would never understand. I would not have understood myself had I not been there. I was relieved to find a note on the kitchen table telling me that they were playing tennis all day. They were with Simon and his new girlfriend, although I didn’t work that out until later.
Even when I was showered, minty and lying between the clean sheets of my bed, I couldn’t sleep. I turned on my clock radio and heard the opening bars of a hit from a few summers before that still wouldn’t go away. As a baritone voice intoned the refrain “I’ve never met a girl like you before,” no lyrics had ever rung so true. My last thought before I drifted off was that I had finally met the person that all the love songs were about. And it was a girl—a weird, wild girl living in a filthy house with a creepy brother. And there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it. Oh, fuck.
6
O UR COTTAGE IS CALLED an artisan’s dwelling, which is real estate agent-speak for tiny and shabby. Its size reflects the kind of mortgage that freelance translators, even good ones, can get. The stone fireplace and thick little leaded windows are supposed to compensate for the lack of space, but I didn’t realize how small it was until now. It went from cozy to tiny the minute Rex stepped inside. I had forgotten how tall he is. For the last ten years I’ve only seen him sitting down, and then in a hall fifteen feet high. He has already hit his head twice on the low doorway that divides the front room from the kitchen. I don’t need to remind him to stoop, though. His posture has changed: he now holds himself constantly on the verge of a cower. Even when he is in a different room he fills the house up. His shuffling footfall is heavier than Alice’s and tells me where he is when he’s upstairs. The Capiz chandelier on the living room ceiling shakes when he treads, the shells making a brittle tinkling sound that is mildly distracting to me now, a sure sign that in a couple of weeks it will drive me mad.
While I’ve got the living room to myself, I switch on the television and flick straight to the twenty-four-hour news channel. I half expect to see footage of him leaving the prison, followed by stills from ten-year-old newspapers with those awful photographs to remind us of the victims. I know I’m being stupid. Worse people than Rex are released from prison and it doesn’t make the news; I don’t think I’ve ever seen footage of anyone outside a prison gate except in dramas. But the blown-up snapshot that fills the screen is not Rex’s. The grainy image is not of anyone I have ever known but of a little girl, a three-year-old, who has been missing from home for two days. This, I have come to understand, is the kind of story that will bury all others. A rich-kid killer from ten years ago can’t compete with a missing child. It’s not “sexy” enough, isn’t that what the media say? It’s a grotesque shorthand for the kind of news stories that people can’t get enough of. The phrase disgusts me but not as much as I disgust myself. I’m unable to suppress a horrible hope that the little girl stays missing for a few more days, just long enough for Rex’s release to be old news. Isn’t that an evil thing to wish for, when we have already done enough? I turn over to the white noise and rainbow blur of a music channel.
Turning out the light so that no one outside can see me, I check the recessed scrub of grass and gravel opposite our terrace that is the unofficial parking lot for everyone who lives here. I’m half expecting to see a man with a camera, but there is nothing out of the ordinary save for a battered maroon Range Rover that I’ve never seen before and a white Nissan Micra. Are either of those the kinds of cars that journalists would drive? As I watch, Dave, my next-door-but-one neighbor, jogs out of his front door and lets himself into the unlocked Range Rover. It must be new, or at least new to Dave. He revs the engine two or
Even when I was showered, minty and lying between the clean sheets of my bed, I couldn’t sleep. I turned on my clock radio and heard the opening bars of a hit from a few summers before that still wouldn’t go away. As a baritone voice intoned the refrain “I’ve never met a girl like you before,” no lyrics had ever rung so true. My last thought before I drifted off was that I had finally met the person that all the love songs were about. And it was a girl—a weird, wild girl living in a filthy house with a creepy brother. And there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it. Oh, fuck.
6
O UR COTTAGE IS CALLED an artisan’s dwelling, which is real estate agent-speak for tiny and shabby. Its size reflects the kind of mortgage that freelance translators, even good ones, can get. The stone fireplace and thick little leaded windows are supposed to compensate for the lack of space, but I didn’t realize how small it was until now. It went from cozy to tiny the minute Rex stepped inside. I had forgotten how tall he is. For the last ten years I’ve only seen him sitting down, and then in a hall fifteen feet high. He has already hit his head twice on the low doorway that divides the front room from the kitchen. I don’t need to remind him to stoop, though. His posture has changed: he now holds himself constantly on the verge of a cower. Even when he is in a different room he fills the house up. His shuffling footfall is heavier than Alice’s and tells me where he is when he’s upstairs. The Capiz chandelier on the living room ceiling shakes when he treads, the shells making a brittle tinkling sound that is mildly distracting to me now, a sure sign that in a couple of weeks it will drive me mad.
While I’ve got the living room to myself, I switch on the television and flick straight to the twenty-four-hour news channel. I half expect to see footage of him leaving the prison, followed by stills from ten-year-old newspapers with those awful photographs to remind us of the victims. I know I’m being stupid. Worse people than Rex are released from prison and it doesn’t make the news; I don’t think I’ve ever seen footage of anyone outside a prison gate except in dramas. But the blown-up snapshot that fills the screen is not Rex’s. The grainy image is not of anyone I have ever known but of a little girl, a three-year-old, who has been missing from home for two days. This, I have come to understand, is the kind of story that will bury all others. A rich-kid killer from ten years ago can’t compete with a missing child. It’s not “sexy” enough, isn’t that what the media say? It’s a grotesque shorthand for the kind of news stories that people can’t get enough of. The phrase disgusts me but not as much as I disgust myself. I’m unable to suppress a horrible hope that the little girl stays missing for a few more days, just long enough for Rex’s release to be old news. Isn’t that an evil thing to wish for, when we have already done enough? I turn over to the white noise and rainbow blur of a music channel.
Turning out the light so that no one outside can see me, I check the recessed scrub of grass and gravel opposite our terrace that is the unofficial parking lot for everyone who lives here. I’m half expecting to see a man with a camera, but there is nothing out of the ordinary save for a battered maroon Range Rover that I’ve never seen before and a white Nissan Micra. Are either of those the kinds of cars that journalists would drive? As I watch, Dave, my next-door-but-one neighbor, jogs out of his front door and lets himself into the unlocked Range Rover. It must be new, or at least new to Dave. He revs the engine two or
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