The Perfect Girl

TESSA

I arrive at the police station at the same time as Richard and Zoe. He practically falls out of their taxi in his haste to embrace me, but it’s her I want to feel in my arms first, because she’s my flesh and blood.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Richard says, as I clasp her. ‘I was so worried.’

I’m shot through with irritation at this, because I don’t feel as though his concern is for me, but for himself. I’m already cross with Richard anyway, for taking Zoe to Sam. Cross because that’s risky for me, but also because it feels risky for her. She doesn’t need a solicitor. Why would we compound this desperate situation by publicly seeking legal advice for her? It makes her look suspicious. Richard has no common sense; he shouldn’t have given in to her request.

‘Later,’ I say. ‘For God’s sake!’

I don’t meet his eye, but from the way he falls in behind Zoe and me, bringing up the rear as we walk towards the entrance to the police station, and then scurrying past us to hold open the door, I think: He doesn’t know about me and Sam, and for that, right now, I’m grateful.

As a uniformed officer leads us down a corridor within the police station, we hear Chris before we see him. As we round a corner, his voice is loud, and almost uncontrolled, as he explains to somebody that enough is enough, and the family can’t stay at the police station.

‘Why are you incarcerating us?’ he asks. ‘What are you doing that’s in any way useful?’

We arrive by an open doorway that leads into a small room where Lucas, Katya and the baby are seated on sofas around a long, low table. Grace’s face is tear-streaked and Katya holds her whilst wearing the expression of somebody who’s both physically and mentally exhausted. Chris is standing beside the doorway remonstrating with a female officer who appears cowed by him.

‘We’re just in the process of opening up the investigation into your wife’s death, sir,’ she explains in a sentence where the words sound very carefully chosen. ‘If you could bear with us while we do that, we will, of course, keep you updated on everything that’s happening. It’s a complicated -’

Chris interrupts her. ‘I understand complexity. What I don’t understand is why we’re being held here. Why are we camping in your police station? What is the plan?’

His voice is louder now and it sets the baby off again.

‘You could come to our house,’ I say. ‘If you’d like to?’

Chris notices us for the first time, but he barely glances at Zoe.

He looks back at the officer. ‘Is that allowed?’ he says. ‘Or are we under suspicion?’

She’s careful with her response. ‘You’re not being held here, sir, we simply wanted to offer you somewhere to be while your house isn’t accessible to you. We thought it might be easier to conduct interviews while you were here as we’ll be needing to speak to everybody soon.’

Behind Chris, Grace is having a low-level whinge and Katya is bumping her on her knee in a desultory way, which only makes Grace’s mouth hang wider in despair. Zoe slips past Chris and goes to the baby, taking her into her arms.

‘I have a baby!’ says Chris. ‘And children I’m responsible for. This isn’t right! Look at them!’

They are a sight. Their bags are dumped all over the place, and baby paraphernalia has spread everywhere, including a pushchair, a nappy-changing mat on the floor, and a half-eaten jar of purée beside a bundle of wipes.

They need help.

‘Officer,’ I say. ‘They can come to my house, if that’s allowed? It’s just over in Stoke Bishop.’

‘I’ll check,’ she says. ‘I expect they’d prefer you here just for now, but I’ll ask.’

Only when she’s moved away up the corridor do I step towards Chris and, almost as if it’s an afterthought, we embrace awkwardly. Chris’s grief hasn’t weakened him physically; he feels as taut as the skin of a drum.

The police agree to us all going back to my house, and so we make the journey in an assortment of vehicles.

I regret the offer when we arrive there, though, because the reality of having Chris in my house, and the baby, and Katya, and the teenagers, is suddenly overwhelming. A Family Liaison Officer has come with us too. Between them, they make the space feel incredibly claustrophobic even though my home is a good size by anybody’s standards. They leave no room for my grief.

Richard notices how I’m feeling; perhaps he’s feeling it too. ‘Go upstairs,’ he says. ‘Take a few minutes to yourself.’

It’s as I’m heading up the stairs that I hear him add, ‘Take a shower,’ and I realise that I’m still in the clothes I wore to the concert. He surely won’t remember what I put on yesterday, but he’s not stupid either and I wonder if his shower comment is supposed to have a subtext, or if I’m being paranoid.

As the new fact of my sister’s death reverberates around my mind, I take a hard line with Richard: if I cheated, you deserve it. You drank me to it.

I turn on the water in the shower and run it until it’s almost too hot to stand. I hear shouting from downstairs, and the baby crying loudly, but I don’t want to leave the shower until it’s unbearable to stay in it any longer, because there’s a part of me that can’t cope with any of them, and doesn’t want to look into a single one of their faces.

I think of Sam, and of my night with him, and want nothing more than to be back there in his flat with him, where the river is our soundtrack and our view, and it’s just about us, and Richard is reliably drunk, and my sister and Zoe are OK in their new life and there are no more complications.

And beyond that, as the water streams down my back, and tears stream down my face, I feel only numbness.