Kate Atkinson - Case Histories

Forty-eight hours later they took her body out of the canal. She was still wearing her skirt, knee-length green boucle that she'd bought with the Christmas money her father had given her. Her umbrella was found near the bus stop. Her shoes, and some of her clothes, including her good herringbone tweed coat, were found on the bank of the canal, and her handbag was found a week later by the side of the A636. Her blouse was never found, nor was the little gold crucifix that her mother had bought her for her first confirmation. The police thought the chain must have broken and perhaps her killer had taken it as a "souvenir." The only souvenir Jackson had was a little pottery wishing well that Niamh had brought back for him from a trip to Scarborough two years ago. It had wishing you well from Scarborough painted on the side.

What was known was that Niamh had caught her bus home from work as she did every day, and she had got off the bus at her usual stop, and then somewhere along the ten-minute walk from the bus stop to her front door someone must have persuaded (or forced) her into a car and taken her down to the canal, where they had raped her and strangled her, although not necessarily in that order. Jackson moved into her room that night and didn't move out of it until he left home to join the army. He didn't change the sheets on her bed for two months. Even then he was sure he could still smell the old-fashioned violet cologne that she liked to sprinkle on her sheets when she ironed them. For a long time he kept the teacup she had drunk from at breakfast that last day. She was always complaining that no one washed the pots after breakfast. The cup still carried the pink lipstick outline of her mouth, like the ghost of a kiss, and Jackson treasured it for weeks until one morning Francis caught sight of it and threw it out the window onto the concrete of the backyard. Jackson knew that Francis felt guilty that he hadn't picked her up from the bus stop that night. Some dark part of Jackson felt that he was right to feel guilty. After all, if he had picked her up she wouldn't now be under six feet of heavy, wet soil. She would be warm and living flesh, she would be complaining that no one did the washing up, she would be going off to work in the miserable winter mornings and her pink mouth would still be talking and laughing and eating, and kissing Jackson's reluctant cheek.

One day, six months after the funeral, Francis gave Jackson a lift to school. It was raining, a summer monsoon downpour, and Francis said, "Hop in, our kid." He parked the car at the school gates and took a pack of cigarettes out of the glove compartment and handed the whole pack to Jackson. Jackson said a surprised, "Thanks," and opened the car door, but Francis pulled him back and gave him a rough punch on the shoulder that made him yell with pain and then Francis said, "I should have picked her up, you know that, don't you?" and Jackson said, "Yes," which in retrospect was the wrong answer. "You know I love you, tyke, don't you?" Francis said and Jackson said, "Yes," embarrassed for Francis, who never used words like "love." Then Jackson scrambled out of the car because he was late and he could hear the bell ringing. In the middle of the most boring maths lesson that had ever been taught in the history of the school, Jackson remembered it was Niamh's nineteenth birthday, and he was so shocked at the realization that he leaped up from his desk. The maths teacher said, "Where are you going, Brodie?" and Jackson sat down and muttered, "Nowhere, sir," because she was dead and she was never coming back and she was never going to be nineteen. Ever.

When he came home from school and walked in the house it felt as if there were something missing, but it was only after he'd changed out of his school uniform and made himself a sandwich that he went into the living room to watch television, and that was where he found Francis's body hanging from the fake chandelier light fitting that had once been Fidelma's pride and joy. His sister's killer was never found.

They stopped in at the Catholic church and Jackson lit two candles, one each for his brother and sister. Marlee asked to light one for Fidelma. Passio Christi, conforta me. Both Fidelma's sisters were now dead of cancer – Jackson prayed that Marlee had missed that particular gene. Jackson's father was an only child, so Marlee was the only blood relative that Jackson had in the world now that his father was dead. It seemed unlikely that Jackson would have more children. This was it – one girl in pink jeans and a T-shirt that was emblazoned with the message, so many boys, so little time. Did the people who designed these T-shirts, did the people who made these T-shirts in size "8-10 yrs" ever stop to think that what they were doing might actually be immoral? Of course the people who made the T-shirts were probably themselves "8-10 yrs" in a sweatshop in the Philippines somewhere.

"Daddy?"

"Yep?"

"Can we light a candle for my hamster?"

"You should get a T-shirt," Jackson said. "So many hamsters, so little time."

"Not funny. Now are we going home?"

"No. We're going to take a quick detour. I have to go and see a woman called Marian Foster." "Why?" "Just because."

They were on the bypass when Jackson realized something was wrong. The swiftness of the feeling took him by surprise, one minute he felt okay – cracked, bruised, sore, and aching but okay – the next minute he felt himself spiking an incredible temperature and only a few seconds later he was seeing the world very much how he imagined a fly would see it and the next he was slipping into unconsciousness. Every last bit of his remaining energy was concentrated on bringing the car to a stop on the hard shoulder, after that – nothing.

The next thing he was waking up in a hospital and looking into Howell's eyes.

"Why are you here?" Jackson noticed that he seemed to be using someone else's voice.

"I'm your next of kin, apparently."

"Oh, yeah," Jackson said weakly. "Josie didn't want the job anymore."

Howell grinned. "I always knew you had black blood in you somewhere, Jackson. You never used to be the kind of guy that carried an organ-donor card."

"Well, I guess I'm that kind of guy now." Jackson struggled to sit up. "Someone's trying to kill me, Howell."

Howell seemed to think this was incredibly funny. When he stopped laughing he said, "Don't be so paranoid, Jackson. You've got blood poisoning. Apparently you had a tooth you were supposed to get seen to."

Jackson panicked suddenly. What was he thinking? "Where is she, where's Marlee? Is she okay?"

"She's fine. Keep your hair on your chest." "But where is she, Howell?" "On a sheep farm," Howell said.

Jackson didn't know why Marlee had given the police Kim Strachan's number – he supposed she'd scrolled through the address book in his phone and thought Kim was a trustworthy person. Maybe it was because Kim had given her five pounds (Marlee was that kind of girl). Was it Marlee who called the police and the ambulance? Was the first call she made on her Barbie pink phone to the emergency services? What if he hadn't managed to stop the car? Or an articulated lorry had plowed into them as they were stuck on the hard shoulder? He supposed his daughter would be pretty safe on a sheep farm in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Russian gangsters.

"How long have I been here?" he asked Howell.

"Three days."

"Three days. Jesus, Josie's back tomorrow. I need to get Marlee home to Cambridge."

"Didn't know you were pussy whipped, Jackson."

Jackson ignored this comment. "Josie's taking Marlee to New Zealand."

"Well, it's only for a year," Howell said. "It'll pass in no time."

"No, it's for good," Jackson said.