After The Fire

Cath raised her head, half asleep. Felt his shadow at the front door. Moved to the hall and watched him stand there, head pressed on glass. Yet she didn't open it. The kids had fallen asleep on the couch, wee fat feet in brand new sandals. They were too late now. Too late for this flight. They looked so peaceful, the kids. Just stay out. If she ran and yelled where the hell have you been?, like clashing pots, would that exorcise what was coming in? Then she heard his key turn in the lock and a damp gust of morning followed.

‘Jamie? At last! You do realise we've missed the bloody…’

His skin was wet, greyish-yellow. Eyes narrow in a stone-pallor mask. No movement, no sight. And she didn't want to see it. It was her husband and it was not. Some pathetic shade of him, stretching out with flailing fingers to find the light switch for their gloomy hall.

‘Jamie?’ She moved forward. ‘You okay?’ When clearly, patently, obviously he was not, but that was what you said to stop the silence and keep the kettle boiling.

She removed the jacket from his rigid shoulders. ‘You're soaking.’

‘Where's the kids?’ His voice was low.

‘They're in the living room, asleep.’
He nodded.

‘Look at you, you're soaked right through.’ Cath squelched his T-shirt with her fist. ‘Jesus. You been swimming? Look, why don't you go for a bath and I'll phone the travel agent’s, see if there's another flight today, your shorts are still wet by the way…’ She was gabbling, gabbling into the void, and waiting for him to explain, giving him all these chances and he wasn't and she had to fill the space. ‘Why are you so late?’
He put one hand on the banister. ‘I need to go to bed.’

‘Okay, fine. But will you tell me what's happened?’
‘I just need to sleep.’

‘Jamie – I saw the news.’
Please tell me you were in a car crash.
‘Honey, please. You have to talk to me. What's happened?’

Trying to be calm, and her tooth was screaming at her. She kept tonguing, a constant flicking pressure at the ragged fissure, prodding it to further reaches and her brain was booming – what about Majorca? – and he kept walking up the stairs.

‘Jamie – please!’
He stopped, looked down at her. ‘What did it say on the news?’
‘I don't know. Something about a girl being shot by police…’
Still he stood, swaying slightly against the banister. His torso was twisted, legs facing up the stair, eyes on Cath below.

Maggots in her belly. ‘Tell me it wasn't you. Tell me it's got nothing to do with you.’
He frowned, puzzled like a child.

‘Talk to me – God!’ She tried so hard not to shout.
Slowly, his knees sagged into the stairs, hands squeaking down spindles until he was staring at her like a monkey in a cage. ‘I'm sorry.’

Then she was beside him, squatting down low and cradling his precious body. Feeling him tremble; hard, spastic movements that juddered her breasts.
‘Sssh. Sssh.’ She kissed his hair. ‘Jamie. What happened? Is she dead?’

‘Yes she’s dead. She’s dead, alright? Can you not just fucking hug me?‘

And he clambered away, limping on all fours up and into their room, leaving Cath sitting on the stairs nursing a broken tooth. There was a sickness in her stomach. Rocking helped, very gently like you would to quell a period pain, using the warmth of your own body to soothe the ache.

Please God don't let this be true. Please don't let my husband have killed someone.

They should be tucking into a plastic meal. Enjoying a beaker of too-warm wine and toasting their holiday while the kids bounced with glee. First time on a plane – Cath had had it all planned. Travel packs and crayons and secret little toys; barley sugar for their ears; sick-bags and a change of clothes. By dinner, they'd be on a terrace, choosing pizza, linking hands. Passports and Euros were stashed in a little wallet, perched perky on the hall table, all set to go.

Images of beaches dripped with bodies sprawled in sand. Her tongue probing deeper in the cracked enamel, tooth on fire. How young was the girl? The girl that her husband has killed.

Go on, say it.

It was a joke. That's what you said. When you were told you'd got the sack or your granny had died, you'd say 'You're joking', because it bought you time, like saying 'Um', or 'That's a very good question, I'm glad you asked me that'; time for your brain to switch on and turn and chunter into gear. And time to rewrite history, so that your first thought, the very first, deep-in-your-soul thought was not 'I wonder how much she's left me', or 'What about Majorca?'

Someone is dead because of Jamie. Yesterday they were alive. When we woke up yesterday and argued about how many pairs of shoes I could take, that person was alive, making coffee maybe. Scratching her arm or yawning in the mirror.

She'd seen dead bodies before. At work, when Cath had a life, she'd always been struck by their warmth. Most bodies the police saw were pliant and moist. Still hinting at life, and underscoring the messiness of death. Not at all what you saw in reverent parlours. Stiff and painted, prim and primed for the great hereafter.

That girl, the girl Jamie has killed, will still be soft. Her heart will have stopped and the blood will be clotting, but her flesh will be supple yet. Today was…what day was this? Wednesday. Wednesday. The girl would have been at school and they'd be on their aeroplane. That girl would have a mother, who would want to view her now. Now, immediately, and not be told to wait because it was procedure, but to hold her baby's head on her breast and trace her dimples before they set forever.

Forever. Her husband had.

Her husband had.
And what would happen to them all?
And what about Majorca?

---

Excerpt of The Twilight Time

Excerpt of Shadowplay