Jen is two cars behind Todd, and is paradoxically relieved to find that he is an incompetent driver: not once, so far as she can tell, has he checked his rear-view mirror and spotted her.
He slows down on a road called Eshe Road North. It would be described by an estate agent as leafy, as though plants don’t grow on housing estates. There are pumpkins on some of the steps to the houses, carved early, lit up, grotesque reminders of everything that’s to come.
Todd parks his car carefully. Jen drives to a side-street, a few houses down, unlit, so she is hopefully unseen, and gets out, drawing her trench coat around her. The night air has that early-autumn spooky feel to it. Damp spiderwebs, the feeling of something coming to an end before you’re truly ready to leave it.
Todd walks purposefully down the road, white trainers kicking up the leaves. It is so strange for Jen to witness this; the things that happened while she was lawyering, while she was busy caring too much about work and – clearly – not enough about home.
She stands at the junction of the side-street and Eshe Road North until Todd disappears abruptly inside a house. It is large, set back from the road, with a wide porch and a loft conversion. These kinds of places still
intimidate Jen, who grew up in a two-bed terrace that had windows so rickety the breeze wafted her hair around in the evenings. Her father, widowed, didn’t notice the draught, and anyway took on too much legal aid work and not enough private to fix it even if he did.
She rounds her shoulders against the cold, a woman in a too-thin coat on a rainy street, looking at the trees covered in their burnt-orange jackets, just thinking. About Todd and about her father and about today, tomorrow and yesterday.
She paces down the street. Todd’s inside number 32. She googles the
address while she waits, her fingers so cold she can’t type easily. It’s listed as the registered office of Cutting & Sewing Ltd, which is owned by Ezra Michaels and Joseph Jones. It was set up recently and has never submitted any accounts.
As Todd is swallowed up into the house, someone else leaves. She’s right in the way.
The figure comes through the garden gate just as she passes and, suddenly, she is face to face with a dead man. No, that’s not right. A man who dies in two days’ time. The victim.
 |
Jen would recognize him anywhere, even though he – currently – has light in his eyes, colour in his cheeks. This very much alive man, with mere days to live, looks like somebody who was perhaps once attractive. He is mid- forties, maybe older. He has a full dark beard and elfin ears that point out at their tips.
‘Hi there,’ Jen says spontaneously to him.
‘All right,’ he says warily. His body goes completely still except his black eyes, which run over her face. She tries to think. She needs as much information as possible. Isn’t honesty by far the best policy? With clients, with opponents at work, and with your son’s enemies, too.
‘Todd is my son,’ she says simply. ‘I’m Jen.’
‘Oh. You’re Jen, Jen Brotherhood,’ he replies. He seems to know her. ‘I’m Joseph.’ His voice is gravelly, but he talks in an authoritative kind of way, like a politician.
Joseph Jones. It must be. The man whose company is registered here. ‘Nice kid, Todd. Dating Ezra’s niece, isn’t he?’
‘Ezra is …’
‘My friend. And business partner.’
Jen swallows, trying to digest this information. ‘Look. I just wondered.
I’m a bit worried about him. Todd. Sorry to just – drop by,’ she says lamely. ‘You’re worried?’ He cocks his head.
‘Yeah – you know. Worried he’s got in with a bad –’
‘Todd’s in safe hands. All right now,’ he says. An instant dismissal by a pro. He motions to her, a kind of Which way are you going? gesture. No
mistake about it, it means: Choose, because you are going, whether you like it or not.
She does nothing, so he brushes past, leaving her there, alone, in the mist, wondering what’s happening. Whether the future has continued on without her. If there’s another Jen somewhere. Asleep, or too shocked to function?
In the world where Todd is probably currently remanded, arrested, charged, convicted. Alone.
She decides to ring the doorbell. The depressing lack of tomorrow has made her fatalistic. And thinking of Todd in police custody has made her desperate.
‘I just wanted to know that he’s okay,’ Jen says to the stranger at the door. He must be Ezra. Slightly younger than Joseph. A thickset man with a bent nose.
‘Mum?’ Todd says from somewhere deep in the house. He emerges into the gloom of the hallway. He looks pale and harassed.
Jen thinks the house was once nice but is now the shabby side of shabby- chic. Worn Victorian quarry tiles. A few offcuts of carpet overlap in the hallway like old papers. ‘What …?’ Todd says to her, making his way past all this. He communicates his bewilderment to her with a tense smile.
A beautiful young woman emerges out of the living room at the end of the hallway, opening the door with her hip. It must be Clio. Jen can tell by the way she moves towards Todd that they are a couple.
She has a Roman nose. A very short, cool fringe. Faded jeans, rips across the knees, tanned skin. No socks. A pink T-shirt with cut-outs. Even her
shoulders are attractive, two peaches. She’s tall, almost Todd’s height. Jen feels a hundred-year-old fool.
‘What’s wrong?’ Todd says. ‘What’s happened?’ His voice is so assertive, so irritated. He talks down to her. How had she not noticed?
‘Nothing,’ she says lamely. ‘I just – er … I had a text from you. You sent – your location?’ she lies. She looks beyond him again, to the rest of the house. Clio and Todd’s tanned skin and white smiles look out of place against the walls – bare plaster – and the living-room door: grubby, with a
loose handle. Jen frowns.
Todd gets his phone out of his pocket. ‘Nope?’
‘Oh – sorry. I assumed you wanted me to come.’
Todd squints at her, waving his phone. ‘I didn’t. I didn’t send anything. Why didn’t you call?’ As he moves his arm in that way, she is reminded of the precise stabbing motion he made. Forceful, clean, intentional. She shudders.
‘You’re Jen,’ Ezra says. Jen blinks. Recognition: the same way Joseph said her name. Todd must talk about her.
‘That’s right,’ she tells him. ‘Sorry – I won’t make a habit of dropping by
…’
Jen is trying to gather as much information as possible before she is imminently expelled by Todd. She casts her gaze about, looking for evidence. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for; she won’t know until she finds it, she guesses.
Ezra is standing with his back against a cupboard.
‘Mum?’ Todd says. He’s smiling, but his eyes communicate an urgent dismissal.
The house doesn’t smell like a home. That’s what it is. No cooking smells, no laundry. Nothing.
‘Sorry – before I go, would you mind if I just used your toilet?’ Jen says.
She just wants to get in. To have a look around. To see what secrets the house might hide.
‘Oh God, Mum,’ Todd says, his whole body a teenage eye-roll.
Jen holds her hands up. ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be just a second.’ She gives Ezra a wide smile. ‘Where is it?’
‘You’re five minutes from home.’ ‘This is middle age, Todd.’
Todd dies on the spot, but Ezra indicates the living-room door wordlessly. Yes. She’s in.
Jen squeezes past Todd and Clio and emerges into a room at the very back of the house, a combined kitchen/lounge. It’s square, with another door off to the right. There are no photographs on the walls. More bare plaster. A large, printed piece of material hangs over the far wall with a sun and moon stitched on to it. She peers behind it, looking for – what? A secret cupboard? – but of course she doesn’t find one.
Jen opens the door to the downstairs toilet and runs the tap, then walks a slow circle around the kitchen. It’s mostly bare. Worn tiles underfoot.
Crumbs along the kitchen counters. That musty smell, the smell of old and
empty dwellings. No fruit in the fruit bowl. No reminder letters on the fridge. If Ezra does live here, he doesn’t appear to spend much time at home.
A large TV is affixed to the left-hand wall. An Xbox sits underneath that.
On top of the console rests an iPhone, lit up and blessedly unlocked. Jen picks it up, scrolling straight to the messages. In there, she finds Todd’s texts to, she assumes, Clio:
Todd: I am attracted to you like covalent bonds, you know?
Clio: You make me LOL. You are a nerdarino.
Todd: I am YOUR nerdarino. Right?
Clio: You are mine xx forever.
Jen stares at them. She scrolls further up, feeling guilty as she does so, but not enough to stop.
Clio: This is your morning update. One coffee consumed, two croissants, a thousand thoughts about you.
Todd: Only a thousand?
Clio: Now one thousand and one.
Clio: Sounds perfect tbh.
Todd: I’ve had a thousand croissants
and only a few thoughts.
Todd: Can I say something serious?
Clio: Wait, you weren’t being serious? Have you had TWO thousand croissants?
Todd: I literally would do anything for
you. X
Clio: Same. X
Anything. Jen doesn’t like that word. Anything implies all sorts. It implies crimes, it implies murder.
She wants to read further, but she hears footsteps and stops. She replaces the phone on the console. Clio really likes him. Possibly loves him. She
sighs and scans the room, but there’s nothing else.
She flushes the toilet, turns the tap off, then leaves.
Jen pulls up Andy Vettese’s details in the car. She needs help. She emails him on a whim, having been sent away by her embarrassed son.
Dear Andy,
You don’t know me, but I’m Rakesh Kapoor’s colleague, and I really would like to speak to you about something I’m experiencing which I believe you have studied. I won’t say any more for fear of sounding unhinged, but do email me back, please …
Best Jen
‘How was work?’ Kelly says as she walks in through the door. He’s sanding down a bench he’s restoring for them. The sort of solitary activity Kelly enjoys. Jen knows what the finished product will look like – he sprays it
sage green in two days’ time.
‘Bad,’ Jen says, semi-honestly. She needs to try to tell him again.
Kelly wanders over and absent-mindedly takes her coat off, the sort of thing she will never get used to, she loves it so much; the simple care and attention he brings to their marriage. He kisses her. He tastes of mint chewing gum. Their hips touch, their legs interlock. It’s seamless. Jen feels her breathing automatically slow. Her husband has always had this effect on her.
‘Your clients are nutcases,’ he deadpans, his mouth still next to hers. ‘I’m worried about Todd,’ she says. Kelly steps back. ‘He’s not himself.’ ‘Why?’ The heating clicks on, the boiler firing up with a soft flare.
‘I’m worried he’s in with a bad crowd.’
‘Todd? What bad crowd is that, Warhammer lovers?’
Jen can’t help but laugh at this. She wishes Kelly would show the outside world this side of him.
‘Life’s too long for this worry,’ he adds. It’s a phrase of theirs, spanning back decades. She’s sure he started it, and he’s sure she did.
‘This Clio. I’m not sure about her.’ ‘He’s still seeing Clio?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought he said he wasn’t. Anyway, I have something for you,’ he says. ‘Don’t spend your money on me,’ she says softly. Kelly is always paid
cash in hand, and frequently buys her gifts with it. ‘I want to,’ he says. ‘It’s a pumpkin,’ he adds.
This distracts Jen entirely. ‘What?’ she says. ‘Yeah – you said you wanted one?’
‘I was going to buy it tomorrow,’ she whispers. ‘Okay? Look – it’s in here.’
Jen peers around him, looking into the kitchen. Sure enough, there it is. But it isn’t the same one. It’s huge and grey. The sight of it chills her skin. What if she changes too much? What if she changes things that don’t relate to the murder? Isn’t that what always happens in the movies? The
protagonists change too much; they can’t resist, they get greedy, play the lottery, kill Hitler.
‘I’m supposed to buy the pumpkin.’ ‘Hey?’
‘Kelly. Yesterday, I told you I was living days backwards.’ Surprise breaks across his features like a sunrise. ‘Hey?’
She explains it the same way she did to Rakesh, the same way she already has to Kelly. The first night, the knife in his bag, everything.
‘Where is this knife now?’
‘I don’t know – his bag, probably,’ she says impatiently, wanting to not revisit conversations they have already had.
‘Look. This is fucking ridiculous,’ he says. She can’t say she’s surprised by this reaction. ‘Do you think you should – like – see a GP?’
‘Maybe,’ she says in a whisper. ‘I don’t know. But it’s true. What I’m saying is true.’
Kelly just stares at her, then at the pumpkin, then back. He goes into the hallway and finds Todd’s school bag. Empties it theatrically on to the
hallway floor. No knife falls out.
Jen sighs. Todd probably hasn’t bought it yet. ‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘If you won’t believe me.’
She turns to walk away. It’s pointless, even with him. She concedes, as she ascends the stairs, that she wouldn’t believe him either. Who would?
‘I don’t –’ she hears him say at the bottom of the stairs, but then he stops himself. Jen is most disappointed in that half-uttered sentence. Kelly likes an easy life at times, and this is clearly one of them.
She showers in a rage. Well, then. If sleeping might be what makes her wake up in yesterday, then she simply won’t do it. That’s her next tactic.
Kelly falls asleep immediately, the way he always does. But Jen sits up. She sees the clock turn eleven and eleven thirty, when Todd comes back. At midnight, she stares and stares at her phone as 00:00 becomes 00:01 and the date flicks, just like that, from the twenty-seventh to the twenty-eighth, the way it should.
She goes downstairs and watches the rolling BBC news, which segues into the local news, about a road traffic accident that happened on the junction of two roads nearby at eleven o’clock last night. A car rolled over and the owner escaped, unhurt. She sees the clock strike one, then two, then three.
Her eyes become gritty, the adrenalin and the irritation at Kelly wearing off. She does laps of the living room. She makes two coffees and, after the second, she sits on the sofa, just for a second, the news still rolling. The accident, the weather, tomorrow’s papers today. She closes her eyes, just for a second, just for one second, and –
