A Bicycle Built for Sue Read online

  I couldn’t trust you with my deepest fears. I couldn’t trust you with the smallest ones. I couldn’t trust you at all.

  Definitely not with those final crunchy bits of Yorkshire pudding he knew she loved. Had that been it? His final present to her? All of the toad-in-the-hole to herself? Surely not. She would’ve shared. She always shared. He was her Gar-bear. Lord knew she’d never, ever eat ketchup again.

  Perhaps the truth was a more simple one. He’d simply not been thinking about her at all. Not in a selfish way, because that had never been Gary, but … what was toad-in-the-hole when all one could see was darkness? It had been rather good that week. Puffy and crunchy in bits. Doughier in others. The same highly peppered, sagey sausages he’d eaten without complaint for the past … fifteen years now. They’d been married fifteen years ago this May. The same year as the Sainbury’s had opened down the road and, out of some sort of misplaced loyalty to her mother, she’d gone to the butchers instead (she’d bought her onions and flour from the Asda. They weren’t made of money). Should she not have gone to the butcher’s? Should she have stuck to the supermarket brand he’d eaten before she’d ‘gone all posh’ at the butcher’s (Morrison’s Cumberland, but the Morrison’s had closed, so …). Perhaps he hadn’t liked her toad-in-the-hole at all. Said it was his favourite because he knew she loved it so much. Perhaps her entire married life had been an exercise in pulling the wool over her eyes. Ha ha ha! Look at poor, gullible, Sue. Thinking she was loved and safe and secure. Ha ha ha! Silly mouse.

  If that were the case, it had worked a treat.

  The thought made her feel as naive and ridiculous as Katie often made her feel. ‘Oh, Suey.’ *tsk, tsk, tsk* ‘You know the children have far more valuable opportunities to express their inner child than at a soft play centre.’

  Express their inner child?

  They were children.

  In exactly the same way Gary had been a plumber. Not a ‘water and piping development engineer’ as Katie had told people at the odd barbecue she and Gaz had been invited to in their immaculately manicured back garden.

  Gary was – had been – a plumber.

  People paid good money for an excellent plumber and heaven knew Gary had never wanted for work.

  An image of her debit card disappearing into the hole in the wall flickered up.

  People had been paying him. Hadn’t they?

  She stared at the darkening foam listing round the top of her coffee.

  How was it that everything could look the same? Exactly the same as when the man she thought she’d known best in the world had taken his life and she hadn’t a clue why.

  A painful twist of guilt squeezed out a jackhammering of heartbeats.

  She’d yet to go into his office. For some reason she thought there might be clues in there. Indications. She’d been so tired at night and would obviously need bundles of energy to go in. Like an explorer would before they entered a dark cave. Not that the room had held any particular intrigue before, but he did hide her Christmas presents in it.

  She wondered if she’d find any in it – presents for next year. Sometimes he did that. Saw something he thought she’d like in the sales, buy it, put it in the small cupboard she’d been instructed not to look in at any time of the year. Perhaps there were all sorts of things in there she wasn’t meant to find.

  In truth, fatigue hadn’t been delaying her, terror had. After she’d found him, she’d run round their tiny house and pulled all of the doors shut as if seeing what was happening out in the stairwell would hurt the rooms as well.

  She supposed she would have to go in one of these days. See if there was anything that would offer her some insight. Any more clues. Any passwords to secret bank accounts that did work.

  She knew she’d never be called clever, but she’d seen enough telly to guess that the refused debit cards might have something to do with Gary’s trajectory of despair. Either that or he’d been life hacked. Identity hacked? Perhaps he had an entirely separate family he’d been supporting and loving as well as her. A nice, bouncy wife who asked all sorts of questions about how he was feeling. Children they’d had without any problem whatsoever. A no-fail recipe for Yorkshire pudding.

  Her brain hummed with the white noise that had virtually consumed her over the past few weeks. She hadn’t dared mention the cashpoint eating her card to her mother, now that she knew about the crematorium bill. It was bad enough knowing the husband her mother had always predicted would disappoint had.

  And yet … the sun still rose, the traffic was its usual snarly mess at the roundabout by the school and the heating was still far too hot in the entryway to the large anonymous building that housed the call centre staffed with people reading scripts meant to have that personal touch. A personal touch not unlike this awful, tasteless, coffee from a pod.

  Flo appeared next to her and without so much as a hello peered into Sue’s coffee cup. ‘Oh, darling,’ she said. ‘You won’t be wanting that. The coffee here is hideous.’ She took the mug, dumped the contents into the sink then pulled a couple of packets out of her handbag. ‘Here,’ she waved them in front of Sue with a smile. ‘Why don’t the two of us make these and have a bit of a natter before we plug our headsets in, eh?’

  Chapter Eleven

  Incident No – 5278374

  Time of Call: 18:22

  Call Handler: FLORENCE WILSON

  Call Handler: You’re through to the NHS 111 service, my name’s Flo and I’m a health advisor. Are you calling about yourself or someone else?

  Caller: Yes, hello. Are you there?

  Call Handler: Yes, hello. This is Flo. What’s your name please, darlin’?

  Caller: It’s Emma, but I’m ringing about my boy, Jamie.

  Call Handler: Is Jamie alright?

  Caller: He’s got a bit of Lego stuck up his nose— Jamie! Put your hands down. Don’t press on it. Oh gawd, for fu—

  Call Handler: Is he breathing and conscious, Emma?

  Caller: Yes, he’s fine, but a bit blotchy maybe? Bloody expensive bit of Lego to stuff up his conk. He keeps sneezing and sort of— Jamie, stop that! He keeps sneezing and then kind of choking, like.

  Call Handler: Is he breathing alright?

  Caller: Sort of. I don’t really know. He’s had a cold since Christmas and it’s bloody impossible to tell.

  Call Handler: Is there any discoloration to his lips or face?

  Caller: Like I said, he’s got some red blotches on his face, but I think that’s because of all the sneezing. Or eczema. His skin’s bloody dry, no matter what I put on it. Coconut oil, that vitamin E nonsense from the chemists. But his lips aren’t blue or anything. [Sound of pained coughing]

  Call Handler: I think you better bring him to the nearest A&E, Emma. Is that possible?

  Caller: Can an ambulance take him? I’m a bit tied up right now.

  Call Handler: No, love. You’d need to go with him—

  Caller: Yes, but there would be attendants on the ambulance, right?

  Call Handler: Yes, but he would need a parent or guardian along with him. I can see here there’s an A&E about five miles down the road from you. I’m afraid it’s a busy night for the emergency services. It might be faster to bring him there yourself.

  Caller: Yeah, there is. [Muffled swearing] Love Island was going to be starting in a bit and—Jamie! Put your hands down!

  Call Handler: Emma, are you able to get your son to A&E or shall I call an ambulance for the both of you?

  Caller: Yes. Fine. I’ll go. I’ll have to watch it on catch up. Fookin’ nightmare. Anything else?

  Call Handler: No, love. If Jamie has any new symptoms or his condition gets worse, changes or you have any other concerns call us back.

  Caller: Jamie! Hands down! [Call ends]

  Call Handler: Struth. The future of Britain looks bright indeed – oh! Bugger.

  Chapter Twelve

  A sense of dread washed through Flo as she glanced at the large wall-mounted clock.
Ten minutes and her shift would be over. Over 1500 calls the team had answered that day. Over 1500 lives helped. Hopefully. She did worry about them. The callers. Wondered if little Jamie’s bottom would feel the heated wrath of his mother’s hand when and if she’d missed winter Love Island. Flo tried not to judge, but she was inclined to draw the line at someone who prioritised observing other people’s lives (fictional or otherwise) over the actual life they were meant to be living.

  Ha! Who was she kidding? She judged all the time. Or, as she preferred to call it, pre-flight character assessment. Nearly forty years in a flying sardine can had given her lightning-sharp assessment skills. Who would be difficult. Who could be relied on to sleep through the entire flight. Who the talkers were and what type (the kind best avoided or the funsters who’d relish a mini-tour of the aircraft and end up exchanging addresses … oh, the villas they had been invited to).

  She looked across her section to the far end of the room that served as their kitchen area. The Staff Leisure Area. Oh, dear. There was that poor girl again. Sue. She was staring at the staff notice board in a way that suggested she could walk away and not name a single item on the board.

  Poor love. She’d offer her another coffee but it was well after tea time and she would lay down money Sue wouldn’t be sleeping well. Not if she was sleeping in her own house, anyhow. Coffee was not the anecdote to her sorrows. Not tonight, anyway.

  Flo closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like walking into her house minus Stuart. No. She couldn’t do it. Completely impossible. He was like one of the taps or the doorframes. A fixture. They’d moved into the modern bungalow after Stuart had retired and, rather to her astonishment, had convinced her to retire as well. Their bolt hole, he’d called it. Their launchpad, she’d called it. In a way, both of them had been right.

  She’d fled the confines of the house the moment she figured out Stu was never going to leave it. Taking job after job, trying to fill the void a life of travelling the world filled. Rearing the Wolfhounds had been a highlight. Right up until they’d sold their last litter a year back. That day had been weighted with heartbreak. Seeing the last of the pups scooped into a child’s arms and, without so much as a backward glance, driven away to a brand new life filled with heaven knew what.

  When Flo opened her eyes, she saw Sue was still staring. She rose to go to her, her head catching as her headset cable snagged on the edge of her cubicle. A red number caught her eye up on the Scoreboard, the television screen that told them whether or not people were waiting. Then she saw Raven, the lovely girl she’d gone to the funeral with heading over towards the Staff Leisure Area. Nice to see a young woman showing a bit of compassion. The younger generation these days seemed to be all me, me, me. Her parent’s had obviously raised her to be a cut above the rest.

  Flo’s gaze moved back to Sue, lost as she was, in a world of her own. Back a week after she’d laid her husband to rest. Didn’t she have family insisting she take some time off? Children to comfort? Parents to move in with who would bring her a hot water bottle and an endless supply of tissues? Battling all of that grief and bewilderment on her own? Horrid, horrid, horrid. Flo willed Raven to offer her a comforting word or two. It wouldn’t be much more, the girl barely spoke, but … sometimes a word or two did the trick. It was why she, herself, had trouble sticking strictly to the script lately when she took her calls. She’d already had a telling off (two, actually) since she’d joined a few months back, but the managers changed so frequently, she didn’t mind going off piste when the situation called for a more personal touch. After all, life was nuanced. Why shouldn’t advice be?

  She sat back down again, her eyes on the Scoreboard. She’d not been wrong. The calls were flooding in now that teatime/bathtime/storytime was over. The surgeries were closed. Babies, youngsters and oldies were meant to be in bed by now and if they weren’t … she popped on her headset and pressed a key on her keyboard, ‘You’re through to the NHS 111 service, my name’s Flo and I’m a health advisor. Are you calling about yourself or someone else?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Incident No – 5628323

  Time of Call: 18:27

  Call Handler: SUNITA “RAVEN”CHAKRABARTI

  Call Handler: You’re through to the NHS 111 service, my name’s Raven and I’m a health advisor. Are you calling about yourself or someone else?

  Caller: Honestly? I’m calling about my husband, but you will be helping my sanity.

  Call Handler: Could you tell me your husband’s name please?

  Caller: His name’s Robert and I’m Claire.

  Call Handler: Hello, Claire. How can I help?

  Caller: We need you to settle an argument for us.

  Call Handler: I’m sorry?

  Caller: Which is better for a toothache – paracetamol or ibuprofen.

  Call Handler: I’m sorry. Does your husband have a toothache?

  Caller: No. He does not.

  Call Handler: Do you have a toothache?

  Caller: No. No one has a toothache. You’re missing the point here, sweetie. I’m trying to prove to my micromanaging husband that he isn’t always right. That sometimes other people know things! Like actual, genuine facts.

  Call Handler: Oh, well … this might be something your GP might be better able to handle. Or your dentist?

  Caller: Well, what good are you then?

  Call Handler: I’m sorry?

  Caller: All I want to know, so for once in my life I can feel a little morsel of fucking validation, is whether or not paracetamol or ibuprofen is better for a toothache.

  Call Handler: Don’t you have a dentist you could ask?

  Caller: [Heavy sigh] No, love. It’s after hours, isn’t it? [Screams] Why can’t you do this? Why can’t you do this one simple thing for me? All I want is an answer beyond what bloody Google says. Ibuprofen or paracetamol.

  Call Handler: Ibuprofen I guess. It’s an anti-inflammatory. Paracetamol if you’re allergic.

  Caller: Boom! You hear that? You. Hear that babe? I told you it was ibuprofen. [Muted: Babe. She said paracetamol if you’re allergic. Ibuprofen is the better choice overall.] Here. I’m putting you on speaker so you can hear it yourself. The doctor says ibuprofen is the better choice.

  Call Handler: Umm … I should say that I am not a health professional. It would be better—

  Caller: What? You’re not a health professional?

  Call Handler: No.

  Caller: What are you then?

  Call Handler: Umm … a call handler?

  Caller: Oh, jaysus. Fucking hell. The one time I’m bloody right and now you’ve gone and fucked it up by being a nobody. Thanks for nothing. [Call ends]

  Call Handler: Thank you for calling 111! And a special thank you for depleting my self worth. Please do call if your sysmptoms worsen or you have any other concerns.

  Chapter Fourteen

  With the television off, the house was far too quiet. Sue tried humming a little tuneless number as she washed up her mug and folded the tea towel on the edge of the sink. She hummed a bit louder as she headed up the stairs, but doing so reminded her too much of the ridiculously naive women who wandered straight into the face of danger in all of those horror films Gaz had liked watching. A part of her wondered if the films would frighten her now or if she’d roll her eyes, astonished that someone could be panicked by something as everyday as the dark. There were far more horrifying things to be frightened of. War. Famine. Walking into the stairwell of your own home with a spatula in your hand only to discover your husband had had enough.

  She probably shouldn’t have had that extra coffee at work today, but Flo had kept bringing the hot drinks round to her desk like clockwork. She’d never had them before. The packet cappuccinos. Australian, Flo had said. From her son. They were surprisingly moreish and had a strangely exotic taste about them. One had definitely had vanilla in it. Another had seemed a bit coconutty. Cardamom, Flo had explained without having to be asked when Sue had cau
ght the scent of the third one. Cardamom.

  Cardamom! Gary would’ve laughed, and not because she would have stumbled over the word. He had never made her feel small, her Gary, though he did tease. She could picture him clear as day laughing as she told him about the lovely older woman from work who was handing out flavoured coffees. ‘Cor, look ‘oo’s posh now with her cardamom lattes.’ He would’ve said the word perfectly.

  ‘Cappuccino,’ she would’ve giggled, wanting to be just a little bit right. (Having an older brother whose statements – true or false – were taken as a given had made her nervous about insisting she was right in front of anyone apart from Gary. ‘It’s a cappuccino, Gaz.’ She’d only just learnt the name cappuccino came from Italian monks who wore white hoods and brown robes. Kath off of Brand New Day had been on about it after Kev had asked what was wrong with plain old coffee, wondering aloud just how much money Kath had spent over the years on fancy coffees. Tens of thousands of pounds, he’d speculated. Tens of thousands.

  Gary would’ve agreed with him, Kev. That the fancy coffees were a waste of money, but he would’ve liked the bit about the monks. She’d meant to tell him about it over dinner. The toad-in-the-hole. She’d not be able to wow him with that little titbit now. She’d loved doing that. Bringing home quirky little nuggets of information he could use at work if the person who had rung him to unblock this or de-drip that was hovering. She could picture it perfectly. Telling him about the Capucins and the cappuccinos. Her smiling a bit too proudly when he pulled her into a hug and called her his resident brain box. No one else in the world had ever called her that. A brain box. Now, she supposed, no one ever would.

  Sue resumed her trip up the stairs, her eyes glued to the steps. It was the safest way. If she looked up she’d see the hatch to the loft. She’d always thought it too dangerous being as close to the stairs as it was. It wasn’t as if their tiny little two-up, two-down row house afforded ample space to locate a loft hatch elsewhere, but honestly. The top of the stairwell? She’d always said it was a deathtrap. Again and again she’d said to Gary as he wobbled up the retractable ladder with one hand on the ladder, another clutching a box (most recently after New Year’s when they’d put the Christmas decorations away), ‘It’s far too easy to fall out of that thing if you get your footing wrong. Straight down the stairs. You could break your neck. Just like that.’ Then she’d snap her fingers though there was never a noise. She wasn’t much of a snapper.