‘Do I think I’m fixed, do you mean?’
‘Not fixed,’ he says, and I can hear the hurt in his voice. ‘I didn’t mean …’
‘I know.’ I lift my hand to his and squeeze. ‘I was only joking. I think it’s a process. It’s not simple, you know? I don’t know if there will be a time when I can say that it’s worked. That I’m better.’
There’s a silence, and he grips just a little harder. ‘So you want to keep going?’ he asks, and I tell him I do.
There was a time when I thought he could be everything, he could be enough. I thought that for years. I loved him completely. I still do. But I don’t want this any longer. The only time I feel like me is on those secret, febrile afternoons like yesterday, when I come alive in all that heat and half-light. Who’s to say that once I run, I’ll find that isn’t enough? Who’s to say I won’t end up feeling exactly the way I do right now – not safe, but stifled? Maybe I’ll want to run again, and again, and eventually I’ll end up back by those old tracks, because there’s nowhere left to go. Maybe. Maybe not. You have to take the risk, don’t you?
I go downstairs to say goodbye as he’s heading off to work. He slips his arms around my waist and kisses the top of my head.
‘Love you, Megs,’ he murmurs, and I feel horrible then, like the worst person in the world. I can’t wait for him to shut the door because I know I’m going to cry.
RACHEL
Friday, 19 July 2013
Morning
The 8.04 is almost deserted. The windows are open and the air is cool after yesterday’s storm. Megan has been missing for around 133 hours, and I feel better than I have in months. When I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, I could see the difference in my face: my skin is clearer, my eyes brighter. I feel lighter. I’m sure I haven’t actually lost an ounce, but I don’t feel encumbered. I feel like myself – the myself I used to be.
There’s been no word from Scott. I scoured the internet and there was no news of an arrest, either, so I imagine he just ignored my email. I’m disappointed, but I suppose it was to be expected. Gaskill rang this morning, just as I was leaving the house. He asked me whether I would be able to come by the station today. I was terrified for a moment, but then I heard him say in his quiet, mild tone that he just wanted me to look at a couple of pictures. I asked him whether Scott Hipwell had been arrested.
‘No one has been arrested, Ms Watson,’ he said.
‘But the man, the one who’s under caution …?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
His manner of speaking is so calming, so reassuring, it makes me like him again.
I spent yesterday evening sitting on the sofa in jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, making lists of things to do, possible strategies. For example, I could hang around Witney station at rush hour, wait until I see the red-haired man from Saturday night again. I could invite him for a drink and see where it leads, whether he saw anything, what he knows about that night. The danger is that I might see Anna or Tom, they would report me and I would get into trouble (more trouble) with the police. The other danger is that I might make myself vulnerable. I still have the trace of an argument in my head – I may have physical evidence of it on my scalp and lip. What if this is the man who hurt me? The fact that he smiled and waved doesn’t mean anything, he could be a psychopath for all I know. But I can’t see him as a psychopath. I can’t explain it, but I warm to him.
I could contact Scott again. But I need to give him a reason to talk to me, and I’m worried that whatever I say will make me look like a mad woman. He might even think I had something to do with Megan’s disappearance, he could report me to the police. I could end up in real trouble.
I could try hypnosis. I’m pretty sure it won’t help me remember anything, but I’m curious about it anyway. It can’t hurt, can it?
I was still sitting there making notes and going over the news stories I’d printed out when Cathy came home. She’d been to the cinema with Damien. She was obviously pleasantly surprised to find me sober, but she was wary, too, because we haven’t really spoken since the police came round on Tuesday. I told her that I hadn’t had a drink for three days, and she gave me a hug.
‘I’m so glad you’re getting yourself back to normal!’ she chirruped, as though she knows what my baseline is.
‘That thing with the police,’ I said, ‘it was a misunderstanding. There’s no problem with me and Tom, and I don’t know anything about that missing girl. You don’t have to worry about it.’ She gave me another hug and made us both a cup of tea. I thought about taking advantage of the goodwill I’d engendered and telling her about the job situation, but I didn’t want to spoil her evening.
She was still in a good mood with me this morning. She hugged me again as I was getting ready to leave the house.
‘I’m so pleased for you, Rach,’ she said. ‘Getting yourself sorted. You’ve had me worried.’ Then she told me that she was going to spend the weekend at Damien’s, and the first thing I thought was that I’m going to get home tonight and have a drink without anyone judging me.
Evening
The bitter tang of quinine, that’s what I love about a cold gin and tonic. Tonic water should be by Schweppes and it should come out of a glass bottle, not a plastic one. These pre-mixed things aren’t right at all, but needs must. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’ve been building up to it all day. It’s not just the anticipation of solitude though, it’s the excitement, the adrenaline. I’m buzzing, my skin is tingling. I’ve had a good day.
I spent an hour alone with Detective Inspector Gaskill this morning. I was taken in to see him straight away when I arrived at the station. We sat in his office, not in the interview room this time. He offered me coffee and when I accepted I was surprised to find that he got up and made it for me himself. He had a kettle and some Nescafé on top of a fridge in the corner of the office. He apologized for not having sugar.
I liked being in his company. I liked watching his hands move – he isn’t expressive, but he moves things around a lot. I hadn’t noticed this before because in the interview room there wasn’t much for him to move around. Here in his office he constantly altered the position of his coffee mug, his stapler, a jar of pens, he shuffled papers into neater piles. He has large hands and long fingers with neatly manicured nails. No rings.