Sometimes Michelle tried to remember what it was like before the baby came, when it had just been the two of them and they could lie in bed all day and have feverish, exhausting sex and then eat toast and jam and watch television on the tiny black-and-white set that they used to have at the foot of the bed until Michelle knocked it over because Keith was watching the snooker (on a black-and-white set, what was the point of that?) and the baby was screaming and she
just couldn’t do it anymore.
She did love them, she really did. She just couldn’t feel it.
They weren’t bonded together, like molecules, molecules that couldn’t bond together into stable elements and instead bounced around like bingo balls. She should have studied science, not spent all her time with her head in novels. Novels gave you a completely false idea about life, they told lies and they implied there were endings when in reality there were no endings, everything just went on and on and on.
A
nd then she started getting up even earlier because if she wanted to get out of this mess she was going to have to study for her A Levels. If she got up at four in the morning—when everything was miraculously peaceful, even the birds and the baby—then she could prepare the evening meal, tidy the kitchen, and get a wash on, and then, if she was lucky, she could get her old schoolbooks out and take up her education again where she had left off. Because you couldn’t make time, she’d been deluded about that. Time was a thief, he stole your life away from you and the only way you could get it back was to outwit him and snatch it right back.
I
t was just a normal day (normal for Michelle, anyway). It was a Saturday, and Michelle had been up since half past three and was feeling particularly satisfied with her strategy. A dish of lasagna, neatly cling filmed, was sitting in the fridge, waiting to be heated up later, and she had made a chocolate cake—Shirley’s favorite, because her sister often took the bus and came to visit on a Saturday. She had read three chapters of Mowat’s
Britain Between the Wars
and had made notes for an essay on
King Lear
. The baby was fed, washed, and dressed in the nice blue-and-white-striped OshKosh dungarees that Shirley had bought. Michelle washed the windows while the baby amused itself in the playpen. The sky was blue and the breeze was fresh and Michelle could see green shoots appearing in the vegetable plot, even the coriander had germinated.
After a while she glanced at the baby and saw that it was asleep, curled up like a bug on the floor of the playpen, and Michelle thought she could use the opportunity to get on with her geography, and at that moment Keith lumbered into the house with a pile of logs he’d just chopped and he dropped the logs onto the hearth with a great clatter, making the baby wake up with a start. Automatically, like a switch thrown, the baby began to scream and Michelle began to scream as well, just standing there in the middle of the room, with her arms by her side, screaming, until Keith slapped her on the face, hard, so that her cheek felt as if it had been branded.
Her throat was very sore from the screaming and she felt weak, as if she were going to drop to the floor, and what should have happened at that moment—because, let’s face it, they had been here before (although not the slapping)—was that she would burst into tears and Keith would put his arms round her and say, “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” and she would sob until she felt better and they would cuddle the baby between them until it felt better too.
Then they could have made a fire with the logs, because it was still chilly in the evenings, and heat up the lasagna and settle down to watch some rubbish on the new color television they’d bought to replace the old black-and-white one. They would have gone to bed with full stomachs and had sex to make up and slept well so that they would be ready for another day of the same old, but what actually happened was that Keith made a move to put his arms round her and she spat at him, which was something new as well, and then she ran outside and got the ax from where it was stuck in a log beside the sawhorse, and then she ran back inside with it.
I
t was very cold, because of course the fire had never been lit. Michelle was sitting on the floor. The baby was asleep again. She looked exhausted, the way she did when she was left to cry herself to sleep, and every so often she gave a tiny little hiccup of grief. Michelle felt as if she had a stone inside her, something hard and unyielding that was making her feel sick. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel this bad. She looked at Keith and felt sorry for him. When you chopped logs with the ax and they split open they smelled beautiful, like Christmas. But when you split someone’s head open it smelled like an abattoir and quite overpowered the scent of the wild lilacs you’d cut and brought into the house only this morning, which was already in another life.
If she could have had one wish—if her fairy godmother (noticeably absent from her life so far) were to suddenly appear in the cold living room of the cottage and offer to grant her whatever she wanted, Michelle knew exactly what she would ask for. She would ask to go back to the beginning of her life and start all over again.
She wondered if she should get up from the floor and clean up a bit but she felt so tired that she thought she might just stay there and wait until the police came. She had all the time in the world now.
Jackson
J
ackson switched on the radio and listened to the reassuring voice of Jenni Murray on
Woman’s Hour.
He lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one because he had run out of matches, and faced with a choice between chain-smoking or abstinence, he’d taken the former option because it felt like there was enough abstinence in his life already. If he got the cigarette lighter on the dashboard fixed he wouldn’t have to smoke his way through the packet, but there were a lot of other things that needed fixing on the car and the cigarette lighter wasn’t high on the list. Jackson drove a black Alfa Romeo 156 that he’d bought secondhand four years ago for £13,000 and that was now probably worth less than the Emmelle Freedom mountain bike he had just given his daughter for her eighth birthday (on the proviso that she didn’t cycle on the road until she was at least forty).
When he’d come home with the Alfa Romeo, his wife took one dismissive look at it and said, “You bought a policeman’s car then.” Four years ago Josie was driving her own Polo and was still married to Jackson, now she was living with a bearded English lecturer and driving his Volvo V70 with a
CHILD ON BOARD
sign in the rear window, testifying both to the permanence of their relationship and to the smug git’s need to show the world that he was protecting another man’s child. Jackson hated those signs.
He was a born-again smoker, only starting up again six months ago. Jackson hadn’t touched a cigarette for fifteen years and now it was as if he’d never been off them. And for no reason. “Just like that,” he said, doing an unenthusiastic Tommy Cooper impression to his reflection in the rearview mirror. Of course it wasn’t “just like that.” Nothing ever was.
She’d better hurry up. Her front door remained determinedly closed. It was made of cheap varnished wood, with a mock-Georgian fanlight, and was the spit of every other door on the estate in Cherry Hinton. Jackson could have kicked it in without breaking a sweat. She was late. Her flight was at one and she should have been on her way to the airport by now. Jackson cracked the car window to let in some air and let out some smoke. She was always late.
Coffee was no good for punctuating the tedium, unless he was prepared to piss into a bottle, which he wasn’t. Now that he was divorced he was free to use words like “piss” and “shit”—elements of his vocabulary almost eliminated by Josie. She was a primary- school teacher and spent much of her working day modifying the behavior of five-year-old boys. When they were married she would come home and do the same to Jackson (“For God’s sake, Jackson, use the proper words. It’s a
penis
”) during their evenings together, cooking pasta and yawning their way through crap on television. She wanted their daughter, Marlee, to grow up “using the correct anatomical language for genitalia.” Jackson would rather Marlee grew up without knowing genitalia even existed, let alone informing him that she had been “made” when he “put his penis in Mummy’s vagina,” an oddly clinical description for an urgent, sweatily precipitate event that had taken place in a field somewhere off the A1066 between Thetford and Diss, an acrobatic coupling in his old F Reg BMW (320i, two-door, definitely a policeman’s car, much missed, RIP). That was in the days when a sudden desperate need to have sex was commonplace between them, and the only thing that had made this particular incidence memorable had been Josie’s uncharacteristically Russian roulette attitude toward birth control.
Later she blamed the consequence (Marlee) on his own unpreparedness, but Jackson thought Marlee was a winning result and anyway what did Josie expect if she started fondling his—and let’s be anatomically correct here—penis while all he was trying to do was get to Diss, although for what reason was now lost to time. Jackson himself was conceived during the course of a guesthouse holiday in Ayrshire, a fact that his father had always found inexplicably amusing.
He shouldn’t have thought about coffee because now there was a dull ache in his bladder. When
Woman’s Hour
finished he put Allison Moorer’s
Alabama Song
on the CD player, an album that he found comfortingly melancholic.
Bonjour
Tristesse.
Jackson was going to French classes with a view to the day when he could sell up and move abroad and do whatever people did when they retired early. Golf? Did the French play golf? Jackson couldn’t think of the names of any French golfers, so that was a good sign because Jackson hated golf. Maybe he could just play
boules
and smoke himself to death. The French were good at smoking.
Jackson had never felt at home in Cambridge, never felt at home in the south of England if it came to that. He had come here more or less by accident, following a girlfriend and staying for a wife. For years, he had thought about moving back north, but he knew he never would. There was nothing there for him, just bad memories and a past he could never undo, and what was the point anyway when France was laid out on the other side of the channel like an exotic patchwork of sunflowers and grapevines and little cafés where he could sit all afternoon drinking local wine and bitter espressos and smoking Gitanes, where everyone would say,
Bonjour, Jackson,
except they would pronounce it “zhaksong,” and he would be happy. Which was exactly the opposite of how he felt now.
Of course, at the rate he was going it wouldn’t be early retirement, just retirement. Jackson could remember when he was a kid and retired men were the old guys who tottered between the allotment and the corner of the pub. They had seemed like
really
old guys but maybe they weren’t much older than he was now. Jackson was forty-five but felt much, much older. He was at that dangerous age when men suddenly notice that they’re going to die eventually, inevitably, and there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it, but that doesn’t stop them from trying, whether it’s shagging anything that moves or listening to early Bruce Springsteen and buying a top-of-the-range motorbike (a BMW K 1200 LT usually, thus considerably upping their chances of meeting death even earlier than anticipated). Then there were the guys who found themselves in the rut of routine alcoholic tedium—the lost and lonesome highway of your average beta male (his father’s way). And then there was Jackson’s own chosen path that led to the everyday Zen of a French house with its white stucco walls, geraniums in pots on the windowsills, a blue door, the paint peeling because who gives a damn about house maintenance in rural France?
He had parked in the shade but the sun had moved higher in the sky now and the temperature in the car was becoming uncomfortable. She was called Nicola Spencer and she was twenty-nine years old and lived in a neat ghetto of brick-built houses. The houses and the streets all looked the same to Jackson, and if he lost his bearings for a moment he ended up in a Bermuda Triangle of identical open-plan front lawns. Jackson had an almost unreasonable prejudice against housing estates. This prejudice was not unrelated to his ex-wife and his ex-marriage. It was Josie who had wanted a house on a new estate, Josie who had been one of the first people to sign up to live in Cambourne, the purpose-built Disneylike “community” outside Cambridge with its cricket pitch on the “traditional” village green, its “Roman-themed play area.” It was Josie who had moved them into the house when the street was still a building site and insisted that they furnish it with practical modern designs, who had rejected Victoriana as cluttered, who had thought an excess of carpets and curtains was “suffocating,” and yet now she was inhabiting Ye Olde Curiosity Shop with David Lastingham—a Victorian terrace crammed with antique furniture that he’d inherited from his parents, every available surface swathed and draped and curtained. (“You’re sure he’s not gay then?” Jackson had asked Josie, just to rile her—the guy had professional manicures, for heaven’s sake—and she laughed and said, “He’s not insecure with his masculinity, Jackson.”)
Jackson could feel the ache in his jaw starting up again. He was currently seeing more of his dentist than he had of his wife in the last year of their marriage. His dentist was called Sharon and was what his father used to refer to as “stacked.” She was thirty-six and drove a BMW Z3, which was a bit of a hairdresser’s car in Jackson’s opinion, but nonetheless he found her very attractive. Unfortunately, there was no possibility of having a relationship with someone who had to put on a mask, protective glasses, and gloves to touch you. (Or one who peered into your mouth and murmured, “Smoking, Jackson?”)
He opened an out-of-date copy of
Le Nouvel Observateur
and tried to read it because his French teacher said they should immerse themselves in French culture, even if they didn’t understand it. Jackson could only pick out the odd word that meant anything and he could see subjunctives scattergunned all over the place—if ever there was an unnecessary tense it was the French subjunctive. His eyes drifted drowsily over the page. A lot of his life these days consisted of simply waiting, something he would have been useless at twenty years ago but which he now found almost agreeable. Doing nothing was much more productive than people thought; Jackson often had his most profound insights when he appeared to be entirely idle. He didn’t get bored, he just went into a nothing kind of place. He thought sometimes that he would like to enter a monastery, that he would be good at being an ascetic, an anchorite, a Zen monk.
Jackson had arrested a jeweler once, an old guy who’d been fencing stolen property, and when Jackson came looking for him in his workshop he’d found him sitting in an ancient armchair, smoking his pipe and contemplating a piece of rock on his workbench. Without saying anything, he took the rock and placed it in Jackson’s palm, as if it were a gift—Jackson was reminded of his biology teacher from school who would hand you something—a bird’s egg, a leaf—and make you explain it to him rather than the other way round. The rock was a dark ironstone that looked like petrified tree-bark, and sandwiched in the center of it was a seam of milky opal, like a hazy summer sky at dawn. A notoriously tricky stone to work, the old man informed Jackson. He had been looking at it for two weeks now, he said, another two weeks and he might be ready to start cutting it, and Jackson said that in another two weeks he would be in a remand prison somewhere, but the guy had a great lawyer and made bail and got away with a suspended sentence.
A year later Jackson received a parcel addressed to him at the police station. Inside there was no note, just a box, and in a nest lined with midnight-blue velvet was an opal pendant, a little plaque of sky. Jackson knew he was being given a lesson by the old man, but it had taken him many years to understand it. He was keeping the pendant for Marlee’s eighteenth birthday.
N
icola’s husband, Steve Spencer, was convinced his wife “had taken a lover”—that’s how he put it, so it sounded delicate and rather courtly to Jackson’s ears, whereas most of the suspicious spouses who came to him tended to voice their mistrust in cruder terms. Steve was the nervy, paranoid type and he couldn’t understand how he’d managed to net someone like Nicola, because she was “so gorgeous.” Jackson had known “gorgeous” in his time and it wasn’t the Nicola Spencers of the world, although he thought that if he was married to Steve Spencer he might be tempted to “take a lover.” Steve was a pharmacist in a chain of drugstores and seemed to have no hobbies or interests other than Nicola. She was “the only woman in the world” for him. Jackson had never believed that there was one person in the world that you were destined for. And if there was, knowing his luck, she’d be working in a rice field in the middle of China or be a convicted killer on the run.
When she wasn’t at work, Nicola Spencer went to the gym, to Sainsbury’s (and once, for no apparent reason, to Tesco’s), to her mother’s, to the homes of a friend called Louise and a friend called Vanessa. Vanessa was part of a married couple—Vanessa and Mike—who were also friends of “Steve and Nicola.” Louise and Vanessa, as far as Jackson could tell, didn’t know each other. Nicola also went regularly to the garage, for petrol obviously, and in the garage shop she sometimes bought milk and nearly always bought chocolate and a copy of
Hello
or
Heat.
She had also been to a garden center, where she bought a tray of bedding plants that she had put straight into the garden and had then failed to water, judging by the look of them when Jackson climbed up on the garden fence to have a snoop at what went on chez Spencer, or, more accurately,
au jardin
Spencer.
In the last four weeks Nicola had also been to a DIY superstore, where she bought a screwdriver and a Stanley knife, to Habitat, where she bought a table lamp, to Top Shop for a white T-shirt, to Next for a white blouse, to Boots (twice for cosmetics and toiletries and once with a prescription for Ponstan), to Robert Sayle’s for two blue hand towels, and to a fish stall on the market, where she bought (expensive) monkfish for a meal—for the aforesaid Vanessa and Mike—which Steve Spencer later reported to have been “a disaster.” Nicola was apparently not a great cook. She also led a bloody boring life, unless something fantastically interesting happened to her when she was pushing a trolley up and down the economy aisles of her airline. Is that what had happened to Josie when she “took” David Lastingham? Was she just so bored with Jackson that she couldn’t bear it anymore? She met him at a party, a party that Jackson hadn’t gone to because he was working, and the pair of them had “tried to control their feelings” but they obviously hadn’t tried hard enough because within six months they were taking each other at every available clandestine opportunity and now David Lastingham got to put his penis in Mummy’s vagina whenever he felt like it.
Josie had filed for divorce as soon as it was possible. Irretrievable breakdown—as if it were all his fault and she wasn’t shagging some poncy guy with a goatee. (“David,” Marlee said, not as grudgingly as Jackson would have liked. “He’s alright, he buys me chocolate, he makes nice pasta.” It was a six-lane motorway from that girl’s stomach to her heart. “I cook nice pasta,” Jackson said and heard how childish that sounded and didn’t care. Jackson had got someone he knew to look up David Lastingham on the pedophile register. Just in case.)