'Becky?'
'I took some heroin I took some smack.'
'Some what?'
'Some smack.'
'Oh, for God's sake.' He sighed, dropped back in the seat, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 'When?'
'I don't know. I don't know maybe a few hours ago…'
'Why?'
'I…' She rolled her eyes to him and now he wondered why he hadn't recognized that glazed smacked-up look before. 'I wanted to try it.'
'Do you have to try everything? Every fucking thing?'
She wiped her mouth and didn't answer. The traffic was slowing down to see what was happening to see if there was an argument. He leaned over and pulled her door closed so that the interior light didn't give the passers-by a stage-lit show. 'Is this the first time?'
She nodded.
'OK.' He shoved the Jag into gear. 'I'm not going to lecture you. Let's get you home.'
In Brockley he got her cleaned up and made her drink tea. She sat like a child in bed wearing one of his shirts, her hands wrapped round the mug, a pale, numb look on her face.
'I'm getting a doctor.'
'No. I'm OK.' She stared into the bottom of the mug. 'I feel better now. Will you…' she didn't look up at him '… will you come to bed?'
He stood in the doorway, his hands on the doorposts, and shook his head.
'No?'
'No.'
'I see.' She was silent for a while, as if moving this new resolve of his around in her head. Then suddenly she let go of the mug and put her face in her hands. The mug rolled off the bed and shattered on the wooden floor. 'Oh, Jack,' she sobbed, 'I'm lost '
'OK, OK.' He sat on the bed and rubbed her back.
'I'm lost. I used to know where I was, but I just I just don't know any more She cried so hard she seemed to be crying for everything for every small disappointment, for everything she had ever lost. Tears boiled down her cheeks.
'Becky…' he put his arms around her and kissed her head '… you can't go on like this.'
'I know.' Her shoulders were shaking and her neck had grown hot. She shook her head. 'I know.'
'What are you going to do about it?'
'I don't know I She rubbed her eyes and took deep breaths, trying to control herself.
'Rebecca?' He dipped his head to look at her face. 'What are you going to do?'
She wiped the tears off her cheeks. Her breathing was getting steadier.
'Well?'
'Uh.' She turned her head away. 'I'm going to I don't know, I'm going to tell the truth, I suppose.'
'OK '
'No, I mean really tell the truth.' She raised her hands, then dropped them again. 'Jack.'
'What?'
'I've been I've been lying. A bit,' she stumbled. 'No not a bit, a lot. Jack, I've been lying to you all the way along I've lied and now I'm so sorry and it's because I lied that we've got like this and it's all my fault and I'm '
'Hey ssh, come on, calm down, what have you been lying about?'
'You'll hate me '
'What have you been lying about?'
'About Malcolm.'
'What about him?'
She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed, speaking into the air as if reciting a hard-remembered poem. 'I don't remember what happened, Jack. The last thing I remember is getting on my bike to go to Malcolm's and that's all until you were going to Paul's funeral.' Silence. She opened her eyes and looked at him. 'Jack I know I've fucked up and I'm sorry I just thought oh, I don't know I thought there was something wrong with me if I didn't remember or or '
He dropped his hand from around her shoulder and sat for a long time in silence. So this was what it had all been about. He thought about the statement in the hospital, he thought about the inquest, about her dead flat mate body lying in the hallway, about Rebecca, hanging in the kitchen. And then he realized that what she had just done was to take a step towards him.
'Is that what it's all been about? The sex?'
'I got scared, I must've thought I might suddenly remember while we were oh, fuck.' She jammed knuckles into her eyes. 'I know it's stupid '
'Because I've been trying to make you think about it?'
She nodded, her bottom lip twisted under her teeth. All her eye makeup was down on her face, the eyelashes quite soft and naked.
'You didn't report it, did you?'
'Of course not you didn't really think…?'
'Bloody hell, Rebecca.' He pulled her closer, pressing his face into her lopped-off hair. 'Bloody hell.'
Twenty-six.
(26 July)
'Yes, hello?' A woman's voice on the answer phone in the hallway, the sound echoing through the house. Upstairs, stretched out on the floor next to the radiator, Benedicte jerked awake, pawing blindly towards the sound.
'Hello, this is a message for Mr. and Mrs. Church. I hope I've got the right number, my name is Lea nd I'm calling from the Helston Cottage Agency, and, um, we were expecting you at Lupin Cottage in Constantine on Sunday, and I'm just calling because we haven't heard from you and we're just checking that everything's OK. And, um, what it is, Mr. Church, what it is, is because we haven't had a, you know, an official cancellation we're going to have to, I'm sorry to say, we might have to charge you for Lupin Cottage if we don't hear from you and you might lose your deposit so, well, maybe you've been delayed, but do give me a call and let me know. Right.' She paused for a moment. 'Right. That's all. So goodbye now.'
'No!'
'Oh, and it's about nine a.m. on Thursday. I might try to give you another call at the weekend just to make sure everything's OK. Thank you.'
The receiver clunked down, the tape whirred, a series of clicks and the ageing answer phone rewound the tape.
'Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.' Benedicte sprang forward, roaring at the door. 'I'll kill you.' She hammered on the floor with her broken-up hands. 'You fucking bitch! You and your fucking deposit, you shitty bitch. Hal! Josh! Can you hear me? Can you hear me? I love you so much, I love you so much…'
Tracey Lamb's mood was good. Cooking, she told herself, you're cooking now. She put her hair in rollers, big pink rollers that glistened like sugar sponge. When it was set she didn't brush it out. She sprayed a little mist in it, pulled on Wellington boots and, carrying a cup of tea, a bucket full of bits and pieces, keys, and with her sputum cup in the pocket of her cardigan, she left the house by the back door, thinking about sangria and cheap, strong cigarettes. She was singing to herself.
She took the Datsun up to the quarry and parked it facing into the trees. An anorectic brindled dog was sitting in the undergrowth staring up at the caravan.
