form of Ray bearing a tray with two mugs and a glass on it. He dispenses the drinks silently, gives me a smile and a wink, then retreats to the other end of the room. There’s an armchair there with a lamp above it, and a low bookcase full of thick, difficult volumes. This is Ray’s refuge; not for him the garage or shed.
Julia takes a large gulp from her glass of ‘water’, closes her eyes briefly and then looks back at us excitedly. ‘So after I’d heard Adam calling to me during the night, I got this idea. I can’t imagine why we haven’t thought of it before, actually. All this time we’ve been wondering what on earth has happened, and the answer is staring us straight in the face.’
‘He’s only been gone five days, Julia,’ I interrupt. She’s acting as though he disappeared months ago and no one’s done a thing to find him.
‘Wait,’ Ginger says quietly to me. ‘He was calling to her?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Total fruit loop.’
‘Look, anyway,’ Julia goes on, her eyes getting wider and wilder, ‘here’s my idea. I’ve read about these people, investigators, they find people who’re missing. Psychics.’ She points vaguely across the room. ‘They’re in the paper, everywhere. We’ll get one of them to maybe sniff his toothbrush or handle one of his biros or whatever it is they do and then they’ll be able to sense him or something and find out what happened to him. Oh Gracie, this is the answer, don’t you think? She’ll be able to see where he went, and then we can find him. It’ll all be over, Grace. Won’t it?’
Ginger says, ‘A psychic? Seriously?’
Ray says, ‘Bloody ridiculous.’
I say, ‘He’s not dead, Julia.’
‘No, I know, but—’
‘What use is a psychic if he’s not dead?’ Ginger again.
‘Julia, a psychic is not the answer, whether he’s dead or alive.’ I glare at Ginger. ‘We just have to let the police do their investigation, the traditional way, with computers and cameras and evidence. No sniffing of toothbrushes or handling stationery need be involved.’
She’s momentarily flummoxed, but then rallies and starts in again. ‘No, no, no, the thing is they don’t need to be dead for these psychic investigators to find them. They can find anyone, no matter how long they’ve been missing, whether they’re alive or dead. It’s just easier if they are dead, that’s all.’
‘I’m starting to agree with that.’
She continues as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘This is just perfect, though, Grace, you do think so, don’t you? I mean, the psychic will be able to tell us whether he’s … you know …’
‘Still alive?’
‘Well. Whether he’s well.’
I sigh. ‘So even assuming that this actually works and that some stranger has some kind of spiritual communion with his underpants or something and tells us that he’s well. How will that help? What possible good can that do?’
There’s a moment’s absolute silence. Then, ‘How can you say that?’
I shrug wearily. ‘Oh it’s simple, Julia. Finding out whether he’s well or otherwise doesn’t make things any easier, does it? We still wouldn’t know where he is or whether he’s coming back.’ I look at her frankly. ‘Or why he left in the first place.’
She gawps at me in apparent horror and, as flaky as she is, she still manages to make me feel like the worst person in the world. A family trait. I open my mouth to say something soothing, something conciliatory, but as I watch, her face morphs slightly into a harder, less pitiful version of itself. Her eyes narrow, her jaw sets, her lips thin. It’s as if she’s just drunk a potion of some kind.
‘You actually think it won’t do any good to find out whether or not he’s well? As if it doesn’t matter in the slightest to you whether he’s alive or dead?’ Her voice is low and quiet now, and much more measured. There’s more than a hint of steel in it. She snorts out a puff of air. ‘Well that just goes to show the absolute difference between a mother and a wife, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, it does, Julia! Of course it’s different for both of us.’
‘Oh, really? Would you like to explain that to me? Because as far as I knew, we both loved him. Didn’t we? Or maybe you think I didn’t love him as much because he was my son, not my husband? Maybe you think he loved you more, because you were his wife? Or maybe you’ve given up on him?’ She pauses a moment, then adds, ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘Well that’s unnecessary,’ Ginger butts in. I glance at her nervously, then look back at Julia. She’s swivelled her head and is now staring in fury at Ginger.
‘You don’t have a flipping clue,’ she says in a voice so low it reminds me weirdly of The Godfather. I expect her to come over all Sicilian suddenly. ‘You’re not a mother and never should be. Us mothers know stuff about life that ordinary people like you can’t dream of.’
I’m getting chills and have to fight the urge to look over my shoulder defensively. ‘Julia, I’m not in competition with you …’ I say, but I get the sense that what I’m saying is bouncing off her like vodka on wool.
‘Anyway,’ she goes on, turning back to me, ‘as the wife, it was you he left, not me. You obviously failed him in some way. And now thanks to you, we all have to suffer.’ She rolls her eyes, then takes a deep swig from her glass. Apparently the venom in her words has dried her mouth up.
‘Julia,’ I start to say, a bit quietly, if I’m honest. At this point in my life, I should be raising my voice, taking a step forward, maybe pointing a finger, defending myself. Adam’s not here, I don’t have to worry about upsetting him at this moment. But Julia’s words have sliced into me, drilled directly down into my gigantic reservoir of insecurity, and it’s bubbling up. A geyser of tears is threatening to erupt, and I sidestep towards Ginger. She turns her head, sees my face, and moves towards me too, so that our arms are pressed together. Right now, I feel, yet again, the most enormous gratitude for her presence in my life, and in this room.
‘It’s OK, Grace,’ Ginger says between gritted teeth, her eyes locked on Julia’s the whole time. ‘It’s absolutely fine. I’m sure in a moment Julia is going to realise how vile and unpleasant she’s being, and how completely unfair and unjustified that appalling accusation is. Aren’t you, Julia?’
Julia doesn’t move or speak for a couple of seconds. Then she blinks, her face crumples and she staggers backwards, her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh …’
Ginger coolly watches her, still without moving, but I step forward and grab her arm. Finally I feel like I’m some use. ‘Come on, Julia, come and sit down.’
I guide her to the sofa and she sits down heavily, leaning her head back and immediately closing her eyes. ‘I’m so tired,’ she says on a long exhale.
‘I know. You’ve been through a lot.’ I hear Ginger ‘pah’-ing behind me, but I ignore it. ‘Why don’t you try and have a little snooze now?’
Julia opens her eyes and shakes her head. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she says quietly. She searches my face. ‘He is dead, isn’t he? Do you think he’s dead?’
‘No, he’s not dead,’ I say with certainty, ‘don’t worry about that. Have they told you they found his car?’ She nods. ‘Well, then, you know that there was nothing in it, no blood, no smashed glass, no vindaloo. His passport is gone. There’s no disturbance at his office, nothing seems to have been taken, although they haven’t finished looking at it all yet. But even before they do, it’s pretty clear to me that …’ I hesitate. I still can’t decide whether Adam going voluntarily is better or worse than him being taken by force. From a wife’s point of view,