‘The Professor wants us to show this man respect. He wants to reach out to him with the hand of compassion and understanding. Not on my watch. This perpetrator is a scumbag and he’ll get all the respect he wants in prison because that’s where he’s going…’
The media circus ends in uproar. The plastic woman moves on to another story.
Who are these people? They have no idea of who they’re dealing with and what I’m capable of. They think it’s a game. They think I’m a fucking amateur.
I can walk through walls.
I can unlock people’s minds.
I can listen to the pins fall into place and the tumblers turn.
Click… click… click…
40
I wake in the folds of a duvet holding a pillow. I missed seeing Julianne wake and get dressed. I like seeing her slip out of bed in the half-light and the cold, lifting her nightdress over her head. My eyes are drawn to her small brown nipples and the dimple in the small of her back, just above the elastic of her knickers.
This morning she is already downstairs, making breakfast for the girls. Other sounds drift from outside- a tractor in the lane, a dog barking, Mrs Nutall calling to her cats. Opening the curtains, I assess the day. Blue sky. Distant clouds.
A man is standing in the churchyard, looking at the gravestones. I can just make him out through the branches, wiping his eyes and holding a small vase of flowers. Perhaps he lost a wife or a mother or a father. It could be an anniversary or a birthday. He bends and digs a small hollow, resting the vase inside and pressing earth around it.
Sometimes I wonder if I should take the girls to a church service. I’m not particularly religious but I’d like them to have a sense of the unknown. I don’t want them to be too obsessed with truth and certainty.
I get changed and make my way downstairs. Charlie is in the kitchen wearing her school uniform. Soft strands of her hair have pulled out of her ponytail, framing her face.
‘Is this bacon for me?’ I ask, picking up a rasher.
‘It’s not mine. I don’t eat bacon,’ says Charlie.
‘Since when?’
‘Since forever.’
Forever seems to have been redefined since I was at school.
‘Why?’
‘I’m a vegetarian. My friend Ashley says we shouldn’t be killing defenceless animals to satisfy our lust for leather shoes and bacon sandwiches.’
‘How old is Ashley?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘And what does her father do?’
‘He’s a capitalist.’
‘Do you know what that is?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘If you don’t eat meat, how will you get iron?’
‘Spinach.’
‘You hate spinach.’
‘Broccoli.’
‘Ditto.’
‘Four of the five food groups will be enough.’
‘There are five?’
‘Don’t be so sarcastic, Dad.’
Julianne has taken Emma to get the morning papers. I make myself a coffee and put slices of bread in the toaster. The phone rings.
‘Hello?’
There’s no answer. I hear the soft whoosh of traffic; brakes are applied, vehicles slow and stop. There must be an intersection nearby or a set of traffic lights.
‘Hello? Can you hear me?’
Nothing.
‘Is that you, Darcy?’
There’s still no answer. I imagine I can hear her breathing. The traffic lights have changed again. Vehicles move off.
‘Just talk to me, Darcy, tell me you’re OK.’
The line goes dead. I press my finger to the receiver button and let it go. I dial Darcy’s mobile. I get the same recorded message as before.
I wait for the beep.
‘Darcy. Next time talk to me.’
I hang up. Charlie has been listening.
‘Why did she run away?’
‘Who told you she ran away?’
‘Mum.’
‘Darcy doesn’t want to live in Spain with her aunt.’
‘Where else will she live?’
I don’t answer. I’m making myself a bacon sandwich.
‘She could live with us,’ says Charlie.
‘I thought you didn’t like her.’
She shrugs and pours herself a glass of orange juice. ‘She was OK, I guess. She had some great clothes.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Well, no, not the only thing. I sort of feel sorry for her- about what happened to her mum.’
Julianne appears through the back door with Emma. ‘Who do you feel sorry for?’
‘Darcy.’
Julianne looks at me. ‘Have you heard from her?’
I shake my head.
Wearing a simple dress and cardigan she looks happier, younger, more relaxed. Emma ducks in and out between her legs. Julianne holds down the hem as a modesty precaution.
‘Can you drop Charlie at school? She’s missed the bus.’
‘Sure.’
‘The new nanny will be here in fifteen minutes.’
‘The Australian.’
‘You make her sound like a convict.’
‘I have nothing against Australians but if she mentions the cricket she’ll have to leave.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I was thinking that maybe- now that Imogen has arrived- we could go for dinner tonight. It could be an “us date”.’
‘An “us date”. Mmmmm.’ I grab Emma and haul her onto my lap. ‘Well, I might be available. I will have to check my busy schedule. But if I do say yes, I don’t want you getting any funny ideas.’
‘Me? Never. Although I may wear my black lingerie.’
Charlie covers her ears. ‘I know what you guys are talking about and it’s sooooo gross.’
‘What’s gross?’ asks Emma.
‘Never mind,’ we chorus.
Julianne and I used to have regular ‘us dates’- nights set aside with a babysitter booked. The first time I arranged one I made a point of bringing flowers and knocking on the front door. Julianne thought it was so sweet she wanted to take me straight up to the bedroom and skip dinner.
The phone rings again. I’m surprised at how quickly I pick it up. Everyone is staring at me.
‘Hello?’
Again there is no answer.
‘Is that you, Darcy?’
A male voice answers. ‘Is Julianne there?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Dirk.’
Disappointment morphs into irritation. ‘Did you call earlier?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Did you call about ten minutes ago?’
He doesn’t answer the question. ‘Is Julianne there or not?’
She pulls the phone from my hand and takes it upstairs to the study. I watch her through the stair rails as she closes the door.
The nanny arrives. She is everything I imagined: freckled, photogenic and blighted by a singsong Australian accent that makes her sound like she’s asking a question all the time. Her name is Imogen and she is rather large across the beam. I know that’s an incredibly sexist description but I’m not just talking about 24oz Porterhouse big, I’m talking huge.
According to Julianne, Imogen was definitely the most qualified candidate for the job. She has loads of experience, interviewed well and will do extra babysitting if required. None of these factors are the main reason Julianne hired her. Imogen isn’t competition. She’s not the least bit threatening unless she accidentally sat on somebody.
I carry her two suitcases upstairs. She says the room is awesome. The house is also awesome, so is the TV and my aging Escort. Collectively, everything is ‘absolutely awesome.’
Julianne is still on the phone. There must be some sort of problem at work. Either that or she and Dirk are having phone sex.
I’ve never met Dirk. I can’t even remember his surname- yet I dislike him with an irrational zeal. I hate the sound of his voice. I hate that he buys my wife gifts; that he travels with her, that he calls her at home on a day off. Mostly, I hate the way she laughs so easily for him.
When Julianne was pregnant with Charlie and going through the tired, tearful, ‘I feel fat’ stage, I tried to find ways of cheering her up. I booked us a holiday in Jamaica. She vomited the entire flight. A minibus picked us up from the airport and drove us to the resort, which was lovely and tropical, teeming with bougainvillea and hibiscus. We changed and headed for the beach. A naked black man walked past us. Butt-naked. Dangling. Next came a nude woman, textile free, wearing a blossom in her hair. Julianne looked at me strangely, her pregnancy bursting from her sarong.