The Bones of You (17 page)

But soon I would allow those memories in. I’d hold them close and let them smother me. Because if I didn’t, I knew they’d kill me—just like they were killing Holly by latching onto her addictions, hollowing her out, turning her into an empty shell.

Back home, I changed into my overalls. I was due to work a late shift, three till ten, and couldn’t let Evans down. I could also do with the money. My erratic work schedule of late meant that my finances were low, and if I wanted to give Jess the things I felt she needed, I had to start bringing in a more regular salary. Maybe I could even set up a dojo of my own again, or start teaching classes for Ted Hannah if he needed the help.

It felt good to be making plans, even vague ones. I realized that I hadn’t done that for a long time. I’d been living in the moment, reacting instead of acting, and life had begun to lose its luster. This new start was just what I needed; it made me feel like I might have something to offer after all.

I drove to the factory and was early for my shift. I took some gentle ribbing for that; I was usually the last one in the door and the first one out at shift’s end.

We were busy that afternoon. There were lots of deliveries coming in and plenty of goods to be stored and sorted. I felt tired. I suspected it was because I’d started training again and my body was in some kind of shock. My arms ached, my back wailed, and my legs went stiff whenever I stopped working for even a few minutes.

At break time I tried to read but couldn’t relax enough to take in the prose. I didn’t want to spoil the book so I just put it away and wandered over to the rear office, where the coffee machine was. I peeked in through the door, but Carole’s desk was empty. I got a black coffee from the machine and carried it into the staff canteen—a small room at the back that had no windows and no ventilation but boasted a hand basin and a microwave oven.

Evans walked in when I was halfway through my coffee.

“How’s it going?”

“Run off my feet. I don’t know why, but there’s a rush on today.”

“Yeah. Sometimes it gets like this.” He smiled, rather sadly, I thought, and opened the can of soup he was carrying, poured the contents into a bowl, and popped it in the microwave. He didn’t say anything while the soup heated, and when the ringtone on the microwave sounded, it seemed to fill the room. Evans took out his soup and brought it over to the table. “Do you mind?”

I shook my head, sipped my coffee.

“What’s up, Evans? There’s clearly something on your mind.”

He blew on his soup and looked at me. “You and Carole…you’re, well, friends, yes?”

“Kind of. Yes. Yeah, I suppose we are.”

“She didn’t turn up for work today.” He picked up his spoon and took a taste of the soup. Licked his lips. ”She hasn’t called in sick or anything, and that’s not like her.”

“Okay…so you’re worried? My, my, you have a heart after all.”

He showed me that sad smile again. “It just isn’t like her, that’s all. She’s not like the rest. She’s…considerate. She wouldn’t just fail to show up and not let me know.”

I finished my coffee and balled up the paper cup in my fist. I turned and threw it at the bin near the sink. I scored a basket first time. “I haven’t spoken to her for a few days. I couldn’t tell you where she is.”

“I know this makes me sound like an old mother hen, but could you drive past her place on your way home tonight? I’ve tried calling. She isn’t answering. Like I said, this isn’t like her. Not one bit like her. She’s been distracted lately…as if something’s not right, something she won’t talk about.”

I’d never seen him like this. He was genuinely concerned. “Okay, mate. No problem. I can go past her flat on my way. I’ll check on the place, see if she’s there. If there are any lights on, I’ll knock on the door and ask her if she’s okay. Does that suit you?”

“Thanks, Adam. I know I’m being daft, but I kind of took that girl under my wing a couple of years ago, when she was having trouble with some bloke. She’s vulnerable. Always has been.” He paused, squinted at me. “That’s why I was pleased when you two seemed to hook up. You’re good for each other.”

I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time I’d realized how much he knew about me and about my on-again off-again relationship with Carole. “Yeah,” I said. “She’s a good one. We get on well. But we’re just taking things slow.” I shook my head, smiling. “Why the hell am I even telling you this? You’re my boss, not my therapist.”

Evans laughed. The sadness hadn’t lifted, but it had eased a little. “I always did say we were like one happy family here.”

The rest of the shift was less busy, and I was glad of the change of pace. The downside was that the time dragged, and by the time I’d finished for the day my mind was fuzzy. I just wanted to go home and get some sleep.

As promised, I drove to Carole’s place on my way home. The streets were quiet; the traffic was light. The street where she lived was in a good part of town, so everything was silent as I pulled up at the curb opposite her apartment block.

I sat in the car and watched the flat. Carole’s lights were on but there was no sign of anyone being home. I waited twenty minutes until I saw something.

A shirtless man crossed the room in front of the window, left to right. I’d been inside there before, of course, so knew that he was coming out of the bedroom. He was tall and lean with plenty of wiry muscle on his narrow frame, as if he lifted a lot of weights. He had a spattering of ink across his chest and upper arms: black, curling designs. There was some letter work there but I couldn’t read what it said at that distance. It looked like foreign writing anyway.

I had a strange feeling in my stomach. A bare-chested man was coming out of Carole’s bedroom: it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. I’d thought we might have had something; I’d thought we were starting on a journey together, and that it might be one worth taking.

I’d thought a lot of things. All of them wrong.

The man stood with his back to the street in front of the window. There was what looked like a huge bird of prey tattooed across his back, all done in black. It was good work, but it was ugly.

Then Carole appeared. She followed him out of the bedroom. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt. I watched as she stopped at his left-hand side and said something to him. He didn’t respond, so she spoke again, this time with more emotion. The trouble was, I couldn’t identify the emotion. It could have been passion; it might have been hatred. It could even have been fear.

Before I realized what was happening, the man turned quickly around, fast as a snake, and raised his hand. I thought he was going to hit her, and I started to get out of the car. But he didn’t: he stopped his hand an inch or so away from her flinching face, opened the palm, and cupped her chin. There was no tenderness in the gesture. It was meant to intimidate.

Carole smiled, but there was fear in her eyes. Even at that distance, from across the street, I could see it. There was no doubt in my mind that she was scared—scared to the bone—of this man, whoever the hell he was.

This was none of my business but I couldn’t just let it go. Nor could I go barging in there, breaking down social boundaries that I didn’t understand, without knowing the full story.

So I took out my phone and sent her a text. Six words, nice and clear and simple:
call me if you need me
. I knew she’d receive the text. I just hoped she’d get the message.

SIXTEEN

Best for the Child

It went like this when I received the phone call:

Monday morning. I wasn’t due back at work until that afternoon—I had a series of late shifts that week, and then the weekend off. I was up early; for some reason I’d been unable to sleep, and rather than lie there staring at the ceiling, I decided to get up and go for a run. I avoided the concrete subway, despite the fact that it no longer made me uneasy. I did a brisk three miles, enjoying the cool morning air and the sensation of my body working hard.

When I got back, I had a quick shower and made a cup of coffee. I was standing in the lounge, watching the morning unfurl through the main window, when my mobile rang.

The number flashing on the screen was not one I recognized.

“Hello.”

“Is this Mr. Morris? Mr. Adam Morris?”

“Yes, it is. Who’s this? Can I help you?”

“I’m Constable O’Dowd, of the West Yorkshire police. I’m afraid, sir, that I have some bad news.”

Jess…was it Jess? What the fuck had happened to my daughter?

“I’m afraid it’s your wife, sir.”

“We’re divorced.” I said it reflexively, as if I was trying to justify not being there and dealing with whatever had happened.

“Yes, we’re aware of that, Mr. Morris—her neighbor told us. He gave us your number.”

“What is it? What has she done?” I took a couple of backward steps and sat down on the sofa. My entire body felt weak; the strength I’d felt earlier deserted me.

“I’m afraid there’s been an incident, sir. Your wife—Mrs. Morris—has experienced an overdose. She took a lot of prescription drugs last night and has been rushed to hospital.”

“My daughter…Jess. Is she okay?”

“Your daughter is fine, sir. Social Services have her. They’ve taken her down to the local office, if you’d like the address.” The police constable reeled off the address. It was one I already knew; we’d dealt with Social Services a lot over the past couple of years. I knew Jess’s case worker by her first name.

“Thanks, Constable. I’ll get down there right away, and then I’ll go to the hospital.”

I ended the call and stood up. I’d left my coffee on the windowsill and didn’t want it to go cold. I felt alone, detached. I tasted nothing when I drank the coffee. My mouth was numb; I felt like screaming but knew that if I did, no scream would come out, just a horrible dry croaking sound. So I finished my coffee without tasting it and I stood and stared out of the window, watching the weak sun as it struggled to brighten the emerging day. I think I just wanted to stay there, unmoving, and forget about the call I’d received.

Bad news usually comes to us in the times when we least expect it, when we start to think that things might turn out okay. These are the most dangerous times, when we start to glimpse the light of a new dawn, when we allow that light to warm us and make us think that good times are just around the corner.

* * *

I left the house in a daze, drove to the Social Services office without even thinking. My mind was empty, a blank. I couldn’t even picture Jess’s face. I felt as if my memories were being robbed. Grief and rage were combining to excise the good things from my head.

When I went inside, the receptionist buzzed me up to the first floor. The police constable had called ahead; I was expected. I rode up in the elevator, shaking with anger now, hating Holly for what she’d done. How could she leave our daughter like this? How could she be so fucking selfish?

The elevator doors opened. I saw Jess immediately, as if my internal radar had located her automatically. She was sitting on a chair behind a glass screen, biting her nails. She looked small—tiny, really. She looked about five years old.

“Mr. Morris. Thanks for coming.”

I turned to face the owner of the voice. It was Adele, the case worker. She was short and overweight, with a nice smile. I’d always liked her; always felt that she was trying to do the best in a bad situation. She’d had her hair restyled rather clumsily since I’d seen her last, but, oddly, it suited her. Her wiry graying locks had been hacked and scraped back from her small, round face to expose her features. It made her look older, yet also prettier.

“Is she okay?” I glanced again at my daughter. She hadn’t noticed me yet. She was still biting her nails. I could tell she’d been crying.

“Jess is fine. We brought her here as a matter of course, just a formality. We’re not keeping her. She’s simply waiting for you to come and get her.” She smiled, reached out and touched my arm, causing me to flinch. Her forehead shone beneath the cheap office strip lights.

“I’m sorry,” she said. I didn’t know if she meant for making me flinch, for bringing Jess here, or for what Holly had done.

“She overdosed?”

Adele nodded. “I’m afraid so. According to Jess, Holly and her boyfriend split up. They had an argument. Holly started drinking. It seems that she started on the meds when Jess went to bed. Tablets her doctor had prescribed her for depression, and sleeping pills. Some other stuff she shouldn’t have had in the house. She was clearly in a bad way…I don’t think it was a genuine suicide attempt. She just wanted to get out of her head for a while, and this was the quickest way of doing it.”

“God…this is a mess, isn’t it?”

She touched my arm again. She was a good person. She was trying hard. “We’ll do everything we can to help you. Jess will be placed in your care. You’re her father; we know how you’ve turned your life around, how well you’re doing. You can provide a stable home until Holly gets better. Then we can all sit down and decide what’s best for the child.”

“Best for the child…” For a moment I failed to make the connection between that phrase and my daughter. It felt like we were talking about someone else, a child I didn’t know. “Yes, yes, of course. What’s best for Jess. That’s what’s important here.”