The Echo Man, page 14
She leans forward and puts her nose into her daughter’s hair. It smells of strawberry shampoo. Tilly drinks her milk and stares at Noah, completely absorbed in the story.
Cara looks up at Noah. For the first time that day he has a smile on his face; he’s enjoying reading the book, receiving undivided attention from her kids. This is an aspect to Noah that has always surprised her: this softer, paternal side. She would love Noah to find someone, to fall in love.
The second story comes to an end, and Noah stands up, giving both kids a goodnight hug, leaving Cara alone with them.
“Into bed now, please?” Cara says as the kids mess around together, eventually settling under their duvets, Tilly going next door into her own room. She hugs her son and kisses him goodnight. She stops in the doorway after she’s turned the light off, just making out his shape in the darkness, feeling a swell of love.
She hears the click of the front door as Lauren leaves for the night, then Roo climbing the stairs and going to say goodnight to Tilly.
She would do anything for her family. She wonders if she should give up this job, do something more stable, more nine-to-five, then dismisses the thought. She knows she never will, then thinks: Why wouldn’t it be enough?
Roo comes out of Tilly’s bedroom and joins her in the hallway.
“All quiet,” he whispers.
She nods and he goes in to say goodnight to Joshua, as she does the same to Tilly.
She’s already half asleep.
‘Mommy?” she says as Cara goes to shut the door.
“Hmm?” Cara turns back, the light from the hallway casting a glow over her daughter.
“Are you winning? Against the monsters?”
Cara sighs. “I’m trying my best,” she says at last. “Get some sleep, pickle.”
She closes the door behind her and stands in the hallway. Downstairs she can hear the deep laughter from her husband, then Noah joining in. Even in such domestic bliss, she feels a heaviness to her body. She knows that, at the moment, she isn’t winning. She isn’t winning at all.
* * *
In the kitchen, the table is laid and tempting smells are starting to waft from the oven. Roo stands at the kitchen counter, a knife in his hand, the blade a blur as he chops the carrots. Cara stops in the doorway.
He finishes, tipping the vegetables into the boiling water, then spots Cara watching. He throws the knife in the air. It spins once, and he expertly catches it by the handle.
“What are you? Twelve?” Deakin scoffs from where he’s sitting at the table. “Showing off for your girl?”
Roo holds the knife out to Deakin. “You want to try?” he says.
“Deaks, I’m not blue-lighting you to the hospital with a macerated hand because you are trying to prove yourself to my husband,” Cara says, and Noah puts his hands out in front of him.
“I know when I’m beaten,” he laughs.
The oven beeps and Roo goes to it, transferring food from the oven to their plates. It’s a bizarre mix: spinach and ricotta cannelloni in a tomato sauce, perfect slices of beef Wellington, dauphinoise potatoes—all leftovers from the restaurant. It’s one advantage to having a husband working strange hours as head chef—meals you would normally pay twenty, thirty pounds for, served up in your own home.
They all eat. Deakin seems ravenous, and Cara wonders when he would usually cook for himself, if ever. Roo tells them about his latest sous chef, a delicate French girl, reduced to tears within the first hour.
“She should come to work with us for a day, then she’d have something to cry about,” Noah says with his mouth full.
Roo looks at Cara. “I saw you on the news.” He pauses. “It’s a serial killer?”
Cara nods slowly. She takes a sip from the glass of wine in front of her. “It’s looking that way. Nate worked out the pattern.”
“How is he? I should have said hello while I was there.”
“Sunshine and light, as always,” Noah says sarcastically.
Cara frowns at him. “He’s okay. Back with us, for the time being anyway. I’d rather have him getting under my feet at the station than moldering away in that basement.”
Cara looks up as she hears a little voice shout from upstairs. Roo pushes his plate to one side.
“I’ll go,” he says. “You’re still eating.”
Noah watches him leave, then glances at Cara. She catches his eye.
“What?” she asks.
Noah looks down at his dinner and has another mouthful. “Has Lauren got a boyfriend?” he asks at last.
Cara frowns. “I don’t think so, no. Why? Are you interested?” She isn’t sure what Noah is getting at.
Noah takes a swig from his beer. “She just seems a little …” He pauses. “Overfamiliar with Roo.”
“They’ve known each other a long time.”
“I know, it’s just …” He scowls. “It’s nothing.”
“Spit it out, Deaks.”
“When they went out to the car, I saw her put her hand on his arm. And it was there, I don’t know, a bit too long. And when she saw me watching, she removed it.”
Cara shakes her head. “It’s nothing, Noah. I know what you’re doing. Just because we see bad shit every day doesn’t mean everyone’s at it. There’s no more going on between Roo and Lauren than there is between you and me.”
Noah stops and looks at her. He holds her gaze just that little bit too long, and she looks away.
“You’re right. Forget I mentioned it,” he says at last.
They finish their dinner in silence. Roo comes back downstairs and sits at the table.
“Everything okay?” he asks, looking between the two of them, puzzled.
Cara forces a smile. “Of course.”
Noah takes a final swig from his bottle of beer. He picks up their plates and carries them to the sink; Cara follows him with the other dishes.
“I should go,” he says. He won’t meet her eye.
“No, Noah, stay,” she protests, but he shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, I’m just worn out.”
Roo gives him a hug and a manly clap on the back, and Cara walks him to the door. He pulls it open, picking up his jacket, then turns back.
“Cara, forget what I said—I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he mutters. He pats down his pockets, pulling out the usual pack of cigarettes. He puts one in his mouth.
“Deaks, I’ll give you a lift, please,” Cara pleads. It’s pouring down with rain, puddles forming in the road. She knows he’ll get soaked in seconds, but he shakes his head again, lighting the cigarette.
“I’ll be fine. I need the walk.”
“At least take a raincoat.”
She holds out one of Roo’s and he takes it, putting it on, then striding down their road, head down, pulling the hood up against the rain. She remembers the conversation with Libby in the bar and wonders exactly what is going on between her and Noah. How exactly he feels about her.
She feels Roo put his arms around her shoulders, and she leans back into his chest.
“What was that about?” Roo asks.
Cara turns in his arms and reaches up to kiss him. “Just the investigation. Wearing us all out.” She rests her face against his sweater as he closes the door. “It was good to see you at work today,” she says, closing her eyes briefly.
“I always worry about disturbing you.”
“No, it was nice to be reminded of the good things in life.”
Her husband pulls her closer for a moment, and she feels him kiss the top of her head. Then she looks up at him.
“Bedtime ?” she asks.
He smiles. She knows he’s in no doubt as to what she’s proposing.
“Bedtime,” he agrees.
CHAPTER
30
GRIFFIN ARRIVES HOME. With a loud bang of the door, he dumps his bag on the table, then takes two pills out of a packet and throws them in his mouth.
Jess is sitting on the sofa, her feet tucked under her. She’s had a boring day. Slept, got showered, dressed. Ate lunch. She hasn’t dared leave, knowing people are out there looking for her.
“What happened?” she asks.
He looks up quickly, then frowns. “Nothing,” he says. “Nothing at all.”
“Something must have …”
“Nothing! Okay?” She jumps at his shout, and he sees her reaction. His jaw tightens. Then, more quietly, he says: “Just a lot of routine police stuff, Jess. No leads. We’re no closer to finding this guy.”
Then, without another comment, he digs in his rucksack again and pulls out a mobile phone.
“I got you this,” he says, and throws it across the table to her.
She picks it up and looks at it quizzically.
“Burner phone,” he says. “Untraceable. Thought you might want to call your daughter?”
A sudden excitement comes over her. She looks at the phone, pressing the screen into life. It’s shit and basic, but it’s a lifeline.
She stares at Griffin. “Thank you,” she says, starting to cry again.
He looks uncomfortable at her display of gratitude. “Whatever,” he replies. “Just don’t be too long. I’ve blocked the number, but you never know.”
She stands up, moving away and sitting on the sofa. She looks at the phone in her hand, then inputs her mother’s mobile number from memory. Her breath catches in her throat as the phone rings, then cuts to voicemail. She redials.
“Hello?” On hearing her mother, anxious and uncertain, Jess starts to cry again. “Is anyone there?” her mother repeats.
‘Mom?” Jess eventually manages to croak.
“Jess, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me, Mom, but be careful, please.”
“Where are you? How are you?” Her mother’s voice becomes a dramatic whisper. “Come home now! Enough of this messing around.”
‘Mom, I’m sorry, I haven’t got time to argue. Can I speak to Alice, please?”
There’s an audible sigh. “You always were headstrong,” her mother says, as if Jess has been caught being rude to a teacher, rather than fleeing arrest for murder. “Here you go.”
There is a rustle and a bit more whispering. Then a voice, high and on the edge of tears.
‘Mommy?” her daughter says.
Jess feels a rush of relief. Emotion catches in her throat, but she manages to keep her voice level.
“Hi, sweetie. Are you okay?”
“Where are you, Mommy? Where’s Daddy?”
“I’ll …” Jess pauses. “I’ll be home soon. I’ve had to go away for a while, but Grandma and Grandad will look after you.”
“Okay. Can we watch Frozen when we get home?” Jess steels herself again. There’s no home to go to, no Frozen DVD.
“We might not be able to go home for a while, sweetie,” she says. “But Grandma will let you watch Frozen.”
“Promise?” Alice asks.
“Promise. I love you, poppet. Can you pass the phone back to Grandma?”
“I love you too, Mommy.” Then another rustle as the phone is passed back.
‘Mom? You haven’t told her about Patrick?” Jess asks.
“I …” her mother starts. “I thought that was her mother’s job. That she’d need you with her when she found out.”
Jess nods, swallowing. “Thanks, Mom,” she manages to say before she hangs up the phone. She can’t bring herself to say goodbye.
She feels tears welling up again behind her eyes, then anger building. All this emotion—all this crying, however justified—is not achieving anything. She’s made a promise to her daughter now. To be back soon. And that’s what she needs to focus on.
She stands up, and Griffin snaps his fingers at her, gesturing toward the phone. She passes it to him, and he opens up the back, pulling out the SIM card, then breaking it in two.
He sees her looking at it, watching her salvation being destroyed.
“Do you want them to trace you back here?” he asks, and she shakes her head.
Griffin throws the pieces in the trash, then walks over to the bed and slumps down on his back, his hands behind his head. Jess watches him.
She wonders at what brought her here. To this apartment, this man. And to this insane situation. She should leave. Nav’s right: she should hand herself in. That would be the sensible thing to do—but when has that ever applied to her? And something pulls her toward the mystery, an invisible cord headed for destruction. She’s always found solace in the darker things in life—those true crime documentaries, those murderers and outcasts making her feel less of an aberration. Her whole life she’s been fighting for the desire to be normal. A desire to be whole, somehow, to feel what other people feel. But now everything has been stripped away and she’s alone, she doesn’t feel that pretense. For the first time in her life, the macabre makes a perverse kind of sense. And Griffin’s a part of that.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“No.”
“Tired?”
He shakes his head. “I feel like I’ll never sleep again. All the time …” He flutters his hands above his face as he stares at the ceiling. “Just things going around and around. I just want to actually do something.”
Jess doesn’t speak, but slowly gets up from the sofa. She stands by his feet at the end of the bed. She feels a flush: nervousness after what happened last time. But also excitement.
“What do you want to do?” she asks.
He opens his mouth to speak, but stops as she takes her T-shirt and sweater off in one quick movement. He raises himself up off the bed on his elbows, watching as she wriggles out of her jeans until she’s standing in front of him in her underwear.
“What do you want to do?” she asks again.
“Jess …”
“Griffin. Shut up and take your clothes off.”
He hesitates for a moment, but she’s aware something has shifted between them. He won’t turn her down now. Sure enough, decision made, he pulls off his shirt and jeans. She takes the rest of her clothes off, then gets onto the bed, straddling him.
He reaches down, and in one quick movement, removes his boxer shorts. Then he pauses, their eyes meeting.
His hands go up to her waist, and she can feel the light touch of his fingers on her back. Neither of them moves; the room is quiet. Jess can hear rain falling outside, dripping down the gutters onto the pavement. She holds his gaze.
She moves back slightly, waiting as he reaches behind to the bedside table, swiftly opening the foil packet of a condom and putting it on. Then she raises herself up and onto him. She sees him take a deep breath in, then again, as she starts to move. His hands are still on her waist but he lets her do what she wants, moving slowly.
But then something switches in him. He can no longer hold back. He picks her up, her legs going around his waist, and he shoves her against the wall. She can feel the rough brickwork against her back—she knows it’s a bad idea, but she likes it—and he pushes into her, hard.
His head is still buried in her neck, and she pulls him up to face her. She wants to kiss him. She wants to feel his lips on hers, to remember they’re human, they’re alive, but he pauses, as if questioning what they’re doing.
“Don’t stop,” she says.
She kisses him, and he thrusts into her, harder this time.
She slips slightly, and their position changes. They shift, together, him resting her on the edge of the large wooden table, his fingers digging into her ass. She grips his shoulders, moving with him. She’s not thinking anymore. Except about this, about the feeling of him.
She can feel the sweat on his body, the rough of his stubble on her neck. This is what she wants, she thinks.
* * *
Afterward they lie on the bed, passing a cigarette between them. As the room grows colder, he pulls the duvet across, and Jess watches the shadows, headlights from the cars outside flickering across the ceiling.
“You can’t always use this to solve everything,” he says after a while.
“Use what?”
“Sex. This.” He uses the cigarette to gesture to her naked torso.
She’s quiet for a second. “Are you complaining?”
“No,” he says. “Fuck, no. Just at some point you’re going to have to work out a way to make yourself feel better without resorting to sleeping with someone.” He pauses. “Or what you were doing last night.”
She doesn’t like what he’s saying, but his manner, the bluntness, catches her off guard.
He leans over her, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table. “It’s not a criticism,” he adds. He stays propped up on his elbow, watching her through the darkness. “I’m not judging. You’re not so different from me. Better looking, maybe, but inside we’re the same. Just trying to get through the day.”
She stares up at the ceiling. “Griffin …” she starts slowly. She needs to tell him. She owes him that, at least. She takes a deep breath. He’s going to think I’m a freak, she thinks, like most people do when they find out. But she doesn’t care. For some reason, she trusts him.
“I have a condition called congenital insensitivity to pain,” she says. Griffin turns in the bed to face her, and she meets his astonished stare. “I can’t feel any pain,” she finishes.
He pauses. “Nothing at all?” he asks.
“I can sense hot and cold. I can feel touch, and sensation. But no pain, no.”
She still itches. She is ticklish. But no stinging, no agony, no hurt. At least, not the physical kind.
“So that’s why …” he starts, gesturing toward her head, and she nods. “Sounds nice,” he adds shortly.
“It’s not.”
She wasn’t diagnosed until she was six. By that time she’d bitten off the tip of her tongue, had more fractures than she could remember, and Social Services had a file. She used to jump off the top of the stairs, tumbling carefree to the bottom. Hold her hand over candles, watching the skin blister, then burn. Her parents were driven to distraction. She was in a cast almost constantly until she was eleven.
When kids at school found out, they would punch her to test if it was true. Later, her response was to fight back: bloody disputes she always won.
