The 3rd Woman. Jonathan Freedland

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       Chapter 8

      The phone had been buzzing all day and was buzzing again now, vibrating its way across her desk. Maddy glanced down at the screen and decided she would treat this the same way as the rest, that she would not pick up.

      She had ignored Weibo altogether, or rather she had avoided the continuous flow of messages directed at her. She did not want to read words of condolence, no matter how touching or heartfelt. She had, however, taken a look at Abigail’s timeline: so far it consisted of tributes and declarations of shock – many of them addressed to Abigail herself. She skimmed her sister’s Facebook page too, filling up with messages in a similar vein. But for herself, she wanted none of it.

      She had made two exceptions. The first was a call from Katharine, saying that Enrica was on her way over with a vat of soup and that she would not take no for an answer. At that moment, Enrica had grabbed the phone, proving she was not in fact on the way, and said, ‘Darling, don’t even talk to me. Just let me into the kitchen. I’ll be silent, I’ll be invisible. But you have to eat.’ Maddy had conceded, but just hearing her bereaved friend’s voice had apparently proved too much for Enrica. She sent something like a howl down the phone, which brought Katharine back on. ‘She loves you so much, that’s all.’

      The second call was from Quincy. Maddy had stared at the phone for at least six rings before finally deciding to pick up.

      She offered no pleasantries, but asked straightaway about the conversation between Quincy and their mother. ‘How was it?’

      ‘Well, it’s done.’

      ‘Did she understand?’

      ‘I think so. She asked after you.’

      ‘After me?’

      ‘First thing she said. “Is Madison OK? She’ll know what to do.”’

      ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying.’

      ‘I’m not so sure, you know. With her, I’m not so sure.’

      ‘Do you think it was right to tell her? Maybe we should have spared her. Or maybe we should have asked Dr Glazer first.’

      ‘If you felt that way, Maddy, you should have told me. Or come with me. Otherwise you don’t get to have an opinion.’

      ‘I’m not … I’m not arguing with you.’ Madison sighed, turning her mouth away from the phone so that her sister would not hear her exhalation. ‘I’m grateful you did it, Quincy. You’re braver than me.’ She said it and it sounded right, even though she knew it was partly a lie. And for a second she remembered the secret that, brutally, she now held alone, the event that existed in the memory of no one but her.

      She felt a wave of tiredness, one of those that seemed to taunt her. She knew that if she did not surrender to it immediately, closing her eyes this instant, the moment would pass. Perhaps this was how surfers felt on the ocean, confronted by the rare perfect wave that seems to say, ‘Ride me now or lose me forever’.

      ‘Yes, well. It’s done.’

      ‘And she understood it was Abigail. Did you need to explain that?’

      ‘I think she understood. I said it was peaceful, that it was an accident.’

      ‘Maybe we should have said she’d gone travelling or something.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Madison. It’s everywhere already. When I went to see Mom, they were showing a picture on the local news. That’s why we had to tell her. Better coming from us, or rather better coming from me, than the TV.’

      ‘What picture?’

      ‘From the high school yearbook.’

      ‘Jeez.’ There was a silence down the line. ‘Quincy, you still there?’ Another pause and then her sister’s voice.

      ‘I think it’s because of you.’

      ‘What, the picture? I would never—’

      ‘I don’t mean you gave it to them. I mean this interest in Abigail. It’s because of you.’

      ‘I’m not sure that makes—’

      ‘Of course it is. It’s all over Weibo, tributes from journalists and news people. And on the Times website: “Abigail Webb, sister of the award-winning LA Times reporter.”’

      ‘Is that what it says? I had no hand in that, Quincy, I promise.’

      ‘Well, the damage is done. You can’t change your precious career, can you? That’s why I’m going to the school now, to pick up the kids. I’ve got to get to them before Facebook does. Though I’m probably too late.’

      But those were the only two calls she took. The rest, Maddy let pass. Once or twice, she checked her texts: messages of sympathy and shock from friends, colleagues, from Howard on the newsdesk, scolding her for filing in such circumstances (adding that they planned to run the piece tonight and she should call if she had any suggestions for accompanying graphics), even from Jane Goldstein herself. And a couple from Jeff Howe, unreturned because they were apparently offering no news. ‘Just wanted to check in, see how you’re doing. If there’s anything …’

      She thought about resting but was too agitated even to attempt it. She was aching all over, the bright, pulsating centre of the pain as always radiating out from, and homing in on, her lower back. All she could see was Abigail on that slab.

      The pacing back and forth in front of the window was providing nothing except the illusion of respite. Maddy returned to the computer, to look again at the tabs she’d left open. One was on the pharmacology of a heroin overdose:

       Heroin is an opiate, similar to morphine but more potent, quicker-acting and more addictive. It acts as both an analgesic (pain suppressor), and an anxiolytic (anxiety suppressor), as well as producing a feeling of euphoria.

      There was information on the signs that any doctor would look СКАЧАТЬ