incessant. Her grandfather, low, rare. Freya hesitated, hung in the hallway. Didn’t seem to be breathing. She’d just grab her keys. Go.
“Freya. Is that you?”
Freya stopped. Sighed. Bugger. She could still go. Before they could ask her where. She sighed again and turned, heading to the kitchen.
Her grandmother was crouched on the floor, corduroy trousers hiked up revealing freckled legs, Minnie Mouse socks. Bottles of bleach, counter sprays, bin bags, coffee filters, arrayed on the floor before her, the cupboard beneath the sink hanging open. Her grandmother’s arm swallowed whole by it, her shoulder moving back, fore, in wide sweeping movements, as if she’s trying to fight off a monster that’s eating her a bit at a time. Her grandfather sat at the kitchen table, Daily Telegraph spread out before him. A glance up, a quick nod, toast crumbs scattering across black and white pages. Behind him, Richard, and Freya felt a spark of surprise hadn’t expected him to be up yet, wondered if he had slept, or if it was that he just needed to be there, where life was. He stood at the patio doors, looking out over the snow-bound garden, drinking coffee, dark hair standing up on end and looking so much like their father that it took her breath away.
“My god, how many bottles of bleach does one house need? Look at this, two, three.” Her grandmother scrubbed furiously, shoulders vibrating beneath her peach blouse, stopping briefly to scratch at a stain on the cupboard floor with a fingernail.
“Grandma? What are you doing?”
Her grandmother glanced over her shoulder. “I was getting a new bin bag. Have you seen the state of this cupboard? Shocking.” She paused, a frown flitting across her face. “You’re going out?”
Freya hesitated, glancing at her grandfather. He was looking at her too with a slight frown.
“I…” Freya tugged her coat on, trying not to look at her grandmother, her face dark, overhung with warning clouds. “Yes. I, I’m going to the crash site.”
The kitchen stilled.
“What?” Her grandmother’s voice was trimmed with ice.
Richard was watching her. The mug shaking in his hand. She wanted to reach out, steady him, tell him that it was okay. But she had to go, now, whilst she still could.
“That’s ridiculous, Freya. Why would you want to do…nonsense. You don’t need to see that. George. Tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“Tell her that she shouldn’t go.”
“I’m not telling her that.”
“George! Would you speak to her?”
“What do you want me to say to her, Bets?”
Her grandmother sighed in exasperation. “Anything. Good God!”
“All Right, fine. Freya. I think that’s a very brave decision and I’m proud of you.”
“George!”
They hung there for a moment, stale-mate. Then her grandmother tched, a small noise, a minor nudge to break the spell. Her grandfather turned the page of his paper, brushing toast crumbs onto the floor, her grandmother muttering, turning back to the cupboard, arm swiping furiously at the stains. Richard turned back towards the garden.
Freya looked down, buttoning her coat. “Grandad?”
“Yes, love?”
“Don’t tell Mum. Okay?”
Chapter 19
Tom – Saturday, 17th March – 11.01am
“Jim,” said Tom “you know I need to ask?”
Jim was leaning over the kitchen table, gaze fixed off in some middle distance. Ethan sat beside him, his chair pushed back, arms folded tight across his chest. Tom cradled his coffee. The kitchen clock ticking extraordinarily loudly.
“I know.” Jim had pushed himself up, squared off his shoulders. Preparing himself for what was to come.
“I could…”
“No, it’s okay, Tom. Go on.” Jim’s fingers were tapping the table top, a fast beat, like that way he could hurry the investigation forward.
Tom flicked open his notepad. “When did you see Libby last?”
“Tuesday. She came to dinner. Essie, she likes to cook. Worries Libby doesn’t eat enough…” Jim’s voice
“Freya. Is that you?”
Freya stopped. Sighed. Bugger. She could still go. Before they could ask her where. She sighed again and turned, heading to the kitchen.
Her grandmother was crouched on the floor, corduroy trousers hiked up revealing freckled legs, Minnie Mouse socks. Bottles of bleach, counter sprays, bin bags, coffee filters, arrayed on the floor before her, the cupboard beneath the sink hanging open. Her grandmother’s arm swallowed whole by it, her shoulder moving back, fore, in wide sweeping movements, as if she’s trying to fight off a monster that’s eating her a bit at a time. Her grandfather sat at the kitchen table, Daily Telegraph spread out before him. A glance up, a quick nod, toast crumbs scattering across black and white pages. Behind him, Richard, and Freya felt a spark of surprise hadn’t expected him to be up yet, wondered if he had slept, or if it was that he just needed to be there, where life was. He stood at the patio doors, looking out over the snow-bound garden, drinking coffee, dark hair standing up on end and looking so much like their father that it took her breath away.
“My god, how many bottles of bleach does one house need? Look at this, two, three.” Her grandmother scrubbed furiously, shoulders vibrating beneath her peach blouse, stopping briefly to scratch at a stain on the cupboard floor with a fingernail.
“Grandma? What are you doing?”
Her grandmother glanced over her shoulder. “I was getting a new bin bag. Have you seen the state of this cupboard? Shocking.” She paused, a frown flitting across her face. “You’re going out?”
Freya hesitated, glancing at her grandfather. He was looking at her too with a slight frown.
“I…” Freya tugged her coat on, trying not to look at her grandmother, her face dark, overhung with warning clouds. “Yes. I, I’m going to the crash site.”
The kitchen stilled.
“What?” Her grandmother’s voice was trimmed with ice.
Richard was watching her. The mug shaking in his hand. She wanted to reach out, steady him, tell him that it was okay. But she had to go, now, whilst she still could.
“That’s ridiculous, Freya. Why would you want to do…nonsense. You don’t need to see that. George. Tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“Tell her that she shouldn’t go.”
“I’m not telling her that.”
“George! Would you speak to her?”
“What do you want me to say to her, Bets?”
Her grandmother sighed in exasperation. “Anything. Good God!”
“All Right, fine. Freya. I think that’s a very brave decision and I’m proud of you.”
“George!”
They hung there for a moment, stale-mate. Then her grandmother tched, a small noise, a minor nudge to break the spell. Her grandfather turned the page of his paper, brushing toast crumbs onto the floor, her grandmother muttering, turning back to the cupboard, arm swiping furiously at the stains. Richard turned back towards the garden.
Freya looked down, buttoning her coat. “Grandad?”
“Yes, love?”
“Don’t tell Mum. Okay?”
Chapter 19
Tom – Saturday, 17th March – 11.01am
“Jim,” said Tom “you know I need to ask?”
Jim was leaning over the kitchen table, gaze fixed off in some middle distance. Ethan sat beside him, his chair pushed back, arms folded tight across his chest. Tom cradled his coffee. The kitchen clock ticking extraordinarily loudly.
“I know.” Jim had pushed himself up, squared off his shoulders. Preparing himself for what was to come.
“I could…”
“No, it’s okay, Tom. Go on.” Jim’s fingers were tapping the table top, a fast beat, like that way he could hurry the investigation forward.
Tom flicked open his notepad. “When did you see Libby last?”
“Tuesday. She came to dinner. Essie, she likes to cook. Worries Libby doesn’t eat enough…” Jim’s voice
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