“Yes. I can speak now.”
“Are you by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Is there someone you can ask to be with you?”
Not Jack. Not after I caught that expression on his face. “No.”
“OK.” An uncomfortable pause. “Well, I’m calling about your mother, Sarah Jones?”
My heartbeat suddenly feels very faint. “I’m sorry to have to give you this news over the phone. Your mother was found dead earlier this afternoon. We’re yet to do a postmortem, but it looks as though she’s been dead for quite some time.”
Dimly, I’m aware that I have slumped against the wall, gasping for oxygen that doesn’t seem to be there.
“How?” I whisper.
“I can’t say with any certainty, but it looks as though she might have fallen down the stairs.”
I try to focus on his voice, but I zone in and out and the questions pound every inch of me. When? How long after I left? Was she alone? Did she think of me at all? Was she there when I rang the bell the other day? I disliked her, hated her, even, by the end, but I didn’t want this. Brian’s voice seems like it’s coming from a long way away.
He is saying something else about the timing of the postmortem and asking if I would like to come and see the body, and, vaguely, I hear myself saying no. I can’t think of anything worse than seeing the body of the woman who never loved me like she loved her other daughter. I’ve outlived both of them now.
“Who found her?” I whisper.
“It was a…” The sound of rustling paper. “Richard Jones. Her ex-husband, I believe.” After all this time, he went to see her.
“Well, if there’s nothing else you need to ask…” Brian trails off. When I don’t speak, he mumbles a sorry and says goodbye, and the line goes dead.
And all I can think is that Mum went to her grave and she never knew the truth. She never found out what happened to Marcie. I wonder if I should have told her.
Forty-one
I went back toschool a month after Marcie’s death. A month of tiptoeing around the house, listening to my mother’s grief, my father’s flat monotone. I was nervous about returning. That I’d go back to being branded strange and withdrawn. I didn’t even have my connection with Marcie to draw from anymore.
That morning, I dressed in my school uniform, then paused by the mirror. I should, I realized, pay tribute to Marcie in some way. I fished the bracelet out from under the bed and fastened it round my wrist.
I heard the whispers as soon as I stepped into the playground. I noticed heads turn to look at me and eyes widen. I even heard a gasp. I ignored them all. I walked straight through to the classroom. Billy smiled at me, but I ignored him. I noticed several people half rise in their seats when I arrived, as though they wanted to speak to me but didn’t know how to begin. I realized that I was in a unique position. I was the only person who could shed light on the tragedy that had befallen Marcie Jones. I stood taller with the knowledge and waited for them to come to me.
No one wanted to approach me initially. I spent the morning aloneas usual, staring at the front of the classroom. I enjoyed how kind the teachers were. They pulled me back at the end of lessons and told me I didn’t need to do the homework, that I could stay inside at lunchtime, that I could go home whenever I wanted. Eyes followed me wherever I went.
A pack of three approached me first. Olivia, Jessica, and Helena. Marcie’s three best friends. They made their move at lunchtime, dragging their feet, arranging their faces into sad expressions that didn’t quite hide the hunger in their eyes. I pretended not to notice their approach. “Iris,” Olivia whispered. I jerked my head up. “Are you OK? We heard what happened.”
I stifled a sob, and she put her arm round me. With this preliminary contact came more. Soon, I was swarmed with people. It was the first time I had ever been the subject of such intense scrutiny. They clamored for answers like starving dogs, feeding off whatever scraps I threw for them.
“It was awful,” I said over and over again. “Just awful. She was just there one moment and gone the next.” I pictured Marcie’s face as I said it: the surprise, the shock, the horror, the fear.
“We’re so sorry for your loss, Iris.” Again, and again, and again. Whispered like a prayer.
The feeling was electric. I’ve craved it ever since.
Forty-two
Vaguely, I hearthe door bang open behind me. Jack’s thunderous face softens as he sees me slumped on the floor. I feel his hands—his warm hands—on the tops of my arms, heaving me up, shaking me gently by the shoulders, asking what’s wrong. What’s happened? Who was it? And I hear my voice reply as though I am speaking from a long way away. As though I am underwater. Somehow separated from reality. I tell him it’s Mum. She’s dead.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss,” he repeats over and over. It doesn’t feel like it usually does. There’s no thrill attached to the words now. Only a dull, throbbing emptiness.
I don’t remember most of the journey home. Jack gets us a taxi, and I watch the tree-shaped air freshener swing with the movement of the car. I barely even register the offensive smell of it: artificial pine, something like bleach.
