The Cutting Place. Jane Casey

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СКАЧАТЬ phone hummed in my hand.

      Good girl.

      I pulled a face and threw my phone into my bag. ‘Good girl’ sounded patronising even if he didn’t mean it that way. I’d mentioned it before, and hurt his feelings. I wouldn’t bother raising it with him again. Compared to everything else I got out of our relationship a throwaway remark was the opposite of important. He was perfect in almost every way and I was fixating on the tiniest of flaws.

      He was almost too perfect.

      I slammed my locker door, irritated with myself. Really, there was something wrong with me if I wanted a boyfriend who was more detached, less keen, harder work. Seth was easy. I was the one who made things difficult. I needed to relax.

      Hence the yoga.

      ‘Going out?’ Georgia Shaw was unlocking her own locker.

      ‘Exercise class.’ I shrugged myself into a hoodie. ‘How was Poplar?’

      ‘Grim. Very, very grim. A six-week-old baby. A little girl. Both the parents are distraught, as you can imagine. We had to take the bedclothes, the toys, search everything, ask them loads of questions. The baby was so tiny. Like a doll.’ She leaned against the lockers. Her make-up had smudged under her eyes and she’d chewed off her perfect pink lipstick. ‘How were the body parts?’

      ‘Inconclusive.’ We weren’t friends – we might never be friends – but I was trying to make common ground with Georgia where I could. I didn’t want her as an enemy. ‘Is Derwent back?’

      ‘He stayed in the house.’

      ‘Huh.’ I shouldered my bag. ‘Interesting.’

      ‘You’re really unfair to him, you know.’

      I stopped on my way to the door. ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘The way you said it was interesting. It wasn’t interesting. It was kind. He’s got a heart of gold.’ Her voice sounded strained as if she was on the edge of tears.

      ‘What makes you say that?’

      ‘The last thing I would want to do is stay in that house. We’ve been there all day, getting in the way, making cups of tea and trying to say something comforting. It was stifling. Mind-numbing. I couldn’t wait to get out of there, so I could breathe again. But Josh stayed. He said he’d be there as long as they needed him to be there.’

      ‘I bet they were delighted.’

      ‘They’re grieving. Of course they weren’t delighted. But it’s got to be a comfort for them. Josh was so kind. He even carried the baby out to the ambulance when they took it away for the post-mortem.’

      I could imagine it quite clearly, I found: the small bundle held with tenderness on her last journey out of the only home she had known in her short life. Derwent would do that well.

      ‘Was she their first child?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What’s the age-gap between the parents?’

      ‘She’s only seventeen. He’s twenty-eight. How did you know there was an age gap?’

      I ignored the question. ‘Are they close?’

      ‘Very. They were supporting each other through it. Barely left each other’s sides all day.’

      ‘Josh isn’t staying because he thinks they need his support. He’s staying because one of them killed the baby and the other one will tell him the truth.’

      Her eyes went wide. ‘No way. You didn’t see them. They’re devoted to each other.’

      ‘Some time tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after, maybe when everyone’s supposed to be asleep, one of them will come downstairs because he or she can’t stand to share a bed with their child’s killer. Guess who will be waiting. He’s shown he cares about their child, and about them. He’ll have grieved with them. They’ll have come to trust him. Even if they don’t want to get their partner in trouble, they’ll be exhausted by the effort of lying all the time. That’ll wear their resistance down until they find themselves telling him the truth.’

      ‘You’re so cold. Every tragic death isn’t a crime, you know, and everyone doesn’t lie.’

      ‘No, but—’

      ‘You don’t know these people. They’re a sweet couple. The nursery was beautiful. And she was a gorgeous little girl. She only started smiling two days ago.’ Georgia’s bottom lip trembled before she could stop it and there were tears standing in her eyes.

      ‘I know Josh Derwent and I know he’s not spending the night there because he thinks this was a tragic accident. I’ve seen him do it before.’ I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t mean he’s faking it, you know. He’ll be just as upset as you are about the baby. That’s where he gets his energy from. He won’t give up until they give in.’

      ‘You’re wrong. He’d have told me.’

      ‘Nope. He wanted them to think they’re going to get away with it. That’s more likely if you’re sincerely sorry for them.’

      ‘You mean he doesn’t trust me.’

      ‘I have no idea whether he trusts you or not.’ But I definitely don’t, so …

      She lifted her chin, hurt. ‘I think you’re wrong. You don’t know anything about them, or the baby. You’re jumping to conclusions.’

      ‘Probably.’ I zipped up my top. ‘We’ll have to wait and see who’s right.’

      ‘Enjoy your exercise class.’

      I thanked her as if she’d meant it, and left.

       Two years earlier

      To his great disappointment, he wasn’t dead – he just felt that way. A bird had woken him, singing frantically in the tall trees that screened the house from the road, throwing an alarm call into the still silence.

      (And how did he know about the trees? It had been dark when they got there, piling out of the car onto the gravel drive, and he had been drunk already. Whose house? Whose idea to go there? Who had been with him in the car, jammed up against his legs, a high-heeled sandal digging into his instep when the girl moved carelessly? Who had stolen the champagne, handing him a bottle that he’d tipped down his front in the dark, on the motorway?)

      Waking up properly was slow, a process of adjustments. He had a temperature, but no, he didn’t, it was the room that was hot. He felt dreadful. He was ill. No, hungover. The thumping headache, the nausea, the felted surface of his tongue, the burning dryness of his eyeballs: all of that was a hangover. There was someone lying beside him, but no, there wasn’t, it was a coverlet rucked up into a ridge that pressed against his thigh companionably. His watch had been stolen – no, he hadn’t worn a watch. He had dreamed such a strange, exciting dream, weird and utterly wrong—

      Not СКАЧАТЬ