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‘OK,’ Farnham says. ‘Your neighbours have gone to a hotel. Are you sure I can’t persuade you to spend the day with someone?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘We want to be here. We want to be here when they find her.’
‘Yes, thanks. We prefer to stay.’ Matt lifts the knot of our hands to his mouth. I feel his tears on my fingers. I can’t put my arm around him because we are tied together.
‘Shall we step inside a moment?’ Farnham says.
They follow us into the kitchen. None of us sits down.
‘We knew she was in that house,’ I say. ‘At the party. We both sensed she was there.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Lorraine says. ‘Often what we almost know comes from lots of little things we haven’t quite put together. It’s possible part of you always thought your friend had something to do with Abi’s disappearance, even where he might have hidden her. Some things are so unthinkable we… we don’t or can’t think them so they become feelings instead.’
‘Will they be careful?’ I ask.
‘As I said last night, please be reassured that they’ll be very careful,’ Farnham says. ‘They’re experts, and remember she’ll be protected by the bag.’
‘But how will they know where she is? Exactly, I mean?’
‘Mr Johnson—’
‘Neil’s going to be there?’ Matt interrupts. I feel his body bristle; his hand tighten around mine.
Farnham shakes her head. ‘No, he’s drawn a plan of the kitchen and marked the place. Please try not to think about it too much. We’ll be as careful as we possibly can, all right?’ She looks at her feet, briefly, before turning to leave.
‘Detective,’ Matt says. ‘Would I be able to talk to Neil? Can I call him?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, sorry. It’s… that would be inappropriate.’
He nods, too hard. ‘Of course. Sorry. Yeah. And he won’t be here at any stage?’
She shakes her head, her expression weary. ‘As I said, we have the drawings and he’s marked—’
‘The place. Of course. You just said that. Sorry. Thanks. Thank you.’
‘I’ll see myself out, all right? I’ll be in touch.’
Lorraine wanders over to the kettle, as if on autopilot.
Matt covers his eyes. He has a cold sore at the corner of his mouth. We have not slept at all – lying on the bed talking it over endlessly, trying to make sense of the surreal and grisly events Farnham relayed to us last night. There is no sense to be made. It is senseless. A tragic accident caused by our friend’s negligence, a hand grenade he tried to throw away only to create a time bomb. That bomb has exploded now, of course. It has destroyed all of us and everything we were to one another.
My eyes drift to the black bin bag on the kitchen floor. In it, last night’s rage: broken ornaments, a ripped dress of Abi’s, a traditional teddy bear holding a heart cut into pieces with scissors, a smashed bottle of champagne, its contents left to glug, fizzing, down the drain. All gifts from Neil and Bella. There is a cracked picture frame in there too – a photograph of an Elvis impersonator with his arms around the four of us, taken at a curry house in Twickenham, dug out and ripped into shreds.
I did this, all of it.
If I had to say how I feel now, I’d say I don’t know. Neither of us knows how we feel. Adrift is as near as we can get. Our daughter is lost. She is dead. And with her death, we have lost our friends, our life here.
Last night, when he was on his way to the spare room, I called to Matt.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Sleep in here.’
‘Of course.’ He climbed in beside me and held me.
‘This doesn’t mean we’re together,’ I sobbed into his shoulder. ‘I still hate you.’
‘I know,’ he whispered into my hair. ‘I get it.’
‘Best thing to do is stay as comfortable as you can,’ Lorraine says now as we sit on high stools, burnt-out in the falling ash of ourselves. ‘Let’s go into in the living room, shall we?’
