Among the Missing (30 page)

“…  here you can see that each tendon contains twenty-seven strands of steel and each strand has seven wires. The post-tensioning counteracts sagging and adds strength to the spans.”

This was the point at which he invited people forward to see the new concrete and steel segments, and warned them about slippery surfaces and going too close to the edge. One by one people broke from the group and went to look. But the widower hung back, staring at the ground, and at first paid no attention when Rhona touched his arm.

“You okay, Colin?” she asked.

Colin looked up, pulled his arm away, and walked to the barrier. When he reached the edge, he turned to the others and raised a hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, just for today, if I may have a minute of your time.” He opened and closed his fists as he spoke, and his voice and big body were full of confused, flashing energy. “I have something I want to say.”

Rhona froze. Mr. Sturrock took a few steps toward him.

“You’re all right, son,” he said. “Remember where you are, now.”

Colin threw out an arm to hold him at bay. “There’s something I need to say!” He paused, expecting to be stopped. “I want to … well, anyway … here …” He reached in his inside pocket and brought out a small toy dog with floppy ears and huge, mawkish eyes. A red felt tongue lolled out of its mouth. From the other pocket he fished out a posy of artificial flowers set within a ruff of plastic lace and tied with a ribbon.

“I wanted … It’s just a gesture,” he said, reddening and unfolding a piece of paper. Aloud he read, “For the two victims.”

Ron strained to hear the words above the sighing of the wind. Colin
threw the posy and toy dog into the water and took from his pocket a red rose, a rigid, dry-looking thing on a long stem.

“My wife … This is for my wife. She also died here. And I just want to say to her, not that she can hear me now … you don’t know what you’ve got till you lose it. It’s no good wishing for a second chance, but if I could make it up to you, I would.” He sucked in a huge breath to steady himself. “I didn’t give you flowers when you were alive, and I should’ve. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

He let go of the rose and a current of air caught it and blew it high into the sharp wind. It all but disappeared against the grimy rain and river spray and lowering clouds, until it finally came to land on the water too far away to look at all like a rose anymore. It floated there diminished and misplaced, a dark, untidy twig. Rhona stood open-mouthed. Gradually people fanned out past Colin to the barrier to watch his offerings bob on the waves and begin to sink.

One man turned back. “Well said, there, sir,” he said.

Someone else said, “So say all of us,” and began to applaud, and the others joined in. Colin broke away, and walked off fast back up the ruined road. Rhona hurried over to Ron.

“Christ, what next?” she said. “I can’t take this! I
so
can’t take another drama. Ron, could you go after him for me? Get him a coffee or something, see he’s all right? I have to stay with the group.”

Ron followed the man up across the site and into the service station café. At the counter he caught up with him.

“I’ll get this, mate,” he said. “Go and find us a seat, okay?”

He bought coffee for himself and hot chocolate for Colin, remembering something vague about sugar and stress. When he brought it to the table, Colin was sitting with his hands over his face.

“Here you go, Colin.”

Colin lowered his hands and nodded thanks. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Was it okay? Me coming out with all that?” he asked in a shaky voice.

Before Ron could speak, Colin waved his answer away. “I had to say it. Needed saying. Even if nobody was interested.”

“I’m very sorry about your wife. It’s a terrible way to lose somebody.”

“Yeah.” Colin’s eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away, lowered
his head almost to the table, and took a slurp of his hot chocolate. “Well, there you go.”

“People say the worst part is the waiting, don’t they,” ventured Ron. “The not knowing. I can believe that.”

“Five months I was waiting. Then when they brought that car up and she wasn’t in it, the police were straight round. I thought they’d come to tell me she could still be alive. Still hoping, see? Stupid, but I was. Only they acted like I’d killed her. Took the place apart, went through the whole thing over and over again.”

“Bloody hell. Must’ve made it even worse.”

“Had to rule out foul play, they said.”

“Were you married a long time?”

Colin blinked several times and shook his head. “You married?”

“Was once,” Ron said. “Long time ago, now.”

“Got kids?”

“No.”

Colin shrugged as if he’d lost interest. He picked up his mug and stirred his drink hard and began feeding it into his mouth with his teaspoon. Ron watched him, wondering if he was too upset to talk any more or if he was a person who didn’t mind long silences. He thought it likely to be the second and a few months ago would have accommodated it easily, being then that kind of person himself. He could leave now and tell Rhona that Colin was all right. But he said, “So you come up from England, is that right? I’ve seen you at every walk. Where are you from?”

He didn’t in the least care where Colin was from, but it was necessary to pull words, on neat and neutral subjects, into the empty space between them.

“Huddersfield,” Colin said dully. “Know it?”

“Passed through a couple of times. Nice place to live, is it?”

The silence returned. Just as Ron was about to give up—he couldn’t keep this going all on his own—Colin said, “My wife didn’t like it. People don’t unless they’re from there.”

“Where was she from?”

“Way down south. Near Portsmouth.”

There was another silence.

Colin said, “She would’ve got used to it. She was only there a few months.”

“Is her family in Portsmouth still?”

“No. There was just her dad, and he died last year. Nobody left now.” Colin squeezed his eyes tight. “There’s nobody to talk to about her. I went down there, found her old address, saw where she grew up. Spent two days just walking about. How stupid is that? Same again?”

He was already on his feet and on his way to the counter, and Ron could not find the heart to say no. When he came back, he tried harder and asked questions, since Colin had mentioned not being able to talk about his dead wife and seemed to want to, insofar as he wanted to talk about anything. How had they met? What did she do? What were her hobbies? Colin answered with a handful of words or skirted the question altogether. It struck Ron that the more he spoke, the more distraught he became. Colin wanted to tell someone things about her, but not these things; Ron was asking the wrong questions and had no idea what the right ones might be. He sneaked a look at his watch.

“Sorry, mate, you don’t want to hear me babbling on. A total stranger,” Colin said.

Ron felt terrible because it was true. “No, no, it’s just I need to watch the time. I have to get Sturrock back across the river. Talk all you want. If it helps.”

“Nah, I’m no good at talking. That was part of the problem, maybe. But thanks, mate. Maybe it helps a bit.”

“Any time. Anything else I can do for you, just ask.”

Colin stood up and shifted on his feet. Shyly, he held out his hand. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

Ron got up and accepted the handshake. “Well, I’d better be getting back to the boat,” he said. “Take care, now.”

“Actually there is something,” Colin said abruptly. “But maybe … No, you probably can’t help.”

“What is it?”

Colin looked at him directly for the first time. Behind the thick socket bones and pouches of his fleshy face, his eyes were small, bewildered dots.

“Over the other side, is that where you’re going?” he asked.

“That’s right. The forest side.”

“Well, it’s just … I’ve never been there. Never thought of it. Then when I did, I couldn’t face it, but I could now, I kind of want to. I mean, that’s where she was trying to get to, across the bridge.” He raised his
arms and let them drop against his sides. “Never made it, did she? And they’re doing a memorial garden over there, aren’t they? For all the victims. Putting up a proper memorial. If I went over in the boat with you, I could, well, you know, have a look round.”

Ron had heard something about the garden. “It’s not planted yet. They’ve only just decided where it’s going. Don’t think there’s much to see.”

Colin shrugged. “Never mind, doesn’t matter.” He turned away. “Just thought I’d ask. See you around.”

“No, no, wait,” Ron said. “It’s just, it’s not up to me. Depends on Sturrock. We can ask.”

Mr. Sturrock turned out to have a view of his own. Colin’s gesture at the barrier was a lovely wee tribute, he said. As if the wean’s giraffe in the paper wasn’t enough.

“Och, go on, then, we’ll take you over the once,” he told Colin. “Only the once, mind. Compassionate reasons, okay? And you’ll need to get yourself back by Netherloch.”

They chugged over through the blustery wind saying nothing, the tang of diesel mixing with the smell of cold rain. When they reached the other shore, Sturrock hurried away to the site office to pick up his car keys. Colin stepped off the jetty and followed Ron’s directions to a new walkway. The garden, Ron said, was going to be on the bank on the far side of the bridge, a short way downriver. He watched Colin go, trudging through the mud, his eyes on the ground and his big shoulders stooped under the rain. Then Ron cast off again to go upriver to the cabin. He really couldn’t do any more.

If Silva slept at all, she would often wake distraught and wander about the cabin with rage in her eyes, pulling at her hair and clothes. She would not be held or comforted. Other times she would lie helpless and weep for hours until the skin on her cheeks was raw from her tears. Sometimes I found her, as I had the first morning, staring at the water and unable to move. Every couple of days, I think to get away from me, she would wander off farther downriver and come back hours later, exhausted. She hadn’t the strength to go far. I tried to judge when to leave her be and when to talk. I kept her warm, covering her when she fell asleep, and I cooked her tiny meals of eggs or pasta and coaxed her to eat, not that I managed to get her to take much. Often she’d accept only tea. Her grief terrified me, and all the time I looked after her I hardly spoke. When I did, something about her made me whisper.

I cared for her on my own, until Ron came in the evenings. I looked forward all day to seeing him and by the time he arrived was desperate for his company. With Silva he was circumspect and solemn, hardly less reticent than I, and I was pleased if she went to bed after supper and I could have him to myself. I was delighted when he noticed how much bigger I was getting and fussed over me a little. Now each night he would lie with me for a while, sometimes shyly stroking my belly and sometimes not, but always peacefully, without intensity. I was grateful. When I was nearly asleep, he would go back out to the main room and bed down next to the stove.

Silva began to sleep longer and more deeply, and slowly she began to eat a little more. After several more days she was almost alert again and more talkative, but she was also restless and weepy, and she tired so easily.
She hadn’t been to work for weeks. We had sent Vi a text message when Silva first missed work saying she was ill and would be back when she was better. There had been no reply. One evening Ron suggested she might try going back.

“Routine,” he said. “Good thing, routine.”

I didn’t think it was such a good idea. I was afraid Silva wouldn’t be able to stand up to Vi in one of her difficult moods. And there was still some money left; we didn’t need to worry yet.

“It’s a bit soon,” I said. “Why not wait a little longer?”

Silva listened as if none of it had anything to do with her, and I took her calm as a sign she was getting better.

You are not gone. I am full of pictures of you that spill through my head in an unending stream, and I have your voices all around me. You are not gone, because what I see and hear are not memories. I am not remembering the sight of you both, your sounds and your words, I am not bringing you to mind as you once were. It is
you
I see and hear. But there is no comfort in it, because I know you are dead. I have not gone mad. You are dead, and how can there ever be any comfort from that? I no longer have you, though I see and hear you. It just means that nothing in this world is as real as you are. You will never be gone, but no more will you ever come back to me. You are both dead.