Free The Flavours of Love by Dorothy Koomson Page B

people I know would write to me. My mother is one, but that’s rare these days and she wouldn’t travel from London to post it by hand. I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope and rip it open.
That Day
(26 October, 2011)
    ‘
I’m really sorry to have to tell you this,’ the she one says. She stops speaking and looks to the man beside her for help
.
    ‘
Your husband has been involved in an incident,’ the he one continues
.
    Incident. ‘
Incident’ not ‘accident’. What happened was on purpose
.
    ‘
Is he all right? Where is he? Can I see him?
’
    ‘
I’m sorry,’ the she one says. ‘I’m so sorry.
’
    My fingers are numb, my body is numb, my entire being is suddenly without air. There are a dozen little splattering thuds of blackberries falling onto the ground, there’s a crash of a white ceramic bowl hitting a white ceramic tile.
    I knock over the chair as I push myself away from the table, away from the letter I’ve opened and started to read.
    I stand in the centre of the room, trembling as I stare at two sheets of cream A4 writing paper, folded carefully into thirds that are splayed open like an upturned hand on the table.
    Suddenly, I’m not here any more. I’m back there.
    *
    It’s light in the kitchen. It’s just after two o’clock. I have answered the door with a bowl of blackberries in my hand, but I have to hurry thecallers in because I have left the tap running on full. They follow me into the kitchen and as I reach to switch off the tap, it clicks in my mind who they are, why I didn’t think twice about asking them in.
    I shut off the chrome faucet and turn slowly, warily to them.
    I see myself as clearly as anything. And I watch myself hear the news, I spy on Saffron Mackleroy as she finds out that her husband has been stolen right from under her ever-vigilant gaze.
    I watch the words sink in, I see myself drop the bowl, I understand what makes me stagger back against the counter.
    I know that I am thinking:
I shouldn’t have chosen blackberries
. And in a second, I’m going to look up at the he and the she police officers who stand still and silent in front of me, and I’m going to say:
    ‘Where are my children?’
    *
    I’m back there, that letter has ripped me from the present, catapulted me back through time to eighteen months ago. To
that day
. These are not like the potholes that set off memories of my life that can comfort or confuse me, this has dragged me back there. I am there. I am trapped, living it all over again.
    That’s why I try not to think about
that day
. That’s why I try to not think about that time at all. That’s why I keep myself numb and safe; if I think about it, I’ll have to relive it all over again.

III

VIII
That Day
(26 October, 2011)
    ‘I’m really sorry to have to tell you this,’ the she one says. She stops speaking and looks to the man beside her for help.
    ‘Your husband has been involved in an incident,’ the he one continues.
    Incident
. ‘Incident’ not ‘accident’. What happened was on purpose.
    ‘Is he all right? Where is he? Can I see him?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ the she one says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
    My fingers are numb, my body is numb, my entire being is suddenly without air. There are a dozen little splattering thuds of blackberries falling onto the ground, there’s a crash of a white ceramic bowl hitting a white ceramic tile.
That Day
    ‘Where are my children?’ I ask them. My eyes, wide and wild, stare at them in turn. A him and a her. Two strangers who are standing in my house when I don’t even know where my children are.
    They look at each other, puzzled, confused, and then return their gazes to me.
    ‘Where are my children?’ I ask again, this time my voice on the crest of panic.
    The she one says, ‘I think they’re probably at school.’
    ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘That’s not right, they can’t be. I wouldn’t let them go to school at a time like this. I’d keep them here with me. I