

Bitch. Slut. Junkie. Whore.

Emma.

He pulled his hands free and moved them to her neck. He could feel her pulse against his hand.

‘Emma. Emma. Emma.’

Her eyelids fluttered.

And it stopped.

Lucas woke up. His breath caught in his throat. He’d come back to the shithole after visiting the police station the day before, and had fallen asleep. He must’ve been asleep for a good twelve hours, longer maybe. He sat up, head in hands. His elbows dug into his thighs as he tried to erase her from his thoughts.

His head was pounding. He got up and turned the cold tap on. The water sputtered out and he gulped it down. His heart rate slowed and he looked around for his cigarettes. He pushed one from the pack and stood at the window.

You’d have thought that in a dump like this they wouldn’t care about the smell of smoke but Mrs Heaney, the shrivelled-up landlady, was always giving him grief about it. If you have to smoke, do it outside. Lucas had nodded like a good little boy. There was something about the old battleaxe that reminded him of his nana. She was tough as old boot leather with a face to match and had been the one to look after him most of the time when he was a kid. It wasn’t long after she’d died that he’d started getting into trouble. Maybe he could write one of those misery memoirs about it and make a killing. Anyway, he’d agreed not to smoke in his room but it was too cold to go downstairs and outside so he just stuck his head out the window instead. It’s not like they’d notice the cold air coming in. The old crone was too stingy to put the heating on in any case. Lucas relied on a little portable heater he’d nicked from the alcoholic upstairs.

He flicked his cigarette out of the window and laughed as it floated down onto a girl walking past, no doubt doing the walk of shame. Why else would she be up at this time of the morning? He closed the window and put his hands over the heater.