chapter thirteen
‘Harry is dead,’ said Oliver, almost the moment Erika arrived home from work and put down her briefcase and umbrella. She touched her neck. Ice-cold raindrops were running down her back. Oliver was sitting on the couch surrounded by a little lake of squashed, used-up tissues.
‘Seriously?’ said Erika. She was focused on the tissues. ‘What happened?’ The sight of the tissues made her heart rate pick up. Visceral response linked to childhood trauma. Perfectly natural. Three deep breaths. She just needed to get rid of those tissues.
‘Tiffany and I found his body,’ said Oliver as Erika hurried to the cupboard under the kitchen sink to find a plastic bag.
‘Where?’ said Erika, scooping up tissues. ‘At his house, do you mean?’
She tied the handles of the plastic bag into a firm, satisfying knot and took it over to the bin and dropped it in.
‘Yes,’ said Oliver. ‘You were right about the key. It was under a pot.’
‘So he was … dead?’ said Erika as she stood at the sink, scrubbing her hands. People always asked if she’d been in the medical profession because of the way she washed her hands. When she was in public she tried to be less obviously rigorous, but now that she was home with Oliver, she could scrub and scrub without worrying that someone would diagnose her with OCD. Oliver never judged.
‘Yes, Erika,’ said Oliver. He sounded aggravated. ‘He was very dead. He’d been dead for some time. Weeks and weeks, I’d say.’ His voice broke.
‘Oh. I see. Oh dear.’ Erika turned from the sink. Oliver looked very pale. His hands lay limply on his knees and he sat upright, his feet flat on the floor, like a kid in the throes of terrible remorse, sitting outside the school principal’s office.
She took a breath. Her husband was upset. Extremely upset by the look of it. So he probably wanted and needed to ‘share’. People with dysfunctional childhoods like hers didn’t have the best interpersonal skills when it came to relationships. Well, it was just a fact. No one had modelled a healthy relationship for her. No one had modelled a healthy relationship for Oliver either. They had their dysfunctional childhoods in common. That’s why Erika had invested close to six thousand dollars to date in high-quality therapy. The cycles of dysfunction and mental illness did not have to carry over from generation to generation. You just had to educate yourself.
Erika went and sat on the couch next to Oliver and indicated by her body language that she was ready to listen. She made eye contact. She touched his forearm. She would use hand sanitiser once they finished talking. She really didn’t want to catch that horrible cold.
‘Was he …’ She didn’t want to know the answers to any of the questions she knew she should ask. ‘Was he … what, in bed?’ She thought of a maniacally grinning corpse sitting upright in a bed, one rotting hand on the coverlet.
‘He was at the bottom of the stairs. As soon as I opened the door we could smell it.’ Oliver shuddered.
‘God,’ said Erika.
Smell was one of her issues. Oliver always laughed at the way she’d drop rubbish in the bin and then jump back so the smell couldn’t catch her.
‘I only looked for one second, and then I just, I just … well, I slammed the door shut, and we called the police.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Erika mechanically. ‘Horrible for you.’ She felt herself resist. She didn’t want to hear about it, she didn’t want him to share this experience with her. She wanted him to stop talking. She wanted to talk about dinner. She wanted to calm down after the day she’d had. She’d skipped lunch, and she’d stayed back at work to make up for the time she’d wasted going to Clementine’s talk, so she was starving, but obviously after your husband tells you about finding a corpse you can’t then immediately follow it with, ‘Fancy some pasta?’ No. She’d have to wait at least half an hour before she could mention dinner.
‘The police said they think maybe he fell down the stairs,’ said Oliver. ‘And I keep thinking, I keep thinking …’
He made strange little breathy noises. Erika tried to keep the irritation off her face. He was going to sneeze. Every sneeze was a performance. She waited. No. He wasn’t going to sneeze. He was trying not to cry.
Erika recoiled. She couldn’t join him in this. If she allowed herself to feel sad and guilty about Harry, who she hadn’t even liked, then who knew what could happen. It would be like uncorking a champagne bottle that had been vigorously shaken. Her emotions would fly all over the place. Messy. She needed order. ‘I need order,’ she’d told her psychologist. ‘Of course you need order,’ her psychologist had said. ‘You crave order. That’s perfectly understandable.’ Her psychologist was the nicest person she knew.
Oliver took his glasses off and wiped his eyes. ‘I keep thinking, what if he fell down the stairs and he couldn’t move and he was calling and calling for help but nobody heard? We all just went about our daily lives, while Harry starved to death, what if that happened? We’re like those neighbours you see on TV, and you think, how could you not have noticed? How could you not have cared? So what if he was a bit grumpy?’
‘Well, you know, Vid and Tiffany are right next door to him,’ said Erika. She did not want to think about Harry lying on the floor. The sun rising and setting. Hearing the sounds of the neighbourhood: lawn mowers, garbage trucks, the leaf blower he hated so much.
‘I know. Tiffany is really upset too. But you know what? I was the one on the street he probably liked the most. He tolerated me, anyway. I mean, we had some civil conversations.’
‘I know,’ said Erika. ‘Like that time you were both so mad about that abandoned car outside the Richardsons’.’
‘I should have noticed he hadn’t been out and about,’ said Oliver. He took a tissue from the box and blew his nose noisily. ‘I did think I hadn’t seen him for a while, maybe a week or so ago, but then I just forgot about it.’
‘He wouldn’t have starved to death,’ reflected Erika. ‘It would have been the lack of water that killed him. Dehydration.’
‘Erika!’ Oliver winced. He dropped his scrunched-up tissue on the couch next to him and pulled another one from the box.
‘What? I’m just saying he didn’t lie there for weeks on end.’ She paused. ‘He should have had one of those emergency alarm things around his neck.’
‘Well, he didn’t,’ said Oliver shortly. He blew his nose again.
‘And I guess he had no family,’ said Erika. ‘No friends.’ Because he was such a nasty, vindictive old bastard. She wasn’t going to let Oliver drag her into the morass of guilt into which he was sinking. Let Tiffany sink with him. Erika already lived with the permanent thrum of guilt.
‘I guess he didn’t,’ said Oliver. ‘Or if he did, we never saw them visit. That’s why it was up to us to keep an eye out for him. These are the people who slip through the cracks of society. I mean, as a community, we have a moral obligation to –’
The landline rang and Erika leaped to her feet as though she’d won a prize. ‘I’ll get it.’
She picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Erika, darling. It’s Pam.’
That well-bred, well-projected voice. The voice of good sense and good manners.
‘Pam,’ said Erika. ‘Hi.’ She felt an instant softening and a ticklish feeling of imminent tears. She felt it whenever she spoke to Clementine’s mother. That old childhood adoration, the dizzy, glorious feeling of relief, as if she’d been rescued at sea.
‘I’m babysitting for Clementine and Sam,’ said Pam. ‘They’ve just left. They’re going out for dinner at that new restaurant in the Overseas Passenger Terminal people have been raving about. I booked it for them. It’s got three hats. Maybe even five hats? I don’t know. An impressive number of hats. Hopefully they’re having as nice a time as can be expected, although I wish it wasn’t raining, but fingers crossed. They need it, the poor kids. To be frank, I’m worried about their marriage. That’s talking out of school, I know, but, well, you’re her best friend, so you probably know more than me about it.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t know about that,’ said Erika. In actual fact, Erika knew nothing about Clementine’s marriage problems. Surely Pam knew that the ‘best friends’ label had been created by her, and for all those years Erika had clung to it while Clementine merely endured it.
‘Anyway, Erika, darling, I know we’re seeing you soon for our special dinner at my place, which I’m really looking forward to, but listen, the reason I thought I’d give you a call tonight …’ Erika heard the tentativeness in Pam’s voice and her jaw clenched.
‘Well, I had to go to Flower Power today, which meant I drove by your mum’s house,’ said Pam. ‘I didn’t stop.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps I should have, but your mum has really taken against me in recent years, hasn’t she?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Erika, I know you stick to a schedule now with your visits and I think that’s a really sensible idea for your own mental health, but I’m thinking perhaps you need to bring this month’s visit forward.’
Erika breathed out a long thin stream of air like she was blowing up a balloon. She looked at Oliver. He’d closed his eyes and let his head tip back against the couch, one hand pressed to his forehead.
‘How bad?’ she said to Pam.
‘Pretty bad, darling, I’m afraid. Pretty bad.’