John Harvey - Cold Light

“Not at the Housing Office. Later.”

“When?”

“Any time.”

“No.”

“You didn’t see Nancy at any other time?”

“No.”

“Not that evening? Later yesterday evening? Christmas Eve?”

“I told you, didn’t I? I never went out.”

Michelle was hovering in the doorway. “How d’you want your tea?” she asked.

“How d’you think she wants it? In a bastard cup.”

“I mean d’you want sugar?”

“One, thanks.”

Gary turned away disgusted. He’s a kid, Lynn thought, younger than me. Stuck in this place with a wife and a couple of kids. Except she isn’t even his wife. And what is he? Nineteen? Twenty? Twenty-one? Is it any wonder he needs to shout? And at me. If Divine had come round instead, she thought, Kevin Naylor, he wouldn’t be carrying on like this. At least, not while they were here. The anger, he’d bottle it up for later.

She remembered the flinch of pain on Michelle’s face. Karl’s bruising.

Injuries consistent with the mother’s story that he had run smack into a door.

“I’ll give a hand with the tea,” Lynn said.

“No need,” said Gary, but he did nothing to stop her going into the kitchen.

Michelle poured in the milk first, UHT from a carton, then the tea. One tea bag, Lynn reckoned, for a large pot.

“How are the children?” Lynn asked.

“Sleeping, thank heavens. They got so excited earlier, you know, presents and everything.”

“And Karl?”

Michelle paused in sugaring their teas, spoon tilting in mid-air.

“How’s Karl?”

“The doctor said …”

“I know what the doctor said.”

“Well, then. That’s it, isn’t it? He’s fine.”

“He was hurt.”

“It was an accident. He …” Michelle’s eyes flicked towards the door in response to a sudden noise: the television had been switched back on.

“The sugar,” Lynn said.

“What?”

“You’re spilling the sugar.”

Lynn took the spoon from her hand and began to stir one of the mugs of weak tea.

“I never told him,” Michelle said in a rushed whisper. “I never told him anything about it.”

“Never told me anything about what?” Gary said from the hallway, stepping into the room.

“Here,” Lynn said, handing him a mug. “Your tea.”

“Never told me anything about what?” Ignoring her, staring at Michelle.

Michelle’s hand went to her throat.

“When I was here yesterday …” Lynn began.

“I never knew you was here yesterday.”

“That’s what Michelle meant,” Lynn said.

Gary was all but ignoring her now, intent upon Michelle. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. When you came home I was so pleased, I suppose I forgot.”

“How could you forget something like that? Bloody law …”

“It wasn’t important,” Lynn said. “I just dropped by, tell Michelle where you were.”

Gary had put his mug down and now he snatched at it, splashing hot tea across his hand. One taste and he had dashed it down the sink. “What the hell d’you call that? Like bloody dishwater!”

“I’ll make some fresh,” Michelle said, reaching for the kettle.

“Don’t waste your time.”

Between his sullen shout and a fanfare of television sound, came a whimpering from upstairs.

“It’s the baby,” Michelle said, setting the kettle back down.

“When isn’t it?” Gary grumbled.

“Gary, that’s not fair.”

Gary didn’t care; he was on his way back into the living room, leaving Natalie to cry upstairs. Michelle looked at Lynn uncertainly.

“You go up,” Lynn said. “I’ll see to the tea.”

When Lynn came in from the kitchen, three mugs of fresh tea balanced on a breadboard she was using as a tray, Michelle was sitting in an easy chair with curved wooden arms, the baby restless against her breast. Gary was on the settee, pretending to watch the TV, sulking quietly.

Lynn drank her tea, chatting to Michelle about Natalie, keeping things as light as she could. She would have liked to have gone upstairs, taken a look at Karl, but sensed that if she asked Gary would object. Better to have another word with the social worker, let them do what they were trained to do.

When she got up to leave, Michelle went with her to the door, Gary grunting something from where he slouched that could have been goodbye.

Moving past Michelle at the door, Lynn said quietly, “If you need someone to talk to, get in touch. Phone me. All right?”

Michelle stepped quickly back inside, shutting out the cold.

Later, as she lay curled away from Gary, listening to the suck and whine of his breathing, Michelle was unable to sleep, thinking about it. Not what Gary had said only minutes after Lynn had gone, about keeping things from him; not the ache in her ribs where he had punched her, low where it wouldn’t be seen. Not those, but what he’d said when she’d asked him, the policewoman, if he’d gone out again that night, Christmas Eve. Why he’d lied.

“Kevin?”

“Shhh!”

“What time is it?”

“Early. You go back to sleep.”

“The baby …”

“I gave her a drink and she went off again.”

Debbie rolled on to her side, face to the pillow. It was dark in the room, even the gap at the top of the curtains, where they refused to meet, offering no light.

“You’re on an early.”

“Yes.” Dressed in all but his jacket, Kevin sat on the edge of the bed, close to her bare arm.

“I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Lightly stroking her shoulder, Kevin smiled. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You used to hate that.”

“What?”

Slowly lifting her face, a thin skein of spittle stretched from the pillow to the corner of her mouth until it snapped. “When I used to forget your rota, which hours you were on.”

“I used to hate a lot of things.” Her mouth was damp and warm and musty from sleep. “Love you,” he said.

“I know,” Debbie said. She brought her other arm around him, crook of her elbow tightening against his neck. One breast slipped free from the Snoopy T-shirt she wore in bed.

“I’ll be late.”

“I know,” Debbie said.

She kissed him hard and let him go.

Pulling the front door shut and stepping out on to the street, the same, now familiar feeling closed cold around his stomach: how close he had come to losing this, all of it, letting it go.

Resnick had woken something short of four, finally got up at five. When he had opened the garden door to Dizzy, the black cat had entered with sprung step and hoisted tail as if there were nothing new in this. Below freezing outside, Dizzy’s fur was sleek and tinged with frost.

Resnick warmed him milk in the pan, testing the temperature with his finger before pouring it into the dish. The cat’s purrs filled the kitchen as it ate and Resnick sipped hot black coffee: a secret between them, no one else awake.

The first news of Nancy Phelan’s disappearance would go out on the local news at six, would possibly rate a minor mention on the national network an hour later. Jack Skelton had called a meeting for nine. The evidence, such as it was, would be assembled, evaluated, broken down; assignments would be made, which interviews warranted following up, which gaps had still to be filled. Her father’s pain and anger on the phone. Doing everything we can. He remembered the way Nancy had looked in the otherwise empty CID room, red coat unbuttoned and loose at her shoulders. Later that evening, the voice that had seemed to come from nowhere, silver of her smile, breath that had hung between them in the air.

“Very well, ladies and gents, let’s come to order if you please.”