Part 18 (1/2)

'Are you saying I did?'

'No, of course not!'

'So what happened, the police planted it? Is this one of those seventies things? The pigs framed me, man. It was a b.u.m deal. That it?'

'You're being ridiculous.'

'I'm being ridiculous? Well, thank G.o.d for that. I knew one of us was off the wall. Sarah, when I went out this morning, you were a housewife. I come home, you're public enemy number one. What the f.u.c.k is going on?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, who does, then? Yesterday, you find this man dead in his office. You told me you'd never met him before, that you wanted to hire him to find this girl you'd never mentioned either. Am I on the right track so far?'

'I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't understand. And I was right.'

'Today it turns out he's running a Colombian franchise in North Oxford, and half my income's in his bank account. Not to mention his product under my bathroom sink. Which part haven't I understood yet, Sarah?'

'None of this is true. This isn't what's happening.'

'What planet are you on, woman? Of course it's f.u.c.king happening! It's half-past nine, I haven't eaten, I've just dragged you out of a police cell. How real do you want it to get?'

'I. Don't. Take. Drugs. Joe. Doesn't. Sell them.'

'Not any more he doesn't. And whose word do we take for your being clean? Have you forgotten what '

'Of course I haven't!'

There was a ring at the doorbell and Sarah burst into tears; events so perfectly synchronized, they might have been a Pavlovian ill.u.s.tration. Mark looked at her for a long while. He started to say something, changed his mind, then went to get the door.

The sugar bowl was still out of place; the time still out of joint.

When next she was aware of company, it took the form of a man she had never met. He was gently guiding her to sit, as if this were his kitchen and Sarah some waif wandered through the back door; he was speaking, but the words rushed past in a warm, musical flow. This was a trick everybody used when speaking to a strange dog or a grizzling baby, and a sudden flash of anger riled her entire body. But it left as quickly, leaving only tremendous tiredness, and the relief of having somebody not barking at her. So Sarah cried herself out; it did not make her feel noticeably better, but at least released tears that had been building since she found Joe's body.

The man Sarah already suspected he was a doctor made her a cup of tea.

She could never remember what he looked like. Small and s.h.i.+ny was the best she could manage in retrospect, and even that was a mental quirk: he could have been a hairy giant, and still seemed small and s.h.i.+ny afterwards. The same general size and shape as a little blue tablet. But at the time, what mattered was his voice. Though when she could make it out, what he actually said was: 'Why don't you drink that, and tell me all about it?'

So she drank the tea and told him all about it, or as much as she could recall. About her day being ripped from her, replaced with a nightmare of custody and harsh questioning; about a drab room with overhead lighting, and nothing to mark the pa.s.sage of the hours but the constant ringing of phones. And when she ran out of words, a new need sprang to the top of her list: it was to wallow in silence; to have everything about her wind down and come to a halt. Instead, there was the drumming of fresh rain on the kitchen window, and the raggy breathing of this small s.h.i.+ny man as he waited to be sure she was finished. Even the sound of her tears, drying on her cheeks.

'You'll be all right,' he said at last. 'Here. Take this.'

He handed Sarah a small blue tablet, then poured her a gla.s.s of water, which he placed in front of her, removing her teacup first like a fussy monitor.

'What is it?'

'Does it matter?'

'I don't like to take pills,' she said softly.

The lights cartwheeling in her head. Stan Laurel removing his face.

'It'll relax you, that's all. It's ninety-eight per cent herbal.' He carried the teacup to the sink and rinsed it under the tap.

Ninety-eight per cent, leaving two. The precise figure, the transparent honesty of it, left the very small part of her untouched by the day's tensions howling in scorn and hurling daggers at his back. Was she supposed to break down and cry again? Thank him for his maths? While her right hand curled and its nails bit her palm, her left took the pill and steered it to her mouth. She swallowed it without the water, her mouth still awash with her tears.

He left her then, and went to talk to Mark. She sat waiting for the pill to take effect; to feel its little blue wonder spread through her body. This didn't seem to happen. But some degree of calm arrived, she thought from the sound of the rain, and little by little she felt the panic leave, and her stress level out to a straight, flat line. The front door opened, then shut. She was alone once more with her husband.

Who ushered her upstairs with a minimum of conversation. 'You're to have a bath,' he said, as if he'd been the recipient of complicated medical advice. 'Then get some rest.'

She wondered how much the doctor charged for his instructions. A million zillion pounds, her lazy brain decided. A million zillion trillion pounds.

Later, in bed, she found the energy to ask who the small s.h.i.+ny man had been.

'Someone Simon knows,' Mark said shortly. 'He'll be back in the morning. Simon, I mean.'

'Why?'

'For G.o.d's sake, let's just try and get some sleep.'

It came, in the end, easily enough, and was deep and entirely without dreams. She woke to a hand shaking her shoulder; the hand was Mark's, and his other held a cup of coffee. 'Take this now,' he said, putting the cup on the bedside table, and placing beside it a small red capsule; identical in all other respects to the previous evening's blue.

'What's it?' she said, or tried to say. Her voice lost in the thick canyon of her throat.

'Never mind what it is. You're supposed to take it now.'

I'm not ill, she wanted to tell him.

'You've been under a lot of stress. Look, I know it's hard, darling. I wish I could stay with you, but it's all so b.l.o.o.d.y hairy at work . . . I'll call later. Simon's coming at eleven. I've reset the alarm. Just take this before I go.' He bent and kissed her.

It was only for the kindness in his voice that she took the pill.

She slept again, but woke before the alarm. She did feel better. The situation remained, but seemed a lot less urgent somehow; certainly yesterday's anxiety had been siphoned off in the night. Nor had appet.i.te replaced it; the muesli she'd been looking forward to was gravel in a bowl. She couldn't remember her last meal. But it wouldn't hurt to skip a few.

The kitchen was a mess; bits and pieces all topsy turvy. It didn't seem to matter, though. She had another bath.

Simon turned up, indeed, at eleven. It took immense effort to get him in, sit him down, ask about coffee, do the kettle, and she had to force herself to focus while he made a phone call in response to his beeper. This was important, what was happening now. Something about drugs in her bathroom. Simon's call was short, sharp, effective; when he hung up, the receiver made a noise like a cash register. This wasn't a social occasion. She had to get a grip.

'What happens now?' Her voice sounded tinny in her ears, like a mono recording.

'Your case is referred to the CPS. They decide whether or not to bring a prosecution.'

'And will they?'

He sighed. 'Does the name Lizbeth mean anything to you? Lizbeth Moss? A thirteen-year-old '

Who had died last weekend after taking Ecstasy. Yes.

'They're not going to wag their fingers at you and leave it at that, Sarah. This Silvermann character, he was what, forty-something? Pus.h.i.+ng pills to schoolkids? If he wasn't dead, they'd crucify him.'

'He didn't do that,' she whispered.