Waiting for Wednesday

TWENTY-TWO

It was the weekend and Karlsson had cancelled all arrangements so that he could spend two clear days with Mikey and Bella. His chest ached with the knowledge that in a few days they would be gone, far away from him, just photographs on his desk that he would stare at, tinny voices at the end of the phone, jerky images on Skype. Every minute with them felt precious. He had to stop himself holding Bella too close, stroking Mikey’s hair until he squirmed away from him. They mustn’t know how much he minded them going or feel anxious and guilty for him.

He took them to the pool at Archway, where there was a twisting slide into the deep end and wave machines that made them shriek with gleeful fear. He threw them up into the air, let them duck him, ride on his shoulders. He dived under the turquoise water, his eyes open, and saw their white legs thrashing around among all the other legs. He watched them as they raced into the shallow end, two squealing figures, their eyes pink from the chlorine.

They went to the playground and he pushed them on the swings, spun the roundabout until he was dizzy, crawled through a long plastic tube behind them and climbed up a pile of rubber tyres. My children, he thought, my boy and girl. He held their smiles in his mind for later. They ate ice creams and went to lunch at a Pizza Express. Everywhere he looked, he seemed to see single fathers. He had made mistakes, he had always put work first, thinking he had no choice, and he had missed the bedtime rituals and the morning chaos. There had often been several days in a row when he hadn’t seen his children at all, out before they woke and home after they slept, and had once flown home from holiday early. He had let his wife take up the slack and he hadn’t understood the consequences until it was far too late, and there was no way back. Was this the price he had to pay?

They played a board game that he made sure he lost and he showed them a very simple magic trick he’d learned with cards, and they shouted at him as if he was a wizard. Then he put on a video and the three of them sat on the sofa together, him in the middle, warm and full of sadness.

When the phone rang, he ignored it and at last it stopped. Then it rang again. Mikey and Bella looked at him expectantly and moved away, so he reluctantly stood up, went over to it and picked it up from its holster.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Yvette.’

‘It’s Sunday.’

‘I know, but …’

‘I’m with my kids.’ He hadn’t told her they were leaving. He didn’t want anyone at work to know and pity him. They’d start inviting him out for drinks after work, stop thinking of him as the boss and think of him as a poor sap instead.

‘Yes.’ She sounded flustered. ‘I just wanted to keep you in the loop. You told me I should.’

‘Go on.’

‘Ruth Lennox went somewhere before she went home: a flat near Elephant and Castle. We’ve managed to trace the landlord; he was away so it took a bit of time. He seemed relieved to find that we were only contacting him about a murder,’ she added drily. ‘He confirmed that the flat was rented to a Mr Paul Kerrigan, a building surveyor.’

‘And?’

‘I talked to Mr Kerrigan. And there’s something up. I don’t know what. He didn’t want to talk over the phone. We’re meeting him tomorrow morning.’

There was a silence. Yvette waited, then said forlornly: ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

‘What time?’

‘Half past eight, at the building site he’s currently working on. The Crossrail development, down on Tottenham Court Road.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Do you think –’

‘I said I’ll be there.’

Karlsson put the phone back in its holster, already regretting his sharpness. It wasn’t Yvette’s fault.

Later, after Mikey and Bella had been collected by their mother and he’d gone for a run, he paced the garden with one of his illicit cigarettes. Birds were singing in the dusk, but that just made him feel sourer and more defeated. He went indoors and picked up the phone, then sat on the sofa where his children had been just a couple of hours previously. He held the phone and stared at it as if it could tell him something. At last, before he could change his mind, he called Frieda’s number. He had to talk to someone and she was the only person he could bear to unburden himself to. The phone rang and rang; he could almost hear it echoing in her tidy, empty house. She wasn’t there. He called her mobile, although he knew that she almost never turned it on or even listened to messages left there – sure enough, it went straight to voicemail.

He closed his tired, sore eyes and waited for the feeling to recede. The thought of work was a relief from the thought of life.

‘What was it like?’ said Sasha, later that evening.

‘When I got out of the tube,’ said Frieda, ‘on the way back from the airport, it was quite strange. For just a moment, London seemed different. It looked grubby and stunted and quite poor. It was like moving to the third world.’

‘I was really asking you about New York.’

‘You’ve seen the movies,’ said Frieda. ‘You’ve probably been there several times. You know what it’s like.’

‘When I was asking you about New York, I was really asking you about Sandy.’

‘He thinks I should move there,’ said Frieda. ‘He says I should be somewhere that’s less dangerous.’

‘And be with him.’

‘Yes. That too.’

‘Are you tempted?’

‘I said no before,’ said Frieda. ‘Now – I don’t know. I miss him. But I’ve got things to do here. Things that need finishing. Now, when am I going to meet this new man of yours?’

Frieda, my dearest heart, it all feels like a dream. You here in this city, this flat, this bed. Everything feels different now. Thank you for being here and remember everything I said. We’ve come too far together to stop now. We’re on a journey together.