Free The Water Room by Christopher Fowler Page A

around with architects and builders. He just wants to see his daughter and his grandchildren. Besides, he has another reason for wanting to divest himself of the house. It hurts him to have it, Paul, his sister died there. He says she received hate mail, racist stuff, and it upset her badly. He doesn’t ever want to set foot inside the place again. Can you blame him? I can deal with his solicitor, and that way he can go as soon as he likes. I’ve got enough ready cash for the deposit and I can just about raise the mortgage on my own, but I’ll need you to kick in with money for the work that needs doing. We can do it, Paul.’
    ‘I haven’t even seen the place. And my job’s risky at the moment. I could be out of work any day now—’
    ‘It’s got a spare room and a garden.’
    He misunderstood her. ‘You’re right, we’ll need somewhere for the baby.’ He raised his glass. ‘That’s another reason to celebrate, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, that’s a reason to celebrate.’
    ‘Then let’s have a toast.’ He studied her carefully. ‘To the baby.’
    ‘The baby.’ Kallie raised her glass, and tried not to catch his eye.
    ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
    Her eyes held his. ‘No.’
    ‘Why did you tell me you were?’
    He didn’t seem angry, and she found herself resenting his obvious relief. ‘I don’t—I wasn’t trying to—’ The words dried in her mouth.
    ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He reached across the table and cupped her hands in his. He seemed to have finally made up his mind about something. ‘Do you understand? It doesn’t matter.’
    ‘Paul—’
    The waiter had arrived with the starter, but discreetly stood to one side. The other diners watched them kiss, but being British, pretended not to notice. Outside, the first heavy squalls of rain prickled the river.
    7
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    HOME AND DRY
    ‘You don’t understand what it’s like, and I have no way of explaining to you,’ said April. Hands trembling faintly, she relit her cigarette. Her purloined Michelin ashtray had filled with Silk Cut in the last half-hour. It was the only untidied thing in a room filled with carefully arranged mementoes from a happier life. ‘I know Arthur meant well, but I just can’t do it.’
    ‘I’m trying to understand,’ said John May. ‘Please, let me help you.’
    She shook out her hair as though the idea was preposterous. ‘How? What can you do? You have no idea.’ Her pale fringe fell forward, hiding her face. She appeared healthier than he had expected, but the off-kilter body language that had so long hinted at some unspecified disquiet had become habit, so that she appeared hunched. She had been living in the shadow of the past for so long that it seemed any emergence into daylight might melt her away.
    ‘April, I’ve been in the police force all my life, I’ve dealt with every kind of situation imaginable. In my experience—’
    ‘That’s the problem, this isn’t in your experience. It’s not something that can be cured by making an arrest.’ Her voice was as thin and cracked as spring ice. ‘You’ve had a lifetime of good health, you think you’re invincible, you come from a generation that doesn’t understand why people can’t just pull themselves together, but it’s not that simple.’
    ‘I know it’s been tough for you—’
    ‘Why do you talk as if it’s in the past? It’s still tough for me. I want to work. I want to stand outside, beneath a vast blue sky. I want to be able to pass a stranger in the street without feeling terrified. But I open the front door and the world comes in like a tidal wave.’ She hid her eyes behind her hand. He recalled the fierce methylene blue of her irises as a child. It seemed that the colour had faded from them since.
    Agoraphobia was the latest spectre to haunt April in her battle to cope with her mother’s death. John May’s granddaughter had grown ill soon after Elizabeth died. Years of therapy had made little difference to her. John