Something Might Happen (5 page)

He looks at me.

I don’t know, he says again.

* * *

You’d think it might be impossible to sleep but once I get in there onto those chilly, milk-stained sheets with the baby
in beside me, I fall into an easy, dreamless place. I wake to find the sky white and the pillow and the corner of my mouth
wet, a ball of tissue clenched in my hand.

You’d think there would be wailings of sirens outside, or at least the sound of something going on, but there’s nothing, same
as usual, just the comforting purr of the wind in the pines.

Liv has woken already and stayed silent and kicking, small huffing breaths—careful wide-eyes watching the ceiling. Fairies,
Rosa always says in that authoritative voice of hers. She’s watching fairies.

I pull her over to me and I kiss her. Not for any reason, just because I always do. For a single quick second the kissing
makes me forget what has been happening. I breathe her in, she smells of new piss. The earthy sweetness of it makes my throat
fill up.

Downstairs, Mick is sitting blankly on the kitchen sofa with the phone book open on his lap and a bottle of whisky on the
table at his side. Also, some slices of cheese in a plastic wrapper and no plate. I am amazed Fletcher hasn’t had them, but
he’s asleep against the door jamb, paws together, dead-dog style.

Has he rung?

No.

I look at Mick carefully. He looks about eight years old, skinny and tired.

You managed to sleep?

A little.

Good.

I go and sit softly by him, Liv on my lap.

What’re you doing? Who’re you ringing?

He stares ahead of him as if he has to listen a long time to take in the words. Then he puts his hand on my knee.

We have to do something about the roof, he says, as if it’s obvious.

What? I say. You mean now?

Since Mick left the paper and has been at home, he’s made a special effort to keep up with DIY. Getting all those jobs done
that nag at you. It’s his way of being more than just a house-husband. And last week some time, Jordan’s ceiling developed
a long brown zigzag and started oozing water. But it’s been dry since then and I’ve forgotten it.

He jabs his finger on the page to mark a place and looks up.

Don’t you realise, Tess, he says, Jordan’s ceiling is bust. It’s about to cave in.

Oh, I say, trying to think back to the other life, the sweet life of yesterday when we had this as a problem.

It won’t go away just because of—

No, I agree.

And there’s more wet weather on the way.

Oh darling, I say and I try to look at him but suddenly he’s not there, or at least I can’t see him properly.

THE THING ABOUT THIS PLACE IS, IT ISN’T ON THE WAY
to anywhere. It’s the end of the road, a dead end—creek, sea and river on three sides, the road going up to the A12 on the
other. Apart from in the height of summer when the holidaymakers descend, a stranger would be noticed right away.

Certainly, no one here lives in fear of crime. Pat, the local copper, is too busy untangling the kids’ kites that get stuck
in the dog rose and gorse that slopes down from the promenade to go chasing criminals. And the last time a panda car came
flashing up the High Street was when poor Ellie Penniston fell off her bike.

Even our vandals are considerate. When the donations box was stolen from the Sailors’ Reading Room, the culprit
went out of his way to return the box. And when the Conservative Club, the United Reformed Church and a couple of small lock-up
businesses on the harbour were all broken into in the space of a single night, it was assumed it must be someone from the
new council houses down beyond the pier which look out over Might’s Creek.

All sorts are housed there, Barbara Anscombe complained at a heated local residents’ meeting. Travellers, even.

One of the happiest and most picturesque seaside towns in all England, that’s how our town is referred to in the booklets
Best of Suffolk
and
Coastal Rambles
that you can pick up at the Tourist Information Centre on the High Street.

The town’s most pressing concerns are quaint and small. Such as what to do about the graffiti on the public toilets off North
Parade. Or, should a second Thai takeaway be allowed to open in place of Caroline’s Orthopaedic Shoes in the High Street?
And how to make people take notice of the Clean Up After Your Dog campaign? (Free doggy bags are provided by the local Society
but still there are individuals who do not use them.)

And then, that night in autumn—the coldest October night for ninety years according to the
Bugle
. He binds her wrists with nylon twine. He hits her twelve or maybe fifteen times on the chest, neck and head with something
blunt and heavy—possibly one of the larger lumps of shingle from under the pier—before he uses the blade on her.

* * *

The day of Lennie’s death ends with a dozen officers in white gloves crawling on hands and knees to search the whole car park—now
emptied of all but a handful of cars—including Pier Avenue and the area beyond the beach huts where the dunes roll down to
the sea. They have to get it done before high tide, so they move methodically yet quickly, aware always of the creeping water
and the fading light. The area is still taped off and no one is allowed in. At one point a Labrador slinks under the tape
and comes bounding up to them joyously licking and pouncing. The owner calls it off quickly, mortified.

Nothing whatsoever is found.

Straight after school we tell the children. We sit them down and tell them that last night a bad man came along and hurt Lennie
so badly that she’s never coming back.

Is she OK? Nat wants to know.

Mick looks at me.

I’m afraid she died, Nat, he says softly.

Rosa takes a breath. She’s been killed?

That’s right.

She and Jordan both burst into loud, immediate, shocked tears. But Nat just bends his head and gazes at the floor. I watch
him and I know that the odd half-smile, half-grimace on his face is from fear and shock. He can’t look at anyone, he won’t
join in.

It’s easy to comfort Rosa and Jordan—I throw my arms around them and I cry too. Meanwhile Mick sits beside Nat
and rubs a point between his shoulder blades and Nat lets him for a while and then shakes him off.

Was it a gun? Jordan wants to know. Mick looks quickly at me and then says in a small, tight voice, Yes, boy, yes, it was.

Nat looks up despite himself.

What was anyone doing with a gun? he says, shocked. I mean, around here? Isn’t that illegal?

Well, says Mick, yes. Of course. But there are lots of questions they can’t—I mean, they don’t know everything yet.

Did she die in hospital? Rosa asks. Did she know she was going to die?

I squeeze her hand.

We hope not, I tell her. We really hope not.

Jordan cries again and I hold Rosa’s hand in one of mine and his little, cold and slightly sticky one in the other and he
soon stops. I listen to his breathing. No one says anything for a moment or two.

We love you all very much, I tell them, and this is the hardest thing that’s ever happened to us. Now what you’ve got to do
is try and help Max and Con.

How? demands Rosa, her voice cracking with grief and fury. How can we help them if they don’t even have a mum any more?

They’ve got a dad, Nat points out with unnecessary vigour.

Mick ignores him.

You’ve got to be very, very kind, he says. I mean it, guys. They’re going to be sad and upset for a very long time.

And shocked, I add.

Yes, he says, Mummy’s right. Shock takes a very long time to get over.

Will they still come round here? asks Jordan anxiously.

Of course, boy, says Mick, cupping his fingers around Jordan’s bony knee. Jordan gives a little sob of relief.

Of course they will, I say. They’re going to need us, they all are, Alex too.

I don’t want to be horrid, but I’m just so glad it wasn’t you, says Rosa suddenly and she puts her forehead on my arm and
weeps into my sleeve.

Oh darling, I say.

Well, begins Mick, but he doesn’t finish.

We sit in silence for a long time after that, just the five of us and Liv on her blanket on the floor. After a while Fletcher
hears the strange sound of silence and comes padding over, slapping his tail from side to side, shoving the fish-fur of his
nose into everyone’s hands.

He doesn’t know, Rosa observes.

No, I say.

Is there anything you want to ask us, guys? Mick says after a moment or two.

Jordan gives him a quick look.

Have we missed
The Simpsons?
he says.

* * *

Mick and I go in the kitchen and listen to the sound of them all laughing at the TV in the next room. Three lots of laughter,
then silence, then more bubbling laughter again.

They’re laughing.

Mick shrugs.

I stare into the fridge and then the cupboards one after another and try to think what to make for their tea. He meanwhile
sits in the big chair and holds Livvy on his lap, looking at her as if he’s never seen her before, as if she’s someone else’s
child, or something that is supposed to be a child but doesn’t look quite right. Eventually Livvy gives a little gasp of dissatisfaction
at being held so still.

Of course they are, he says, picking up the phone with his free hand and using his thumb to press redial—trying Alex again.
Of course they’re laughing. What do you expect?

I rub my eyes, pull out a pack of quick macaroni.

I wonder what I do expect. The thought hangs there fuzzily.

They’re just kids, Mick says, a tiny crack showing in his voice. Kids compartmentalise. It’s not real to them yet. But it
will be—it’ll sink in.

Mick knows about kids. Or at least, I know about them as a mother, but he understands how their heads work. Before he went
into journalism, back in London, he was a teacher and he worked in a rough school and dealt with the toughest kids—eleven-
and twelve-year-olds who’d had no breakfast and had to be frisked for flick-knives and razor blades before they even started
lessons. One time a kid set fire to the toilets during PE and Mick had to put it out and
in doing so suffered burns all over his hands. He still has the scars—great shiny streaks where the hair never grows. Monster
hands, Rosa calls them.

When he first started on the paper, everyone warned him to watch out for the editor who was a difficult, moody and unpredictable
sort of man. But Mick just laughed. He never had any trouble from the guy. Not after dealing with all those kids.

At teatime, the children eat their macaroni cheese without complaint. Nat drinks his cup of milk without investigating it
for lumps. Rosa even asks for seconds. She squeezes ketchup all over what’s left on her plate and mixes it in till the sauce
turns a glossy pink.

She’s playing with her food, Nat points out, tipping back on his chair.

Nat darling, I say, let it go.

Yes, but—

Nat, says Mick. And Nat sighs and kicks at the table leg.

We decide to leave them thinking Lennie was killed with a gun because it’s somehow cleaner. Guns leave small neat holes in
people—or that’s the impression kids get off the TV. People with guns do it from a safe distance. They don’t come after you
as you lie in a car park bleeding to death. They don’t rip your heart out.

Later I hear Jordan kicking a beat-up tennis ball around the empty dining room with Fletcher. It’s the dog’s favourite game
and one which makes him go absolutely, religiously still. The way they do it is, Jordan kicks the ball across the room till
it hits the skirting board and bounces off—and
that’s the dog’s cue to move, to dart for it and grab it before Jordan can.

Jordan and the dog have a collection of these tennis balls—balding and dirty and bit right open some of them, by Fletcher’s
sharp teeth. We are always finding them—stuck behind radiators, in the clean-laundry basket, in the tangle of wires behind
the TV.

Which would you rather, Jordan mutters to the dog as he drops the ball, be shot by a gun or chased by a shark until you wet
your pants with fear?

At ten the kids are finally in bed. We are still sitting there in the room that’s gone cold and dark and quiet. And at last
there it is, the sound of him at our back door.

Al!

I jump up from my chair.

We never bother locking our door, not until we go to bed, and even then just with the one turn of the key. He knows this and
comes straight in. Behind him, the man I met at his house, the family liaison man.

Well? Someone says, but it’s not Mick and I don’t think it’s Al either because he just stands there and says nothing.

I put my hands to my face. I’m shaking all over and I feel sick. Seeing him makes it real, brings home to me what has really
happened. And her absence. Normally if something had happened, Lennie would be here by now. We’d all be here together.

But Mick knows what to do. He goes right over and
clasps him around the shoulders, pulling him in—at the same time nodding to the other guy who hangs back in the shadows. Maybe
he introduces himself to Mick, but I’m not sure.

Alex looks worn out. When Mick lets go and steps back, he moves across the room to me and puts out his arms and holds my head
tight against him.

Don’t, he says. Don’t speak.

His fingers are on my face. And I don’t know what to do, though I smell him—his exhaustion and confusion and grief and the
breath that hasn’t eaten anything in a long time.

The boys? Mick says then. Where are the boys?

Still at Patsy’s, Al says. I took them back there. It’s OK. They’re—I mean, I’ve—been with them.

You told them?

Al shuts his eyes for a quick second.

Mick pulls out a bottle of whisky.

OK, he says, a drink.

Lacey refuses but Alex sits down and has a glass just like it’s any other day. At our kitchen table. Keeping his coat on—the
coat that sits on him like a husk.