The Kindest Thing - страница 11

‘Is it Adam?’ My heart bucks and my skin crawls with dread. ‘Oh, God, what’s happened?’

‘We’re not here about Adam. If we could come in?’ The policewoman flushes. I stand back, still swirling in the relief that Adam is okay, and they walk into the house. The ground tilts. I sense it then, a punch to the gut, the enormity of what’s coming.

‘We realize this is a very difficult time for you but there are a few things we need to clarify about the events leading up to your husband’s death. We’d like you to come with us to the police station. Is now a convenient time?’

My throat is dry. I don’t trust myself to speak. So I nod.

Like a zombie I put the answer-machine on, scrawl a note for Adam and Sophie, lock up the house and follow them out to the car. It is a plain vehicle, nothing to set the neighbours’ curtains twitching and saliva glands drooling. Shame. Pauline-next-door would like nothing better than to see me bundled into a panda car. The officers are very polite; they seem completely relaxed. I will answer everything evenly, carefully, I tell myself, and it will be fine.

At the police station I am taken to the custody suite. Like some pastiche of checking in at a hotel reception I give my name, address, date of birth. They ask me about any medical conditions I might have – mad with grief? I have to leave my bag with them. A young policewoman spreads out the contents and lists them. They ask for my earrings, my locket. They take my wedding ring. And then I have to sign the list. My hand trembles and my signature looks fake.

They explain that I can see a solicitor before I am interviewed under caution. Have I any questions? Numb, I shake my head. They request a DNA sample and run a small wand along the inside of my cheek. This is sealed in a container and notes made on the label. They take my photograph. Then my fingerprints. The ink smells strong, metallic, and then I am given medicated wipes to remove the dark, oily stains.

A man takes me through a locked doorway and along a corridor into a small cell. He smiles cheerily and locks me in. I sink on to the bench that runs across the back of the room. There is nothing else in the space. They took my ring. I bite my tongue. Where is Neil’s ring? In some sealed bag awaiting collection? What will they give me back? The clothes he died in won’t be fit for anything.

The walls of the cell press in on me. My skin is clammy and there isn’t enough air. I’m aware of my ribs locked too tight, my belly a fist of tension. I cup my hands over my nose and breathe out into my palms, eyes closed. I recall how I taught Adam to do this when paranoia made him hyperventilate, sitting beside him on his grungy bedroom floor, smoothing calm into my voice, talking him down. ‘Breathe out nice and slow, let it empty out. Now wait, two, three, four, five. Very gently, little sips, that’s it…’

His breathing was more regular, yet still when I tried to go to make us both a drink, he scrambled after me, eyes singing with panic, his fingers clawing at my sleeve. ‘They’re still there – they’re still out there!’

Oh, Adam. I felt like snapping at him, ‘They’re not out there, they’re in here, in you, and you’re not the only one they’re driving round the bloody bend.’ Instead I shushed and soothed and stayed with him until Neil came to do his stint.

In the police-station cell, as I wait, my sense of time distorts. I don’t know if it’s hours or minutes. I feel so alone and it is nothing like the solitude I usually revel in but that awful sense of being isolated, left and forgotten. ‘Left to rot’, that’s the phrase. They have locked me up and they will decide when I eat or sleep or pee, who I speak to.

The solicitor arrives. A black woman with a frazzled look as though she’s been dragged from her bed after an all-nighter. Might worry some people but I find it reassuring – the messy black curls, creased suit and purple shadows beneath the eyes give her humanity. She introduces herself as Ms Joy Gleason in a ripe Bolton accent, and even though I guess her to be ten or fifteen years younger than me, there is a practical, no-nonsense, maternal style to the way she deals with the situation.