Die of Shame Page 5

  ‘Because…?’

  Tanner kept moving as Chall gave her the name, the phone pressed hard to her ear, rain drumming against her umbrella. She waited for the pedestrian lights to change at Vauxhall Bridge Road, then picked up her pace.

  Interesting was right.

  … NOW

  The tube journey home to Hammersmith was every bit as uncomfortable as it had been coming the other way, as it always was when Tanner was working days. Lucky if she got a seat, only to spend the journey tense and shifting position almost constantly so as not to let her feet or knees make contact with anyone. Worse still standing, crushed against the bodies of people every bit as miserable as she was; bags and hair and stink.

  On the ten-minute walk from the station, she tried to shake off the stress of the journey and the day that had preceded it.

  She wanted to take none of it with her into the house.

  Her better half, while acknowledging how important Tanner’s job was, had made it clear early on that there were things which had no place being discussed at home. ‘Office stuff, gossip and whatever, that kind of thing’s all fine, course it is, love, but I can’t deal with anything… squalid. It’s not like I don’t know what goes on in the world. How can you not? Just turn on the television, you can’t get away from it. But that doesn’t mean I have to deal with it while we’re eating dinner or I’m lying next to you in bed at the end of the day.’

  Tanner understood and, more than anything, she wanted to make the person she loved content, so she kept certain things – lots of things – to herself. It was tricky sometimes, especially on a day like the one she had just had. She had changed into a clean shirt and the spare skirt and jacket she kept at the office before leaving work, dropped the clothes she’d worn to the post-mortem off at the dry cleaner’s near the tube station. There was simply no disguising that smell and everything it meant.

  She pulled her purse out as she walked, opened it to make sure she had not lost the dry-cleaning ticket.

  It was odd, admittedly, having conversations that sometimes made her feel as though she might just as well be working at an accountancy firm or a call centre. But things were good at home and it wasn’t as though she herself had any desire to dwell on the more unpleasant aspects of the job. She wasn’t one of those coppers, the ones who wallowed.

  It worked, that was the main thing. You couldn’t argue with almost fifteen happy years together.

  ‘We must be doing something right,’ Susan would say.

  Coming through the front door, Tanner could hear the sound of the television in the front room. She dropped her bag and hung up her coat, then put her head around the door.

  It was one of those programmes on the Lifestyle channel. Houses and holidays.

  Susan had dozed off, the cat on her lap and an empty wine glass at her feet. Just as Tanner was backing out of the room, Susan opened her eyes and blinked at her.

  ‘Sorry, love… just conked out.’ She sat up. ‘Good day?’

  ‘It was all right, actually.’

  ‘That’s good.’ She gently pushed the cat from her lap. ‘Want me to make you something?’

  ‘I’ll do myself a bit of cheese on toast.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I fancy some,’ Tanner said. ‘You stay where you are.’ She watched Susan relax back into the sofa, then lean forward suddenly to pick up the empty wine glass.

  ‘Can you do me a top-up while you’re out there?’

  Tanner stepped across to take her girlfriend’s glass, then walked out and across to the kitchen. She took the wine bottle from the fridge, examined it and saw that it was new. She poured out half a glass. She stepped softly back out into the hall to check that Susan was still in the sitting room, then went back into the kitchen and swiftly removed the smallest knife from the block.

  She carefully scored a tiny mark on the bottle; an all but invisible scratch at the level of the remaining wine.

  Susan shouted through from the living room. ‘There’s some new cheese, but finish the old one first…’

  Tanner placed the bottle back in the fridge, then walked over and put the grill on.

  … THEN

  Diana sits and puts her make-up on, taking special care around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, where the lines are. She applies the Touche Éclat, dabs at it with the tip of her little finger, then sits back and stares at herself. She applies a little more, goes through the process several times before she is happy. Or at least as happy as she will ever be.

  Silk purse, she thinks. Sow’s ear.

  She stands and looks at herself in the full length mirror and wonders, as she does at this time every Monday, why the hell she goes to so much trouble to look her best. Who is she doing it for?

  It didn’t help her hold on to her husband, after all.

  She opens her jewellery box, and while she’s trying to decide which earrings to wear, she gives herself a good talking to. ‘Stupid,’ she says out loud. She’s dressing to please herself and, right or wrong, that’s what she’s always done.

  Even as the thought is taking hold and well before she can draw any strength from it, it begins to disintegrate and she can see nothing but her daughter’s face. The accusation in it, and the blame.

  She picks out the earrings, and as she’s putting them in, she reminds herself to check her phone, even though she knows there’s little point. There will be no missed calls and no messages. She remembers one of her friends telling her once that teenagers were only a hair’s breadth away from being psychopaths. They were hard-wired to be selfish little bastards, the woman had said, and utterly without feeling for anyone but themselves. Her son, who was doing very nicely at Oxford thank you very much, had not called her in days, she told Diana. Days. Diana had smiled sympathetically and shaken her head, but something had tightened in her belly as she tried to remember her last conversation with Phoebe, how long ago that had been.

  An argument, that went without saying. Some hideous variation on the bloodletting they had been engaged in ever since the split. Her daughter had always been a daddy’s girl, but Diana had not been prepared for that kind of reaction.

  Maybe if you’d made a bit more effort.

  It’s because you’re so useless.

  You drove him away.

  Trying to stay calm as she watched the most precious thing she had left, the only thing, drifting from her grasp. Trying to explain that she hadn’t done anything, that for heaven’s sake, darling, he had been the one to have the affair.

  You didn’t leave him any choice…

  Eighteen months now since her daughter had left home and she doesn’t even bother calling to ask Diana for money. She always goes straight to her father for that. Diana lies awake at night imagining Phoebe and her ex-husband talking about her. Phoebe and her ex-husband’s new girlfriend out shopping together. She lies awake and imagines all sorts of things.

  She turns the bedroom light off and smooths the duvet before closing the door behind her. She’s excited as always about the meeting, if a little scared, and it’s around now that, in another life, she might have poured herself a glass, just to steady her nerves. She smiles at that, as she passes the large mirror at the top of the stairs.

  She looks all right, she thinks. Bloody good for her age actually, and though Tony is far too professional to say anything, of course, she knows he thinks so too.

  She makes an effort because this is the thing she cares most about now. The group is not her life, she’s not melodramatic about it, but there isn’t much else that’s as important any more. She doesn’t want to waste time having lunch with friends who will ask how she’s doing without actually caring a great deal. The trips to the salons for hair and nails and feet are purely practical and the shopping gets her blood pumping a bit, that’s all, though she knows very well that she needs to cut back.

  At some point she needs to talk to Tony about that, one to one.

  When she gets near the front door, her t
wo dogs come skittering out of the kitchen, yapping and hopeful. They haven’t had a walk in several days and Diana feels guilty. She can see that they’re putting on weight. It’s not her fault, she tells herself, because she always flags a little towards the end of the week, finds it harder and harder to drag herself out of the house.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I promise.’

  The session always gives her a fresh burst of energy and hope. A shot of confidence way better than she ever got from red wine or vodka. ‘Silk purse,’ she says to herself as she sets the alarm. ‘Silk purse, silk purse, silk purse…’

  She’ll give the dogs a good long walk in the morning.

  Heather and Chris are smoking on the pavement outside Tony’s house. It’s drizzling, so they both have their hoods up; shoulders hunched, keeping faces and cigarettes out of the wind. A few cars slow down as they pass, the drivers taking a good hard look at them.

  ‘Checking to see we’re not undesirables,’ Chris says.

  Heather flicks her fag-end into the gutter. ‘We are undesirables.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ He waits for the next car to slow down then steps forward to give the driver the finger and laughs as he accelerates away. ‘Yeah, on your way, mate.’

  Heather shakes her head. ‘That’s not very respectful.’

  ‘Fuck ’em,’ Chris says. ‘How respectful are they being anyway? Looking at us like we’re dogshit.’

  ‘Respectful to Tony, I mean. These are his neighbours.’

  ‘Maybe he needs to move.’

  ‘You should tell him,’ Heather says. ‘I’m sure he’d appreciate the housing advice, from someone who sleeps in hostels or on other people’s settees.’

  Chris narrows his eyes. ‘Yeah, well, shows how much you know, because I’m getting a flat, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, you keep saying that.’

  ‘I swear. Hackney or Haringey or somewhere. I’ve got the letter if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The woman from social services says it might be next week.’

  ‘Nice one.’ Heather punches him gently on the shoulder. ‘That’s really great news.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Chris tosses his own fag-end away. ‘All dependent on me being a good boy and all that, not doing anything stupid.’

  ‘Which is why you’re here, right?’ She nods towards the front door of Tony’s house. It’s grey, with a large chrome knocker and there is a sign saying NO COLD CALLERS fixed to the wall on one side. The porch has leaded lights and box trees stand on either side in square wooden pots. To the right of the small patch of lawn is a metal gate, outside which a series of recycling bins – blue, green and brown – have been left for collection.

  ‘Well it’s not for the company, is it?’ Chris says.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘The sparkling conversation, whatever.’

  ‘Why were you so horrible to Caroline last week, by the way?’

  Chris looks at her and shakes his head like it’s a very stupid question. He takes the tin of pre-rolled cigarettes from his pocket, turns away from the wind and lights up again. He does not bother offering one to Heather.

  He pulls hard on the skinny roll-up, then hisses out a thin line of smoke which is instantly whipped away across his shoulder. Now, he’s ready to answer. He says, ‘I was only being honest.’

  ‘Pull the other one,’ Heather says.

  ‘We’re supposed to be honest in there, aren’t we?’

  ‘Not like that.’

  ‘Right, so you’ve got to be honest, but only up to a point.’

  ‘You’re pretending to be stupid now,’ Heather says. She watches a Mercedes slow just a fraction as it passes and stares at the woman behind the wheel: blonde hair that kisses a collar as she turns her head; the soft blue glow from the instrument panel and the shining satnav. She looks back to Chris, tries to stay nice and calm. ‘There’s a difference between honesty and insulting someone because you’re a knob.’

  Chris smiles. ‘I just think the rest of you are too scared to say what you’re thinking. I haven’t got time for all that fucking… politeness.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be making connections and supporting each other.’

  Chris shrugs.

  ‘Say what you think if you want, but don’t make it personal.’

  ‘How can it not be personal?’

  ‘Fine,’ Heather says. ‘Any idea how personal we could get with you, if we felt like it?’

  ‘Bring it on,’ Chris says. ‘Like you don’t do it anyway, when I’m not there.’ He looks past Heather. ‘Oh Christ, here it comes…’

  Heather turns and they both stand and watch Caroline coming down the hill towards them. Waddling. That’s the word that occurs to each of them. She is wearing a duffel coat and has a transparent umbrella with patterns on it and she lifts a hand to wave as she gets closer.

  ‘Seriously, though.’ Chris drops what’s left of his roll-up. ‘The state of her. At least smack keeps you nice and thin, right?’ He steps back, looks Heather up and down. ‘You should count yourself lucky. Some women pile it on when they come off the gear.’

  Heather nods, like she’s grateful for the observation. ‘Really? Actually, I was just thinking that you were chunking up a little bit.’

  ‘Piss off, this is all muscle.’ He rubs a hand across his belly. ‘I’ve been working out.’

  ‘Your wrist, maybe.’

  ‘Blimey, it’s horrible isn’t it?’ Caroline says when she reaches them. ‘Hasn’t stopped all day.’

  ‘I haven’t been out,’ Heather says.

  Caroline looks at her watch. ‘Should we go in?’

  ‘Probably should,’ Chris says. ‘You don’t want Robin beating you to the biscuits.’

  Caroline looks at him, expressionless. She says, ‘Why are you such a hateful cunt?’

  If Chris is taken aback, he doesn’t show it. He cocks his head. ‘I think it’s just a gift.’

  Heather pushes open the gate and starts walking towards the front door. She turns and shouts to Caroline over her shoulder. ‘Honest, apparently. He’s an honest cunt.’

  … THEN

  ‘So, everyone had a good week?’

  Tony looks around the group. He makes eye contact with Caroline, who nods enthusiastically. By now, someone else will have filled her in, let her know that the seemingly innocent enquiry with which he always kicks things off is a well-understood code within the group for a rather more important question.

  Have you stayed clean? Are you still drug and alcohol free?

  Tony is less concerned at these sessions with those behaviours that have, in some cases, replaced the more dangerous ones. It was often the way it worked when you were dealing with addictive personalities. He remains concerned about Diana’s compulsive shopping and he suspects that Robin is still regularly using prostitutes, but they are not the primary issue. Besides, not all these secondary activities have been shared with other members of the group.

  Different therapists have different time frames. The one day at a time brigade usually demand that anyone attending a session must have been clean for the previous twenty-four hours, while others insist on a longer period of abstinence. Seven days works well enough for Tony. It’s what he’d become used to when he was in therapy.

  ‘Good,’ Tony says. ‘So let’s crack on.’

  A day, a week, a month. Whatever the time frame, it doesn’t preclude simple dishonesty, of course. And addicts are very good at lying.

  One member of the group will not make eye contact and Tony can’t help wondering just how ‘good’ Chris’s week has been. If he has done something rather more damaging than spending whole days playing video games or watching online pornography. Chris is the member of the circle Tony is most concerned about. He’s the most unpredictable, the most chaotic. He decides to try and talk to Chris privately when their time is up and suggest a few one-to-one sessions.

  ‘I’m wondering if maybe we should add
ress one of the issues from last week.’ Tony glances down at the notepad on his lap. ‘There was a certain amount of friction between Caroline and Chris…’

  ‘No friction from me,’ Caroline says. ‘I was on the receiving end.’

  ‘He was at it again when we were outside,’ Heather says.

  Chris mutters, ‘Grass,’ just loud enough for Tony to hear.

  ‘What were you doing outside?’ Tony asks.

  ‘Just talking,’ Heather says. ‘Having a fag, you know? Then Caroline arrives and he kicks off with the fat stuff.’

  ‘We don’t want that kind of thing in here,’ Tony says. He sits back, appearing genuinely saddened. ‘Conflict is nearly always counter-productive and we do not reject people because of who or what they are, especially because at some point that’s exactly what’s happened to us. Right? Chris, come on, you know how we work. You’re not a beginner.’

  Chris looks at the floor, shrinks a little, like a chided schoolboy.

  ‘Look, it’s fine,’ Caroline says.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Robin says.

  ‘He should apologise.’ Diana looks for support. ‘He should just say sorry and we can all move on.’

  Tony acknowledges the nods and murmurs of agreement and looks to his left. ‘Chris?’

  It takes half a minute or so, then Chris raises his head and looks across at Caroline. He says, ‘I’m sorry if you were upset.’

  Heather snorts her derision. ‘That’s not an apology.’

  ‘That’s passive, Chris,’ Tony says. ‘You’re not taking responsibility.’

  ‘I wasn’t upset,’ Caroline says. ‘Takes more than that, trust me —’

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, OK?’ Chris sits up straight, rolls his shoulders. ‘I’m really sorry I said what I said. It was out of order.’ And he looks as though he means it.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Caroline says.

  ‘Good for you,’ Diana says.