The water in the sink was sc.u.mmy with dark brown goose fat ('Why are we having goose?' Robert had complained, sounding about eleven. 'We always always have turkey!'). I pulled the plug, lifted out the greasy plates and stacked them neatly on the side. Bits of red cabbage and a couple of cigarette b.u.t.ts mine, I supposed lay at the bottom of the sink, along with a whole a.r.s.enal of cutlery. I swilled down the dirt, put the plug back in, and filled the sink with hot and very soapy water. Then I went back to the dining room to a.s.sess the damage. have turkey!'). I pulled the plug, lifted out the greasy plates and stacked them neatly on the side. Bits of red cabbage and a couple of cigarette b.u.t.ts mine, I supposed lay at the bottom of the sink, along with a whole a.r.s.enal of cutlery. I swilled down the dirt, put the plug back in, and filled the sink with hot and very soapy water. Then I went back to the dining room to a.s.sess the damage.

A chair still lay on its side where Jerome had thrown it before storming out ('You've gone too far this time, Mother Mother!'), dragging Hana with him, listing gracefully on her thin black heels. I picked it up and sat down heavily on it. Candles guttered in the centre of the table, casting flickery light over the debris. A capsized half-demolished Christmas pudding lay, as unappetising as a ruptured football, among a smeary array of wine gla.s.ses, tumblers, port gla.s.ses, empty bottles. How much had we drunk? Not enough not enough to blank out the memory, which anyway had been relentlessly filmed by the TV crew.

I picked up a green paper crown and stuck it on my head, then lit a cigarette. This was nice, being alone again. As I smoked, slowly, I shovelled the empty crackers together, and threw them on the glowing fire, which briefly flared, then returned to gold-speckled ash. A cracker joke caught my eye. 'How many ears does Davy Crockett have? Three: a left ear, a right ear, and a wild front ear.' Oh, how Kim in a stinging yellow gown and Erica (roaring purple) had giggled. They'd giggled most of the evening, unexpected allies, mad molls in their absurd finery. They'd laughed at all the usual cracker jokes ('What did the policeman say to his tummy? You're under a vest'; 'Knock, knock. Who's there? Boo. Boo who? Ah don't cry.'); at Andreas, who clearly disapproved of Erica and this new-model Kim; at Paul's directorial solemnity; at the cameras themselves. They'd sat on either side of Dad (who had gone into slow motion as everyone else had speeded up) and flirted with him outrageously, until he'd given grudging half-smiles, charmed by their loony girlishness.

I stubbed out my cigarette and carried the gla.s.ses to the kitchen. I washed the crockery and cutlery, rinsed it. Lovely silence. What a lot of shouting there had been: Paul at Erica ('Are you trying to ruin my film?'), Andreas at Kim ('You've had quite enough to drink'), Kim to Andreas ('p.i.s.s off, you old fart, it's Christmas and I'm not on call'), Jerome at Robert ('If you can't be polite to Hana, get out'), Robert at me ('Still trying to make everyone one happy family?'). Dad hadn't shouted, but then he'd hardly spoken. Claud hadn't shouted, but he had followed me into the kitchen and hissed: 'Who's Caspar, Jane?' I hadn't shouted until the cameraman, backing away from a long take of Erica and Kim singing 'Oh Little Town of Bethlehem', had b.u.mped into my precious green-gla.s.s decanter, knocking it to the floor.

The plates were done, lined up in a gleaming row of white. Gla.s.ses done. I lifted a tray of disparate objects (matches, a set of keys, paper clip, pen, thimble, paper-knife, ear-ring, Remembrance Day poppy, screwdriver, black p.a.w.n from a chess set) and winced at the memory. Oh G.o.d, we'd played the Memory Game. Claud had organised it, of course, explaining the rules to a half-sozzled company ('Memorise what's on the tray, then I'll cover it up, and you must write down everything you can, then we'll uncover the tray and see who's remembered the most objects'). It was a game we'd played a lot as children. One of the objects on the tray, staring up at a suddenly sober company, had been a photograph of Claud and me and the boys, taken years ago (By whom? I could no longer remember). Smiling, touching each other. That's when Jerome had thrown over his chair.

I poured out a gla.s.s of port in a thick purple glug and lit a final cigarette. The rest of the mess could wait till morning. I took off my shoes, my ear-rings. Yawned. Giggled suddenly at the memory of Kim and Erica. The phone rang.

'h.e.l.lo.' Who would ring at this time of night?

'Mum.' It was Jerome and he still sounded angry. 'Never do that again.'

'You mean you didn't have a good time? What a pity I was thinking of reconvening at New Year's Eve.'

'This is exactly what I needed.'

I was lying by green water, palm trees and thick plants all around, in a thick white towelling robe. We were drinking mango juice, and I was feeling more relaxed than I had done in a very long time. My muscles had unstrung, my bones felt supple, my skin soft, green light danced against my eyeb.a.l.l.s. The winter sun, slanting in through the tall windows, stroked my bare legs. The echoey room was filled with low murmurs of women, like a harem without a master. I could feel my heart-beat smooth and comforting. Soon I would have a swim, then a ma.s.sage. Then I would lie down again, and flick through women's magazines, reading advertis.e.m.e.nts for sun lotion and lip gloss.

Kim had called me the evening before, when I'd been feeling wearily sad. She'd bought two day pa.s.ses for The Nunnery, a women-only health centre, and wasn't asking but insisting that I came along. I'd protested, but feebly, and at the sound of her voice, so matter-of-fact and familiar, my eyes had filled with tears. I'd felt as if, at last, I were coming unravelled; all my seams undoing at once.

When I'd put the phone down, it had rung again almost immediately. It was Catherine, from a payphone. Paul had come round, she said, and he and Peggy were quarrelling; they weren't even bothering to keep their voices low. It was awful, awful, like the days before Paul had left the family for good. They were shouting at each other and it all had something to do with Natalie, and please please could I tell her what was going on. I couldn't tell her because I didn't know. I said something ba.n.a.l about Paul and Peggy loving her a lot, and she must never forget that, then realised that I was talking to her as if she were six, so stopped. But instead of being surly down the phone, Catherine started sobbing noisily. I imagined her leaning her beautiful skinny body against the grubby kiosk, and wiping her tears with her black T-shirt, her sharp k.n.o.bbly elbows icy in the winter air. I muttered something, and she sobbed on. The money ran out on a gasping sniff.

When Robert and Jerome had been little, it had been so easy to comfort them. Even now, I could vividly recall how their bunchy bodies could be gathered up, heads tucked into my neck, my chin on their smooth crowns, their determined legs wrapped fiercely round my waist; how I'd croon nonsense as I wiped away tears that smarted on their flushed cheeks... My little darling... it'll all be okay... Mummy'll protect you... there, pigeon, there, humdinger... don't you fret, don't fret a bit... Mummy's here, my sweet love... my darling one.

Then, slowly, they had stopped wanting me to touch them. One day, I'd realised they no longer got into bed with me in the mornings, that they closed the bathroom door. When something was wrong, they'd go to their rooms, and I'd have to fight against the urge to follow them, pretend that Mummy could still make it better. When Robert was bullied at school, and went around in a fog of mute shame, and it was only when I heard one little boy calling him sissy that with a punch in the gut I knew what was going on; when Jerome had his first sweetheart and sewed absurd felt hearts (so uncool) onto his jeans, and then she chucked him after one date, so we had to spend an evening unpicking them and he pretended to be indifferent, not to care, he winced at my sympathy; when Robert quarrelled with Claud about smoking, and neither of them could talk to the other for days, pompous gits, and I longed to shake them both, but instead I busied myself around them, and I thought, even then, what a waste of time time this is. There were days when all I wanted to do was to hug them, touch them, my boys, my lovely sons but they'd twitch embarra.s.sedly, good humouredly: don't be soppy. this is. There were days when all I wanted to do was to hug them, touch them, my boys, my lovely sons but they'd twitch embarra.s.sedly, good humouredly: don't be soppy.

Ever since they'd been born, they'd been leaving me. I remembered Mum, just before she died, saying: 'The best gift I could give you was your independence. But you were always in such a hurry hurry to go from me.' Children are always in such a hurry to go. I remembered Robert, aged five or so, at the beach. His shoe lace was undone and he was crying because we'd left him behind. He stood, a little blocky shape on a great expanse of sand. I ran back, stooped down to help, and he pushed me away: ' to go from me.' Children are always in such a hurry to go. I remembered Robert, aged five or so, at the beach. His shoe lace was undone and he was crying because we'd left him behind. He stood, a little blocky shape on a great expanse of sand. I ran back, stooped down to help, and he pushed me away: 'I can do it.' They practise being grown-up for such a long time, and then one day you notice that they really are grown-up. Where had all that time gone? How had it happened that I was middle-aged and on my own, and never again would I know the swamping joy of holding a child under my chin and saying: Don't fret, it'll be all right, I promise you it'll be all right.

I wept myself to sleep, great raw spasms of weeping, and felt as if something was breaking up inside me. In the morning a great ice-blue sky and skeletal frost-covered branches I pulled on a track suit, packed shampoo and Jane Eyre Jane Eyre into a shoulder bag, and went to meet Kim. Now, lying side by side, eyes shut in the white and green s.p.a.ce, I spoke dreamily. Today, to Kim, I could say anything at all. Words floated in the air between us, clouds of explanation. Water lapped, and green ripples danced across my closed eyes. My body was water; my heart had dissolved; emotion was running softly through me, like a dreamy river. into a shoulder bag, and went to meet Kim. Now, lying side by side, eyes shut in the white and green s.p.a.ce, I spoke dreamily. Today, to Kim, I could say anything at all. Words floated in the air between us, clouds of explanation. Water lapped, and green ripples danced across my closed eyes. My body was water; my heart had dissolved; emotion was running softly through me, like a dreamy river.

'I feel I'm in trouble, Kim.'

'This is Natalie?'

Kim held my hand, our fingers locked, our arms hanging between the sun-beds. Was this despair that I was feeling? Despair didn't have to be vicious and hard; it could be like warm liquid filling up every crevice in my body.

'It might have been a stranger, some random tragedy.'

'Yes.' My voice came out in a whisper.

'Luke is probably the most likely suspect, even though he wasn't the father of the baby. Maybe he killed her because he knew he wasn't wasn't the father.' the father.'

'Maybe.'

'Whatever it is, it certainly isn't your responsibility to find out.'

'No, of course not.'

'You couldn't possibly have anyone else in mind? Darling Jane, you're not going to make a fool of yourself.'

We lay a little longer in silence. I still had my eyes shut; the only part of me that felt solid were my fingers, where they clasped Kim's.

I had a ma.s.sage. A woman smelling of lemons, her dark blonde hair tied back in a smooth pony-tail, her feet bare, stood over me and dug her strong fingers into all my aches and pains. My last resistance was pushed up the channels of my body, out. My tears ran onto the couch, puddled against my cheek. I felt empty.

I collected my car from the car-park on St Martin's Lane G.o.d, what an indulgence and headed over to Charing Cross Road and north. I turned on the radio. I didn't want music. I didn't want to be trapped with my own thoughts, so I pushed the b.u.t.ton until I found someone speaking.

'What has not been taken on board by the sleepy Establishment that still rules this country is that the most valuable commodity in the world will soon be something that you can't hold in your hands; it's not oil or even gold, but information.'

'Oh, s.h.i.t,' I yelled in the safe confines of my car.

'Now, the implications of this are almost infinite, but let me just make two points. One, it's irreversible, entirely beyond the control of any national legislation or administration. Two, any organisation that is left outside that information world will wither and be left behind.'

'Oh, f.u.c.k,' I shouted.

A jaunty DJ's voice wondered if 'Theo' could give an example.

'All right, take one of our most respected inst.i.tutions, the police force. Let's just say that if you were creating an organisation to do the job of the police force you wouldn't create anything like what we now have. It is a typical, unmanaged, manpower-heavy structure, which takes more money every year only to produce worse results, and one of the main reasons for this is that its role is based on a myth. An efficient police force is about rational management of staff and the ordering of information.'

'What about the bobby on the beat?'

'The idea is a joke. If we want people to walk up and down streets doing nothing, let's get retired people to do it at a pound an hour. It has nothing to do with policework.'

'We'll take a break there. We're talking to Dr Theo Martello about his new book, The Communication Cord. The Communication Cord. This is Capital Radio.' This is Capital Radio.'

I was in Tottenham Court Road and realised with amus.e.m.e.nt that I was about to drive past the Capital Tower. I crossed Euston Road and, on an impulse, turned right off Hampstead Road and parked next to the army surplus store. I sat with the radio on listening to Theo rhapsodising about the breaking down of frontiers, the collapse of inst.i.tutions, the end of the state, of welfare, of income tax, of almost everything. Finally, he drew to a close with yet another plug for the book from the DJ. I got out of the car, crossed the road to the Capital Tower and waited a few yards away from the revolving door.

Theo didn't notice me at first. He was in his business uniform, a suit whose lapels were so high and ugly that it must have been fashionable and expensive. He carried a briefcase about the size and slimness of a magazine. His head gleamed through his close-cropped hair in the cold winter sunshine.

'Carry your case for you, guv?' I asked brightly.

He started.

'What's this?' he said. 'Am I on This is Your Life This is Your Life or something?' or something?'

'No, I heard you on the radio and realised I was just pa.s.sing.'

He laughed.

'Good. It's good to see you, Jane.'

'Can I give you a lift somewhere?'

'Is Bush House on your way?'

'No, but I'll take you.'

Theo told a waiting taxi to go away and we set off in my car.

'How can you manage with a briefcase that small? I go around with shopping bags full of papers crammed into my saddlebag.'

Theo shook his head.

'It's a waste of s.p.a.ce as it is. In five years I'll have something the size and weight of a credit card.'

'I keep losing my credit card.'

'I'm afraid that the information revolution hasn't got anything yet to deal with your brain, my dear. You want to go left ahead and then right.'

'I know the way,' I said irritably. 'You weren't very nice about our constabulary were you?'

'It's the sort of thing that makes people sit up, isn't it?'

There was a short silence and I waited, hoping that Theo wouldn't change the subject but not daring to take the plunge. I had to.

'Theo, what are you up to with Helen Auster?'

There was no reaction but the pause was a few beats too long.

'What do you mean?'

'Oh, come on, Theo, I'm not blind.'

I saw his grip on his case tighten.

'Oh, you know, it's something about women in uniform, isn't it?'

'Helen Auster doesn't wear a uniform.'

'Not literally, but she wears a metaphorical uniform. There's something erotic about symbols of authority yielding and being conquered.'

I didn't know where to begin.

'Theo, this is a woman involved in the investigation of your sister's murder.'

'Come off it, Jane. n.o.body's going to solve Natalie's murder. The investigation is a farce. There is no evidence. Nothing's going to happen.'

'Am I missing something, Theo? I thought you were married. Where does Frances fit into all this?'

Theo turned to me with a secure smile.

'What do you want me to say, Jane? That my wife doesn't understand me? This isn't a debating society.'

'And isn't Helen Auster married?'

'To the supermarket manager, yes. I haven't noticed any signs of reluctance on her part.' I glanced at his face. He had a faint smile that seemed to challenge, even taunt me. 'Helen is a pa.s.sionate woman, Jane. Very uninhibited, with a bit of encouragement.'

'Are you going to leave Frances?'

'No, it's just a bit of fun.'

It had been horribly easy. I felt nauseous, but I couldn't stop myself from continuing.

'I saw Chrissie Pilkington the other day. Well, she's not called Pilkington any more.'

'Yes?'

'She mentioned your name.'

'What's all this about?'

'She was an old flame of yours. After your father had finished with her.'

'Briefly.' There was a pause. 'Are you all right, Jane?'

'What do you mean?'

'Do you want to know what I mean?' Theo said, angry now for the first time. 'I'm trying to remember who was my flame as you put it after Chrissie? I wonder who that was?' He looked around agitatedly. We were totally stuck in Gower Street. 'I'll walk from here or get a taxi. Thanks for the lift.'

He opened the car, got out and walked quickly away. I sat, stuck in traffic, furious and shamed.

Twenty-Four.

I was in the bath when the phone rang. I turned the hot tap off with my toe, sank back into the foam, and listened. I'd forgotten to switch the answering machine on. Should I bother to answer it? If I got out of the bath now, it would stop before I reached it. But it went on ringing stubbornly. I pulled myself out of the water, which suddenly seemed irresistible, wrapped a towel around my boiled body, and ran to the bedroom.

'h.e.l.lo.'

'Jane, it's Fred.'

'Fred? I haven't heard from you for...'

'It's Martha. She's going.'

'Going?'

'She's dying Jane, she's dying fast. She wants to see you. She asked me to bring you with me. I'm going tomorrow, crack of dawn.'

'Shouldn't we go straight away?'