Simon Lelic - A Thousand Cuts

‘No problemo,’ Walter said again. ‘How long have I got?’

‘Get it back to me by one. And Walter, don’t try to impress me. I don’t want anything fancy, do you hear me? You know the sort of thing I need.’

‘Aye aye, Guv.’

‘And you.’ The chief inspector looked at Lucia. ‘You, take the day off. Take the week off if you want. You blew it. I gave you a chance and you blew it. Now the both of you: get the fuck out of my office.’

She went to the school. She could not think of anywhere she wanted to be so she went there. It was, she knew, the day of the memorial service. They would be starting at ten, Travis had said. A quarter of an hour ago.

The car park was full and the playground was full and the only space she found on the road outside she could not get into. In the end, she parked two streets away. The air conditioning in her Golf was broken and when she stepped on to the pavement she realised her blouse was clinging to her back. She walked slowly to the school. At the gates, she tidied herself. She blew at her brow. There were signs and she followed them, away from the main entrance and down the side of the building on to the playing field.

A man with sunglasses and no hair stopped her. He asked her who she was. She asked him the same.

‘Security, madam.’

‘Security for whom?’

The man looked over his shoulder, towards the stage. On the platform there were the headmaster and Christina Hobbs and a fat man with a beard who looked shorter than he did on television.

‘Busy day for him.’

‘Sorry, madam?’

Lucia showed him her identification and he let her pass.

She found a tree and stood next to it. Another goon in a suit watched her for a while before dipping his head and raising a finger to his earpiece. Lucia locked her hands in front of her.

Travis was speaking. He was thanking everyone for coming, thanking his honoured guest, thanking the families of those Szajkowski had murdered, even thanking the reporters, who had been penned in their own section, away from the audience proper. Lucia was standing to the rear and to the left of the main seating area. She could not see the front row but she gathered from the headmaster’s bearing that this is where they were sitting: Sarah’s parents, Felix’s parents, Veronica Staples’s husband, her children. Donovan’s parents? Lucia doubted it.

Now Travis was praying. Lucia had been scanning the audience, the rows of children and their mothers and fathers. She had not heard him start. She had not noticed that the heads in front of her were bowed. She dropped her chin but did not close her eyes. She tuned out the words. It was not the prayer that she did not wish to hear, rather the voice that was uttering it.

When the prayer was over someone clapped. Others joined in but not many. The applause died of its embarrassment and the audience stood. It stood but remained in ranks. Then the headmaster left the stage and the crowd began to disperse.

Lucia lingered. The children walked quickly away but the adults moved slowly, as though any semblance of speed might be construed as disrespect. It was some time before the field emptied. Lucia heard cars starting up, she heard what had been muttered conversation gain volume, she heard children freed from the bounds of decorum echoing in the building behind her. She made sure there was no one within sight who might recognise her and she stepped out from under the tree.

For a moment she could not work out why something felt wrong. The shade: it had spread from where she had been standing. The ground was one tone, the sky above no longer blue. She saw clouds: proper clouds, colourless but not uniform like the haze that descended late in the day. The sun was gone, not just masked, not like lamplight softened by a veil – it was gone. No corner of the sky was brighter than any other.

‘Could be a storm.’ It was the goon, the first one. He was beside her, gazing up. He was still wearing his sunglasses.

Lucia looked where he was looking. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’

No, no. I understand.It’s your job, Inspector. You’re only doing your job.

I’m sorry about my wife.

Yes, I know, but still. It wasn’t helpful. It’s not helpful. She forgets, I think, that she is not the only person who is suffering. She forgets that I loved Sarah too. I’m her father. Regardless of what Sarah’s birth certificate says, I’m her father and I always will be.

Six years. Susan – Sarah’s mother – and I have been together these past six years.

Sarah never knew him. He left, went overseas. She was only a month or two old. Not man enough to change a nappy, Susan always says, but she couldn’t have stayed with him regardless. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. It was a mistake, that’s all. Their relationship, Susan getting pregnant – it was a mistake. Best mistake she ever made, as it turned out.

Christ. Look at me. I’m worse than Susan. Christ. Yes, sorry, thanks. I don’t have one. I should get in the habit of carrying one, shouldn’t I?

I have a picture. Here. That’s her. We took that in Littlehampton. That’s the beach there, you can just about see it. And that ice cream, look. It’s bigger than her. It was raining but she insisted on ice cream. This was last summer. It rained from May to September, I don’t know if you remember. Nothing like this year. Not at all like this year.

It sounds ridiculous but do you know what I think might help? Rain. I think some rain would help. You know how in books or in films it’s always raining when someone’s unhappy. Or there’s a storm when something awful is about to happen. There’s a name for it, isn’t there? When they use the weather like that. I think if it rained and if the wind blew and if the sky showed some emotion, I think that would help us. Me and Susan. Because at the moment it’s like the world doesn’t care. It has no empathy. The sunshine is relentless. It’s cruel and it’s harsh. And the heat. The heat has no pity. You sit and you think about what’s happened and you try to make sense of it but all you can really focus on is the heat, on how hot you are. I think if it rained it would help. It would be like tears.

It’s stupid I know. It’s not rational. I keep telling myself to be rational. Like the weather. It’s not a thing, it’s not alive, it’s not against us. It just feels like it is. That’s what it feels like.

You must be busy. I’m prattling, forgive me.

Well, I appreciate it. I do. Everyone has been very kind. Susan, though, she’s finding it hard. She won’t talk to anyone. You saw what she’s like. She’s like that with everyone. With friends, with her family. The press, they’ve only just left us in peace. I say they’ve left us in peace. They’ve left our front garden is what they’ve done. They’re still out there.

That’s right. You saw them then. And there’s a van parked there sometimes. I think if there’s a story that’s breaking somewhere else, it gets called away. When it’s no longer needed it comes back. Susan, she hasn’t been out. She won’t go out. She won’t even open the curtains in our bedroom. That’s where she spends most of her time. In the bedroom. Or in Sarah’s room. Sometimes she sits in Sarah’s room.

So I’m the one who has to talk to people. You know, deal with things. Not that I mind. I’d rather be doing something. And everyone has been very kind.

The funeral is this weekend. It was difficult because it would have clashed. With the others. So many people wanted to attend them all. Quite a few of the children but also the teachers. It took some co-ordination but they’re at different times now. Sarah will be the first. It’s called the Islington Crematorium but actually it’s in Finchley. Felix, the boy who died, the younger one, his service is happening there too. The other boy, Donovan I think his name was, I think he’s being buried. Somewhere south. I don’t know about the teacher. Veronica, wasn’t it? I don’t know about her.