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Jen smiles back at him, in the darkness of the car, just as he takes the slip road. ‘Too right,’ she says softly, hoping he can’t hear the nostalgia and grief in her voice. And something else, too. This banter of theirs … perhaps it does more than it purports to. Perhaps it evades the deeper issues, somehow. Jen thinks sometimes that Kelly is so busy laughing that he never does anything else. Like show how he feels. What’s the bedrock, underneath the banter? Their family has always been so full of charm, exactly what she wanted after her repressed upbringing. But isn’t humour a different kind of repression?
Lights appear in the rear-view mirror, a halo of blue. Kelly’s eyes dart to them, and become illuminated, his navy gaze turning aquamarine just for one second. That’s right … something is coming back to Jen. What is it? Is there an accident or … no, no … they get pulled over. That’s right. Nothing comes of it, she knows that; that’s why it had faded into the past so easily. She remembers being so panicked at the time. And now, look: it’s just like Andy said. She can observe it.
Her gaze moves to the speedometer, but Kelly’s doing thirty up the slip road. He never speeds. Never pays tax. Never travels. Never goes to parties. Never gets to know anyone. Sits quietly at dinner parties.
‘It’s the po po!’ Todd says, laughing in the back seat, still so innocent. Jen’s back feels uncomfortable, like there’s a hostile gaze on it. She turns to look at Todd, who gets arrested in four and a half years’ time for murder and doesn’t seem to care, has jaded, old, unfocused eyes as they handcuff him. She reaches to squeeze his knee, which fits in her palm perfectly.
The police turn their lights off, then flick them on again. Jen looks in the mirror. An officer in the driver’s seat in a black vest is pointing very obviously to the left.
‘Pull over, I guess?’ she says to Kelly.
The police start indicating. Blue lights meet orange.
‘Yep, they want us,’ Kelly says, but his voice … Jen’s gaze goes to his. Jaw set. Eyes on the mirror. His hand withdrawn from her knee. His tone: furious. Not about a speeding ticket or whatever, but about something else. Something bigger. She never would have noticed it the first time: she was feeling anxious too. But, now that she is calm, she notices. That anger that sometimes seems to simmer beneath the surface of her husband’s caustic wit.
Kelly wrenches the wheel at the top of the slip road. He takes a left, to the services, and pulls over at the verge, two wheels on, two wheels off, at an angle which seems somehow hostile, like a teenager who won’t cooperate.
A male officer appears at the driver’s side. He’s got a completely round head, bald, shining under the bright lights of the service-station slip road. There’s something satisfying about the symmetry of it, like a football. He has a chain around his neck, a big, thick one like a fighting dog would wear. ‘All right,’ he says, when Kelly winds the window down. Spring air drifts in.
‘Just doing some random breathalysing on the bank holiday. Happy to participate?’ He has an expectant smile on his face, but it isn’t a question.
Kelly’s eyes go to the dashboard, the front windscreen, and then to the policeman. Jen watches every single movement he makes. ‘Sure,’ he says, unfolding himself from the car. As he does so, Jen watches him remove his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and drop it. A completely fluid movement. It falls and skitters on to the seat like a beetle, unnoticed in the darkness of the car. Except to her.
‘You going to bag me, then?’ Kelly says, Jen thinks impatiently.
The policeman obliges, and Kelly blows into the breathalyser, standing there by the side of the road as the cars whip by, his hands on his hips. He doesn’t ever drink when he’s driving, not even a pint. This is why Jen didn’t worry. This is why Jen didn’t remember. But look: she’s here. There must be a reason why. Once again, everything points to her husband.
‘Why would they breathalyse people randomly?’ Todd asks.
‘Oh, because some idiots like to drink on bank holidays and then drive.’
Kelly gets back in the car and winds the window up. He must be sitting on the wallet. It can’t be comfortable, but his face gives nothing away. Absolutely nothing.
He flashes Jen a quick, easy look. ‘Jesus, does he know this isn’t LAPD?’ he says.
‘Wasn’t it a bit scary, to be pulled over?’ she asks. ‘I’d always be terrified I’d done something wrong.’
‘Not at all,’ Kelly says mildly.
Jen bites her lip, there in the front seat, a spectator on her own marriage. When was the last time Kelly did tell her something had bothered him? Has he ever? She goes hot, suddenly, in the car. What keeps this man awake at night? What makes him mad? What will he regret on his deathbed? She suddenly finds, in the passenger seat next to the man she has pledged to love for ever, that she can’t answer a single one of these questions.
Jen is sitting in pyjamas, cross-legged, on the velvet sofa. An old lamp is lit, one they get rid of in a few years. Tonight, Jen is glad to be back here, in the past, in the comfortable surroundings she didn’t quite know she had missed.
Kelly’s wallet is in her hands. It’s brown leather, worn at the edges like a dog-eared novel. He has their joint-account card. That’s it – no credit cards, no debit cards of his own. He has three pound coins, his locker token for the gym and his driving licence.
Jen stares at them, spread across her lap. They’re totally normal. What she would expect to find. What illegal item could anybody possibly keep in their wallet, anyway?
She squints down at the ID. The hologram … she isn’t sure. She vaults off the sofa to get her own driving licence, setting them down side by side. Are the holograms the same? She holds them up to the light. No. They’re not exactly the same, no. His is … flatter, somehow.
She googles counterfeited driving licences on her phone.
‘The best way to tell,’ an article says, ‘is to look at the hologram. It cannot be successfully replicated.’ Accompanying it are two photographs: one of a real driving licence, and one of a fake.
The fake hologram looks exactly like the one on Kelly’s.
She can’t deal with this. Finding and finding and finding things which she wishes she could forget. She turns the lamp out, just sitting there in the darkness of the living room, on the comfort of their old sofa, her husband’s forged identity held in her hands.
Day Minus Five Thousand Four Hundred and Twenty-Six, 07:00
