One of the spare rooms at Devey House has a small balcony: black-painted wrought iron, grey metal floor. It’s where Suzanne and I used to stand and smoke illicit cigarettes and gossip about boyfriends past, present and future, and it’s where we’re standing now, at nearly midnight, even though it’s freezing and we both gave up smoking long ago. As soon as Lottie fell asleep in the super-king bed in the room behind us, I had a sudden, urgent need for those two absolute essentials, fresh air and nicotine. You can forget about both and imagine you’re managing fine without them for a long time, and then the need suddenly hits you.
‘Thank you for everything you’ve done today,’ I say. ‘You’re the best husband-and-father substitute a girl could wish for.’
‘What are you going to tell them all about why you went to the police?’ Suzanne asks.
‘The truth. Eventually. I just didn’t want to do it tonight, when everyone’s had their fill. It can wait.’
She nods. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a sickening, horrible question that I wish I didn’t want to ask? But then we all know I’m a terrible person.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ I tell her. ‘I mean … obviously it wasn’t me. It was never going to be me. But it wasn’t Tom either. I’ve no idea who could have done it. Believe me, I’m as shocked and confused as you are.’
‘That wasn’t what I was going to ask you,’ Suzanne says.
‘What, then?’ I take a long, deep drag on my cigarette.
‘Are you happy? Glad? Does it feel … good?’
‘That she’s dead?’
We both turn, hearing a rustling sound behind us. It’s Dad. He’s ready for bed: blue and white checked pyjamas with a navy trim, beige towelling dressing gown.
There’s a smear of toothpaste on his chin and something crusty and darker on one side of his mouth. I can’t bring myself to remind him to wash his face. What does it matter what he looks like? This must be the worst night of his life. Mum’s death was … different. My heart clenches, as it always does when I think back to that day at the hospice. I was seven, so my version of it, at this point, is probably more invention than remembered reality, but in my memory Mum was comforting Dad and me, strengthening our resolve until the very end. And … Dad was heartbroken but not desolate, as he looks now; not full of nothing but despair.
I wish Mum were here now, to tell him again that everything will be okay soon, whether that’s true or not. And I wish Dad hadn’t just heard Suzanne ask me if I was pleased Marianne had been murdered.
How long was he there, in the room behind us? Did he hear me saying it wasn’t Tom? Is he about to ask me—
‘I should add my voice to the thanks, Suzanne,’ he says. ‘Jemma shouldn’t have needed a father substitute, but she has since her mother died. That’s my fault.’
‘I was slagging off Paddy, Dad. Not you.’
‘You’re too hard on him.’
‘I disagree,’ I say.
‘He loves you, and is afraid to show it.’
Suzanne tries to pass me her nearly finished cigarette. ‘I should leave you two alone,’ she says.
‘No, stay,’ I tell her.
‘Yes, stay,’ says Dad. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. I need to get to bed, try and sleep. Tomorrow’s unlikely to be easier than today. You should both sleep too.’ He touches my arm. ‘Night night, sweetheart. Love you. I’m sorry I haven’t been …’ He leaves without specifying what he hasn’t been.
‘Am I?’ I ask Suzanne, once he’s gone.
‘Too hard on Paddy?’ She makes a pained, crushed-in-a-mousetrap kind of noise. ‘I really want to say “No”, because … I’ll be honest, Jemm, I’ve never thought he was good enough for you, but … Well, more and more, it seems like you’ve started to think that too. To be as fair as possible to Paddy … I suppose it’s hard to be your best self when you’re married to someone who’s thinking the worst of you all the time. You know – living with the constant expectation you’re going to get it wrong yet again. Ugh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m going soft as a result of sleep-deprivation. I’m normally asleep by nine these days.’
‘If I didn’t have this terror that, somehow, I’m going to end up in prison for the next twenty years of my life—’
‘Hm?’ Suzanne looks confused.
‘I’m answering your question. Am I glad Marianne’s dead? If I wasn’t so scared, and if I knew I wasn’t going to be blamed, me or … or anyone I love …’
The thought of Ollie being sent to prison makes me want to howl. I don’t believe he could exist or survive there. It’s strange: there’s always been something about him that makes me wantto rescue him as well as be rescued by him. I felt it strongly in July, when I went to see him in Cambridge and knew I needed to protect him from my own justified anger.
‘Jemm?’ says Suzanne. ‘If you weren’t scared, then what?’
‘Then yes, I’d be glad she’s dead. More than glad.’ I hold my half-finished cigarette with one hand and flick it with the other, so that it shoots out into the night. ‘I think it would probably feel like the best treat I could ever be given.’
