A Line of Blood Read online

  ‘He’s old.’

  ‘Right … I’m sure that’s why you don’t engage with his views. And why you never invite him round. The guy likes an argument. You can see that.’

  ‘You think I’m racist?’ And suddenly I could see that she was laughing. ‘So now racism is funny?’

  A dull thud, as if someone in the dead neighbour’s house had dropped a sledge hammer. Time stopped. Millicent winced. The air in the room was all dust and heat. Millicent laughed, as if embarrassed by her reaction. Time restarted.

  ‘No, Alex, no. That isn’t it at all. It’s just … He’s our neighbour, we have nothing in common; you don’t have to invite him round to drink mineral water and talk Nigerian politics.’

  Something scraped across the dead neighbour’s upper floor. Millicent’s eyes darted. ‘Whoah,’ she said. ‘That was a little …’

  ‘… unexpected,’ I said.

  ‘Unexpected.’ She composed herself. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s from Ghana,’ I said, ‘and he’s a nice guy.’

  ‘Only since he found out we were married. Before that he kind of sucked. And by the way, he has strong opinions about Nigeria.’

  ‘Love,’ I said, and took her hand. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Why would you think I wouldn’t be?’

  I drew her to me, and she smiled weakly up at me. Because suicide terrifies you, I thought. Because you hate the idea that someone’s pain might be unreachable. Because you once told me someone you knew …

  Voices from the neighbour’s house. Millicent’s eyes crossed to the wall.

  ‘So … This is all a little freaky,’ she said. ‘Why would they not take the body last night?’

  ‘Being thorough,’ I said. ‘I mean, that would be my guess. I don’t know.’

  ‘Gross. Maybe I’m not completely OK with it.’ She ran her tongue along the inside of her lips.

  Why would you be, I thought? How could anybody be OK with this? I put my hand on her cheek and she held it there for a moment and looked me in the eye. Then she looked away and a shiver seemed to pass through her body.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I’m here. You can tell me what you’re feeling.’

  ‘I think I just did.’

  You didn’t, I thought. Not really.

  ‘The guy was OK. A little buttoned-up, but OK. I guess I liked him.’ A troubled look clouded her eyes. ‘I guess I’m a little freaked out also. That he would still be in there.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Kind of an over-the-fence thing …’

  A shadow across the curtain in the front window; three knocks at the front door.

  I looked at Millicent. She was shaking her head at me. Police, she mouthed. She looked small again, hunched. No, she mouthed. Not now, Alex. Defensive eyes, like an animal that was past the fight-or-flight stage. I’d almost forgotten that look.

  ‘What else are we going to do?’ I said, under my breath. ‘They must have heard us in here.’ I walked towards the front door; Millicent slipped into the kitchen.

  The man was small and thin, in white t-shirt and long shorts, and covered in a light dust. Muscular though. A builder, I thought. A builder carrying a clipboard.

  ‘Mr Bryce?’ he said. ‘Hello. Continent Containers.’

  He looked at me as if I should know what he meant. I didn’t.

  ‘Skip-hire provider.’ He extended a hand. His smile was warm, professional.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Not Mr Bryce.’

  ‘Could I speak to Mr Bryce?’

  ‘There’s no Mr Bryce,’ I said. ‘I’m Alex Mercer. And I’ve never hired a skip in my life.’

  ‘Strange,’ said the man. He looked down at his clipboard. ‘All right.’ He took out a mobile phone.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ I said. ‘We’ve a lot on.’

  ‘OK, sir. Thanks, anyway.’

  I closed the door. Millicent returned from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I get that you’re being brave for me, and for Max. And I hate that you guys had to see what you saw.’

  ‘I could have stopped him from seeing and I didn’t.’

  ‘I know, honey, but I’m guessing you were in shock.’

  ‘I laughed. I actually laughed.’

  ‘That would be a classic shock reaction, right there. You’re a good father, Alex. Your instinct is to protect. I know it. Max knows it.’

  ‘I failed. Max saw everything.’

  ‘OK, Alex. Yes, we do need to discuss that.’ She breathed out heavily.

  ‘My honest guess? Max is going to fall apart a little.’

  I sat on the sofa, bit hard into my knuckle.

  What have I done?

  ‘Alex, honey, he’s going to need to do this. It isn’t the end of the world. We have the summer.’ Millicent sat down beside me.

  ‘To let our son fall apart? We sit and watch while our son has a breakdown? Have him back on his feet and ready for school by September?’

  ‘We break his fall, Alex. There’s a logic to these things. We listen to him when he needs to talk, and we help him to pick up the pieces when – if – he falls apart. It’s a process. He’ll be OK. We’re good parents. We’ll find him a good shrink.’

  ‘That’s our summer?’

  ‘That’s our summer.’

  ‘What about work?’

  Seventy hours of footage on my laptop. Another shoot to plan.

  ‘You can still go,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t. You’re going to need me here.’

  Two weeks in America. An eight-week edit. How was that going to work?

  ‘Sure you can, Alex. Max and I always manage.’

  Voices through the wall again. I could see the sinews in Millicent’s neck stiffen. ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘I thought they left already. I guess I’m still a little jumpy.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘Why are you so sweet to me?’ she said, her eyes searching my face.

  ‘I’m not,’ I said.

  ‘You are.’ She pushed me gently backwards and down on to the sofa. Then she lay down and folded herself into me, her back to my chest, legs entangling mine.

  ‘Max will be OK, Alex. With the right support he’s going to be just fine.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Children are resilient.’

  ‘I should be here,’ I said.

  She turned, arching her back, and found my mouth with hers. Her eyes didn’t flick away as she kissed me: none of that reticence now. I lay on my side and she moved to accommodate me, my body cradling hers. She lifted my hand across her breasts, pushed her thighs gently back against mine. I could feel the weight in my limbs now, feel the tension easing from her body.

  We lay like this for some time. I pushed gently back against her, not wanting to break the moment.

  ‘Millicent?’ I said at last. ‘Love?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Will this be anything like Sarah?’

  ‘No,’ said Millicent, her voice heavy with the promise of sleep. ‘No, Alex, this will be nothing like Sarah.’

  I woke in the middle of the afternoon, stiff of neck and leg. I had been lying on my left arm, and could hardly feel it. I flexed the hand underneath me, felt it move slightly; an alien thing, a part of me that wasn’t.

  When I raised my head I saw that Max was lying in front of Millicent. Her arms were tightly wound around him, and he too was asleep. He must have let himself in and climbed on to the sofa to join us. Millicent had rearranged my right arm so that I was cradling both of them. Or perhaps Max had done it himself. The three of us on our cramped little sofa. My little tribe. How had he managed to sleep without falling off?

  I raised my feet so they were on top of the sofa back, then gently freed my arm from around Max. I pushed my back as gently as I could away from Millicent. She murmured something that I didn’t understand. Sleep talk, I guessed. Probably nothing.

  With my right arm I pulled the rest of my body up so tha
t I was balanced sideways on the sofa back. I brought my left leg down to the floor behind the sofa, then my right.

  I heard voices through the wall again. Were they really not finished?

  I stood up too quickly, saw stars falling past my eyes, felt my left arm tingle as the blood returned. I stood, massaging my arm in the space behind the sofa, glad that no one could see the strangeness of the scene. Then I held my breath and slid out along the wall behind the sofa.

  I brought my head down to Millicent’s. ‘Love?’

  ‘Mmm? Hey.’

  ‘You have room now.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, and relaxed backwards into the space I had made for her, pulling Max gently with her. Max’s eyes flickered open and for a moment I thought he was awake, but he screwed himself even tighter, pulled Millicent’s arm firmly about him, and slept on.

  Little Max-Man, I thought. Catch you when you fall.

  A knock at the door. The police, I thought. It could only be the police. I wondered for a moment about not answering. What would happen then? How long would they knock for before they let us alone? But this had to be faced.

  Another police officer. She wore a neat two-piece suit, and carried a leather briefcase exactly like the officer who had spoken to Max.

  ‘Mr Mercer?’ she said, and held out her hand. I’m fairly certain that she told me her name, but I have no memory of what it was.

  ‘You want to speak to me about finding the neighbour?’

  ‘That’s right. I do.’

  ‘And in principle yes,’ I said.

  She looked puzzled.

  ‘Now isn’t good. Could we please schedule this?’ I kept my voice as level as I could. ‘That really would be much more convenient.’

  ‘Schedule?’ she said. ‘I’m not really sure I understand.’

  I opened the door wide so that she could see Max and Millicent asleep on the sofa.

  ‘Oh,’ she mouthed.

  ‘He’s exhausted,’ I said.

  ‘I can see that,’ she said, ‘but it’s you I want to speak to.’

  ‘Do you have children yourself?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He’s asleep. It’s a small house. And he’s already told your colleague everything.’

  ‘We do need your side of the story, Mr Mercer.’

  ‘And I don’t want to add to his burden. He’s experienced a major trauma. I’d be grateful if we could do this tomorrow during school hours.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t see,’ she said. ‘But you’re making this difficult for me, Mr Mercer.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘It’s stability he needs.’

  She blew out her cheeks a few times, then she said, ‘I’ll make a call.’

  She took a small Bluetooth headset from the breast pocket of her jacket and crossed to the other side of the street. I stood, watching her from the threshold. Children shouted in back yards, and the traffic on the main road was loud, but I could hear most of what she said. She reported the conversation we had had, in the words that I had used. She spoke of my concern for my son. She kept looking across at me as she spoke, one hand on her briefcase, the other on her headset.

  ‘Mr Mercer thinks … Mr Mercer feels … Mr Mercer suggests.’ If she was irritated with me she didn’t let it show. Her words made me sound reasonable and adult, and I was grateful to her.

  I smiled at her; she smiled weakly back.

  ‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she said when she had crossed back over. ‘Best I could do. Ensure you’re in, please.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Sorry to waste your time. But he’s only eleven.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do understand.’

  ‘I don’t have much to say anyway. Max has told you pretty much everything.’

  Millicent woke at six and gently extricated herself from Max. We ate linguine in front of the television. Millicent sat on the sofa with Max’s legs in her lap, balancing the plate in one hand, her white shirt flecked red-orange from the sauce. I sat on the floor, my back to the sofa, with Millicent’s legs on each side of me.

  Max hardly stirred. At nine I carried him up to bed.

  5

  That first night the sex was drunken and good-natured. Millicent allowed me to believe I had charmed her into bed.

  Later we had sat side by side and eaten breakfast at an all-night café in Holborn. I was surprised to find she was nervous. She spilled orange juice in my lap, was mortified, apologised like an English girl. I offered her my last cigarette – she’d long since finished her own pack – and she gulped the smoke down with obvious relief, her spine lengthening, her shoulders descending, balance and poise returning to her body. She took another of her double drags and handed the cigarette back to me. She liked me, I realised, and I liked her. Even when sober. So I told her.

  ‘Why? What do you like about me?’

  Why did I like her? I knew next to nothing about her, had told her next to nothing about myself. But something had made me say it.

  ‘You’re good at smoking. You slept with me on the second date. You have slightly inverted nipples. And you’re foreign. What’s not to like?’

  ‘Don’t try to charm your way past the question, Alex.’

  ‘OK. Sorry.’

  ‘Do you? Like me? I kind of need to know.’

  ‘Yes, I like you.’

  On the fourth day she flew back to the States without much explanation. She came back ten days later. She had broken up with her boyfriend. Moved out of their rented apartment. Sold her things and come to Europe.

  ‘Your boyfriend? Your apartment?’

  ‘It wasn’t working out.’

  A bolter, friends said. Watch yourself. But I was younger then, and I was flattered by the impulsiveness of her choices. The girl I met in the pub.

  When I asked her where her luggage was, she pointed at her bag. She had taken a courier flight from LAX. One large leather handbag. She really had sold everything. She had a week’s worth of underwear. Two t-shirts. Two skirts. One pair of trousers. She had £1,500 in cash. She would work, she said. You can’t, I said, you need a permit.

  ‘About that,’ she said. ‘I had a couple of thoughts.’

  So we entered lightly into marriage; so, at least, it seemed to me then.

  I lay still in our tiny double bed, listening. I had a memory of her sliding from the bed at first light, of her whispering something to me, tender and loving.

  Birds and traffic. A family shouting on a back patio. And computer keys.

  I got up and pulled on a clean pair of pants. Max’s door was open, his room empty. I opened the door to Millicent’s office. A desk, a chair, a computer and Millicent in her kimono dressing gown. A spare bedroom without room for a bed. Millicent didn’t look round.

  ‘That bad?’ I said.

  ‘What?’ she said, typing, her fingers floating elegantly across the keys, fast and precise. Her feet twitched reflexively.

  ‘You’re typing with your feet. You’re nervous. What are you worrying about?’

  She turned, gave me a look of mock irritation, then turned back to her screen.

  ‘I’m preparing a little. For this evening.’

  ‘I thought it was unscripted.’

  ‘It pretty much is.’

  ‘Looks scripted to me, Millicent.’

  ‘So kill me, I’m nervous,’ she said. ‘Also, a guy with a drill just fitted a lock to the neighbour’s front door. Which is more than a little disconcerting. Why would they feel the need to do that, Alex?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He just … I can’t believe he just … went like that.’ Her eyes clouded, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to cry.

  ‘London,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe so,’ she said. ‘Yeah. Maybe it’s London.’ She sighed. Then she drew herself together again and the sadness was gone. ‘How many words is two hours, Alex?’

  ‘Three words a second,’ I said. ‘Makes 180 words a minute, 1
0,800 words an hour. Call it 21,000 words. Minus commercial breaks, which are about a quarter of the programme. So 15,000 words.’

  ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘That is a lot of words.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ I said. ‘Not really. Where’s Max?’

  ‘He fixed his own breakfast and went to school.’

  ‘He seem OK to you?’

  ‘So far. And yeah, I’m watching him for signs.’

  She went back to typing. My wife at her desk.

  I tried to distract her by cupping her breasts in my hands. She looked up at me and smiled, continued typing while she held my gaze.

  ‘How do you do that?’ I said. ‘Without looking?’

  ‘Neat, huh?’ she said, and turned back to the screen, carried on typing. I kept my hands on her breasts.

  ‘It’s a conversation,’ I said. ‘You don’t need to prepare. They ring, they tell you their problem, you answer their questions.’

  ‘So I’m talking, what, half the time?’

  ‘Less,’ I said.

  ‘So, that’s what, 6,000 words?’

  ‘Forget the word count, Millicent. You can’t script this. And you can’t write 6,000 words in a day.’

  ‘I never did this before, and I am super-nervous. Also, it’s forbidden to swear. And to smoke in the studio.’

  ‘You’re allowed to be nervous. You won’t swear. People will call. The station will filter out the hostile callers. You will help people who need help. The station will pay you. You can smoke outside during the commercial breaks.’

  ‘You think? You really think all of that?’

  ‘And as soon as you’re in it, you’ll remember what you know.’

  Self-Help for Cynics. Millicent’s books had no truck with self-pity. They didn’t propose chanting, or detoxes, or relentless positivity as solutions to relationship breakdowns and bereavement. They were tough and funny, but had at their core an understanding of real emotional pain.

  Make your play and move on. Books for people like us, a generation of people who layer themselves in irony, people who would never be seen buying a self-help book because that would be absurd. Then, suddenly, the same eternal question: what to do? Or, as Millicent put it: