rubbing his back, and all he could think was how pointless that touch was, how completely pointless.
19
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
19
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
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