I compose my thoughts.
Forget my feelings.
And step inside the police station.
It’s time to confess.
22HARRISON
I confess that what Sergeant Carter says about my wife knocks me for six.
I manage to keep it together until he leaves my house.
Then I fall apart.
I make myself drink some coffee—I need something to steady my nerves—but then I see Eden standing in the corner of the kitchen staring at me and drop my cup. My wife isn’t really there—it’s just my imagination—but the white porcelain has smashed into a hundred tiny pieces and there is spilled coffee all over the floor. I stand and stare at it as though I don’t know what to do. I am too used to other people clearing up my mess.
And what a mess this is.
The police think my wife has killed herself.
My mind pivots from my wife to my PA. I need to call her, get her to cancel my meetings and rearrange my day. This could not have come at a worse time for the company. I should be in London, nothere, but I’m guessing it would look bad if I left Hope Falls now. That’s probably not what a grieving husband would do.
I step on a shard of porcelain and my foot bleeds onto the floor.Fuck.I need to keep my shit together. The boy cop asked a lot ofquestions before he left and I’m worried I shouldn’t have answered them. But I am not a suspect. There is no suggestion that a crime has taken place. They think Eden killed herself and it would be strange if I didn’t cooperate. But I dofeelstrange. A little dizzy. Discombobulated. As though none of this is real. Not that I could ever say that out loud.
I am not the kind of man who gets broken, even when I lose everything I love most. I know this about myself because I’ve had practice. We all just play the parts life gives us but I seem to have forgotten my lines. I don’t have a script for this. There is no preprepared media-friendly statement that someone else has written for me to read. I’m struggling to remember how to be the man people expect me to be, the person they all think I am: Harrison Woolf, CEO. Fearless. Powerful. Honest.
Then I sink down onto the floor because right now I am none of those things.
I need to understand what happened. But I can’t think straight, the walls are closing in. I have to know the truth. But it feels like I can’t breathe.
Is my wife really dead?
I have a word with myself—several in fact—then pull myself up. I shower and shave and put on my favorite suit; it feels like my armor and I need it today. Then I see my wife’s wedding and engagement rings left abandoned on the bedside table. As soon as I have composed myself I head to the police station in the village. Sergeant Carter said if I thought of anything that might help them find out what happened to Eden I should tell him straight away. So that’s what I’ll do.
Even though I would rather nobody ever finds out what she did, I do want them to find her.
23BIRDY
“I finally found you,” I say, stepping inside the police station.
“It’syou,” Carter replies, his face a pretty picture of shock.
It’s been a while since we last met. I’m impressed he remembers me.
Carter is alone and sitting behind a desk that looks too big for him. He is listening to what looks like an old Walkman with his feet up on the desk. I notice how neat and tidy it is, just like the man himself. His uniform is pristine and his hair looks as though he just combed it. His expression is one of surprise and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. The first and last time I saw him was six months ago, but he looks different. Tired. Older. Hopefully none the wiser. I remember how we stood side by side standing over my grandmother’s grave, while he told me why she was known as the woman who died twice. Then he walked me home and we had sex. He would have stayed the night if I hadn’t asked him to leave. I’m guessing he didn’t expect to see me again after that, which might explain his expression. His face looks like he just drank a pint of piss.
“You remember me, then?” I ask, stepping inside the station and closing the door behind me. Carter pulls off his headphones and removes his feet from the desk. He stares at me, then at Sunday, asthough he might be afraid of us both, which is just silly. I’m aware that I am an acquired taste, but my dog is a sheep in wolf’s clothing. I give Carter a moment to get over the shock of seeing me, and take in my surroundings. The station used to be a fisherman’s cottage and it still looks like one.
“Of course I remember you,” Carter says eventually, as though his pause button has been released. He sounds unsure and I raise an eyebrow. “Mrs. Bird’s granddaughter,” he adds as though trying to prove it.
He can’t even remember my name.
Carter’s cheeks turn a surprisingly vibrant shade of red—he clearly remembers some of the things we did that night—and I feel a tad sorry for him. He’s a good ten years younger than me, perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and I’m aware that he didn’t know what—or who—he was getting himself into when he knocked on my door that night. I don’t understand why he looks so guilty when he’s got no reason to be. It isn’t as though he could have called me even if he had wanted to; I never gave him my number. Maybe I hurt his feelings and he’s still upset about it, even if the silly twit can’t remember my name.
“You can call me Birdy,” I say, putting one of the coffees I just bought on his desk. He stares at it. Then at me. He doesn’t touch the drink. He looks horribly young to me today, almost childlike.
I wonder if I look dreadfully old to him.
