Either way, it was killing him.
“I know I fucked up.” He felt his voice go brittle.
She yielded a long sigh, put down her coffee, and cupped one hand over the other as though she were shielding something fragile.
“Miranda’s been under a lot of strain lately.” She raised a finger when he lifted his head to speak. “It’s been hard keeping you in the dark, but Miranda talked with Geena and then she rang me.”
A wave of dread hit him. “Is Miranda ill?” His breath caught in his throat.
“No . . .” She stalled. “Not ill .” The way she said it hinted at bad news. It wasn’t long in coming. “You remember when she went to Bermuda?”
How could he forget? They’d parted company — again — and she’d been seeing some up-and-coming footballer, apparently. What was it with her and footballers? And then, almost out of the blue, that was all over and she announced — in a phone call, mind — that she was off to Bermuda on a modelling job.
“Yeah.” He felt his shoulders locking. “I remember.”
“Well . . .” Diane swallowed hard and pressed her hand flat over the coffee mug. “Around that time she found out she was pregnant.”
His brain went into slip gear. “Why didn’t she say something? I didn’t know . . .” He started conjuring with the implications.
“No, she wanted to think about it and make her own decisions. As it turned out,” her knuckle whitened, “events ran their own course and she had a miscarriage. Early stages, that can happen.”
His mouth dried. “I’m so sorry.” The pieces fell horribly into place. How volatile she’d been about Ajit and Geena, and then, God help him, he’d insisted she go with him to Pickering. He pressed a hand to his mouth. They’d made her a godparent and he’d left her there with them, about to go into the delivery room. And she’d never said a word. “Christ, I’ve been such an idiot.”
“You hurt her badly, but you weren’t to know.” She drew a breath with difficulty. “The thing is, there were complications and now she may not be able . . .” Diane looked like a broken woman.
He smudged a finger against one eye. “What do I do?”
Diane seemed not to have heard him. “Maybe some good has come out of this.” She stared at her hands. “Miranda doesn’t want any more secrets; only she couldn’t face telling you. So now you know.”
“Okay.” He faltered. “I’ll talk to her tonight. I dunno; we’ll see a counsellor or something. I’ll find some way to make it up to her.”
She stared at him and reached out a hand. “You don’t get it — it wasn’t your baby.”
Everything moved into slow motion, like the time he’d been shot. He was aware of standing up and walking, but it wasn’t really him. Diane said something about staying, only the words rushed past him. It took all his concentration to put one foot in front of the other, get into the car and drive away. He had nowhere to go.
“Karl, are you busy?”
“Twice in one day — people will start to talk.” He cut the comedy routine when he got the measure of the situation. “I’ll meet you at Holloway Road Tube station. You’ve got your passport?”
* * *
What he felt was a heavy grief, about everything, now that the covers had come off. Miranda must have been seeing the footballer before they’d broken up, during her sex embargo. There was anger too — at the world — especially people like Sir Peter Carroll and Jack Langton. Tonight he’d settle for targets and guns.
Karl chose Browning 9mm pistols. It had been a while since Thomas had faced down static targets but the body remembered. Muscles tensed and then settled in that curious way Karl had told him about. The ear defenders entombed him with his thoughts and he lined them up like targets to take them out one at a time. It was all he could cope with. By the time he reeled in his handiwork, the burden had lifted a little.
Karl waited until Thomas had emptied two full magazines
“I know I fucked up.” He felt his voice go brittle.
She yielded a long sigh, put down her coffee, and cupped one hand over the other as though she were shielding something fragile.
“Miranda’s been under a lot of strain lately.” She raised a finger when he lifted his head to speak. “It’s been hard keeping you in the dark, but Miranda talked with Geena and then she rang me.”
A wave of dread hit him. “Is Miranda ill?” His breath caught in his throat.
“No . . .” She stalled. “Not ill .” The way she said it hinted at bad news. It wasn’t long in coming. “You remember when she went to Bermuda?”
How could he forget? They’d parted company — again — and she’d been seeing some up-and-coming footballer, apparently. What was it with her and footballers? And then, almost out of the blue, that was all over and she announced — in a phone call, mind — that she was off to Bermuda on a modelling job.
“Yeah.” He felt his shoulders locking. “I remember.”
“Well . . .” Diane swallowed hard and pressed her hand flat over the coffee mug. “Around that time she found out she was pregnant.”
His brain went into slip gear. “Why didn’t she say something? I didn’t know . . .” He started conjuring with the implications.
“No, she wanted to think about it and make her own decisions. As it turned out,” her knuckle whitened, “events ran their own course and she had a miscarriage. Early stages, that can happen.”
His mouth dried. “I’m so sorry.” The pieces fell horribly into place. How volatile she’d been about Ajit and Geena, and then, God help him, he’d insisted she go with him to Pickering. He pressed a hand to his mouth. They’d made her a godparent and he’d left her there with them, about to go into the delivery room. And she’d never said a word. “Christ, I’ve been such an idiot.”
“You hurt her badly, but you weren’t to know.” She drew a breath with difficulty. “The thing is, there were complications and now she may not be able . . .” Diane looked like a broken woman.
He smudged a finger against one eye. “What do I do?”
Diane seemed not to have heard him. “Maybe some good has come out of this.” She stared at her hands. “Miranda doesn’t want any more secrets; only she couldn’t face telling you. So now you know.”
“Okay.” He faltered. “I’ll talk to her tonight. I dunno; we’ll see a counsellor or something. I’ll find some way to make it up to her.”
She stared at him and reached out a hand. “You don’t get it — it wasn’t your baby.”
Everything moved into slow motion, like the time he’d been shot. He was aware of standing up and walking, but it wasn’t really him. Diane said something about staying, only the words rushed past him. It took all his concentration to put one foot in front of the other, get into the car and drive away. He had nowhere to go.
“Karl, are you busy?”
“Twice in one day — people will start to talk.” He cut the comedy routine when he got the measure of the situation. “I’ll meet you at Holloway Road Tube station. You’ve got your passport?”
* * *
What he felt was a heavy grief, about everything, now that the covers had come off. Miranda must have been seeing the footballer before they’d broken up, during her sex embargo. There was anger too — at the world — especially people like Sir Peter Carroll and Jack Langton. Tonight he’d settle for targets and guns.
Karl chose Browning 9mm pistols. It had been a while since Thomas had faced down static targets but the body remembered. Muscles tensed and then settled in that curious way Karl had told him about. The ear defenders entombed him with his thoughts and he lined them up like targets to take them out one at a time. It was all he could cope with. By the time he reeled in his handiwork, the burden had lifted a little.
Karl waited until Thomas had emptied two full magazines
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