Kate Hamer - The Girl in the Red Coat

‘No, you don’t understand.’

‘Forget about before, everything. None of it matters. Let’s concentrate on getting her back, Paul.’

‘No,’ he shouted. ‘I just can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.’ He spoke one word at a time again. ‘I. Just. Can’t. Stand. This.’

Then, without warning, he pushed me against the wall. He pushed me so hard I was pinned, my feet lifted off the ground. I looked over his shoulder through the window and saw the police car had arrived. They hadn’t got out — maybe they were talking into their mobile phones or had seen Paul’s car and decided to give us a moment alone.

‘Paul, what are you doing?’ I was having trouble breathing, his body was pressing on me so hard.

He didn’t answer. I closed my eyes and hung there. In some funny way I felt that’s how I wanted to stay — suspended forever, my feet pointing into nothingness. His head turned and for a moment I thought he was about to kiss me, but he pushed harder so his hips ground into me and his shoulder stuck into my collarbone. His breath felt hot on my neck and I could hear him making little strange noises, groaning.

When he released me I fell forwards onto my knees on the floor. Without looking back he strode across the room, and in a second he was gone, the door slamming behind him in the wind.

Then I was alone, on my hands and knees, the sound of the slam echoing around the room. I heard the noise of Paul’s car starting up and roaring away and I realised what he’d been doing. He’d been pushing as much of his grief into me as possible, to see if he could try and drive away without it — I could feel it, rooting inside and making itself at home.

But I could only feel sorry for him. Because I knew how it’d be chasing, speeding along behind until it caught him up, flying in through the window and surrounding him, like a swarm of bees. I sent my missive winging after him too, from there on the floor: ‘Don’t blame me, Paul. If nothing else, please don’t blame me.’

DAY 3

I sat hunched in front of the TV watching me and Paul making the appeal on the evening news, bright lights shining in our faces.

‘You both did well.’ Maria — the other police liaison officer — was with me.

‘Did we?’ To me, we looked like a pair of broken birds, folded into ourselves, our voices faltering and tiny. Paul had said under his breath, ‘Sorry about this morning,’ to me before we began. ‘Don’t worry,’ I’d whispered back, ‘I’m just glad we’re doing this together.’

Now it was over I was becoming pent up, desperate. Maria seemed harder, spikier than Sophie. Her presence was acute and watchful and I felt like she was studying me for clues. Even though she wore plain clothes, the smell of uniform hung about her neat black suit and white shirt. She was reading notes, quietly. Her hair, cut in a businesslike brown bob, fell in two curves across her cheeks and the ends pointed their sharp tips to each corner of her mouth.

It was unfair, really, she’d done nothing wrong, but that evening she was becoming the target of my fear and wild anger: something in the professionalism of her manner, the sense that this was a job for her. I imagined her steadily climbing the career ladder: being involved in such a case would be a bright feather in her cap to put on her CV.

I switched off the television and paced and then dropped on a kitchen chair, another attack of the shaking that I seemed incapable of stopping rocking the chair beneath me.

‘I can’t sit here,’ I said to her at last. ‘Let’s go out in the police car and look.’

She put down her notes neatly on her lap. ‘Honestly, Beth, hard work is being done right now. All we can do is wait.’

‘Wait for what?’ I started pacing up and down the kitchen again.

‘They’re having a meeting now, as we speak. Be assured, Beth, everything is being done that can be. You’d be better off having a bath, or something to eat. What have you eaten today?’

Her retreat into platitudes felt learned and I ignored her question. ‘What kind of meeting?’

‘A strategy meeting. To plan out the way ahead.’ I could tell she was picking her words carefully.

‘Then why the fuck am I not there to hear about it?’ I shouted, the words exploding out of my body.

She drew the ends of her hair back with her fingers and tucked them behind each ear.

‘It wouldn’t be the right thing, really, Beth. It would complicate things to have the family involved. It makes things … harder. You have to trust me on this, Beth.’ I knew instinctively she’d learnt to intone my first name like this on some course or other.

‘I’m her mother. What does that mean? Does that mean nothing?’ I was yelling now, the words flaming from my mouth — a dragon mother.

But she only sighed and my anger fizzled away so I went to the front door and wrenched it open. From my cardigan pocket I took out the pouch of tobacco that I’d asked Sophie to bring and started rolling a cigarette. Around the front door were littered the flat butts of rollies I’d smoked and then extinguished with my heel. I’d gone back to tobacco with one swift and easy motion and it had welcomed me, through its smoky lips: where have you been, away so long? I’ve missed you.

Was the weather mocking me that week? What I wanted was hailstones burning the ground, gales that tore down trees, lightning that cracked open the sky. A sign from who knows what that something unnatural had been done. Instead it was the most perfect evening. The fields rolled away from me, shining in the light. The air was the colour of a golden peach. The leaves had opened their tiny fists on the beech tree. The lowering sun arched through the branches of the trees and new life seemed to lie just beneath the skin of the earth, impatient and muttering.

Soft footfalls behind me and I could hear Maria’s breath.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, quietly. ‘I don’t have children of my own. I had to have my bits taken away years ago. So you see, I can’t imagine how hard this is for you. I don’t want to pretend to.’ It occurred to me that she must be going against the grain telling me such personal things and they probably weren’t supposed to divulge private details.

‘No, I’m sorry … I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘Sorry for swearing at you. I know you’re only here to help and I swore at you. That’s awful.’

‘Oh, fuck that,’ she said. And I smiled at that.

Everything was quiet and still. The smoke from my cigarette curled upwards and filtered through the branches of the tree, rising up and dancing away into the air. I imagined it flying as spirit matter across the fields. Carrying cells from my lungs: tiny curled, coded messages intended to strike fear into whoever had taken her — war. You’ve started a war.

I could feel Maria’s breath on my shoulder. ‘I want you to know when you have certain thoughts, thoughts you must be having …’ She trailed off.

I didn’t turn round. The sun slipped down a fraction and I stayed unmoving.

‘Thoughts you can’t bear,’ she continued. ‘Then, this is what you have to do.’ Her voice was soft and low behind me.

‘This is important. You have to see it in your mind as a place that you can’t go. A path you can’t go up, or a door you can’t enter — are you listening, Beth? Can you hear me?’

Without looking round I nodded and her quiet voice went on — an urgent tone behind me. ‘You must see it in your mind with a big No Entry sign. Or with a gate you won’t climb over. You must think of every detail.’

I pictured it. I saw a gravel path edged with weeds. It curved a little. At the end was a tiny house with ivy covering the windows. The door was bolted and a plank of wood was crudely nailed across it. Halfway up the path a snake lay, the rope of its body blocking my way. The creature was lightly dozing but had one primitive eye cocked at me beneath its lid, ready to wake if I took another step.