Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘I’ve upset Charlie.’

‘Yes.’

‘You should have called.’

‘I tried. Your phone was turned off.’

‘Why couldn’t you take her?’

She snaps: ‘Because I had to interview nannies- because you didn’t find one.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise to me.’ She glances out the window to Charlie. ‘And by the way- I don’t think it’s just about the football trial.’

‘What do you mean?’

She chooses her words carefully. ‘You and Charlie are always doing things together, running errands, going for walks, but ever since Darcy arrived you’ve been too busy. I think she may be a little jealous.’

‘Of Darcy?’

‘She thinks you’ve forgotten her.’

‘But I haven’t.’

‘She’s also having a few problems at school. There’s a boy who keeps picking on her.’

‘She’s being bullied?’

‘I don’t know if it’s that serious.’

‘We should talk to the school.’

‘She wants to try to sort it out herself.’

‘How?’

‘In her own way.’

I can still hear the football being kicked against the wall. I hate the idea that Charlie feels neglected. And I hate even more that Julianne has learned these things while I missed them. I’m at home all the time. I’m the go-to parent, the primary carer, and I haven’t been paying attention.

Julianne unwraps the towel, letting wet curls tumble over her face. She pats them dry between her palms and the soft weave of the fabric.

‘I had a phone call from Darcy’s aunt,’ she says. ‘She’s flying from Spain for the funeral.’

‘That’s good.’

‘She wants to take Darcy back to Spain with her.’

‘What does Darcy say?’

‘She doesn’t know. Her aunt wants to tell her face-to-face.’

‘She won’t be happy.’

Julianne arches an eyebrow tellingly. ‘That’s not our responsibility.’

‘You treat Darcy like she’s done something wrong,’ I say.

‘And you treat her like she’s your daughter.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Explain fairness to Charlie.’

‘You can be a real bitch sometimes.’

The statement is laden with more anger and import than either of us expect. A hurt helplessness floods Julianne’s eyes but she refuses to let me witness her unhappiness. She takes her towel and her tenderness, carrying both upstairs. I listen to her footsteps on the stairs and tell myself she’s being unreasonable. She’ll understand eventually.

Raising a knuckle, I tap gently on the door of the guestroom.

After what seems an age the door opens. Darcy is barefoot in three-quarter length leggings and a T-shirt. Her hair is out and over her shoulders.

Without looking at me, she goes back to the bed and sits on the mussed sheets with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. The curtains are closed and shadows gather in the corners of the room.

For the first time I notice her feet. Her toes are misshapen and covered in calluses, blisters and raw skin. The littlest toe is curled under the others as if hiding and the biggest is bloated with a discoloured nail.

‘They’re ugly,’ she says, covering her feet with a pillow.

‘What happened to them?’

‘I’m a dancer, remember? One of my old ballet teachers used to say that pointe shoes were the last instruments of torture that were still legal.’

Moving a magazine, I take a seat on a corner of the bed. There’s nowhere else to sit.

‘I wanted to talk about pointe shoes,’ I say.

She laughs. ‘You’re a bit old for ballet.’

‘The package that was left for you at school- tell me about it.’ She describes a shoebox wrapped in brown paper with no note, just her name written in capital letters.

‘Other than your mum, is there anyone else who would have sent you a gift like that?’

She shakes her head.

‘This is very important, Darcy. I need you to think back over the past few weeks. Did you talk to or meet anyone new? Was there anyone who asked questions about your mother?’

‘I was at school.’

‘OK, but you must have had weekends. Did you go shopping? Did you leave the school for anything?’

‘I went to London for the auditions.’

‘Did you talk to anyone?’

‘The teachers and other dancers…’

‘What about on the train?’

Her mouth opens and closes. Her forehead creases.

‘There was this one guy… he sat down opposite me.’

‘And you talked to him?’

‘Not right away.’ She pushes her fringe back behind her ears. ‘He seemed to fall asleep. I went to the buffet car and when I came back he asked me if I was a dancer. He said he could tell from the way I walked- splayfooted, you know. It seemed weird that he knew so much about ballet.’

‘What did he look like?’

She shrugs. ‘Ordinary.’

‘How old?’

‘Not as old as you. He wore sunglasses, like Bono. I think he was a bit of a try-hard.’

‘A try-hard.’

‘One of those old guys who try to look cool.’

‘Was he flirting with you?’

She shrugs. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Would you recognise him again?’

‘I guess.’

She describes him. It might be the same man Alice spoke to, but his hair was darker and longer and he wore different clothes.

‘I want to try something,’ I tell her. ‘Lie down and close your eyes.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t worry- nothing’s going to happen- you just have to close your eyes and think about that day. Try to picture it. Imagine you’re back there, stepping onto the train, finding a seat, putting your bag in the overhead rack.’

Her eyes close.

‘Can you see it?’

She nods.

‘Describe the train carriage for me. Where were you sitting in relation to the doors?’

‘Three rows from the rear, facing forwards.’

I ask her what she was wearing. Where she put her bag. Who else was in the carriage.

‘There was a little girl sitting in front of me, peering between the seats. I played peek-a-boo with her.’

‘Who else do you remember?’

‘A guy in a suit. He was talking too loudly on his mobile.’ She pauses. ‘And a backpacker with a maple leaf on his rucksack.’

I ask her to focus on the man who sat opposite her. What was he wearing?

‘I don’t remember. A shirt, I think.’

‘What colour was it?’

‘Blue with a collar.’

‘Did it have anything written on it?’

‘No.’

I move on to his face. His eyes. His hair. His ears. Feature by feature, she begins to describe him in small ways. His hands. His fingers. His forearms. He wore a silver wristwatch, but no rings.

‘When did you first see him?’

‘When he sat down.’

‘Are you sure? I want you to go further back. When you caught the train in Cardiff, who was on the platform?’

‘A few people. The backpacker was there. I bought a bottle of water. I knew the girl in the kiosk. She’d bleached her hair since I saw her last.’

I take her back further. ‘When you bought your ticket, was there a queue?’

‘Um… yes.’

‘Who was in the queue?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Picture the ticket window. Look at the faces. Who can you see?’

Her brow furrows and her head rocks from side to side on the pillow. Suddenly, her eyes open. ‘The man from the train.’

‘Where?’

‘At the top of the stairs near the ticket machine.’

‘The same man?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

She sits up and rubs her hands along her upper arms as if suddenly cold.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘Why do you want to know about him?’