Sofka Zinovieff - Putney

The silt gave way satisfactorily under her feet and olive-coloured sludge squelched up around her white canvas shoes. She checked Ralph’s progress: treading gingerly, his arms were outstretched for fear of losing his balance.

‘Where are you going?’ he said, whingeing like a tired child. ‘It’s horrible down here.’ His objections made her more reckless. It was enjoyable having the upper hand. Trailing the geese, she waded into the murky river up to her calves, feeling both the pull of the water emptying towards the sea and the delight of shocking him.

‘You’ve shown you can’t understand,’ she called, as if she was now about to leave him and swim into the distance. ‘And I don’t feel like trying to explain again.’

He came to where the opaque water was slapping gently against the mud and she took another step away. ‘Daphne, you’re mad. Get back – it’s dangerous.’

Some men passing on a small cruiser stared at them and one called, ‘Nice evening for a dip!’ Laughter sounded above the engine and the men waved their beer bottles.

Daphne ignored them. The cold wet was up to her thighs. ‘Come on,’ she called. ‘Let’s go for a swim. Don’t you dare?’

There was liberation in accepting a dare. He’d taught her that. Truth or dare had been her favourite game as a teenager and she and Ralph had pushed and coaxed each other into countless thrills by following its rules.

He reached out an arm towards her and slipped, falling forwards into the water. For a brief moment he became completely submerged, then rose on all fours, gasping and spitting. He tried to get up, water streaming from his soaked clothes. ‘Shit.’ She watched him make several attempts and fail. ‘I can’t.’ Slowly, pondering the alternatives, she moved over to give him a hand, pulled him upright and left him to shuffle out of the water. He fell again, toppling backwards this time, so he sat, legs outstretched, body deflated, hair flattened, face a grimace like the masked Guy Fawkes effigies Daphne constructed as a child.

Smeared with mud and shocked by his dowsing, Ralph appeared to have lost the will to talk. That, at least, was a relief. And the scene was funny – she could see that, though she didn’t laugh. She observed him from a distance as he unlaced his shoes, emptied them of water, then remained there as though unable to move. He was wheezing slightly. He didn’t catch her eye, afraid perhaps of mockery. ‘Shit,’ he repeated, examining his father’s old Swiss watch, presumably damaged by the plunge. She knew its bold-numbered face well – once familiar as the back of his hand.

The sun disappeared, turning the sky drab, and a cold wind picked up. She walked back towards the steps, waterlogged shoes gurgling. A rat, the same colour as the river deposits, sped along the base of the wall and slithered into a drainage hole.

‘Time to go home. Are you going to get out of the mud?’ she shouted, but Ralph didn’t answer. Let him sulk, she thought, sitting down out of sight at the top of the steps to see if he would budge. She was tempted to leave him to sort out his own mess, but a couple of minutes later she heard him grunt irritably as he got up and made his way across the sludge in her direction. ‘Goodbye, Ralph,’ she yelled, cheered by the strange interlude that she had engineered. ‘Don’t call me.’ It couldn’t be classified as revenge, nor exactly folie à deux , but it had stopped her feeling like a victim.

She tried to let herself into the flat quietly so she wouldn’t be noticed, but Libby and Paige were in the kitchen.

‘Mum?’ Libby observed the wet trousers and dirty shoes. ‘Mum, what’s going on? What the hell?’

‘You OK?’ asked Paige.

‘Yes, fine,’ Daphne smiled. This was not something she could explain simply to anyone, let alone two teenage girls. It would be risky even to begin describing her anger, her desire to humiliate Ralph, his ridiculous attempt to win her around again, his pathetic inability to pick himself up from the mud. ‘I went for a little walk after leaving Ralph – down by the river. I slipped. I’m an idiot, I know.’ She looked at the two girls’ puzzled faces. ‘I’ll just go and change.’

Daphne was late, but Jane was content to stand outside the police station in the September sunshine. Daphne had postponed the interview until Libby was back at school, but in the end Jane hadn’t needed to put much pressure on her friend, merely offering to accompany her on this daunting mission. A small tap and everything fell into place. Taking time off work reminded her of occasional days away from school, where the world looked brighter and unexpected. The air was fresh and energising, despite the city cranking up for the day: bus exhaust, fry-ups and passing gusts of pungent aftershave.

She sipped a takeaway coffee and managed with one hand to send a text to Josh. Her firstborn son was not more beloved than the second, but he was closer to her in his interests. She appreciated his scientific approach to life. ‘Are you still coming for lunch on Saturday? Hope so!’ She relied on Josh, though she hoped he didn’t see it like that. Even sending him a message made her feel more balanced and contented. When her phone pinged with a reply, she was momentarily chastened to find it was Toby.

Hey Mum – best one in the world. Any chance of you driving me up to B’ham at the weekend? Have too much stuff for the new house to take by train. Your truly grateful son, T.

Sure she texted back. Sunday’s fine for me. See you later. Daphne swept up on her clanking yellow bike in a flurry of hair, bags, plastic flowers and a long scarf that was dangling dangerously. She apologised for being late, and then held Jane in a hug. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Where would I be without you, Janey?’

‘My pleasure,’ she said, with honesty.

‘I feel like shit, though. Didn’t sleep all night.’

‘I remember you were always a night bird, weren’t you? It’s tough, I know. But it’d be tougher if you didn’t do it.’

Daphne nodded obediently and allowed Jane to take her arm and lead her up the steps.

They waited at reception for a long-winded old man reporting something about vandals and rubbish bins and then Daphne spoke clearly, as if reciting something she’d practised.

‘Good morning. I’m Daphne Greenslay. I’ve been in touch with Detective Constable Medlar and I have a meeting with him at nine thirty.’ She signed her name in a book, was given a visitor’s pass and told to take a seat. Jane put her hand on Daphne’s light cotton sleeve, feeling the warm flesh below. ‘I’m sure it’ll go well. Apparently the police have improved so much – for this sort of thing.’

Daphne winced. ‘Oh God.’

‘No, really. They’ve had to become experts. I think they all have specialist Child Abuse Investigation Units now.’

A bulky man strode over. ‘DC Medlar.’ He held out a hand. ‘Thanks for coming in. Now, which of you is Daphne?’ He looked nice enough – fortyish, with biscuit-coloured hair that must have been naturally curly before it was shorn. ‘Call me Gareth,’ he said, explaining that Jane should wait where she was while the interview took place. Daphne looked small, almost childlike, next to the tall policeman as he led her away.

She turned to give a discreet wave. As if she is being led to the cells for life imprisonment, thought Jane. With any luck, it’ll be Ralph who is locked up. Rape of a child should mean years. It may have taken decades, but here we go. His smug superiority and seedy wiles won’t be any use to him in prison. Let him try charming his cellmates or enchanting his guards! She almost smiled at the image.