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They brought Susie in from the side cells, and she looked awful, broken. The nice gray suit doesn’t fit her anymore, she’s lost so much weight around her hips. I thought of plump, sexy Yeni and felt a shooting pain of guilt. She caught my eye, and I suddenly realized that I must be looking dismayed. I smiled and waved. She ignored me and frowned at my overcoat. It was quite a light color for the court. Everyone else was wearing black or washed-out tones of green or pink or slate.
They sat Susie down, facing away from us. She straightened her back and, in a gesture of inarticulable grace, raised both hands to the nape of her neck and gathered her dull black hair, twisting it into a tidy rope and letting it drop. I felt suddenly unbelievably sad. I knew it was over, that Susie was gone, and by the time she got out of prison, I’d be gone, too. Margie would have done most of her growing up, would rebel against her pudgy old dad, and would always be wary of Susie. We were all three lost to each other, and there was nothing to be done but give witness to the unfolding disaster.
I’d left my handkerchief in the old overcoat pocket. I couldn’t sniff because it would draw attention to me, and Susie would be pissed off. So I undid the cuff on my shirt and pulled the sleeve out, dabbing my nose with it.
God, I am fucking sick to death of being fucking miserable. Look at Morris: he thrashes about, fucking everything that moves. He fiddles his practice accounts and drinks too much, and he’s happy. I’m sick of Susie looking at me as if I’m some sort of fucked-up weirdo freak. I wasn’t the one who followed a serial killer and his ugly bride up north.
I stopped for a smoke there. I’ve cooled down.
Anyway, we were all sitting in the court, the journalists waiting and watching Susie, chatting to each other, smiling sometimes but never taking their eyes off her. She looked out-gu
I saw Susie slump in the chair; her hair slid forward over her shoulder, baring her neck to the ax. I was reminded of the photograph she took of Do
The two big men on either side almost carried Susie out of the court. She didn’t even look back at me. Everyone in the public gallery was staring at her and muttering about the state she was in. I watched and realized that I wasn’t as involved with her as I had been. As for my indiscretion with Yeni, it wouldn’t be so bad if only I had waited for six months. Susie would have been gone awhile, all her toiletries would be gone from our bathroom, her clothes would be washed and mothballed and packed away in the suitcases in the attic. I could justify it all much better to myself if I’d waited. What I’ve done is unforgivable, a peculiarly unkind and brutal kind of betrayal; I’ve staged a mental retreat from her just as she is broken. I’ll keep looking for grounds for appeal. I owe her that much, but I have retreated from her. I feel nothing approaching the devastation I experienced at the trial. I knew I’d be fine to drive.
Outside the courts, a couple of journalists were gathered at the bottom of the steps. They were smoking, actually, and I wouldn’t have known they were press if one of them hadn’t shouted questions about my wife. He wasn’t even asking questions, really, it was more like he was shouting abuse at me. I got flustered. The press have been intrusive and difficult, but there was always a sense that they knew I was having a hard time through no fault of my own. There was always an underlying sympathy. Now it seemed I was no longer privy to even this small courtesy.
“Hey, Harriot,” he shouted as I walked past. “Where’d you get that fancy coat?”
No one even took a photo of me. Fuckers.
chapter thirty-one
I’VE BEEN TRYING TO PHONE SUSIE ALL MORNING BUT CAN’T GET through. So I sat down and wrote a long encouraging letter, telling her that I was thinking of her (true), that I missed her (not really true at the moment) and wished I was with her during this difficult time (outright lie). I’m going to try to write every day, give her news about Margie and send photos of her. If I were in Susie’s position, I know I’d be thinking about killing myself, and she mustn’t do that. She has to get through the next short while, for Margie’s sake if nothing else. I want to remind Susie that she’d be increasing Margie’s statistical chances of suicide by a factor of four if she kills herself, but I’m afraid that if I mention it I might be putting the idea in her head. I’m not against suicide per se, but I do think you lose the right to consider it once you’ve had kids.
The papers are full of Susie and Do
Another paper has a story from someone who worked at Su
Mrs. Anthrobus came this morning. She hadn’t even noticed the papers and seems to think that Susie is away on a business trip no matter how often I tell her she’s in prison. She may be a daft old goat, but still I changed the sheets on Yeni’s bed myself and washed them before she arrived.