The Water Room(147)

‘Gezellig. I like that. That’s like us.’

The pair remained side by side, sitting in silence as the golden sunlight of the morning grew around them.




52



* * *



NO PLACE LIKE HOME

Heather sat in the bare white interview room with her bag open at her feet and her compact mirror in her hand, carefully repainting the edges of her lips. It was essential, in every circumstance, to maintain one’s poise and keep a smart appearance. There was no reason to stop looking one’s best, simply because one had been arrested for multiple murder. No blanket over the head upon emerging from the station, thank you, nothing less than grace under pressure and calm before the cameras.

The room was so absurdly bright; she felt sure that the flaws in her make-up showed. Institutional furniture and hard-faced officers talking to each other about last night’s television, as if she wasn’t even there. The entire experience was designed to alienate and isolate. But it didn’t, because she had never felt at home anywhere—not with her parents, not with her husband, certainly not at Balaklava Street. A numb void opened in her heart the moment her expectations were not met.

Boring, stupid police, guards and doctors. They would only ever see a selfish criminal, when they should have been looking for a disappointed child, promised so much and given so little—not that she expected or demanded sympathy. They would never understand how few options she had been given, and she would never let them see inside, no matter what they did to her. The truth of the matter was that the taking of life had hardly disturbed her at all. It wasn’t as if she had attacked someone with a knife in a moment of passion; there had been no moments of passion at all, only the nagging ache of failure, and blinding, debilitating panic.

She studied the bare white walls without emotion. From now on her life would consist of being in communal government rooms like this, but it didn’t matter. She had no care for where she lived, because now she lived inside her head.

‘You could do with some paintings on these walls,’ she stated imperiously to no one in particular. ‘You might brighten the place up a little, make it more lived in.’

It was only when no answer came that she realized she would never again find home.



‘What has he been painting?’ asked Alma Sorrowbridge, peering over Sergeant Longbright’s shoulder. The pair of them had decided to tackle the daunting task of clearing up Bryant’s study while he was out, and had discovered the half-finished canvas set on an easel beneath a south-facing window in his cavernous new apartment.

‘It appears to be an allegorical depiction of the end of the world,’ Longbright suggested, stepping back to decipher the chaotic muddle of purples and greens. ‘What do you think?’

Alma sniffed with vague disapproval before wielding her J-cloth on his work surface. ‘That big naked lady in the middle is a very odd shape.’

‘I think he painted her from memory,’ said Longbright, tilting her head.

‘Then he must be getting Alzheimer’s,’ Alma told her, spitting on the cloth and settling down to a good scrub.

‘John’s putting him on a refresher course. They’re double-dating tonight. Monica Greenwood and Jackie Quinten.’

‘The only toy boys in town with bus passes. Mr Bryant has never been very successful with the ladies. His idea of a chat-up line used to be asking a girl if she’d like to see where he had his operation.’

‘What did he show them?’

‘The Royal Free Hospital.’

Their laughter could be heard in the street, where the lamps glowed into life, lighting all paths to home.