Gone Again (8 page)

Nathan was dragging his heels more than usual, complaining about a sore tummy, having to be pulled along the prom to Towerbank. Thank Christ the wind seemed to have died down for now. Maybe they were in the eye of the storm. Mark had stared at the weather forecast on television earlier but now couldn’t remember a word of it, just swirls of arrows pointing across the country.

They were late. Nathan had eventually gone back to sleep then slept in as a result, and Mark didn’t have the heart to wake him. Mark made his packed lunch and got his stuff together while Nathan slept on, then eventually Mark shoogled him awake and rushed through breakfast and dressing to get out the door, Nathan running back to his bedroom to get the sea glass and put it in his pocket.

Mark hadn’t gone back to sleep after the break-in. The station said they would send an officer as soon as they could, but there was no immediate danger and they didn’t seem in a hurry. They talked about manpower issues, as if Mark gave two shits.

Either way, an officer hadn’t turned up by the time they left for school. The lock on the front door was hanging off, but Mark didn’t try to fix it in case the police wanted to look at it, dust for prints, whatever. He pulled the door closed but it was only an illusion of security, a gentle nudge would’ve swung it open. He would have to deal with it after the school run. He’d go to the station straight after dropping Nathan off. Surely they would have to do something now.

The prom was a relief after the crazy winds of the last few days. The sun was already high in the sky behind them, and the water of the Forth was a slab of shimmering silver. No sign of the whales or the coastguard, maybe they’d finally swum out to sea.

Nathan was griping as they trudged along, no bins out today to shoot at and distract him. This wasn’t like him these days, more like P1 behaviour, but he was obviously picking up the stress from Daddy. Mark touched the cut above his eye, already scabbing over, hardly anything to show.

He’d sat waiting for the police, watching the sun nudge upwards from the kitchen window, the tiny sliver of sea barely distinguishable from the pale sky. Tried to figure out what the intruder meant. He didn’t want to go through all the mess on the floor, not until the police had been, so he didn’t know if there was anything specific gone – but what could they have taken? There was nothing in the desk except standard family paperwork. The guy had taken the laptop, but that was the only piece of electronics as far as Mark knew. He’d left all Mark’s camera equipment, worth a small fortune in the right hands. Hadn’t touched the television either, but then that was harder to carry and Mark had interrupted him after all.

Nathan was going slower than ever.

Mark tugged the boy’s arm. ‘Come on, Nathan.’

Nathan planted his feet and came to a standstill.

Mark gave him a look. ‘You’re not a baby, stop acting like one.’

Nathan’s face was sour.

‘What is it?’ Mark said.

‘Is Mummy gone because she’s got a new baby in her tummy?’

‘What?’

‘She’s got a new baby in her tummy. Is that why she’s gone?’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘She told me.’

That wasn’t the plan. They weren’t supposed to have told anyone yet, they’d only just got the all-clear at the scan a couple of weeks ago. So Lauren had told Ruth without him knowing, and now she’d told Nathan as well.

He looked at his watch. ‘We don’t have time for this, we’re late for school. Miss Kennedy will be cross.’

He went to grab the boy’s hand, but Nathan pulled away.

‘Come on,’ Mark shouted. ‘I’m getting angry now. Let’s go.’

Nothing.

Mark knelt down to Nathan’s eye level. Tried to stay calm. ‘It’s nothing to do with that. I told you, Mummy is working away from home for a few days, that’s all.’

What was Lauren playing at, telling Nathan about the new baby without discussing it with him first? Jesus.

Mark coaxed the boy forward, one reluctant step after another. They eventually got to the lane between the amusements and the play park where they turned up for school. Mark heard the bell go.

He pulled Nathan along. ‘Come on.’

The boy shuffled forward, and as they turned the corner they saw the end of 2B’s line scuffing its way into the classroom. Miss Kennedy was standing with her arms crossed at the door, fielding six-year-old chatter with a smile.

Mark handed Nathan his lunchbox.

‘Kiss.’

Nathan kissed him and Mark felt the dry skin of the boy’s lips. Forgot to put Vaseline on them again. They’d be a cut-up mess pretty soon at this rate.

He patted Nathan on the bottom, more like a shove. ‘On you go. Have fun.’

Nathan stumbled forward as the last of the stragglers bundled into the class. Miss Kennedy waved him over and he sped up. She held the door for him as he scuttled inside, then smiled at Mark and closed the door.

Mark stood with the sun on his face, the playground suddenly silent after the mayhem of kid noise. He soaked in the warmth for a moment, tried to empty his mind. He had to get the police round to the flat, check what was missing. Then he had to get a locksmith for the door.

His phone rang. The screen said it was Fletcher from the picture desk at the
Standard
. Mark had switched all his shifts for the next few days, couldn’t handle working with Lauren gone. He hadn’t told anyone at work the reason. Fletcher obviously hadn’t got the message. Mark answered.

‘I’m not working today.’

‘You live in Porty, right? Are you anywhere near the beach just now?’

‘I’m not working today.’

‘Just yes or no.’

‘Yes.’

‘Get your gear and get down to the east end. We’ve got a report of a body washed up on the shore.’

‘You mean one of the pilot whales?’

‘No. A woman.’

He ran.

He ran until his chest burned and his legs turned to liquid and all he could hear was his own heartbeat thundering in his head, until it felt like all the blood in his body would burst out his veins at once. He ran past the bottom of Marlborough Street and on, feet slapping on the prom, past the swimming baths and the flats.

He could see something past the next groyne. The tide was way out, a hundred yards of wet sand in its wake. Half a dozen people were standing in a huddle, unnaturally close together, uncomfortable stances, two of them holding each other.

He sprinted on to the beach, kicking up sand that filled his shoes, the heavy going sucking strength from his legs. He scrambled over the groyne, scraped his shin on the rough wood, staggered on, squelching and splashing through the puddles under his feet now, his vision blurred with the strain.

Some of the crowd turned and separated as they heard him approach. Behind them he caught a glimpse of something, a black shape, glistening wet in the sunlight, partly covered in a thin smear of sand.

He stumbled and fell, pushed himself back up into a crouching run. He tried to remember again what Lauren had been wearing when she went out the door of the flat that morning. Then he saw the body on the ground more clearly and recognised the curve of the hip, a curve he’d admired and touched for eighteen years, Lauren’s hip, in the A-line skirt she was wearing to work two days ago. Thick tights covering her legs, he could see them now, she’d worn them even though it was springtime, he always took the piss out of her for feeling the cold so badly. And the simple black jacket she always wore to work, the kind of smart thing they never could’ve imagined her wearing when they’d first met as clubbing teenagers.

He reached the crowd, which parted in front of him. As if they knew. He skidded to his knees beside the body. She was facing away from him, looking out towards the sea. He turned her over.

Lauren.

Her skin was blue and grey, eyes closed. He touched her cheek. It was so cold, it didn’t feel like skin at all. Didn’t feel human.

He grabbed her shoulders and hauled her up off the claggy sand into a hug, gripping her tight, feeling the cold sponginess of her body, tasting salt in his mouth. He stroked her wet hair, knotted and tuggy, and pictured that expensive conditioner she used in the bath.

His body began to shake and he worried that he was going to drop her on to the sand, which seemed more awful than anything. The spasms convulsed through his muscles and he struggled to breathe, as if he’d been winded. He tried to gasp air into his lungs but he couldn’t. His eyes were blind with tears and snot ran from his nose. He couldn’t get snot on her, but he couldn’t let go either. He leaned away for a second and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He clutched her to his chest again, couldn’t stand to see her face. It was easier to hold her than look at her. He finally got a stuttering breath into his lungs and an ugly wail crept out of him.

He sat with her like that for a lifetime, his mind dead, his body shaking, his blood cold and congealed in his veins.

‘Mark?’

From the bottom of the ocean, he somehow felt a hand on his shoulder. He drifted upwards towards reality, then broke the surface.

‘Mark.’

The hand tried to turn him, but he held on to Lauren like a shipwreck survivor clinging to driftwood. If he could just keep holding her, he could stay afloat.

The hand was removed from his shoulder, then he sensed someone in front of him. He opened his eyes and saw a face he recognised, features he could place but somehow different, as if the whole world had been shunted off kilter.

‘It’s me, DC Ferguson. Tracey?’

There were other police officers behind her, and an ambulance crew. He raised his head to look around. A smudge of faces and limbs, murmuring voices, the swish of the tide lapping a few feet away. The stench of salt water choked everything, corroding the world.

‘Mark, the paramedics need to check her over. You have to let go.’

He resisted his fingers being prised away from Lauren’s back, then finally gave in and slumped on to the sand. Two men in medical uniforms crouched next to Lauren. Mark imagined them giving her mouth-to-mouth, pumping away at her chest until she spluttered back to life, coughing up seawater like in the movies. But they were just methodically checking her neck, heart, eyes, ears. Like livestock at market. They conferred quietly between themselves then stepped away.

He scrambled back to her, leaned over. Stroked her cheek, her brow. The truth was, since Nathan had come along, they hadn’t had the time or energy to touch each other or really look closely at each other any more like they used to at the start. This would be the last time he would ever look at her face. He wanted to see her eyes open, but at the same time he was terrified by the idea, how final that would be to see her lifeless gaze.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She always fussed about her hair getting in her face, tying it back more often than not, especially at work. Had it been tied back when she left the house two days ago?

His tears were falling on her face and he wiped them away in a shameful panic, feeling the slackness of her skin, a kind of rubbery oiliness. He felt tremors starting up in his arms and legs and he hunched forward, head on the sand. He wanted the beach to choke him to death. He wanted the sand to scour his eyes and block his nose, he wanted the sea to drag him under, annihilate him.

‘Come on.’

It was Ferguson again, trying to get him to sit up.

Mark looked at Lauren and suddenly felt sick, a spasm rushing up from his stomach. He retched on the sand, tears and snot dripping, his body convulsing. He could feel Ferguson’s hand rubbing his back, and all he could think was how pointless that touch was, how completely pointless.

Back at the police station. No idea how he got here. Same dismal grey walls, same crime-prevention posters with the stupid slogans, even the same spotty kid behind the desk.

Except it wasn’t the same, nothing would ever be the same again. Sunlight was glinting in through the glass door of the building, and Mark could see leaves and litter being tossed around in a swirl outside. Wind must be picking up again.

He closed his eyes and saw Lauren’s face. Cold and blue, lips dry, those lines around her eyes like cracks in concrete. He tried to picture her the morning she disappeared but he couldn’t conjure anything up, couldn’t get an image of her alive. Was this how it was going to be? Was the memory of her already dead?

He flicked through his phone, looked at a couple of pictures of her with Nathan, crappy little snaps, one at a birthday party, two from a trip to the zoo months ago. All the everyday family stuff that was never going to happen again.

Fuck, he’d have to tell Nathan. He felt sick. Couldn’t picture the scenario at all, impossible to contemplate.

Every minute since she hadn’t turned up at Towerbank, he’d presumed she would be back. He’d panicked and fussed and worried but deep in his core, he always thought she’d come walking through the door after a while, like last time. They would carry on like they had before, struggling, sure, but making it work.

But not now. Not ever.

He thought about the unborn child inside her. Shame came pouring into him that he’d only thought of that now. Every single one of his thoughts and actions now was an insult to Lauren, the baby, himself, Nathan, the world.

Ferguson appeared in front of him, blocking the light from the door. She held a mug out to him.

‘Tea. I put some sugar in it.’

Sugary tea, Jesus fucking Christ. Another insult. How could the world put up with this degradation?

He stared at the whispers of steam coming from the mug. Ferguson put it down on a low table covered with leaflets. Neighbourhood Watch. Community Policing.

‘I know this is hard,’ she said.

‘Do you.’

‘I just need to go through a couple of things with you.’

Mark rubbed at his eye then made a gesture with his hand, letting her continue.

‘This is ridiculous, but I need you to verbally confirm that was your wife Lauren Bell on the beach.’

Mark’s eyelids flickered involuntarily. ‘Yes, that’s her.’ He was aware as he spoke that he’d used the present tense, not the past. Not ready for that shift, not yet.

‘Can you remember if that’s what she was wearing when you last saw her?’

Mark closed his eyes this time, tried to think. Pictured her walking into the living room with a piece of toast in her hand. Never still, no one was ever stationary in the mornings in their flat, always running around.

‘I think so. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail, though. Is that important?’

Ferguson looked at him kindly. ‘It could be.’

Mark got a sudden flash of her lying on the sand. ‘Wait. She wasn’t wearing any shoes on the beach, why wasn’t she wearing any shoes?’

‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Can you remember what kind of shoes she was wearing?’

He couldn’t. Probably heels, maybe strappy. Who the hell notices their wife’s shoes after nine years of marriage? More guilt swamped him, suddenly drowning him in sorrow and self-pity. He shook his head, a tiny movement, as if worried he might upset the equilibrium of the earth with the motion.

Too late for that, far too late.

A thought came swimming out the darkness.

‘Where is she now?’

Ferguson sat down next to him and placed a hand on his wrist. Mark stared at it. Freckled, delicate, like bird bones. It looked like it could snap too easily.

‘They’ve taken her body to the mortuary on the Cowgate. They’ll perform a post-mortem there.’

‘When?’

‘Depends on the workload, but hopefully soon.’

Workload. To some knife-wielding arsehole in scrubs Lauren was just workload. Another day at the fucking office.

‘And then what?’

‘Depends on the result of the post-mortem. Whether they declare it an accidental death or . . .’

Mark looked up and held her gaze. ‘Or?’

‘Suicide. Or murder.’

Mark pulled his hand away from hers and gripped his knees.

‘I don’t think I can handle this.’

He could sense Ferguson’s eyes on him and felt like he was suffocating. He could hear the police officer breathing through her nose and had a sudden urge to choke her.

‘I need to know what happened to her,’ he said.

‘We’ll do our best to find out, I promise.’

It was empty, just words. She didn’t care, why should she? Just another person clocking in and clocking out. Lauren was another addition to the workload.

‘I’m going to find out what happened,’ Mark said.

‘Please leave the investigating to us.’

Mark concentrated on his own breath, suddenly aware of the particles of air being sucked into his lungs, reacting in there, absorbed into his bloodstream.

Ferguson spoke again. ‘Do you have anyone you need to call? A relative?’

He felt his blood sing in his veins, every cell active and alert to possibilities.

‘Lauren’s mother.’

‘Do you want me to inform her about what’s happened?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘If you’re sure.’

He stood up and flicked through his phone. Pressed ‘call’. Ruth picked up after two rings. Mark didn’t wait for her to speak.

‘She’s dead,’ he said.