Claire Seeber - Fragile Minds

In the lively house in New Cross that was presently home, Silver retreated to his attic room and ate a bowl of Cornflakes sitting on the bed. He slid his boots off and lay down on the chintzy bedspread, fully clothed, sick with tiredness, thanking God most of his landlady’s noisy tribe were out.

When Silver had first come to London three years ago, when Lana had fully recovered, he’d stayed in the Section House nearest the station. But he’d found the boxy little room and the cool anonymity depressing after the noise of a large family home, and when one of his constables moved out of Philippa’s, Silver took over the large attic room as an experiment. He’d been expecting to stay for a few months at most, but somehow, a year or so later, here he still was. It was cheap and predominantly cheerful; Philippa cooked for him, which meant his tolerance of chilli pepper was impressive now; plus living here meant he could afford the small cottage at the base of the Pennines that sat empty for ten months of the year; that he planned to make home one of these days. Before too long, he told himself. For now, he felt comfortable where he was.

But tonight there was no rest to be had. Each time he shut his eyes, Jaime’s face floated in the ether, her name whispering through the red blood that thumped in his ears.

He dozed for a fitful hour and then he was back up again. It was dark now and he could hear the younger children below, the jolly and incessant jingle of the Wii. He called Craven.

‘Any news?’

‘Nope. None of the Islam-a-twats are holding their hands up – yet, anyhow. Fucking monkeys.’

‘No call for that, is there, Derek?’ Silver said lightly. ‘Need a favour, actually.’ It pained him to even ask.

A sigh. ‘Go on.’

‘I need some details on a missing person. Girl called Misty Jones.’

‘Misty Jones? As in Clint?’

‘Clint?’ Silver switched the kettle that lived on the table in the corner of his room, and wiped the surface down. It was spotless already, but he wiped it anyway.

‘Eastwood. Play Misty For Me.’

‘Oh right.’ He pulled the coffee off the tray. ‘I’m not a big Western fan personally.’

‘Not a Western. More – creepy. About a bunny boiler with big tits, I seem to remember. Anyway,’ Craven ate something noisy down Silver’s ear. Crisps, by the sounds of it. ‘Misty. Kind of a made-up name, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe.’ He didn’t want her to be made-up: she had to be Misty. Flesh and blood and real; nothing to do with Jaime. ‘That’s what I need to find out.’

‘I’ll have a dig around.’ Craven finished whatever he was eating with relish. Was the man actually licking his fingers? ‘Get back to you as-ap.’ He pronounced it as two words. Irritating. He did irritate Silver, a lot. All faux-jollity, resentment and latent bigotry, big belly spilling over a thin crocodile-skin belt.

‘Cheers, pal.’ Silver hung up. His emotional intelligence might be out of kilter, but his gut instinct was working hard now at least. He had tried to convince himself all afternoon that things were all right – but he knew deep down something was definitely wrong.

In the evening, I managed to open the front door to my best friend Zoe. Good old Natalie had rung her, and despite all my best protestations she had been insistent that she’d cook Paella and sit with me tonight. Zoe had a new Spanish boyfriend called Pablo and was learning Spanish cuisine for his benefit, which was infinitely preferable to the toasted cheese sandwiches she normally lived on. She arrived at six in her latest incarnation – Zoe was the eternal chameleon when it came to men – Capri pants immaculate, ingredients spilling out of the wicker basket she lugged up to the flat, neat auburn ponytail and gold hoops swinging from her ears as she unpacked her wares, black eyeliner flicked above her watchful eyes. We drank white Rioja and didn’t talk about the explosion, apart from the plaster on my cheek. We talked about love; she was thinking of moving to Barcelona to be with Pablo.

‘Hmm,’ I mused. ‘It means your babies will play for Barca and not Man U. Your dad will be devastated.’

‘My mum will be relieved, that’s all I know. She knows my clock is ticking.’ She shot me a quick look.

‘It’s fine, Zoe,’ I murmured, staring into my cloudy glass. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘So,’ she said brightly, ‘how’s it going with that nice Rafe guy? Will you be moving into Number 10 together soon?’

‘It’s not going.’

She stared at me.

‘Are you joking?’

‘No.’

‘I thought he was good for you.’ She looked so disappointed, I almost felt guilty. ‘And so bloody successful.’

‘Good for me?’ I drained my drink. ‘Like Vitamin C or broccoli?’ I thought of Francis’s botched attempt earlier at making me feel better. I thought about my new fears that the disassociation I’d experienced after Ned’s death was returning. I wondered whether to mention it to my oldest friend.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Do I?’ I stood to stack the plates.

‘Don’t be difficult, Claudia.’

‘I’m not, really. It’s just – it’s meant to be love, not – not health.’

Zoe gazed at me until I felt uncomfortable. ‘And it’s not love?’

‘No. It was company. And I’m fine on my own.’ Though I had definitely felt a little more protected since I’d met Rafe. I pushed that thought away.

‘Are you?’ She stared at me until I nearly squirmed.

‘Yes. Even though I did quite fancy opening the door in my nightie on Election Day.’ I chucked a prawn shell in the bin. ‘I’d have made sure I got my hair done first though.’

We gazed at each other for a moment and then began to laugh, almost hysterically, so I had to sit down again and catch my breath.

‘It’s not funny,’ I gasped in the end.

‘No, it’s not.’ Zoe wiped her eyes with some kitchen roll. ‘And you could do with a good haircut actually. You do look a bit – dishevelled at the moment. Slightly – Worzel Gummidge.’

‘Oh thanks a lot.’ She was revving up for a lecture, I could tell. I changed the subject. ‘It’s just – it was all wrong. Me and Rafe. I think he’s been seeing someone else, anyway.’ I stood again.

‘Really?’ she frowned.

‘Yes. And the funny thing is,’ I considered it for a moment, ‘I couldn’t really care less.’

‘That’s what worries me.’

‘I mean, he’s nice and everything, but—’

‘But he wasn’t Will,’ she finished for me.

I plonked the plates into the sink.

‘I heard he’s back you know,’ she said, and I felt ice in my belly. ‘Will, I mean.’

‘Did you?’ I said casually. I hadn’t. I was still furious with him.

‘Claudie,’ Zoe looked at me all seriously, her dark eyes almost beseeching, ‘I really think it would be a good idea to—’

The phone rang and I snatched it up gratefully. It was a policewoman called DS Lorraine Kenton from Holborn.

‘We have some routine enquiries following the death of your colleague Tessa Lethbridge.’

I felt the cold kick of guilt and sorrow again.

‘Is there a suitable time we could meet please? Where will you be tomorrow or Thursday? It won’t take long.’

Unnerved, we arranged a time and place and I hung up the phone. Zoe had busied herself in the kitchen and was manfully grating nutmeg over baked peaches, her middle knuckle bleeding into the sauce.

‘Ouch! What I was going to say about Will was—’

The phone rang again.

‘Blimey, you’re popular,’ she glared at me as if I had arranged the call to stop her probing.

‘It’ll be that policewoman wanting to move the time.’