Caffery was holding. ‘Mum? Oh, God, Mum, it is. It’s her tooth.’
‘I’m sure.’
Very, very slowly Caffery put the tooth on the table about ten inches from his plate.
‘How come it was in your mouth?’ Next to him the FLO’s voice was low and controlled.
Caffery looked down into his plate of apple pie and cream. The FLO looked at hers. They met each other’s eyes and turned to Jonathan, who was staring at his own helping, his face ashen.
‘Where did the pie come from?’
Jonathan’s pupils were like pinpricks. ‘From the neighbour,’ he said faintly. ‘Mrs Fosse.’
‘She’s been bringing food over since this started.’ The FLO put her spoon down with a clatter. ‘She’s trying to help.’
Caffery pushed away his plate and felt automatically in his pocket for his mobile, not taking his eyes off the tooth. ‘Where does she live? What number?’
Jonathan didn’t answer. He bent over and spat a mouthful of pie into his bowl, then glanced apologetically at his wife, his eyes red, watery. He scraped his chair back as if he was going to get up. Instead he leaned over the plate again. This time when he opened his mouth vomit came out, splashing into the plate, little white trails of sputum and cream flecking the table.
Everyone stared at him as he mopped his mouth with a kitchen towel, dabbed at the mess. No one said a word. A long, cold silence spread around the kitchen as if no one had the confidence to speak. Even Caffery was silent, staring at the tooth, at Jonathan dejectedly cleaning the table. Then, as Caffery was about to stand, to do something constructive, get a cloth to help, Rose Bradley came to life. ‘You pig!’ She pushed her chair back with a loud scraping noise and jumped to her feet, pointing a finger at her husband. ‘You absolute hateful pig, Jonathan. You think that if we just pretend everything’s normal it’ll all go away.’ She reached across the table and in one move sent the plate flying off the table to crack into pieces against the cooker. ‘You think
pie
and
tea
and mountains of bloody
cakes
are going to bring her back. You do. You really do.’
She snatched up the tooth and, ignoring the FLO who had half risen out of her chair, her hands up to calm the situation, left the room, slamming the door. A moment later, Philippa shot her father a filthy look and followed her mother, slamming the door again. Their footsteps sounded on the stairs, another door slammed. There was a thump, and then the sound of muffled sobbing.
In the kitchen no one spoke. Everyone sat in silence, staring at their feet.
16
Ten miles to the south in a street on the outskirts of the small town of Mere, Janice Costello, a thirty-six-year-old mother of one, parked her Audi and cut the engine. She turned to the back, where her four-year-old daughter was strapped into her car seat, ready for bed in pyjamas, Hello Kitty slippers and a hot-water bottle. She had a duvet tucked around her.
‘Emily, sweetheart? You OK, poppet?’
Emily yawned and looked blearily out of the window. ‘Where are we, Mummy?’
‘Where are we? We’re . . .’ Janice bit her lip and ducked her head down to look out of the window. ‘We’re near the shops, darling. And Mummy’s going to be just two minutes. Just two minutes, OK?’
‘I’ve got Jasper.’ She waggled her toy rabbit. ‘We’re having a cuddle.’
‘Good girl.’ Janice leaned over and tickled Emily under the chin, making her jam it down and wriggle gleefully.
‘Stop it! Stop it!’
Janice smiled. ‘That’s a good girl. You keep Jasper warm, and I’ll be straight back.’
She unbuckled and got out of the car, central-locking it. She gave Emily a last glance, straightened and stood under the streetlamp, looking anxiously up and down the road. She was lying to Emily. There weren’t any shops round here. What was here, just around the corner, was an NHS clinic. It was playinghost to a group counselling session. Three men and three women:
‘I’m sure.’
Very, very slowly Caffery put the tooth on the table about ten inches from his plate.
‘How come it was in your mouth?’ Next to him the FLO’s voice was low and controlled.
Caffery looked down into his plate of apple pie and cream. The FLO looked at hers. They met each other’s eyes and turned to Jonathan, who was staring at his own helping, his face ashen.
‘Where did the pie come from?’
Jonathan’s pupils were like pinpricks. ‘From the neighbour,’ he said faintly. ‘Mrs Fosse.’
‘She’s been bringing food over since this started.’ The FLO put her spoon down with a clatter. ‘She’s trying to help.’
Caffery pushed away his plate and felt automatically in his pocket for his mobile, not taking his eyes off the tooth. ‘Where does she live? What number?’
Jonathan didn’t answer. He bent over and spat a mouthful of pie into his bowl, then glanced apologetically at his wife, his eyes red, watery. He scraped his chair back as if he was going to get up. Instead he leaned over the plate again. This time when he opened his mouth vomit came out, splashing into the plate, little white trails of sputum and cream flecking the table.
Everyone stared at him as he mopped his mouth with a kitchen towel, dabbed at the mess. No one said a word. A long, cold silence spread around the kitchen as if no one had the confidence to speak. Even Caffery was silent, staring at the tooth, at Jonathan dejectedly cleaning the table. Then, as Caffery was about to stand, to do something constructive, get a cloth to help, Rose Bradley came to life. ‘You pig!’ She pushed her chair back with a loud scraping noise and jumped to her feet, pointing a finger at her husband. ‘You absolute hateful pig, Jonathan. You think that if we just pretend everything’s normal it’ll all go away.’ She reached across the table and in one move sent the plate flying off the table to crack into pieces against the cooker. ‘You think
pie
and
tea
and mountains of bloody
cakes
are going to bring her back. You do. You really do.’
She snatched up the tooth and, ignoring the FLO who had half risen out of her chair, her hands up to calm the situation, left the room, slamming the door. A moment later, Philippa shot her father a filthy look and followed her mother, slamming the door again. Their footsteps sounded on the stairs, another door slammed. There was a thump, and then the sound of muffled sobbing.
In the kitchen no one spoke. Everyone sat in silence, staring at their feet.
16
Ten miles to the south in a street on the outskirts of the small town of Mere, Janice Costello, a thirty-six-year-old mother of one, parked her Audi and cut the engine. She turned to the back, where her four-year-old daughter was strapped into her car seat, ready for bed in pyjamas, Hello Kitty slippers and a hot-water bottle. She had a duvet tucked around her.
‘Emily, sweetheart? You OK, poppet?’
Emily yawned and looked blearily out of the window. ‘Where are we, Mummy?’
‘Where are we? We’re . . .’ Janice bit her lip and ducked her head down to look out of the window. ‘We’re near the shops, darling. And Mummy’s going to be just two minutes. Just two minutes, OK?’
‘I’ve got Jasper.’ She waggled her toy rabbit. ‘We’re having a cuddle.’
‘Good girl.’ Janice leaned over and tickled Emily under the chin, making her jam it down and wriggle gleefully.
‘Stop it! Stop it!’
Janice smiled. ‘That’s a good girl. You keep Jasper warm, and I’ll be straight back.’
She unbuckled and got out of the car, central-locking it. She gave Emily a last glance, straightened and stood under the streetlamp, looking anxiously up and down the road. She was lying to Emily. There weren’t any shops round here. What was here, just around the corner, was an NHS clinic. It was playinghost to a group counselling session. Three men and three women:
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