by answering on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep.
‘Hi,’ I say, my own voice coming out as a squeak. ‘It’s Orla. Sorry to wake you.’ Sorry? Why am I saying sorry for waking her? What I’m really sorry for is that I’m about to shatter her world. I’m sorry that after this moment she’ll probably never sleep another night of peace in her life.
‘Is it Kate?’ she asks, sounding more alert. I picture her sitting up in bed, maybe reaching to turn on the light. ‘Did you find her?’
She knows. I can hear it in her tone, the edge of fear creeping into her voice, that she’s trying hard to disguise.
‘Yes,’ I say, forcing out the words. ‘I’m sorry.’
There’s a pause on the end of the phone. I hear a ragged intake of breath, the shudder of a heart beating one final time before it knows it must break. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say, though it comes out as a sob.
Her voice trembles on the other end of the line. ‘What happened?’
‘She drowned.’
‘What? How? Where?’
‘The river. The Tagus. She slipped or fell. We don’t know yet. The police are investigating.’ I don’t mention the other theories – that maybe she was pushed, that she was murdered, that maybe she jumped. I can’t say it out loud.
‘Was she drunk? On drugs?’ her mum asks and there’s a new tone in her voice that instantly raises my heckles. It’s barely noticeable and maybe I should put it down to shock, but she sounds accusatory, as though this is something Kate has brought on herself, that she’s to blame for her own death.
‘I … I don’t know,’ I finally stammer. ‘They’re doing toxicology reports.’ As I say it I realise that with so many drugs in her system the police will assume she was off her head. They’ll blame her for her own death too, just like her own mother is doing. Even if she was murdered, it will be her fault. That’s what happens all the time when women are victims of crimes. They’re blamed for their own injuries. Whether it’s rape or domestic violence or assault, the inference is always that women bring it on themselves.
‘You don’t need me over there, do you?’ Kate’s mum asks in an almost impatient voice.
‘Um …’ I reel, not sure what to say. What mother wouldn’t rush to be by their child’s side – even if that child was no longer living? The thought of leaving Marlow on a cold mortuary slab in a foreign country, with other people making decisions about her, makes the typhoon of grief and shock in my chest batter at my ribs. I’m so enraged I’m afraid I might start screaming and never stop. ‘You don’t want to be here?’ I manage to ask in as calm a voice as I can manage. Rob squeezes my free hand. He can hear I’m struggling to hold it together.
‘Can you handle things?’ she answers.
‘Sure,’ I find myself replying.
‘I don’t know what to do about a funeral,’ she says and though she sounds very matter-of-fact, and devoid of emotion, I wonder if she’s just covering up her grief. ‘You knew her best, perhaps you can decide.’
‘Right,’ I stammer. Am I supposed to plan the whole funeral then? Shouldn’t it be her mother doing that? Kate doesn’t have siblings and her father died when she was thirteen so I guess then I am family, or as close as. And we were like sisters. ‘Of course,’ I hear myself say. I can do this for her. She’d want me to. I can hear her in my head telling me: For fuck’s sake don’t let my mother read the eulogy, and make sure everyone drinks a lot and has a good time. No tears!
‘OK, I’ll be in touch when I know more,’ I say. ‘Bye. I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I choke out, but she’s already hung up.
I stare at the phone in shock.
Now you know why I drink, I hear Kate say. Her voice is so loud, so real, I almost jump around in my seat to look for her standing behind me. Is this what it will be like from now on? Will she haunt me forever? Will I hear her voice in my head all the time as a ghostly presence, accompanying me through life? I don’t think I’ll mind too much, to be honest. It’s something of a comfort, as though she’s still alive. I put