message. Whether he
gets lots, or just a few. Whether he answers them all, or just the ones that take
his fancy. I wonder what normally happens, if there’s such a thing as normally .
I go back outside. There’s a breeze, it’s getting cooler now. I have another sip
of my drink then sit back down. I bite into my apple; it’s crisp but slightly sour.
I put it on the table and, as I do, my computer pings.
I have another message, but it’s not from him. This one is from someone new. As I
open it I get the strangest feeling. A plunging, a descent. A door has been nudged
open. Something is coming.
Chapter Ten
I sat in the garden for hours that day, my laptop humming in front of me. I was exploring
the site, clicking on profiles, opening photographs. It was as if I believed I could
stumble on Kate’s killer accidentally, that somehow I’d just be drawn to him. The
ice in my glass melted, the dregs of my lemonade began to attract flies. I was still
there when Connor came home from school, though by now the battery on my computer
had run down and I was just sitting, in silence, thinking about Kate, and who she
might have been talking to, and what they might’ve said.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, and I closed my machine. I said hello and patted the chair next
to me. ‘Just doing some editing,’ I said as he sat down. The lie slid off my tongue
so easily I barely noticed it.
The following night, he’s due to go to Dylan’s party. His best friend, a nice enough
lad, if a bit quiet. They spend a fair bit of time together, here mostly, playing
on the computer or on Connor’s Xbox. I tend to stay out of their way, listening in
from time to time. There’s usually a lot of laughter, or there certainly used to
be, before Kate. Dylan will come in occasionally and ask me for more juice or a biscuit,
terribly polite. Last Christmas I took them sledging on the Heath with another couple
of boys from school I didn’t know. We had a good time; it was nice to see Connor
with people his own age, to get a glimpse of what kind of man he’ll turn into. Still,
I can’t think that he and Dylan discuss feelings. I can’t picture him as someone
Connor goes to for support.
It’s Dylan’s birthday and he’s celebrating at his house; just pizzas and bottles
of cola, some music, maybe karaoke. A few of them are staying over in a tent in his
garden and I imagine late-night DVDs and a final snack before torches and sleeping
bags are handed out. They’ll go out on to the lawn, spend the night laughing, chatting,
playing video games on their phones, and the next day, when their parents pick them
up, they’ll tell us nothing except that it’d been all right.
I drive him there. We pull up outside the house and I see the balloons tied to the
gateposts, the cards in the lounge windows. Connor opens the car door and at the
same time Dylan’s mother, Sally, comes out into the porch. She’s someone I know
quite well, we’ve gone for coffee after school, though always with other people,
and I haven’t seen her for a while. I wave, and she waves back. Behind her I can
see streamers, the flash of children running upstairs. She raises her eyebrows and
I smile in sympathy.
‘Have fun,’ I say to Connor.
‘I will.’
He lets me kiss him on the cheek then picks up his bag and races into the house.
When I get back home the place seems cavernously empty. Hugh is still in Geneva and
has sent me a text message – the flight was okay, the hotel is nice, he’s heading
for dinner soon and wonders how I’m feeling – and I tap out a reply. ‘I’m fine, thanks.
Missing you.’
I press send. I make some dinner, then sit in front of the television. I ought to
call my friends, I know that. But it’s difficult, I don’t want to inflict myself
upon them, and I can sense that when they hear my voice the energy drops as the shadow
of Kate’s death falls on all of us.
I’m not me, any more, I realize. I carry something else now. The stigma of
gets lots, or just a few. Whether he answers them all, or just the ones that take
his fancy. I wonder what normally happens, if there’s such a thing as normally .
I go back outside. There’s a breeze, it’s getting cooler now. I have another sip
of my drink then sit back down. I bite into my apple; it’s crisp but slightly sour.
I put it on the table and, as I do, my computer pings.
I have another message, but it’s not from him. This one is from someone new. As I
open it I get the strangest feeling. A plunging, a descent. A door has been nudged
open. Something is coming.
Chapter Ten
I sat in the garden for hours that day, my laptop humming in front of me. I was exploring
the site, clicking on profiles, opening photographs. It was as if I believed I could
stumble on Kate’s killer accidentally, that somehow I’d just be drawn to him. The
ice in my glass melted, the dregs of my lemonade began to attract flies. I was still
there when Connor came home from school, though by now the battery on my computer
had run down and I was just sitting, in silence, thinking about Kate, and who she
might have been talking to, and what they might’ve said.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, and I closed my machine. I said hello and patted the chair next
to me. ‘Just doing some editing,’ I said as he sat down. The lie slid off my tongue
so easily I barely noticed it.
The following night, he’s due to go to Dylan’s party. His best friend, a nice enough
lad, if a bit quiet. They spend a fair bit of time together, here mostly, playing
on the computer or on Connor’s Xbox. I tend to stay out of their way, listening in
from time to time. There’s usually a lot of laughter, or there certainly used to
be, before Kate. Dylan will come in occasionally and ask me for more juice or a biscuit,
terribly polite. Last Christmas I took them sledging on the Heath with another couple
of boys from school I didn’t know. We had a good time; it was nice to see Connor
with people his own age, to get a glimpse of what kind of man he’ll turn into. Still,
I can’t think that he and Dylan discuss feelings. I can’t picture him as someone
Connor goes to for support.
It’s Dylan’s birthday and he’s celebrating at his house; just pizzas and bottles
of cola, some music, maybe karaoke. A few of them are staying over in a tent in his
garden and I imagine late-night DVDs and a final snack before torches and sleeping
bags are handed out. They’ll go out on to the lawn, spend the night laughing, chatting,
playing video games on their phones, and the next day, when their parents pick them
up, they’ll tell us nothing except that it’d been all right.
I drive him there. We pull up outside the house and I see the balloons tied to the
gateposts, the cards in the lounge windows. Connor opens the car door and at the
same time Dylan’s mother, Sally, comes out into the porch. She’s someone I know
quite well, we’ve gone for coffee after school, though always with other people,
and I haven’t seen her for a while. I wave, and she waves back. Behind her I can
see streamers, the flash of children running upstairs. She raises her eyebrows and
I smile in sympathy.
‘Have fun,’ I say to Connor.
‘I will.’
He lets me kiss him on the cheek then picks up his bag and races into the house.
When I get back home the place seems cavernously empty. Hugh is still in Geneva and
has sent me a text message – the flight was okay, the hotel is nice, he’s heading
for dinner soon and wonders how I’m feeling – and I tap out a reply. ‘I’m fine, thanks.
Missing you.’
I press send. I make some dinner, then sit in front of the television. I ought to
call my friends, I know that. But it’s difficult, I don’t want to inflict myself
upon them, and I can sense that when they hear my voice the energy drops as the shadow
of Kate’s death falls on all of us.
I’m not me, any more, I realize. I carry something else now. The stigma of
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