‘And those were his good points,’ Phil had said, trying to turn her from the dark emotional path her words were sending her down.
She smiled. Continued.Told him how she was encouraged at school, how they praised her intelligence, cajoled her to push herself and her studies. She had willingly responded, eager to get away from her background.
‘So you’re not from round here? I didn’t think you had an accent.’
‘I’m from Birmingham originally,’ she said. ‘And that’s an accent you don’t want to carry round with you.’ She continued, telling him how she had been awarded a scholarship to Cambridge and chosen psychology.
‘I suppose I chose it because of my dad. I wanted to understand what made him the way he was. Why he did what he did.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yeah. But I didn’t need a degree in psychology to work out that he’s just a vicious, lazy bastard.’
Her mother had died soon afterwards of cancer, robbing her of the chance to see her only daughter graduate. ‘And I feel bad about that. I wanted her to be proud of me.’
‘I’m sure she is.’
Marina nodded, her eyes averted.
‘And what about your brothers?’
A shadow passed across her eyes as she spoke. ‘Let’s just say they grew up to resemble their father. I’m sure your colleagues in the Midlands have more to do with them than I do.’
Phil raised an eyebrow, didn’t push it.
‘So, you’re from Colchester?’ she said. ‘Lived here all your life?’
‘Not yet,’ he said, hoping she would laugh. She did. Politely. ‘And you’re not married,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Is there… anyone?’
A curious look crossed her face. ‘I’m living with someone. ’
Phil’s heart sank. ‘Oh.’
Marina shrugged. ‘It’s… we’ve been together a long time.’
‘I see.’
‘He’s… I was his student. He was my lecturer.’ She shrugged. ‘At least we waited until I’d finished the course. Well, more or less. He was…’
‘A father figure?’
‘I suppose so.’ Before Phil could say anything more, she went on. ‘Maybe it’s time I… Sometimes I feel more like his…’ She looked at her drink, swirling it round in the glass. ‘I don’t know. So that’s me. What about you?’
Because Marina had been honest with him, Phil felt that honesty should now be reciprocated. He spoke. And Marina listened attentively.
He told her of the pain of being abandoned, of growing up in various children’s homes and foster homes until Don and Eileen Brennan took him in.
‘They gave me everything I’d been lacking. A home. A sense of belonging, I don’t know… a purpose.’ He smiled, took a drink of wine. ‘Sorry. I’m not very good at talking about all this. It’s… I can’t express myself well.’
Her hand was on his again. She smiled. ‘You’ve told me everything.’
Their eyes locked once more. Different colours but the same in every sense that mattered. They went straight back to his flat.
He hadn’t had time to fully take in her body before they began making love. The connection continued. Nerves evaporated as they quickly fell into rhythm with each other, complementing and second-guessing what the other enjoyed, linked almost by a carnal telepathy. It was hot, physical, intense. Connected by more than just bodily sensations.
At one point, her legs wrapped round him, pulling him into her as deeply as he could go, he had opened his eyes to see her staring up at him. She had smiled. He had returned it. And in that moment he knew there was something between them stronger than lust or physical attraction. It was stronger than any bond he had ever experienced. It thrilled him beyond description.
It scared him beyond imagining.
He came.
Later, lying spent and exhausted, their bodies intertwined, Phil tried to work out what had just happened. It was more than just a physical release. He glanced across at Marina. Knew without asking that she was experiencing the same thing. It was the biggest thing that had ever happened to him. Again he was thrilled. Again he was terrified.
Early-morning sunlight eased round the curtains. They had barely slept. Phil pointed the remote at the CD; Elbow played gently in the background: ‘One Day Like This’. The euphoric love song establishing and nourishing the mood.
‘Aren’t you going to be in trouble when you get home?’
Her face was half in shadow. ‘Leave that to me.’
‘Okay.’
‘I don’t do this normally, you know,’ said Marina.
‘What, you do it abnormally?’
She gave him a shove. ‘You’re hysterical. I meant that. Jumping into bed with people.’
‘People? You want a threesome now? Foursome?’
Another shove. ‘You know what I mean.’
Phil laughed. ‘I know. Then why did you do it?’
Their eyes connected. ‘Why did you ask me out?’
Phil couldn’t bear to look at her; the intimacy was too naked, too knowing. ‘Felt right.’
‘More than right,’ she said.
Phil couldn’t reply. He just held her tighter. Felt the damage and uncertainty slip away, to be replaced by the beautiful, terrible peace of a love that reached down to his soul.
Held Marina like she was about to stop being real, turn into smoke. Knew she was experiencing similar emotions.
Knew that, whatever happened, his life would never be the same again.
Phil pointed the remote at the stereo, silencing Elbow before the album reached the track that reminded him of Marina. It wasn’t healthy: like picking a wound, stopping it from healing.
He drained his bottle, put it down. Looked at the half-eaten takeaway before him. He couldn’t eat. There was another bottle in the fridge if he needed it. He felt the start of a headache. Forced it away. He couldn’t indulge himself. He had to work.
Trying to push Marina out of his mind, he made himself re-examine the day he had just gone through. Close up his heart to her, compartmentalise his life and concentrate on finding a killer. And a baby.
He played back the events of the day, starting with the discovery of Claire Fielding’s body. Went over everything once again, looking for something they might have missed, attempting to make hidden connections.
Ignored the loneliness in his flat, his life.
Focused on his job.
Unaware that the song was still on his lips.
30
Marina stood at the window, glass of sparkling apple juice in hand, wishing it was something stronger. In front of her was a path, and beyond that the River Colne moved slowly past. Her house, a painted brick cottage with clematis climbing round the porch, was on the front at Wivenhoe, a quaint old fishing village now colonised primarily by academics working at the nearby university. The whole village had a relaxed, cultured ambience. A homely, safe place. But, putting the glass to her lips, Marina was feeling neither of those things.
Tony was cooking a late dinner. Nothing special, pasta arrabiata. It should have been Marina’s turn but he had taken one look at her as she entered and, handing her a glass of juice and kissing her forehead, declared he would
