The Helper by David Jackson Page A

to be one huge fucking dilemma?
    Doyle opens the bedroom door and re-enters the living room. Rachel is watching the television with the volume turned up – something she often does when she’s annoyed and she wants to
shut out everything and everyone else.
    First things first, he thinks. So he goes over to her and sits next to her on the sofa and asks her what she’s watching and waits for her gruff reply and then tells her he’s
sorry.
    ‘I was just trying to let you know . . .’ she begins.
    ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It was just one of those calls.’
    ‘I don’t know what “one of those calls” is. We don’t have calls like that. We don’t have secrets that have to be whispered to other people in other rooms. Do
we?’
    ‘Uhm, not usually, no. This one was different. Sensitive. You know? Sometimes there are things happening that I can’t even tell you about. Sometimes it’s better for you and Amy
if you don’t know what’s going on.’
    She searches his face with worried eyes. ‘Are you in danger?’
    ‘No. But sometimes there are things connected with the job that I can’t discuss in front of you. I know it hasn’t happened very often in the past, but occasionally something
crops up.’
    ‘What, does Mrs Sachs actually work for the CIA or something?’
    ‘Something like that.’ He gives her a chance to mull it over. ‘We still friends?’
    She answers him with a kiss. ‘Now go eat your freezing cold lasagna. You’ll have to pick out the broken glass yourself.’
    He returns the kiss, then moves to the table.
    Why didn’t I tell her? he wonders. What was it about that particular call which made me unable even to tell my own wife about it? Okay, the guy knows a lot of things, but surely even he
can’t find out if I talked to Rachel.
    Deep down, he knows the answer, and it tears him apart. He’s kept things from her before. About the things he’s had to do. About the actions he’s had to take in order to keep
his life together. It wasn’t difficult for another little lie like this to trip off the tongue.
    And he hates himself for it.
    He pushes his food around the plate and stares at the back of Rachel’s head, and he tells himself that if she turns around now he will burst into tears and he will open up his soul to her
and she will be able to decide for herself whether he is a monster or just a frail human being, just like everybody else on this planet.
    But she doesn’t turn and he doesn’t speak. He just pushes the food around and tries to convince himself that he is doing the right thing. That maybe, just maybe, his silence will
save lives.
    All is confusion.
    She thinks at first that she is in her own bedroom. Which would mean that there wasn’t this stupid oversized nightstand on which she’s just smacked her skull. And it would mean she
wouldn’t have wasted time fumbling around for the damned light switch so that she could see where she was going instead of slamming into other items of cumbersome furniture. Why does a single
guy need so much storage space, anyhow? Especially a guy who seems to have only about three changes of clothing?
    She gets to her cellphone just before it cuts to voicemail. Stabs at the receive button as she tries to blink away the blurriness from her vision.
    She attempts a hello, but it gets choked away. She clears her throat, tries again. A voice she doesn’t recognize says her name.
    ‘Yes, that’s me. Who is this?’
    ‘This is Detective Doyle, Eighth Precinct. I’m sorry to call you so late like this . . .’
    ‘What? What is it?’ She’s wide awake now. A call from the police at – what time is it? Four o’clock on a Sunday morning – has that effect.
    The figure in the bed stirs. A groggy face squints at her. ‘Whassamatter? Whoozaonphone?’
    She raises a finger to silence Alex while she listens to the caller.
    ‘It’s nothing to get alarmed about, Miss. It’s about your husband.’
    ‘Gary? What