Carla Banks - The Forest of Souls

His life had always been his work. He hadn’t let the reins of business go until he was well into his seventies. And after that, she had been his project for a while–he had supported her through university, helped her out when she was first trying to get established and living hand to mouth on post-graduate grants. But she was independent now, had been for years. Maybe that was it. Maybe for him, life had lost its point.

She was due to see him tomorrow evening. He was making supper for her–he enjoyed making small occasions of her visits. She could talk to him about it, try and find out what was wrong. While she was at it, she meant to put pressure on him about the house–he could at least get it weatherproof. She’d seen the rainwater stains on the ceilings upstairs, and she had felt the chilly draughts from ill-fitting doors and windows. He was going to make himself ill.

Her worries about him occupied her all the way to work. She walked across the campus, the detritus of other people’s lives clamouring for attention in her head. Enough! she wanted to shout. She needed to focus on the day ahead.

As she approached the Centre, she saw that there were vehicles parked outside, cars and a van. The campus was generally vehicle free and she wondered what was going on. As she got nearer, she saw a man coming out of the main entrance, his arms loaded with files, which he put into the back of the van.

He was in uniform.

She stopped. The writing on the van came into focus. Police . And there was a police logo on one of the cars. Someone else was coming down the steps now, carrying a computer. There was a flash of colour from the side of the machine, a bright rectangle of card that flipped over as the breeze caught it. And suddenly she remembered standing in Helen’s cubicle the day before, seeing the photo stuck to the computer, the photo of Helen with Finn and Hannah, Helen squinting into the sun with her hair blowing across her face, Hannah’s cheek pressed close to hers.

That was Helen’s computer. The police were taking Helen’s computer away. And Helen hadn’t been around yesterday, had missed her meetings, not answered her phone, not replied to messages…

Faith could feel a chill inside her, a tension that twisted her stomach and left a feeling of rising sickness in her throat. She was moving again now, walking faster towards the Centre, breaking into a half-run and stopping as a woman in uniform emerged from the doorway.

‘What’s happened?’

The woman didn’t answer Faith’s question. ‘Do you work here?’

‘Yes. What’s going on?’ She looked past the woman into the lobby. It was empty and silent.

‘And you are…?’ The woman’s voice was calm. She wasn’t going to answer Faith’s questions until she knew who she was.

Faith swallowed her impatience. ‘I’m Faith Lange. I’m…’ A man came down the steps past her, carrying a box of files, Helen’s files, Faith could recognize the handwriting. ‘What’s he doing?’

The woman had a clipboard with a list of names. Faith indicated her own, trying to see past the woman as the uniformed man stowed the box in the back of the van. ‘I’m a friend of Helen Kovacs. That’s her stuff. What’s happened?’

‘Mrs Kovacs was…’

‘Doctor,’ Faith said automatically. The woman looked at her. ‘Dr Kovacs. Helen is Dr Kovacs.’ Helen always insisted on her title, probably because Daniel had been so disparaging of it.

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said. ‘There’s been an incident involving Dr Kovacs…’ Her eyes checked Faith’s face for her response.

‘An incident? But she’s all right?’ She waited for the woman to offer the standard reassurances: She’s fine .

But she didn’t.

Faith tried again. ‘She’s okay?’

Still the woman refused to pick up her cue. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She paused, and in that pause, Faith understood. ‘Dr Kovacs was found dead yesterday.’

Dead. ‘But…’ She needed to explain. Helen couldn’t be dead. It was Hannah’s birthday on Saturday. Faith hadn’t told her about…They were supposed to…She was aware of a hand on her elbow as the policewoman steered her through the entrance into the Centre.

‘Do you need to sit down?’

The policewoman was young, serious, professional. She didn’t know that Faith and Helen had been close. In a way, it was easier to hear it like this. She was just doing her job, telling someone that a colleague was dead. She wouldn’t be nervous of grief, wouldn’t be embarrassed by her own inadequacy. Faith withdrew her arm, and took a deep breath to ensure that her voice would be steady before she spoke again. ‘No. Thank you. I’m all right. What happened?’

‘We’ll need to talk to you,’ the woman said. ‘Would you mind waiting?’ It wasn’t a request. ‘We’ve asked the staff to wait in the office.’

Faith wanted to shake the information out of the woman. What happened? Instead, she turned away and walked through the lobby. The winter light flooded the high space, the poster for Antoni Yevanov’s lecture glowing on the display board– After Guantanamo …She hesitated at the door of the office, then stepped back. She didn’t want to step into the room, listen to the voices falling silent, listen to people who’d hardly known Helen speaking with hushed excitement, listen to the speculation.

Suddenly she was overwhelmed with nausea. She could feel the cold sweat on her forehead and down her back. She went quickly into the ladies and made it into one of the cubicles before she was sick, dry retching long after her stomach was empty. Her legs felt shaky as she stood up.

There was no natural light in the cloakroom, and the mirrors over the row of basins threw back her reflection bleached of colour. The tap water was tepid and she let it run cold before she rinsed her mouth and splashed it over her face.

There was a small yard at the back of the building where the rubbish skips were lined up for collection. She let herself out of the rear entrance, glad to see that no one else was there. It was one of the smokers’ refuges, cigarette ends littering the ground and a stale smell of ash lingering in the air. She sat on the low wall by the skips and stared up at the sky. The nausea lingered like a reminder in the pit of her stomach.

Years before, the daughter of one of her colleagues had been killed. A young man had been driving along a straight bit of road, had put his foot down, then swerved to avoid something. His car had clipped the pushchair in which the three-year-old had been sitting. Faith had gone to the funeral. People wept at the graveside, but the bereaved mother hadn’t. She had stood there, cradling an infant that someone had given her to hold, and she had watched them bury her daughter. Her stillness was incandescent with a grief that was beyond tears.

Hannah and Finn. They were Helen’s world. Faith reached for her phone and tried Helen’s home number, but there was no answer. She flicked through the pages of her diary. She could remember scribbling down the number of Daniel’s phone at some time. She keyed it in, hoping it was still current. It rang several times before it was answered.

‘Kovacs.’ It was an abrupt snap.

‘Daniel, it’s Faith. I just heard about Helen.’

There was a moment of silence, then he said, ‘Faith. Yeah, it’s…I’m kind of, you know…’

She didn’t know, but she could imagine. No matter what anger there had been between him and Helen, he hadn’t wanted the marriage to end. For all the problems they’d had, Helen had felt bad about leaving him. ‘What happened? I don’t know anything. I just came into work and there were police everywhere.’

‘Work.’ His laugh was edgy and hostile. ‘Well, that’s what happened. Work. She’s out on a wild-goose chase, something for what d’you call him– Yevanov.’ He spat the name. ‘She’s on her own in some old house, and there just happens to be a pervert on the premises.’