give away the fact that he’s there. Is there any other way you can contact him?’
‘No.’ My voice is shrill. I’m not sure why I hadn’t thought about how we’d get in contact with each other if there was a problem. ‘What if he’s had a fall?’
‘There are lots of reasons I can think of that would explain him not answering. There are lots of reasons that don’t involve being injured. I’m sure he’s fine. He probably can’t hear the phone if he’s tucked away in that room.’
‘Whether he’s okay or not, it doesn’t change the fact I need to get hold of him. Otherwise we’ll have the police here again asking why he isn’t back yet.’
‘These are the kind of occasions when a car would be handy because we could do with getting there quicker than your half-hour morning hike. Do you have anyone who can get us over there to check he’s okay?’
I think of George, but knowing his shift pattern for the week I know he’s not free. I decide, as it’s evening, Tess is the best person to ask. The café will be closed at this time of day.
Fortunately Tess isn’t in bed already and is more than happy to help when I explain why. She’s taken a shine to Clive. He’s been in a few times for a breakfast of poached eggs and she’s been telling me about it on my lunches. Most of our discussions revolve around Clive these days, and it’s no surprise that I’m calling about him.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
While we wait we turn off all the house lights. If the house is dark, and PC Doyle returns, hopefully he’ll think we’re sleeping and leave us to it. I don’t want to have to lie to the police twice in one day.
I just have to hope when we get there, Clive is okay.
My fingers don’t move from my pulse point as we travel in Tess’s car. It has been a quarter of an hour and I’m beginning to lose sensation in my arm. It is past the point of pins and needles; there’s a fizzy numbness along my arm. Still, I can’t take my fingers away from my neck. A sixth sense is shouting at me that something is wrong.
I know the sensible thing to do would be to stop taking my pulse, especially when I’m not counting like I should be. What help is it right now to know my heart is beating? I know I’m worried. I know something is wrong. But I can’t seem to stop myself.
I try to count how many cars we pass to ease my anxiety and I’m thankful that neither Tess nor Rob are paying any attention to me. Tess is concentrating on driving and Rob is having a doze, his exhaustion obvious.
It doesn’t help that I’m doing my usual thing of listing all the possible eventualities in my head. It is part of my job as his temporary guardian to make sure he is safe. Suddenly it doesn’t seem as straightforward as simply providing him with a room. Maybe it is a death trap. Maybe all the safety labels in the world aren’t enough to help a man who’s lost his way.
Pickled onions. The resounding memory of my first meeting with Clive, the tangy taste, springs into my head. His allotment. If he’s wandering off, will that be the place he goes to? He certainly mentions it often enough.
For the first time, and without thought, my hand springs away from my neck as I endeavour to message George. I need to keep him in the loop and if Clive isn’t at the lab we might need his help. At least if that is the case, I know where to look first.
26
Clive
‘Keisha,’ Clive whispered under his breath. He wasn’t sure why he kept saying her name. He was plodding along the pavement like a tortoise – all the energy having drained out of him about half a mile away from campus.
‘Keisha,’ Clive said again. It was a source of encouragement, he realised. Part of him wanted to give up, curl himself under a bush for the evening and not worry about when he’d be found. But he didn’t want to be the defeated man who’d lost his mind as well as his wife. He was going to state the name of the friend he’d found, not the wife he’d lost. Clive attempted to say it louder, but it was barely a