The Missing Marriage by Sarah May

thirty-five degrees, you start to feel disorientated and confused. At thirty-four degrees, amnesia sets in. As your temperature drops from thirty-three down to thirty consciousness becomes cloudy until you lose consciousness altogether. If your deep body temperature gets down to twenty-five degrees then you’re probably dead. She hates me.’
    â€˜Your mum? I’m sure she just –’
    â€˜No!’ Martha shouted, adamant. ‘She hates me. This isn’t about her wanting me to go home it’s about control, that’s all. She needs to know she’s got control over me – and you as well. You don’t know her.’
    She began hurriedly collecting her stuff, putting on her coat so roughly she ripped it.
    â€˜Let me drive you – it’s pouring out there.’
    â€˜I’m fine.’ Martha pulled the bike aggressively towards her, opening the door to the apartment before Anna had a chance to get there.
    â€˜You’ll get soaked.’
    â€˜It’s only rain.’ She paused at the top of the stairs for a moment, and they stared at each other then looked away.
    â€˜Do you want to know what she was doing before I came over here today?’ Martha said. ‘She was sitting on one of the barstools in the kitchen reading a holiday brochure. I mean, she’s no great reader. That brochure – any brochure – is pretty much about her limit, and she’s working hard at it. When I see her this morning, reading her brochure, I say, “You’re not thinking of going on holiday are you?” and she says, “We’ll see.” And I say, “But, dad –” thinking, I really have got a point, and she just says, “Piss off.”’
    Martha was as sullen again now as she’d been standing beside Bryan yesterday morning, in her riding clothes.
    Anna was aware that she was waiting for her to say something, and at last said quietly, ‘I don’t think she’s all that keen on you coming over here.’
    â€˜Fuck that. Fuck her.’
    They carried the bike awkwardly down the stairs together.
    â€˜You know what I think?’ Martha said, wheeling the bike out into the rain. ‘I think she pushed him over the edge, and that’s why he’s gone.’
    â€˜Gone?’
    â€˜He’s gone,’ Martha said again.
    â€˜Which is different to disappearing?’
    â€˜Completely.’
    Anna stared out through the open front door at the Harbourmaster’s office – a nondescript brick building with woodwork painted a depressing shade of blue – thinking.
    After Martha had gone, she went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed, shutting her eyes, but a few minutes later was up again, looking for the running shoes she’d kicked off earlier. Then her phone started ringing.
    â€˜Busy?’ It was the Inspector and Inspector Laviolette was the last person she felt like speaking to right then.
    â€˜About to go out for a run – why are you phoning me?’
    â€˜It’s raining.’
    â€˜I like running in the rain. Has something turned up?’
    â€˜Not a sodding thing.’ He sounded tired. ‘Nothing . . . not a trace. Divers are going out tomorrow, then we’re launching an appeal.’ Before she could respond to this, he said, ‘Has Martha contacted you yet?’
    â€˜No,’ she said, without hesitation, waiting. The silence was on the verge of becoming uncomfortable when he said, ‘Do you remember much about Bobby Deane?’
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    â€˜You think Bryan’s still alive, don’t you?’
    â€˜I’m not the only one.’
    â€˜I remember Bobby when the Strike was on. I remember going up to the caravan they had outside the gates at Cambois power station when the pickets were trying to get lorry drivers not to deliver coal.’
    â€˜Who did you go with?’
    â€˜Bryan –