The Silent Daughter, by Emma Christie - Part 3

In the third of four extracts from Emma Christie’s debut novel The Silent Daughter, Chris starts to wonder if his wife’s accident is all it appears to be.

The Silent Daughter

HE remembered how quickly the blood had cooled and dried on his fingers; the bath he’d had later, rubbing matted hair between his fingers to remove every trace of it, of her. By that time the blood had been hard and black but the hot water had resurrected it, turned the crust of blood to shiny droplets of rust on his skin that dripped off and blended with the water.

He remembered squeezing a sponge that dripped red, watching stained water swirl and gurgle around the plug hole. It left a dirty ring on the white ceramic long after he’d pulled the plug. Those were images that would never shift.

‘Dad? Are you awake?’

Mikey gently tapped Chris’s arm until he opened his eyes, blinking for effect.

‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.

‘Couldn’t sleep anyway,’ said Mikey. ‘Are you doing okay?’

‘Not really,’ said Chris, thinking about all the times he’d asked that same question, interviewing someone who was clearly falling to pieces.

It was polite to ask. But there was no place for manners here, now, in this room. People often asked him if human suffering got easier to deal with the more he wrote about it - then quickly answered their own question before he had the chance to. I suppose it’s something you just get used to, they’d say, and he’d agree, because nobody wanted to know that he never had.

The bed wobbled when Mikey leaned down and kissed his mum’s cheek, then held her hand. He looked awkward and the gesture seemed forced, somehow inappropriate. Chris pulled himself out of the chair, stood facing his son on the opposite side of the bed. Mikey hadn’t shaved, looked hungover.

‘What happened to her?’

‘Police claim she fell,’ said Chris. ‘Smashed her head on stone steps.’

‘Where?’

‘Fleshmarket Close.’

‘Jesus.’ Mikey’s face crumpled. ‘They’re steep, those ones.’

‘Aye, but you know as well as I do that steps don’t faze your mum. The more the better, she’d say. That’s precisely why she makes the effort to go running in the Old Town.

‘She could easy go for a run near the house, but it’s too flat for her liking.’

Chris pictured her, at home and on holiday, seeking out routes with steps and stairways, letting out an occasional whoop as she was forced to dart to one side to avoid dog shit or a puddle or a discarded kebab box.

She was a proper bloody expert.

‘Was she racing?’

‘Another 10km,’ said Chris.

‘Who found her?’

‘Not sure.’

‘And they think she tripped?’

‘Aye,’ said Chris. ‘They’re checking CCTV to confirm, but the officer told me that’s a formality. They think it looks like an accident, plain and simple.

‘They’re certainly not treating it as a criminal investigation.’

‘And what - you think they should?

‘I’m not sure, Mikey,’ said Chris. ‘But I know your mum. And I know she wouldn’t just fall.’

‘Och, here we go.’ Mikey sat down, stared at the floor.

Chris watched his son’s back rise and fall. His breaths were short and fast and shuddering, nothing like the perfectly symmetrical inhale and exhale created by Maria’s ventilator. You could play music to the rhythm of that mechanical breath and never lose the beat. He couldn’t bear it, scoured his brain for a question to ask, anything that would smother the sound of that machine, and what it meant.

‘Have you told Rachel?’

Mikey nodded, started chewing the nail on his ring finger.

‘Will she come to the hospital?’

Chris hoped not, and hoped it didn’t show. Mikey’s wife was a challenge at the best of times, let alone the worst.

‘She said she’ll stay home for now,’ said Mikey. ‘Thought it was better if we had time on our own with Mum. You get hold of Ruth yet?’

Chris shook his head. ‘Still no word,’ he said. ‘I’ve left voicemails, but...’

‘She’s in a different time zone.’

‘Aye.’

‘And anyway, it’s Ruth. You know what she’s like.’

Chris wanted to say, Do I? but opted for a silence he then couldn’t break.

Mikey opened his mouth a few times to speak, then snapped it shut. When he managed to speak he whispered, as if he didn’t want his mum to hear.

‘Dad . . .?’

Mikey averted his eyes. ‘Have you contacted Uncle Mateo?’

‘Not yet,’ said Chris, flushing at the mention of that name.

‘Shouldn’t take him long to get here from Barcelona.’

‘If he can be bothered,’ said Chris. Mateo was Maria’s only brother but he was 15 years younger than she was - and just ten years older than Mikey.

Their parents had referred to Mateo as a late surprise, but he’d interpreted it as unwanted and spent his life struggling to escape that self-imposed curse. These days Maria referred to him as troubled, and Chris called him all manner of different things, none of which were complimentary. But, whatever label he gave him, Chris was sure of one thing. He did not want that man here, now...

TOMORROW: Colin’s attempts to contact daughter Ruth raise more questions than answers

The Silent Daughter, by Emma Christie, is published in paperback by Wellbeck, priced £8.99, and available on Kindle, priced £3.19

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