He had tried to contact Marina, but couldn’t get through to her. She wasn’t at work and she certainly wasn’t at home. She had been told by her doctor to take some time off. She needed rest if the baby wasn’t to suffer.
Tony Scott had survived the attack, but his head injuries had left him in a coma. Phil knew, from questioning the nurses, that Marina had been at his bedside.
He kept his regular Sunday dinner dates with Don and Eileen.
The first time was the worst. Eileen made an excellent roast, and the smell of it, the taste of it, was something Phil had always associated with comfort, safety. But not that time. Sitting round the table and dutifully eating, he found he couldn’t smell it, couldn’t taste it. Couldn’t appreciate or savour it.
Don had been a career policeman. He knew what Phil was going through. Or thought he did. They knew about Clayton, Hester, Croft and the rest of the case. But not about Marina. They didn’t ask him about it, but he knew that if he wanted to talk, they were there to listen. And if he didn’t want to say anything, they were there for that too.
He put his knife and fork down, pushed his plate away, murmuring apologetically.
Eileen nodded, said nothing.
Phil didn’t move. Barely realised he was crying.
Eileen placed her hand on his. Don was there.
They sat like that for a long time.
So now Phil sat alone in his house. Drinking beer, listening to music.
He looked again at the letter, took another mouthful of beer, draining the bottle. He put the bottle down, picked up the letter. Began to read.
Dear Phil,
I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I know what you must think of me. But I had no choice. Sorry. I’ve got things to sort out in my head. Big things. It’s not just you. I thought after Martin Fletcher that things would never get that bad again. I was wrong. Though you were there for me this time. Eventually.
You know this baby is ours. I know you do. And maybe we should both be there together for it. For him. Or her. I don’t know. And then there’s Tony. I feel guilty over what happened to him. I feel in some way responsible. Whatever was happening between him and me or you and me. I’ve got to honour him too.
I know this is rambling and my thoughts aren’t articulated very well, but that’s how I feel at the moment. All messed up. I need time to think. Sort things out. I hope you’ll give me that.
And I hope you know that I love you. Whatever happens, I love you.
Marina x
Phil put down the letter, picked up his beer bottle. Empty. He got up, went to the fridge for another one. Marina’s words going through his head all the time. Guy Garvey was singing about it looking like a beautiful day; Phil was a long way from agreeing. The words of the minister at Clayton’s funeral kept coming back to him too. The gift of hope.
He took another beer out, came back to the living room, sat back down. Started drinking.
Thought about how a gift could be a curse.
And then came a ring at the door.
Phil ignored it.
It came again, more insistent this time.
Sighing in irritation, he put his bottle down and went to the door. Opened it.
And there stood Marina.
She looked at him, gave a tentative smile.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey yourself.’
Phil opened the door fully, stepped out of the way. She walked into the hall, went straight to the living room. He followed her.
He entered the room, saw her standing there. He was unsure what to do, how to talk to her. Then he looked into her eyes. Saw what was there. And there was no uncertainty any more.
He crossed the room, put his arms round her. Held her as tightly as he could.
Guy Garvey was still singing about it being a beautiful day.
This time, Phil had to agree.
Tania Carver
