Jeanie shakes her head against Bridget’s shoulder.
“Come on,” Bridget says. “I’ve got the car outside.” She grips the tops of Jeanie’s arms, holding her up. She looks hard into Jeanie’s eyes. “Just remember, he’s alive.”
The sun is rising as they drive, a deep yellow spreading above the tree-line like a distant city burning.
“I rang the hospital,” Bridget says. “They wouldn’t tell me anything. I knew they’d only speak to close relatives, but Jesus. I think you should prepare yourself. A gun.” She shakes her head.
Jeanie rests her temple against the window and closes her eyes, drifting off to the rhythm of the engine, while Bridget smokes and talks some more.
“I’m surprised the police didn’t ask for my statement at the station, maybe they’ll come to the house later. We only found out because Nath called first thing. I had that terrible feeling when I heard Stu’s phone ring. You know? How your stomach turns over when the telephone goes in the middle of the night?” Jeanie doesn’t know, but Bridget keeps on. “You always think the worst. Nath, that’s what I thought. And not Something’s happened to him, but What’s he done now? Isn’t that awful?” Bridget lowers her window a little way and flicks her cigarette ash towards the gap.
“Anyway, Stu was on the phone and making all these noises so I knew something terrible had happened, and I was about ready to pull the bloody mobile from his ear to find out what was going on, but then he covered the mouthpiece and said, ‘Julius Seeder’s been shot and Jeanie’s being questioned at the police station.’ And he carried on talking to Nath. ‘Jeanie!’ I said. ‘Jeanie’s shot Julius!’ And he said, ‘Don’t be silly, Bridgey. She’s there to give a statement.’
“Christ, I was out of that bed and getting dressed to come and find you, or Julius, or someone. I don’t know. Putting my tights on back to front, in a right state. Then Stu said, ‘They’ve already got the lad who did it.’ And it was that Tom, the one who was round at the caravan the day I visited, the one who lives with Nath.”
Jeanie lifts her head. “Tom?” She isn’t surprised.
Bridget shakes her head again, drags on her cigarette. “I couldn’t believe it. Tom, with a shotgun. We drove straight over and Nath was just sitting on the sofa in his boxers. Just sitting there. Stunned, white as a ghost and shaking. In shock, I think. I wanted to call 111 but Stu said I was making a fuss. The police had hauled Tom off by then. Apparently, he came back from your place with the gun and woke Nath up. Crying his eyes out, Nath said. Nath called the police, and they came and took Tom away. Christ. Nath has to go in later to make a proper statement.” Bridget stubs out her cigarette and begins negotiating another out of the packet; she’s stopped bothering with the Polos. “Can you believe it? Poor Julius. What was that lad doing out there in the middle of the night with a shotgun, that’s what I’d like to know.”
“Rob us, I suppose. He didn’t believe me when I told him we didn’t have any money.” Jeanie closes her eyes. She tucks her hands under her thighs—her fingers are freezing, all the heat of her body is contained in her core, her heart is expanding and crushing her lungs, squeezing her stomach. “It was my fault, Bridget. I got this bloke—Jenks—in the pub to text Julius and tell him to come home. I thought I was having a heart attack.”
“A heart attack! Why didn’t you phone for an ambulance?”
Jeanie shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just didn’t. The pain went away. But Julius came home. He was there in the spinney because of me.”
“Oh, love.” Bridget sucks on her cigarette. “You mustn’t think that. Maybe he was on his way home anyhow. Maybe he never saw the message.”
Jeanie keeps her eyes closed, hoping Bridget will think she’s asleep. She wants her to drive faster. What if Julius dies while they are in the car because Bridget is pootling along the dual carriageway like she’s on a Sunday afternoon outing? When Jeanie opens her eyes, the sky is white and morning has come and cars are overtaking them one after another, their drivers on their way to early shifts or home from late ones. Jeanie looks at Bridget, mascara caught in the lines at the corner of her eye, her body tilted forwards, concentrating on the road, driving Jeanie to the hospital when she could be comforting her own shaking son.
“Did Mum visit you sometimes without her wedding ring on?” Jeanie asks.
“What do you mean?” Bridget changes down a gear for no reason, the engine squeals, and she changes back up.
“That’s what she used to tell Julius—that she was going to see you. You were her excuse, her alibi. Except she always left her ring on the scullery windowsill, that’s what Julius remembers. Me too, maybe.”
Bridget glances at Jeanie as though to assess something, the extent of her knowledge perhaps.
“Rawson came to the caravan,” Jeanie continues. “He told me about him and Mum.”
“He told you?” Bridget looks at Jeanie again and the car swerves towards the side of the road and back out.
“Thirty-eight years. How could we have not known? All that time.”
Bridget sighs, a long, drawn-out sigh, and her body relaxes.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Jeanie says. “Everyone knew.”
“She made me promise not to tell.” Bridget shrugs her shoulders. “She said she was never going to tell you and Julius, even though I told her she should. I kept saying you’d understand.”
“Understand? What is there to understand? Rawson is an awful man who took advantage of a woman when her husband had just died—”
“Oh, Jeanie, no, it wasn’t like that. It was nothing like that.” Bridget reaches out her hand and then seems to think
