Andrew Taylor - Fallen Angel

Please God, may Lucy have her Jimmy. Please God, bring my darling back to me.

It was important to act normally, otherwise they might sedate her heavily or even put her in hospital. But what was normal now? Reality had lurched into unreality. The substantial was insubstantial, and vice versa. Sally felt that if she poked her forefinger at the surface of the pine table in front of her, the finger might pass straight through the wood and into the vacancy beyond. It was unreal to be sitting at home doing nothing; unreal not to be helping at the Brownies’ jumble sale in St George’s church hall; and most of all unreal not to know where Lucy was. Like a small hungry animal, Lucy’s absence gnawed at Sally’s stomach.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a tablet?’ Yvonne’s voice was elaborately casual.

‘No. No, thanks.’

There was shouting in the street outside. Sally looked down, and a second later Yvonne joined her at the window. A man was shouting at the journalists, waving his arms at them.

‘Who’s that?’ Yvonne asked. ‘Anyone you know?’

‘It’s Michael. My husband.’

Michael was very tired. When Sally hugged him, he leaned against her but otherwise he barely responded. His face was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot; he wore yesterday’s clothes and smelled of sweat.

‘The bastards won’t tell me anything,’ he muttered fiercely into her hair. ‘And they won’t let me do anything.’

Sally heard footsteps in the hallway. And the sound of voices, Yvonne’s and a man’s.

Michael raised his head. ‘Oliver brought me home. Maxham phoned him up; someone told him we were friends. I want to do something, and all they can think of is to give me a fucking nanny.’

Oliver Rickford hesitated in the doorway. He was wearing a battered wax jacket over a guernsey and paint-stained jeans. Yvonne bobbed up and down behind him. Yvonne was short, and in thirty years would be stout, whereas Oliver was tall and thin. Sally saw them both with the eyes of a stranger: they might have belonged to different species.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Oliver spread out his hands as if intending to examine his nails. ‘Maxham really is doing everything he can.’

‘And those bloody vultures outside,’ Michael went on. ‘I could kill them.’

‘You need to rest,’ Sally said.

Michael ignored her. ‘If they’re still there when I go down, I’m going to hit one of them. Tell them, Oliver. It’s a fair warning.’

Sally stepped back and shook his arm. ‘Why don’t you have a bath and get into bed?’

Michael’s eyes focused on hers. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Sleep? Now? You must be out of your mind.’ The hostility ebbed from his face. ‘Sal, I’m sorry.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying.’

‘Sally’s right.’ Oliver had a hard face and a soft voice. ‘You’re practically asleep on your feet. You’re no use to anyone like that.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not one of your bloody minions.’ Michael looked wildly from Oliver to Sally. His face crumpled. ‘Oh shit.’

He stumbled out of the room and into the bathroom.

Oliver peeled off his jacket and dropped it on a chair. ‘Can I help?’

She didn’t answer, but he followed her into the bathroom. Michael was sitting on the side of the bath with his head resting on the rim of the basin. Sally turned on the taps. Between them, she and Oliver persuaded him through the bath, into pyjamas and into bed. Yvonne dispensed two sleeping pills from the supply the doctor had left behind. Sally sat with him until he went to sleep.

‘When they get the man I’m going to kill him. I could kill Maxham, too. Devious little shit.’ As time slipped by, Michael’s words grew less distinct. Once he opened his eyes and looked straight at Sally. ‘It shouldn’t be like this, should it, Sal? It’s all our fault.’

She bowed her head to hide the tears. Michael was being unreasonable and part of her feared that he was right.

He wasn’t looking at her now but talking to himself. ‘For Christ’s sake. Lucy.’

He drifted into silence. His eyes closed, and after a while his breathing became slow and regular. Sally stood up. She tiptoed towards the door. As she touched the handle, the figure on the bed stirred.

‘It’s always happening,’ Michael mumbled, or that was what it sounded like to her. ‘It’s not fair.’

She closed the bedroom door softly behind her. The living room was empty. She found Oliver Rickford stooping over the sink in the kitchen, scouring a saucepan.

‘Where’s Yvonne?’

‘She went out to buy sandwiches.’

Sally automatically picked up a tea towel and began to dry a mug. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘Why not?’

‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

‘I’m on leave. How’s Michael?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘This is very hard for him.’ Oliver hesitated, perhaps guessing Sally wanted to yell, And don’t you think it’s hard for me too? ‘I mean, even worse than it would be for many other fathers in the same position. As you know, he’s worked on similar cases.’

Jealousy twisted through her. Sally busied herself with the drying up. Michael rarely talked about his work to her. It had been different for a few months around the time of their marriage. Then the barriers had gone up. Michael was made that way, she told herself fiercely; it wasn’t her fault.

Not for the first time she had a depressing vision of her husband’s life as a series of watertight compartments: herself, Lucy and the flat; his job and the friendships he shared with men like Oliver; and the past he shared with his godfather, David Byfield. Cutting like a sword across this line of thought came the fact of Lucy’s absence. Sally turned away, pretending to put the mug in its cupboard. Her shoulders shook.

A moment later she heard Oliver say, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

She turned round to him. The kitchen was so small that they were very close. ‘It’s not your fault. What’s Michael been doing?’

‘Getting in the way. Mounting his own private investigation. At one point he was hanging round the house where the child minder lives and trying to question neighbours.’

Sally wished he had come home instead. ‘He had to do something.’ It was a statement of fact, not an argument for the defence.

‘Maxham was not amused.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘There’s not much we can do except wait. Maxham’s said to be good. He gets results.’

Alert to nuances, Sally said, ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘I don’t know him. He’s one of the old school. Must be coming up for retirement quite soon. The important thing is that he’s good at his job.’ Oliver hesitated, and she sensed that he was holding something back. ‘They’ll probably ask if you’d like psychological counselling,’ Oliver went on. ‘Might be sensible to say yes. Good idea to take all the help you’re offered. No point in making life harder for yourselves.’

‘You mean Michael needs help?’

‘Anyone in your position needs help.’

They finished the washing and drying in silence. Oliver went to check on Michael. Meanwhile, desperate for the activity, Sally emptied the contents of the dirty-clothes basket into the washing machine. When she had switched it on, she realized that she hadn’t bothered to sort the clothes, and that the machine was still set for the fast-coloured programme.

‘He’s asleep.’ Oliver leaned against the jamb of the kitchen door. ‘Sally?’

‘What?’

‘This isn’t my case. I’ve got no jurisdiction.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘That I can’t do much to help.’

‘You’re not doing badly so far.’