bones and muscles and ligaments, that the chest would heave with breath and the arms would fold around me and never let me go.
It was before dawn and a dirty light had settled on the room. I thought I might be the only one awake in the world. Everything silent and still as if the day was out there waiting for everyone else to realise it was ready.
I was in the wardrobe; I’d fallen asleep there, my limbs twisted and achy. My body wanted to move and stretch but I couldn’t summon the energy.
Then – the sound of a phone ringing. My mobile. A noise normally so unwelcome early in the morning, had my whole body tense with possibility. I saw it on my bed, flashing. I leapt out of the wardrobe to grab it. And I answered. Searching for the right words and then I found them.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Is that you?’
‘Rachel?’ A man’s voice, a southern accent like Jonny’s and deep too. For a moment I let myself think it.
‘Jonny?’ There was a pause and then I knew. I knew.
‘Rachel, it’s Nick.’
‘Oh …’ I said. I had no more words.
‘Look, I’m sorry to be calling at this time but I need to speak to you.’ There was a softness to him that filled me with dread. Nick didn’t talk like that; he boomed and bellowed. Whenever I saw Nick I saw Jonny, the pair of them laughing like schoolkids who had never grown up.
My grip on the phone loosened, it slipped down away from my ear. But his voice, I could still hear it.
‘I’m sure there’s a good reason for it,’ he said in a way which made me think he didn’t believe it. ‘But the fixer, we managed to contact the fixer overnight and Jonny isn’t there, he didn’t arrive on Monday.’
‘He must have been delayed on the way,’ I said, recalling his plans to fly into Kabul and down to Kandahar where he was to meet the fixer. ‘You know what it’s like over there, Nick,’ I went on, but even that theory opened up another flurry of possibilities I didn’t want to consider. I heard Nick’s sharp intake of breath on the phone, enough to send me into meltdown. ‘Oh my God, has something happened to him out there?’ The nightmare, the homemade video, masked men surrounding Jonny, forcing him to talk to the camera, to beg for his life. ‘Fucking hell,’ I said, ‘isn’t there supposed to be fucking security?’ I was saying all this and aware at the same time that the prospect of Jonny being kidnapped by al-Qaeda was somehow preferable to the alternative, the collusion with you. The betrayal.
‘He hasn’t been kidnapped Rachel.’ Nick’s voice was firm.
‘How can you be sure?’ There was no way of knowing; how could he dismiss it so quickly?
‘Rachel … we called the police last night when we realised he wasn’t there. They checked with the airline. Jonny didn’t even make the flight.’
Dawn gave way to a fierce blue-sky day from which there was no hiding. The huge folding doors we’d had fitted in the kitchen at great expense let the light flood through. Outside, in the garden, the sun, brilliant and harsh, danced on the patches of frost; inside it reflected off the white gloss units and the stainless-steel worktops. How perfect it looked, how empty its promise. And the brilliance of it, I thought, was so inappropriate, like a brightly dressed guest showing off at a funeral.
There was a cloth in my hand, working its way over the surfaces, the table top, the worktop, the hob. Occasionally I stopped to spray more Dettol, the one that says it kills 100 per cent of all known germs, which was all very well but what about the unknown ones? I shuddered at the thought. Once, twice, three times I went over the surfaces. Then I stood back and surveyed my work. The shine. All clean. I turned to my plants.
There were ten of them, placed around the flat according to their need for sunlight or shade. The peace lilies in the living room were drooping, forlorn, the thin red-trimmed leaves of the marginara in the kitchen were brittle,
It was before dawn and a dirty light had settled on the room. I thought I might be the only one awake in the world. Everything silent and still as if the day was out there waiting for everyone else to realise it was ready.
I was in the wardrobe; I’d fallen asleep there, my limbs twisted and achy. My body wanted to move and stretch but I couldn’t summon the energy.
Then – the sound of a phone ringing. My mobile. A noise normally so unwelcome early in the morning, had my whole body tense with possibility. I saw it on my bed, flashing. I leapt out of the wardrobe to grab it. And I answered. Searching for the right words and then I found them.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Is that you?’
‘Rachel?’ A man’s voice, a southern accent like Jonny’s and deep too. For a moment I let myself think it.
‘Jonny?’ There was a pause and then I knew. I knew.
‘Rachel, it’s Nick.’
‘Oh …’ I said. I had no more words.
‘Look, I’m sorry to be calling at this time but I need to speak to you.’ There was a softness to him that filled me with dread. Nick didn’t talk like that; he boomed and bellowed. Whenever I saw Nick I saw Jonny, the pair of them laughing like schoolkids who had never grown up.
My grip on the phone loosened, it slipped down away from my ear. But his voice, I could still hear it.
‘I’m sure there’s a good reason for it,’ he said in a way which made me think he didn’t believe it. ‘But the fixer, we managed to contact the fixer overnight and Jonny isn’t there, he didn’t arrive on Monday.’
‘He must have been delayed on the way,’ I said, recalling his plans to fly into Kabul and down to Kandahar where he was to meet the fixer. ‘You know what it’s like over there, Nick,’ I went on, but even that theory opened up another flurry of possibilities I didn’t want to consider. I heard Nick’s sharp intake of breath on the phone, enough to send me into meltdown. ‘Oh my God, has something happened to him out there?’ The nightmare, the homemade video, masked men surrounding Jonny, forcing him to talk to the camera, to beg for his life. ‘Fucking hell,’ I said, ‘isn’t there supposed to be fucking security?’ I was saying all this and aware at the same time that the prospect of Jonny being kidnapped by al-Qaeda was somehow preferable to the alternative, the collusion with you. The betrayal.
‘He hasn’t been kidnapped Rachel.’ Nick’s voice was firm.
‘How can you be sure?’ There was no way of knowing; how could he dismiss it so quickly?
‘Rachel … we called the police last night when we realised he wasn’t there. They checked with the airline. Jonny didn’t even make the flight.’
Dawn gave way to a fierce blue-sky day from which there was no hiding. The huge folding doors we’d had fitted in the kitchen at great expense let the light flood through. Outside, in the garden, the sun, brilliant and harsh, danced on the patches of frost; inside it reflected off the white gloss units and the stainless-steel worktops. How perfect it looked, how empty its promise. And the brilliance of it, I thought, was so inappropriate, like a brightly dressed guest showing off at a funeral.
There was a cloth in my hand, working its way over the surfaces, the table top, the worktop, the hob. Occasionally I stopped to spray more Dettol, the one that says it kills 100 per cent of all known germs, which was all very well but what about the unknown ones? I shuddered at the thought. Once, twice, three times I went over the surfaces. Then I stood back and surveyed my work. The shine. All clean. I turned to my plants.
There were ten of them, placed around the flat according to their need for sunlight or shade. The peace lilies in the living room were drooping, forlorn, the thin red-trimmed leaves of the marginara in the kitchen were brittle,
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