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‘Oi,’ he says. ‘You can still visit.’
Later, in bed, sleep a million miles away, Matt replays what will always be known asthat day. He had stopped doing this, but since the party, he can’t help himself. The days, the weeks that followed. The latent suspicion of the police, the officer whose name he has forgotten pointing to the camera on her lapel, telling him it wasn’t a formal statement, not to worry, they just needed to keep a record. Oh, but he had felt their eyes on him and Ava, their cameras recording every word and twitch, Lorraine Stephens pretending not to listen. Even if he’d wanted to tell them that it was him who left the door open, he wouldn’t have – would have been a fool to change his story and risk arousing suspicion for such a small detail. It was bad enough when they piled on about the blood on the pavement.
The police were cagey with Neil too. That imperceptible layer of frost that Matt watched melt away as Neil wrapped them in his certainties, his capability, his openness. His charm.
But he hasn’t been open, has he? He has hidden his troubles so deeply that Matt has not had the slightest clue.
I’m always right, Neil said at dinner.
And yes, he has always been right, has always been possessed of a kind of down-to-earth wisdom from which Matt took his lead. Neil was Matt’s moral compass before Ava ever was.
But that night he wasn’t right, was he? His moral compass had lost its north. That night, in the pouring rain, he insisted on shaking on the lie. It was the first time – is the only time – he has advised against honesty. Come to think of it, it was the first and only time he’s suggested shaking hands. And when Matt thinks about that now, in the shadow of all that Ava has said, he wonders what need there was to mimic some gentlemen’s agreement when it was already long written into the deeds of their friendship that of course Neil wouldn’t have betrayed his confidence. That was a given, wasn’t it? So why shake on it? Why insist? Neil has always known the right thing to do. But not that time. That time he called it wrong. As if something had skewed his judgement.
As if he needed it to be kept secret more than Matt did.
Thirty-Five
Ava
The September evening is a warm breath on my face. I walk the long way round so as not to pass in front of Neil and Bella’s house and risk being seen by Matt. At the top of Thameside Lane, I round the corner left, my stomach clenching as it always does whenever I go near the river. Last night’s scene with Neil is still fresh in my mind – of course it is: the two of us crashing into the cold water, the strange, mad intimacy of that. That Abi drowned, I know I have to accept. I am getting nearer to it, which could of course be why I am so wired – a last frenzy before the small expiry of acceptance.
But how she ended up in the river is another matter. On this, my nerves are alight. My gut tells me that if she did drown, if that has to be how her life ended, then it was not an accident.
I know nothing for certain. The only certainty I have now is that her disappearance – her death – is not my fault.
It never was.
At the sight of Bella through Starbucks’ window, my stomach flares with heat. Dread – that’s what I feel. I have resolved to take it slowly, but frankly, I want to grip her by the neck, push my face in close and ask her what she knows.
I back in, drag the pram in after me. The whole operation is awkward. Seated in one of two armchairs, Bella is the only one in the place apart from a spotty, lanky teenage boy at the bar. From overhead speakers, pop music mutters into the coffee-infused air. Lulled by the rhythm of the pram and a full belly, Fred has dropped off to sleep. I use the shorthand of pointing to Bella’s mug and raising my eyebrows. She shakes her head, raises her mug:I’m OK, thanks.
‘Name?’ The teenager has his felt-tip pen poised.
I look about me, at the empty café, back at him. ‘Really?’
He blushes and instantly I feel like a bitch. Which I am. I fancy a hot chocolate, for the sweetness, but instead order a decaf latte. When he hands it to me, I thank him profusely, by way of apology.
‘Hey.’ I approach my friend, wondering iffriendis what she is now, wondering if Neil has told her about last night.Whathe has told her.
She is wearing a red and orange dress and a tiny denim jacket, drinking peppermint tea in full make-up. Her nails are painted red, not one chip, not one chewed cuticle. I look down at my own loose combat trousers, my scruffy Converse, the puke stain on my grey sweatshirt. I’m wearing no make-up; my hair is pulled back into a ponytail. I feel unfashionable, out of place and a bit manky.
‘Hey.’ She doesn’t stand up. There will be no cheek kisses, no hugs.
I park the pram and sit down. ‘I’m guessing Neil told you about last night.’
She nods slowly. Nods again when I ask if he mentioned the river incident.
‘I went a bit crazy,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘He was pretty shaken up.’ She sips her peppermint tea. ‘Are you all right? I heard about… you and Matt.’
‘Did you know?’ The question flashes like a flame. I dampen my tone. ‘I mean, did you know about the door?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. Neil never said anything. Not a word, swear to God.’
I pour a whole sachet of sugar into my coffee, wonder why I didn’t just get the hot chocolate, then how the hell I can even think about anything so trivial, so irrelevant, when elsewhere in my brain hangs the notion that someone knows something about the death of my daughter. The notion that Bella herself knows something. But I cannot grip her by the neck. Not here.
‘Matt’s at yours, isn’t he?’ are the words that find their way out of my mouth.
