Waiting for Wednesday

life.’
    Boyfriend?
    ‘No. Not that I knew of. She’d
had boyfriends before but nothing serious. There was someone she liked.’
    And her character? Was she shy or outgoing, for instance?
    ‘Shy, Roxanne? She was ever so
friendly – bold, you could even say. She always said what was on her mind and could have
a bit of a temper – but she’d go out of her way to help people. She was a good
girl, really. A bit wild, but she had a good heart.’
    Would she have talked to a stranger?
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘
Would she have got into a car
with a stranger?
    ‘No.’
    When Fearby got up to go, she clutched his
arm. ‘Do you think she’s alive?’
    ‘Mrs Ingatestone, I couldn’t
possibly –’
    ‘No. But do you? If you were me, would
you think she was alive?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Not knowing is like being buried
alive myself.’
    Jim Fearby pulled over in a lay-by and took
out his list of names. One was already crossed out. Next to Roxanne Ingatestone’s
name, however, he put a tick. No, he didn’t think she was alive.



TWENTY-NINE
    Joe Franklin had been more cheerful than for
a long time but Frieda knew that he moved through repeating cycles of depression. For
months he would be heavy, grey and defeated, barely able to go through the motions of
living, often incapable of making it to her rooms or of uttering a word when he got
there. The deathly numbness would lift and, for a while, he would emerge into a brighter
world, exhausted and relieved. But he always got sucked back into the black hole of
himself. Coming to see her was his way of holding on to a corner of life, but it was
also his comfort blanket.
    Frieda had often felt during her own therapy
that she was standing in the desert, under the blowtorch of the sun, parched and
bleached and unforgiven, with nowhere to hide. Joe, however, crept into her room like an
animal into a lair. He hid from himself and perhaps she allowed him to do that in a way
that wasn’t necessarily helpful. Solace not self-knowledge. Yet how much should we
face ourselves full on?
    As she was thinking these things, making her
notes after the session, with the spring sun slanting through the window and lying in a
blade across the floor, her mobile vibrated in her pocket. She took it out: Sasha.
    ‘I’m about to leave work. Are
you free?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Can I come and see you?’
    ‘All right. I’ll be home in
about half an hour – is that good?’
    ‘Perfect. I’ll bring a bottle of
wine. And Frank.’
    ‘Frank?’
    ‘Is that OK?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘I feel a bit nervous – as if
I’m about to introduce him to my family. I want you to like him.’
    Frieda walked to her house in the soft
dying day. Petals of blossom lay on the pavement. She thought about Rajit Singh and the
story he had told that was someone else’s story; tonight she would send a message
to Agnes Flint. And she thought about Joe and then about the happiness she had heard in
Sasha’s voice. As she unlocked her front door, she wondered how long it would be
before she could have a hot bath again, with no dust swirling through her rooms.
    The door stuck against something and she
frowned, then squeezed through the narrow opening into her hall. There were two large
bags there, blocking the entrance. There was a jacket lying on the floor beside them.
There were voices and laughter coming from her kitchen. She could smell cigarette smoke.
She pressed the light switch, but no light came on.
    ‘Hello?’ she called, and the
voices ceased.
    ‘Frieda!’ Josef appeared in the
kitchen doorway. He was in his work clothes, but held a brimming glass of vodka and he
seemed to have trouble walking in a straight line. ‘Come in and join.’
    ‘What’s going on? Whose are
these bags?’
    ‘Hello, Frieda.’ Chloë appeared
beside Josef. She was wearing what looked to Frieda like a jersey, but presumably was
meant to be a dress, because there was no skirt underneath it. Her face was smeary with
smudged makeup and she, too, was holding a glass of vodka. ‘I’m so grateful
to you. So, so grateful.’
    ‘What do you mean, you’re
grateful? What have I done? Jack!’ Jack was coming unsteadily down the stairs.
‘What’s going on? Is this a party?’’
    ‘A gathering,’ Jack said,
looking sheepish. ‘Chloë told me to come over.’
    ‘Did she now? And why don’t the
lights work?’
    ‘Ah.’ Josef took a hasty swig of
his vodka. ‘Electrical problems.’
    ‘What does that mean? Are these