Virus gave Billy the finger, but he was grinning.
Out in the corridor, the mood had altered. A new day had started, and nurses were hurrying this way and that. Some pushed trolleys or wheelchairs; others were carrying charts. The air smelt of breakfast — hospital breakfast: damp toast, stewed tea, watery scrambled eggs. Walking back to the main entrance, Billy felt ambivalent about having been relieved. On the one hand, he badly needed rest. Putting in a twelve-hour shift on very little sleep had left him veering between moments of great clarity and sudden bursts of panic and despair. He still couldn’t believe that he had broken down in front of Eileen Evans; he hoped to God it didn’t go any further. On the other hand, the operation wasn’t over yet, and he would be missing out by not being there. Though he knew his place — he was just a bobby, a cog in the machine — it would have been satisfying to be able to see it through. But perhaps that satisfaction wasn’t something he had worked for. In the end, perhaps, it wasn’t something he had earned.
From his various conversations with Phil Shaw, and with other personnel, in both the police and the hospital, he had learned a good deal about what would be happening that day. He knew that undertakers were being brought in from somewhere at least two hundred miles away — Sue had been spot on about the difficulty of finding a firm willing to handle the body — and that they were scheduled to arrive at five o’clock that afternoon. While the body was being transferred from the fridge to the coffin, with Phil looking on, police vehicles would be moving into position outside. The crematorium being used was situated to the north-west of Cambridge, near the junction of the A14 and the M11. It was a good twenty miles from the hospital, in other words, and traffic would have to be controlled for the entire length of the route. The journey would take about forty minutes. At no point would the hearse be stationary.
The funeral was due to take place at seven-thirty, after the crematorium had closed. About a dozen people were expected to attend the short service. Owing to illness, the woman’s mother would not be among them. The body would be cremated, and when the ashes had cooled they would be placed in an urn. Once again, the sergeant would be on hand to oversee every stage of the process.
Towards eleven, he would leave the crematorium in an unmarked car, the urn in his possession. Hopefully, any journalists or members of the general public would have dispersed by then; a raw, cold night was forecast, with the possibility of rain, and it was unlikely anyone would want to hang around in that kind of weather. The sergeant would be driven to a secret location where he would surrender the ashes to an unidentified third party. The moment the ashes left his hands, his job — and the job of the police — would be over.
On reaching the cafeteria, Billy stopped and looked in, hoping to say goodbye to Mr. Prabhu and wish him well, but he wasn’t there. He would be having a word with the medical staff, or maybe he, too, had gone home to get some sleep. Moving on again, Billy nodded at the two volunteers who were manning the reception desk, then he left the hospital.
He stood on the steps that led down to the car-park and breathed the damp, leafy air. It was still dark. To the north, white smoke was rising from the sugar factory. He knew much of what the day would hold for the police, but there were still questions, weren’t there? Who was the unidentified third party, for instance? And who would decide where the woman’s remains were scattered? Which piece of land would be considered neutral enough, or resilient enough, to become her symbolic resting place? Or would she be scattered over water? And would that be the end of it? Would people finally forget? Forgive? Billy didn’t know the answers to any of these questions. All he could do was speculate. He remembered how the ash from the woman’s cigarette had fallen soundlessly into the drain, and how, later, he had examined the metal grille and been unable to find any trace of it, not so much as a single grey-white flake. Perhaps that was how it would be. Not rest exactly, but disappearance. Not peace, but silence.
Once back in his car, Billy checked his mobile — no new messages — then put it on the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. Though it was cold, he decided not to use the heater; it would only make him drowsy. If he drove fast and the traffic was light, he could be parked by the estuary in time to see the river change colour — though there wasn’t much colour involved, not in November. The water just gradually made its presence felt: from black to charcoal-grey, or steel-grey, or even, sometimes, silver — like looking at a glass-topped table in a darkened room. But he hadn’t forgotten his promise to have breakfast with Sue. He wouldn’t stay for more than a few minutes.
He turned out of the hospital. Wednesday morning. Curtains still drawn in many of the houses. Soon children would be sitting up in bed, knuckles in their eyes and tangled hair. Soon they would have to start preparing for school. He remembered the butterflies he’d had when he was young — that strange, sick feeling…The short days were the hardest: you got up in the dark and came home in the dark. The road curved gently downhill. He passed a pub, an empty car-park, a playground. Over one roundabout, and then another. It was on the faces of other drivers too. A rumpled quality, a puffiness. Not just the last vestiges of sleep, but a certain vulnerability; you could almost see them swallow, dry-throated, at the thought of what being awake involved.
He accelerated on to the A14, the town behind him now. Behind him, too, was the sugar factory, its thick, creamy smoke pouring upwards in his rear-view mirror. His eyes felt heavy. He wound the window down an inch or two, and cool air streamed into the car. Westbound, there was a tailback. East-bound, though, the road was clear except for a lorry with a Dutch numberplate.
Maybe we could go away…
Sue would have been thinking about the holiday they’d had shortly before she got pregnant with Emma. In Amsterdam, they had found themselves outside a coffee shop, and she had startled him by suggesting they should buy some dope. “But I’m a police officer,” he said. She laughed at him. “Billy,” she said, “it’s legal here.” Though full of misgivings, he handed her the money and watched as she disappeared through a black glass door. I’m buying drugs, he thought. Then he remembered what she had told him. It’s legal here. The words just didn’t ring true, somehow. But he had done worse things…
That afternoon they drove out to the coast and parked on a road that overlooked the sea. Susie produced a packet of cigarette papers, and Billy was surprised again, this time by her dexterity. Shutting the windows, they lit the joint. The car soon filled with smoke. It was a Sunday, and families kept walking past. People with small dogs and children.
“It doesn’t feel legal,” he said, sinking lower in his seat.
When they had finished the joint, they went for a walk along the beach. A cold wind tore in off the North Sea. Waves crashed against the sand like walls collapsing.
“It’s not working,” Billy shouted, and he could hear the relief in his voice.
As soon as they turned inland, though, he began to talk nonsense. Then he had a fit of the giggles, something that hadn’t happened for years. In a souvenir shop, he took eight bars of chocolate up to the cash-till, but just before paying he had a moment of doubt. Nudging Susie, he showed her what he was buying. “Do you think this’ll be enough?” he said.