If that were the case, it had worked a treat.
The thought made her feel as naive and ridiculous as Katie often made her feel. ‘Oh, Suey.’ *tsk, tsk, tsk* ‘You know the children have far more valuable opportunities to express their inner child than at a soft play centre.’
Express their inner child?
They were children.
In exactly the same way Gary had been a plumber. Not a ‘water and piping development engineer’ as Katie had told people at the odd barbecue she and Gaz had been invited to in their immaculately manicured back garden.
Gary was – had been – a plumber.
People paid good money for an excellent plumber and heaven knew Gary had never wanted for work.
An image of her debit card disappearing into the hole in the wall flickered up.
People had been paying him. Hadn’t they?
She stared at the darkening foam listing round the top of her coffee.
How was it that everything could look the same? Exactly the same as when the man she thought she’d known best in the world had taken his life and she hadn’t a clue why.
A painful twist of guilt squeezed out a jackhammering of heartbeats.
She’d yet to go into his office. For some reason she thought there might be clues in there. Indications. She’d been so tired at night and would obviously need bundles of energy to go in. Like an explorer would before they entered a dark cave. Not that the room had held any particular intrigue before, but he did hide her Christmas presents in it.
She wondered if she’d find any in it – presents for next year. Sometimes he did that. Saw something he thought she’d like in the sales, buy it, put it in the small cupboard she’d been instructed not to look in at any time of the year. Perhaps there were all sorts of things in there she wasn’t meant to find.
In truth, fatigue hadn’t been delaying her, terror had. After she’d found him, she’d run round their tiny house and pulled all of the doors shut as if seeing what was happening out in the stairwell would hurt the rooms as well.
She supposed she would have to go in one of these days. See if there was anything that would offer her some insight. Any more clues. Any passwords to secret bank accounts that did work.
She knew she’d never be called clever, but she’d seen enough telly to guess that the refused debit cards might have something to do with Gary’s trajectory of despair. Either that or he’d been life hacked. Identity hacked? Perhaps he had an entirely separate family he’d been supporting and loving as well as her. A nice, bouncy wife who asked all sorts of questions about how he was feeling. Children they’d had without any problem whatsoever. A no-fail recipe for Yorkshire pudding.
Her brain hummed with the white noise that had virtually consumed her over the past few weeks. She hadn’t dared mention the cashpoint eating her card to her mother, now that she knew about the crematorium bill. It was bad enough knowing the husband her mother had always predicted would disappoint had.
And yet … the sun still rose, the traffic was its usual snarly mess at the roundabout by the school and the heating was still far too hot in the entryway to the large anonymous building that housed the call centre staffed with people reading scripts meant to have that personal touch. A personal touch not unlike this awful, tasteless, coffee from a pod.
Flo appeared next to her and without so much as a hello peered into Sue’s coffee cup. ‘Oh, darling,’ she said. ‘You won’t be wanting that. The coffee here is hideous.’ She took the mug, dumped the contents into the sink then pulled a couple of packets out of her handbag. ‘Here,’ she waved them in front of Sue with a smile. ‘Why don’t the two of us make these and have a bit of a natter before we plug our headsets in, eh?’
Chapter Eleven
Incident No – 5278374
Time of Call: 18:22
Call Handler: FLORENCE WILSON
Call Handler: You’re through to the NHS 111 service, my name’s Flo and I’m a health advisor. Are you calling about yourself or someone else?
Caller: Yes, hello. Are you there?
Call Handler: Yes, hello. This is Flo. What’s your name please, darlin’?
Caller: It’s Emma, but I’m ringing about my boy, Jamie.
Call Handler: Is Jamie alright?
Caller: He’s got a bit of Lego stuck up his nose— Jamie! Put your hands down. Don’t press on it. Oh gawd, for fu—
Call Handler: Is he breathing and conscious, Emma?
Caller: Yes, he’s fine, but a bit blotchy maybe? Bloody expensive bit of Lego to stuff up his conk. He keeps sneezing and sort of— Jamie, stop that! He keeps sneezing and then kind of choking, like.
Call Handler: Is he breathing alright?
Caller: Sort of. I don’t really know. He’s had a cold since Christmas and it’s bloody impossible to tell.
Call Handler: Is there any discoloration to his lips or face?
Caller: Like I said, he’s got some red blotches on his face, but I think that’s because of all the sneezing. Or eczema. His skin’s bloody dry, no matter what I put on it. Coconut oil, that vitamin E nonsense from the chemists. But his lips aren’t blue or anything. [Sound of pained coughing]
Call
