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RACHEL
FRIDAY, JULY 19, 2013
MORNING
The 8:04 is almost deserted. The windows are openand the air is cool after yesterday’s storm. Meganhas been missing for around 133 hours, and I feelbetter than I have in months. When I looked atmyself in the mirror this morning, I could see thedifference in my face: my skin is clearer, my eyesbrighter. I feel lighter. I’m sure I haven’t actually lostan ounce, but I don’t feel encumbered. I feel likemyself—the myself I used to be.
There’s been no word from Scott. I scoured theInternet and there was no news of an arrest, either,so I imagine he just ignored my email. I’mdisappointed, but I suppose it was to be expected.
Gaskill rang this morning, just as I was leaving thehouse. He asked me whether I would be able tocome by the station today. I was terrified for amoment, but then I heard him say in his quiet, mildtone that he just wanted me to look at a couple ofpictures. I asked him whether Scott Hipwell had beenarrested.
“No one has been arrested, Ms. Watson,” he said.
“But the man, the one who’s under caution?.?.?.??”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
His manner of speaking is so calming, so reassuring,it makes me like him again.
I spent yesterday evening sitting on the sofa injogging bottoms and a T-shirt, making lists of thingsto do, possible strategies. For example, I could hangaround Witney station at rush hour, wait until I seethe red-haired man from Saturday night again. Icould invite him for a drink and see where it leads,whether he saw anything, what he knows about thatnight. The danger is that I might see Anna or Tom,they would report me and I would get into trouble(more trouble) with the police. The other danger isthat I might make myself vulnerable. I still have thetrace of an argument in my head—I may havephysical evidence of it on my scalp and lip. What ifthis is the man who hurt me? The fact that hesmiled and waved doesn’t mean anything, he couldbe a psychopath for all I know. But I can’t see himas a psychopath. I can’t explain it, but I warm tohim.
I could contact Scott again. But I need to give hima reason to talk to me, and I’m worried thatwhatever I saw will make me look like a madwoman.
He might even think I have something to do withMegan’s disappearance, he could report me to thepolice. I could end up in real trouble.
I could try hypnosis. I’m pretty sure it won’t helpme remember anything, but I’m curious about itanyway. It can’t hurt, can it?
I was still sitting there making notes and going overthe news stories I’d printed out when Cathy camehome. She’d been to the cinema with Damien. Shewas obviously pleasantly surprised to find me sober,but she was wary, too, because we haven’t reallyspoken since the police came round on Tuesday. Itold her that I hadn’t had a drink for three days,and she gave me a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re getting yourself back to normal!”
she chirruped, as though she knows what mybaseline is.
“That thing with the police,” I said, “it was amisunderstanding. There’s no problem with me andTom, and I don’t know anything about that missinggirl. You don’t have to worry about it.” She gave meanother hug and made us both a cup of tea. Ithought about taking advantage of the good will I’dengendered and telling her about the job situation,but I didn’t want to spoil her evening.
She was still in a good mood with me this morning.
She hugged me again as I was getting ready to leavethe house.
“I’m so pleased for you, Rach,” she said. “Gettingyourself sorted. You’ve had me worried.” Then shetold me that she was going to spend the weekend atDamien’s, and the first thing I thought was that I’mgoing to get home tonight and have a drink withoutanyone judging me.
EVENING
The bitter tang of quinine, that’s what I love about acold gin and tonic. Tonic water should be bySchweppes and it should come out of a glass bottle,not a plastic one. These premixed things aren’t rightat all, but needs must. I know I shouldn’t be doingthis, but I’ve been building up to it all day. It’s notjust the anticipation of solitude, though, it’s theexcitement, the adrenaline. I’m buzzing, my skin istingling. I’ve had a good day.
I spent an hour alone with Detective InspectorGaskill this morning. I was taken in to see himstraightaway when I arrived at the station. We sat inhis office, not in the interview room this time. Heoffered me coffee, and when I accepted I wassurprised to find that he got up and made it for mehimself. He had a kettle and some Nescafé on top ofa fridge in the corner of the office. He apologized fornot having sugar.
I liked being in his company. I liked watching hishands move—he isn’t expressive, but he moves thingsaround a lot. I hadn’t noticed this before because inthe interview room there wasn’t much for him tomove around. In his office he constantly altered theposition of his coffee mug, his stapler, a jar of pens,he shuffled papers into neater piles. He has largehands and long fingers with neatly manicured nails.
No rings.
It felt different this morning. I didn’t feel like asuspect, someone he was trying to catch out. I feltuseful. I felt most useful when he took one of hisfolders and laid it in front of me, showing me aseries of photographs. Scott Hipwell, three men I’dnever seen before, and then B.
I wasn’t sure at first. I stared at the picture, tryingto conjure up the image of the man I saw with herthat day, his head bent as he stooped to embraceher.
“That’s him,” I said. “I think that’s him.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I think that’s him.”
He withdrew the picture and scrutinized it himselffor a moment. “You saw them kissing, that’s whatyou said? Last Friday, was it? A week ago?”
“Yes, that’s right. Friday morning. They wereoutside, in the garden.”
“And there’s no way you could have misinterpretedwhat you saw? It wasn’t a hug, say, or a?.?.?. aplatonic kind of kiss?”
“No, it wasn’t. It was a proper kiss. It was?.?.?.
romantic.”
I thought I saw his lips flicker then, as though hewere about to smile.
“Who is he?” I asked Gaskill. “Is he?.?.?. Do youthink she’s with him?” He didn’t reply, just shook hishead a little. “Is this?.?.?. Have I helped? Have I beenhelpful at all?”
“Yes, Ms. Watson. You’ve been helpful. Thank youfor coming in.”
We shook hands, and for a second he placed hisleft hand on my right shoulder lightly, and I wantedto turn and kiss it. It’s been a while since anyonetouched me with anything approaching tenderness.
Well, apart from Cathy.
Gaskill ushered me out of the door and into themain, open-plan part of the office. There wereperhaps a dozen police officers in there. One or twoshot me sideways glances, there might have been aflicker of interest or disdain, I couldn’t be sure. Wewalked through the office and into the corridor andthen I saw him walking towards me, with Riley at hisside: Scott Hipwell. He was coming through the mainentrance. His head was down, but I knew right awaythat it was him. He looked up and nodded anacknowledgment to Gaskill, then he glanced at me.
For just a second our eyes met and I could swearthat he recognized me. I thought of that morningwhen I saw him on the terrace, when he waslooking down at the track, when I could feel himlooking at me. We passed each other in the corridor.
He was so close to me I could have touchedhim—he was beautiful in the flesh, hollowed out andcoiled like a spring, nervous energy radiating off him.
As I got to the main hallway I turned to look at him,sure I could feel his eyes on me, but when I lookedback it was Riley who was watching me.
I took the train into London and went to thelibrary. I read every article I could find about thecase, but learned nothing more. I looked forhypnotherapists in Ashbury, but didn’t take it anyfurther—it’s expensive and it’s unclear whether itactually helps with memory recovery. But reading thestories of those who claimed that they had recoveredmemories through hypnotherapy, I realized that I wasmore afraid of success than failure. I’m afraid notjust of what I might learn about that Saturday night,but so much more. I’m not sure I could bear torelive the stupid, awful things I’ve done, to hear thewords I said in spite, to remember the look onTom’s face as I said them. I’m too afraid to ventureinto that darkness.
I thought about sending Scott another email, butthere’s really no need. The morning’s meeting withDetective Gaskill proved to me that the police aretaking me seriously. I have no further role to play, Ihave to accept that now. And I can feel at least thatI may have helped, because I cannot believe it couldbe a coincidence that Megan disappeared the dayafter I saw her with that man.
With a joyful click, fizz, I open the second can ofG&T and realize, with a rush, that I haven’t thoughtabout Tom all day. Until now, anyway. I’ve beenthinking about Scott, about Gaskill, about B, aboutthe man on the train. Tom has been relegated tofifth place. I sip my drink and feel that at last I havesomething to celebrate. I know that I’m going to bebetter, that I’m going to be happy. It won’t be long.
SATURDAY, JULY 20, 2013
MORNING
I never learn. I wake with a crushing sensation ofwrongness, of shame, and I know immediately thatI’ve done something stupid. I go through my awful,achingly familiar ritual of trying to remember exactlywhat I did. I sent an email. That’s what it was.
At some point last night, Tom got promoted backup the list of men I think about, and I sent him anemail. My laptop is on the floor next to my bed; itsits there, a squat, accusatory presence. I step over itas I get up to go to the bathroom. I drink waterdirectly from the tap, giving myself a cursory glancein the mirror.
I don’t look well. Still, three days off isn’t bad, andI’ll start again today. I stand in the shower for ages,gradually reducing the water temperature, making itcooler and cooler until it’s properly cold. You can’tstep directly into a cold stream of water, it’s tooshocking, too brutal, but if you get there gradually,you hardly notice it; it’s like boiling a frog in reverse.
The cool water soothes my skin; it dulls the burningpain of th............
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