‘You knew!’ I say. ‘You fucking knew and you let me sit here, you let Florence see that! Her own father dragged off in handcuffs.’ I’m close to belting her, but turn and hit the nearest thing, the shelf with cookery books, send them flying. I would tear the walls down. But still I hold myself together.
‘I’m so sorry. They weren’t supposed to-’
I’m not ready to hear it. Not excuses or explanations. ‘That child,’ I hiss at her, determined not to weep because then I will lose the ability to say my piece, ‘has lost her mother and you people tear her father away like… like savages.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Go. Just get out.’ I can’t bear her, can’t bear it. ‘Just get out.’
‘But-’
‘I don’t want you here.’
‘I’ll ring you later.’ At least she doesn’t argue with me.
A band tightens around my skull and a sweet, brackish taste floods my mouth. In the garden I vomit down the drain, the rain pelting on my back and drenching my hair.
I have to see Tony.
* * *
Florence is drowsy as I transfer her to the car. There’s a CD of nursery rhymes among the discs in the glove compartment and I put that on. I could walk to the salvage yard, but not in this weather, in this state, not with Florence.
I’m probably not fit to drive, but it’s only five minutes.
The gates are open and I don’t see any customers’ vehicles in the yard. The lights are on in Tony’s office. I park so that I will be able to see Florence from the windows.
It is years since I’ve been here but it hasn’t changed much. Though I can see he’s surfaced the central courtyard, which used to be rutted and pitted and prone to puddles. And the far end of the lot, once a pair of garages, is now a large open-fronted area with a roof and aisles, presumably for various categories of stock. Adjoining the office and opposite, across the yard, are the same assortment of prefabs, sheds and lean-tos where people can browse for doorknobs and candelabra, newel posts and stained-glass panels.
My hair flies about, blinding me as I cross to the office.
Tony must have heard the car, because he opens the door before I reach it. He steps back and lets me inside.
‘They’ve arrested Jack,’ I say, ‘just now, at my house.’ My voice is blurred, my mouth dry.
His face moves, eyes blinking, mouth working.
‘For Lizzie’s murder,’ I say. My breath comes sharp, blades in it.
The blood falls from Tony’s face, leaving him a ghastly white colour. He sways where he stands, then raises his face to the ceiling. He tries to speak but fails to find the words, just a few stuttering syllables. He swings round, then back to me. ‘That’s crazy. What the hell are they playing at! We should ring someone, a solicitor. Do something. We should… Good God! Fuck! It doesn’t make sense.’ His eyes are wild, he gasps for breath.
