Part 6 (1/2)

I abandon the remains of my tuna sandwich and move on to the tub of Hagen-Dazs. For once, I think Lauren might have made an excellent point. ”Sorry, I mistook you for me,” I say. ”Im the one who should ditch her partner and definitely not have a baby with him.” I cant believe I said that out loud.

Only to Lauren. It doesnt count.

Still. Ive never even said it to myself before.

”Whats your husband called?”

”Were not married. We just live together. Sean.”

”Dont you love him?”

”I dont know if I do anymore. Even if I do, its not enough.”

Lauren laughs. ”You say some freaky things, you. How can love be not enough? Its, like, the most you can care about someone, isnt it?”

”I dont find him impressive or admirable. I cant convince myself that I dont deserve better.” A proper, self-sufficient grown-up. Someone capable of spending up to four evenings a week alone without complaining. A sudden surge of anger makes me say, ”If I werent so busy with work, Id have got my act together and left him by now.”

Have I turned myself into a procrastinator for Seans sake? To spare his feelings, because I know I dont want to be with him anymore?

Thank G.o.d Im not pregnant. Thank G.o.d my flight home was delayed. This is a chance.

”Maybe you deserve better than Jason,” I tell Lauren. ”Is he kind to you? Does he treat you well?” Or is he a bully, or violent? Is that why you mistake verbal abuse from a stranger for the comforting care of a new friend?

”Hes just a bloke, isnt he?” Lauren looks away. ”Theyre all pretty much alike.”

I decide not to press her for more details. I dont think Id like them if I heard them.

”I once knew a man who was nothing like anybody else Ive ever known, male or female,” I tell her, slipping free of my usual controls. ”Id have married him like a shot.” And had his name tattooed on my upper arm, both my arms. All over my face and body, even the soles of my feet. Sometimes I think that there is nothing I wouldnt do, absolutely nothing, if I could have Tim.

”What happened?” Lauren asks.

”I f.u.c.ked it up, then blamed Sean.”

”Blamed Sean? Why, what did he do?”

”Nothing. But Ive found a way round that: its called being unfair.”

”So what about the other one?” Why does she look and sound so avid? Having shown no interest in me up to this point, shes suddenly staring at me wide-eyed, as if my theories about my love life actually matter to her. ”Is that why youve not married Sean, because youre still hoping to pull him?”

I laugh. The word ”pull” in connection with Tim is absurd.

Lauren shoves more crisps into her mouth: enough to reveal that she expects to be listening and not talking for the foreseeable future.

”Tell me about your man first,” I say. ”Not Jason-the innocent one whos going to prison for murder.” Lauren isnt a bad person. She seems to have a strong sense of fairness, even if she does wave it around irresponsibly in public places. And something else thats just occurred to me: willing and enthusiastic partic.i.p.ants in miscarriages of justice wouldnt typically use that form of words: ”let an innocent man go to jail for murder.” Thats the sort of thing youd say if you were against, not in favor. And Lauren wouldnt be in favor. Incredible as it sounds, I feel I know her well enough to be able to say that. I dont believe she would stand by and let someone be framed for murder unless she felt she had no choice.

Unless she cant go to the police with the truth, because shes too scared of what the real killer might do to her. Could that real killer be Jason, her husband?

Or am I leaping to crazy conclusions?

Lauren stands up. ”You wont let it go, will you?” she says bitterly. She brushes Pringle crumbs off her fingers onto the carpet, picks up her bag and heads for the door with the missing corner. Before I have time to apologize-insincerely, since I dont believe anyone would let it go, and nor should they-shes locked herself in the bathroom.

Hasnt it occurred to her that I could easily go to the police? I more than could, I decide: I will. Im not scared of Jason Cookson; he has no hold over me. No one should do time for a crime they havent committed.

The lines from the poem I half remembered at Dsseldorf Airport come back to me again: Our time in the hands of others, / And too brief for words. How can I have forgotten the rest? I dont like to think Ive lost anything that came from Tim. They were someone elses words originally, but when Tim read me the poem at the Proscenium, they became his.

I pull my BlackBerry out of my bag and switch it on. Ignoring the symbol telling me that I have voice mails, I hit the Internet browser b.u.t.ton and type the two lines I remember into the search box. The first result that comes up is the one I want. I click on it, and the poem appears on my screen like an old friend. ”Unscheduled Stop,” its called, by Adam Johnson.

I sit in the Charles Halle At windy Manningtree, While gulls enact their ballet Above the estuary.

”We seem to have a problem . . .”

A faltering voice explains.

I spy, along the platform, A sign: ”Beware of trains”

And picture you, impatient, In the car park at the back Of a gaudy toy-town station, Or craning down the track As the afternoon rehea.r.s.es An evensong of birds- Our time in the hands of others, And too brief for words.

To my horror, I find that I am crying. I can see Tim at the top of the Prosceniums ladder, can hear him telling me that the poet was dying when he wrote the poem. Its his voice in my head, reading the words of each verse aloud.

I wipe my eyes briskly, hoping Lauren wont emerge from the bathroom anytime soon. The older I get, the longer it takes me to lose the crying look.

Who is the carrier?

I have to stop this. Now.

Im about to turn off my phone when I have an idea: would an Internet search track down Laurens wrongly convicted man? Unlikely, since I dont know his name.

Unless Laurens name would do the trick. Even more unlikely: ”Lauren Cookson, wife and protector of the real murderer, Jason Cookson, stood by and did sod all to prevent police from arresting someone who had nothing to do with it.”

Still, I type Laurens name into the search box because it gives me something to think about that isnt Tim. Quicker than the blue line of a pregnancy test, the result Im looking for comes up: ”Lauren Cookson, her twenty-three-year-old care a.s.sistant . . .”

I press my hand over my mouth to make sure no noise escapes, nothing that might alert her. Has this been in the local papers, the ones I never read? On the local news that I never watch because Im too busy? Theres too much here to choose from. I click on Laurens name.

G.o.d oh G.o.d oh G.o.d. This cant be right. Cannot be happening. Ive had this exact feeling before, so I know that when whats unfolding in front of your eyes is simply not possible, you still have to deal with it. You have to think and act and breathe, and sometimes speak, even though you no longer believe in the world that contains all these things.

It would be ideal in so many ways if this were to turn out to be a dream. It would mean Im asleep now, for one thing; Ive wanted to be asleep for a long time. Only, can I swap this nightmare for a dream that doesnt make me want to scream until I wake up?

My eyes skid over the story, disorientated, trying to take in what they can. ”The body of Francine Breary, forty, was found by Lauren Cookson, her twenty-three-year-old care a.s.sistant . . . husband Tim Breary has been charged . . . DS Sam Kombothekra of Culver Valley CID . . .”

The words wont lie still and let me read them. Im going to black out. I have to close my eyes.

Its Tim. Laurens innocent man is Tim Breary.