The Carrier.

Sophie Hannah.

POLICE EXHIBIT 1431B/SK-.

TRANSCRIPT OF HANDWRITTEN LETTER FROM KERRY JOSE TO FRANCINE BREARY DATED 14 DECEMBER 2010.

Why are you still here, Francine?

Ive always believed that people can will their own deaths. If our minds can make us wake up exactly a minute before our alarm clocks are due to go off, they must be capable of stopping our breath. Think about it: brain and breath are more powerfully linked than brain and bedside table. A heart begged to stop by a mind that wont take no for an answer-what chance does it stand? Thats what Ive always thought, anyway.

And I cant believe you want to stick around. Even if you do, it wont be up to you for much longer. Someone will kill you. Soon. Every day I change my mind about who it will be. I dont feel the need to try and stop them, only to tell you. By giving you the chance to take yourself away, out of reach, I am being fair to everybody.

Let me admit it: I am trying to talk you into dying because Im scared youll recover. How can the impossible feel possible? It must mean Im still afraid of you.

Tim isnt. Do you know what he asked me once, years ago? He and I were in your kitchen at Heron Close. Those white napkin rings that always reminded me of neck braces were on the table. Youd got them out of the drawer, and the brown napkins with ducks around the border, and slammed them down without saying anything; Tim was supposed to do the rest, whether or not he deemed it important for napkins to be inserted into rings only to be taken out again fifteen minutes later. Dan had gone out to collect the Chinese takeaway and youd marched off to the bottom of the garden to sulk. Tim had ordered something healthy and bean-sprouty that we all knew hed hate, and youd accused him of choosing it for the wrong reason: to please you. I remember blinking back tears as I laid the table, after Id clumsily grabbed the bundle of cutlery from his hands. There was nothing I could do to rescue him from you, but I could spare him the effort of putting the forks and knives out, and I was determined to. Little things were all Tim would let us do for him in those days, so Dan and I did them, as many of them as possible, putting all the effort and care into them that we could. Even so, I couldnt touch those wretched napkin rings.

When I was sure I wasnt going to cry, I turned and saw a familiar look on Tims face, the one that means "Theres something Id like you to know, but Im not prepared to say it, so Im going to mess with your head instead." You wont be able to imagine this expression unless youve seen it, and Im certain you never have. Tim gave up trying to communicate with you within a week of marrying you. "What?" I asked him.

"I wonder about you, Kerry," he said. He meant for me to hear the pantomime suspicion in his voice. I knew he suspected me of nothing, and guessed that he was trying to find a camouflaged way to talk about himself, as he often did. I asked him what he wondered, and he said loudly, as if to an audience stretching back several rows in a large hall, "Imagine Francine dead." Three words that planted an instant ache of longing in my chest. I so much wanted you not to be there anymore, Francine, but we were stuck with you. Before your stroke, I thought youd probably live till you were a hundred and twenty.

"Would you still be scared of her?" Tim asked. Anyone listening who didnt know him well would have thought he was teasing me and enjoying it. "I think you would. Even if you knew she was dead and never coming back."

"You say it as if theres an alternative," I pointed out. "Dead and coming back."

"Would you still hear her voice in your head, saying all the things shed say if she were alive? Would you be any freer of her than you are now? If you couldnt see her, would you imagine she must be somewhere else, watching you?"

"Tim, dont be daft," I said. "Youre the least superst.i.tious person I know."

"But were talking about you," he said in a tone of polished innocence, again drawing attention to his act.

"No. I wouldnt be scared of anyone who was dead."

"If youd be equally afraid of her dead, then killing her would achieve nothing," Tim went on as if I hadnt spoken. "Apart from probably a prison sentence." He took four winegla.s.ses with chunky opaque green gla.s.s stems out of a cupboard. Id always hated them too, for their slime-at-the-bottom-of-your-drink effect.

"Ive never understood why anyone thinks its interesting to speculate about the difference between murderers and the rest of us." Tim pulled a bottle of white wine out of the fridge. "Who cares what makes one person willing and able to kill and another not? The answers obvious: degrees of suffering, and where you are on the braverycowardice spectrum. Theres nothing more to it. The only distinction worth investigating is the one between those of us whose presence in the world, however lackl.u.s.ter and chaotic, doesnt crush the spirit in others to extinction, and those about whom that cant be said, however kind we might want to be. Every murder victim is someone who has inspired at least one person to wish them out of existence. And were supposed to sympathize when they meet a bad end." He made a dismissive noise.

I laughed at his outrageousness, then felt guilty for falling for it. Tim is never better at cheering me up than when he sees no hope of consolation for himself; Im supposed to feel happier, and imagine that hes following the same emotional trajectory. "Youre saying all murder victims are asking for it?" I willingly rose to the bait. If he wants to discuss something, however ridiculous, even now, I debate with him until he decides hes had enough. Dan does too. Its one of the many millions of odd forms love can take. I doubt youd understand.

"Youre a.s.suming, wrongly, that the victim of a murder is always the person whos been killed and not the killer." Tim poured himself a gla.s.s of wine. He didnt offer me one. "To cause someone so much inconvenience that theyre willing to risk their liberty and sacrifice whats left of their humanity to remove you from the face of the earth ought to be regarded as a more serious crime than taking a gun or a blunt instrument and ending a life, all other things being equal."

By inconvenience, he meant pain. "Youre biased," I said. I knew Dan might be back any second with the food, and I wanted to say something more direct than Id normally have risked. I decided that, in starting this extraordinary conversation, Tim had given me his tacit permission. "If you think of Francine as a spirit-crusher, if the only reason you havent killed her is that youd be more scared of her dead than alive . . ." I said.

"I dont know where youve got all that from." Tim grinned. "Hearing things again?" We both understood why he was smiling: I had received his message and would not forget it. He knew it was safe with me. It took me years of knowing Tim to work out that change is never what hes after; all he wants is to stow the important information with someone he can trust.

"You can leave her more easily than you think," I told him, craving change-the enormous, irreversible kind-more than enough for both of us. "There doesnt have to be a confrontation. You dont need to tell her youre going, or have any contact with her after youve left. Dan and I can help you. Let Francine keep this house. Come and live with us."

"You cant help," Tim said firmly. He paused, long enough for me to understand-or misunderstand, as I knew hed insist if I made an issue of it-before adding, "Because I dont need help. Im fine."

I overheard him talking to you yesterday, Francine. He wasnt weighing his every word, planning several conversational moves ahead. He was just talking, telling you another Gaby story. It involved an airport, of course. Gaby seems to live in airports, when shes not in midair. I dont know how she can stand it-it would drive me insane. This particular story was about the time the scanning machine at Madrid-Barajas ate one of her shoes, and Tim was enjoying telling it. It sounded as if he was saying whatever came to mind without censoring himself at all. Nothing contrived, no element of performance. Very un-Tim. As I eavesdropped, I realized that any fear he once had is long gone. What I cant work out is: does that mean hes likely to kill you, or that he needs you to live forever?.

1.

THURSDAY, 10 MARCH 2011.

The young woman next to me is more upset than I am. Not only me; she is more upset than everyone else in the airport put together, and she wants us all to know it. Behind me, people are grumbling and saying, "Oh, no," but no one else is weeping apart from this girl, or shaking with fury. She is able to harangue the Fly4You official and cry copiously at the same time. Im impressed that she seems not to need to interrupt her diatribe, ever, to gulp incoherently in the way that sobbing people normally do. Also, unlike regular folk, she appears not to know the difference between a travel delay and bereavement.

I dont feel sorry for her. I might if her reaction were less extreme. I feel sorriest for people who insist they are absolutely fine, even while their organs are being consumed at great speed by a flesh-eating bug. This probably says something bad about me.

I am not upset at all. If I dont get home tonight, Ill get there tomorrow. That will be soon enough.

"Answer my question!" the girl yells at the poor mild-mannered German man who has the misfortune to be posted at boarding gate B56. "Wheres the plane now? Is it still here? Is it down there?" She points to the concertina-walled temporary air-bridge that opens behind him, the one that, five minutes ago, we were all hoping to walk along and find our plane at the end of. "Its down there, isnt it?" she demands. Her face is unlined, blemish-free and weirdly flat; that of a vicious rag doll. She looks about eighteen, if that. "Listen, mate, theres hundreds of us and only one of you. We could push past you and all get on the plane, a load of angry Brits, and refuse to get off till someone flies us home! I wouldnt mess with a load of angry Brits if I were you!" She pulls off her black leather jacket as if preparing for a physical fight. The word "FATHER" is tattooed on her right upper arm, in large capital letters, blue ink. Shes wearing tight black jeans, a bullet belt, and lots of straps on her shoulders from a white bra, a pink camisole and a red sleeveless top.

"The plane is being rerouted to Cologne," the German Fly4You man tells her patiently, for the third time. A name badge is pinned to his maroon uniform: Bodo Neudorf. I would find it hard to speak harshly to anyone named Bodo, though I wouldnt expect others to share this particular scruple. "The weather is too dangerous," he says. "There is nothing that I can do. I am sorry." A reason-based appeal. In his shoes, Id probably try the same tactic-not because it will work, but because if you possess rationality and are in the habit of using it regularly, youre probably something of a fan and likely to overvalue its potential usefulness, even when dealing with somebody who finds it more helpful to accuse innocent people of hiding airplanes from her.

"You keep saying its being rerouted! That means you havent sent it anywhere yet, right?" She wipes her wet cheeks-an action violent enough to be mistaken for hitting herself in the face-and whirls round to face the crowd behind us. "He hasnt sent it away at all," she announces, the vibration of her outraged voice winning the sound war at boarding gate B56, drowning out the constant electronic pinging noises that announce the imminent announcement of the opening of gates for other flights, ones more fortunate than ours. "How can he have sent it away? Five minutes ago we were all sitting here ready to board. You cant send a plane off to anywhere that quickly! I say we dont let him send it away. Were here, the plane must be here, and we all want to go home. We dont care about the sodding weather! Whos up for it?"

Id like to turn round and see if everybodys finding her one-woman show as embarra.s.singly compulsive as I am, but I dont want our fellow non-pa.s.sengers to imagine she and I are together simply because were standing side by side. Better to make it obvious that shes nothing to do with me. I smile encouragingly at Bodo Neudorf. He replies with a curtailed smile of his own, as if to say, "I appreciate the gesture of support, but you would be foolish to imagine that anything you might do could compensate for the presence of the monstrosity beside you."

Fortunately, Bodo doesnt seem unduly alarmed by her threats. He has probably noticed that many of the people booked onto Flight 1221 are extremely well-behaved choirgirls between the approximate ages of eight and twelve, still wearing their choir robes after their concert in Dortmund earlier today. I know this because their choirmaster and the five or six parent chaperones were reminiscing proudly, while we waited to board, about how well the girls sang something called "Angeli, Archangeli." They didnt sound like the sort of people who would be quick to knock a German airport employee to the ground in a ma.s.s stampede, or insist on exposing their talented offspring to dangerous storm conditions for the sake of getting home when they expected to.

Bodo picks up a small black device that is attached to the departure gate desk by a length of coiled black wire, and speaks into it, having first pressed the b.u.t.ton that makes the pinging noise that must precede all airport speech. "This is an announcement for all pa.s.sengers for Flight 1221 to Combingham, England. That is Fly4You Flight 1221 to Combingham, England. Your plane is being rerouted to Cologne Airport and will depart from there. Please proceed to the Baggage Reclaim area to collect your bags, and then go to wait outside the airport, immediately outside the Departures Hall. We are trying to make the arrangement that coaches will collect you and take you to Cologne Airport. Please make your way to the collection point outside the Departures Hall as soon as possible."

To my right, a smartly dressed woman with postbox-red hair and an American accent says, "We dont need to hurry, people. These are hypothetical coaches: the slowest kind."

"How long on the coach from here to Cologne?" a man calls out.

"I have no details yet about the timetable of the coaches," Bodo Neudorf announces. His voice is lost in the spreading ripple of groans.

Im glad I can miss out on the visit to Baggage Reclaim. The thought of everyone else traipsing down there to pick up the luggage they waited in a shuffling, zigzagging, rope-corralled queue to check in not much more than an hour ago makes me feel exhausted. Its eight p.m. I was supposed to be landing in Combingham at eight-thirty English time, and going home for a long soak in a hot bubble bath with a chilled gla.s.s of Muscat. I woke up at five this morning to catch the seven oclock from Combingham to Dsseldorf. Im not a morning person, and resent any day that requires me to wake up earlier than seven a.m.; this one has already gone on too long.

"Oh, this is a f.u.c.king joke!" Psycho Rag Doll pipes up. "You have got to be s.h.i.tting me!" If Bodo imagined that by amplifying his voice and projecting it electronically he could intimidate his nemesis into silent obedience, he was mistaken. "Im not going to collect any suitcases!"

A thin bald man in a gray suit steps forward and says, "In that case, youre likely to arrive home without your bag. And everything in it." Inwardly, I cheer; Flight 1221 has its first quiet hero. He has a newspaper tucked under his arm. He grips its corner with his other hand, expecting retaliation.

"Keep out of it, you!" Rag Doll yells in his face. "Look at you: thinking youre better than me! I havent even got a suitcase-thats how much you know!" She turns her attention back to Bodo. "What, so youre going to unload everyones cases off the plane? How does that make sense? You tell me how that makes sense. Thats just . . . Im sorry for swearing, but thats just f.u.c.king plain stupid!"

"Or," I find myself saying to her, because I cant let the bald hero stand alone and no one else seems to be rushing to his aid, "youre the one whos stupid. If you havent checked in a bag, then of course youre not going to collect any suitcases. Why would you?"

She stares at me. Tears are still pouring down her face.

"Also, if the plane was here now and could safely fly to Cologne Airport, we could fly there on it, couldnt we?" I say. "Or even fly home, which is what wed all ideally like to do." s.h.i.t. Why did I open my mouth? Its not my job, or even Bodo Neudorfs, to correct her flawed thinking. The bald man has wandered away with his newspaper and left me to it. Ungrateful git. "Because of the weather, our plane cant fly into Dsseldorf," I continue with my mission to spread peace and understanding. "Its never been here, it isnt here now, and your suitcase, if you had one, wouldnt be on it, and wouldnt need to be taken off it. The plane is somewhere in the sky." I point upward. "It was heading for Dsseldorf, and now its changed course and is heading for Cologne."

"No-o," she says unsteadily, looking me up and down with a kind of shocked disgust, as if shes horrified to find herself having to address me. "Thats not right. We were all sitting there." She waves an arm toward the curved orange plastic seats on their rows of black metal stalks. "It said to go to the gate. It only says that when the planes there ready for boarding."

"Normally thats true, but not tonight," I tell her briskly. I can almost see the cogs going round behind her eyes as her mental machinery struggles to connect one thought to another. "When they told us to go to the gate, they still hoped the plane would be able to make it to Dsseldorf. Shortly after we all pitched up here, they realized that wouldnt be possible." I glance at Bodo Neudorf, who half nods, half shrugs. Is he deferring to me? Thats insane. Hes supposed to know more about Fly4Yous behind-the-scenes operations than I do.

Angry Weeping Girl averts her eyes and shakes her head. I can hear her silent scorn: Believe that if you want to. Bodo is speaking into a walkie-talkie in German. Choirgirls nearby start to ask if theyll get home tonight. Their parents tell them they dont know. Three men in football shirts are discussing how much beer they might be able to drink between now and whenever we fly, speculating about whether Fly4You will settle the bar tab.

A worried gray-haired woman in her late fifties or early sixties tells her husband that she only has ten euros left. "What? Why?" he says impatiently. "Thats not enough."

"Well, I didnt think wed need any more." She flaps around him, accepting responsibility, hoping for mercy.

"You didnt think?" he demands angrily. "What about emergencies?"

Ive used up all my interventional capacity, otherwise I might ask him if hes ever heard of a cash machine, and what he was planning to do if his wife spontaneously combusted and all the currency in her handbag went up in smoke. What about that emergency, bully-breath? Is your wife actually thirty-five, and does she only look sixty because shes wasted the best years of her life on you?

Theres nothing like an airport for making you lose faith in humanity. I walk away from the crowd, past a row of unmanned boarding gates, in no particular direction. I am sick of the sight of every single one of my fellow travelers, even the ones whose faces I havent noticed. Yes, even the nice choirgirls. Im not looking forward to seeing any of them again-in the helpless, hopeful gaggle we will form outside the Departures Hall, where we will stand for hours in the rain and wind; across the aisle of the coach; slumped half asleep at various bars around Cologne Airport.

On the other hand, its a delayed plane, not a bereavement. I fly a lot. This sort of thing happens all the time. Ive heard the words "We are sorry to announce . . ." as often as Ive seen the flecked gray heavy-duty linoleum flooring at Combingham Airport, with its flecked blue border at every edge, for contrast. Ive stood beneath information screens and watched minor delays metastasize into cancellations as often as Ive seen the small parallel lines that form the borderless squares that in turn make up the pattern on a million sets of silver airplane steps; once I dreamed that the walls and ceiling of my bedroom were covered with textured aluminum tread.

The worst thing about a delay, always, is ringing Sean and telling him that, yet again, Im not going to be back when I said I would be. Its a call I cant face making. Although . . . in this instance, it might not be so bad. I might be able to make it not so bad.

I smile to myself as the idea blooms in my mind. Then I reach into my handbag with my right hand-not looking, still walking-and rummage until I find the rectangular plastic-wrapped box Im looking for: the pregnancy test Ive been carrying around with me for the past ten days and never quite finding the right moment to do.

Ive been worrying quite a lot recently about my need to procrastinate, though Im obviously putting off tackling the problem. Ive never been like this about anything work-related, and Im still not, but if its something personal and important, Ill do my best to postpone it indefinitely. This could be why I dont weep in airports when my flights dont depart on time; delay is my natural rhythm.

Part of me is still not ready to face the test, though with every day that pa.s.ses, the whole rigmarole of weeing on a plastic wand and awaiting its verdict starts to seem more and more pointless. I am so obviously pregnant. Theres a weirdly sensitive patch of skin on the top of my head that never used to be there, and Im more tired than Ive ever been.

I glance at my watch, wondering if Ive got time to do this, then tut at my own gullibility. The American woman was right. There are no physical real-life coaches on their way to rescue us. G.o.d knows when there will be. Bodo didnt have a clue what was going on; he fooled us all into a.s.suming he was on top of the arrangements by being German. Which means Ive got at least fifteen minutes to do the test and phone Sean while the rest of them are retrieving their luggage. Luckily, Sean is easily distracted, like a kid. When I tell him I wont be back tonight, h.e.l.l gear up to start complaining. When I tell him the pregnancy test was positive, h.e.l.l be so delighted that he wont care when I get back.

I stop at the nearest ladies toilet and force myself to go in, repeating silent rea.s.surances in my head: This isnt scary. You already know the result. Seeing a small blue cross will change nothing.

I unwrap the box, take out the test, drop the instruction leaflet back in my bag. Ive done this before-once, last year, when I knew I wasnt pregnant and took the test only because Sean wouldnt accept my gut instinct as good enough.

Its not a cross, its a plus sign. Lets not call it a cross: bad for morale.

It doesnt take long before theres something to see. Already, a flash of blue. Oh, G.o.d. I cant do this. I only slightly want to have a baby. I think. I actually dont know at all. More blue: two lines, spreading out horizontally. No plus sign yet, but its only a matter of time.

Sean will be pleased. Thats what I should focus on. Im the sort of person who doubts everything and can never be uncomplicatedly happy. Seans reaction is more reliable than mine, and I know h.e.l.l be thrilled. Having a baby will be fine. If I didnt want to be pregnant, Id have been secretly gulping down Mercilon for the past year, and I havent.

What?

There is no blue cross in the wands larger window. And nothing is getting any bluer. Its been more than five minutes since I did the test. Im not an expert, but I have a strong sense that all the blueness thats going to happen has happened already.

I am not pregnant. I cant be.

An image flits through my mind: a tiny human figure, gold and featureless, punching the air in triumph. Its gone before I can examine it in detail.

Now I really dont want to speak to Sean. I have two disappointing pieces of news to deliver instead of one. The prospect of making the call is panicking me. If I have to do it at all, I need to get it over with. It seems hugely unfair that I cant deal with this problem by pretending I dont know anyone by the name of Sean Hamer and disappearing into a new life. That would be so much easier.

I leave the ladies toilet and start to retrace my steps to the Departures Hall, pulling my BlackBerry out of my jacket pocket. Sean answers after one ring. "Hi, babes," he says. "What time are you back?" When Im away, he sits and watches TV in the evening with his phone next to him, so that he doesnt miss any of my calls or texts. I dont know if this is normal loving partner behavior. Id feel disloyal if I asked any of my friends, as if I was inviting them to slag Sean off.

"Sean, Im not pregnant."

Silence. Then, "But you said you were. You said you didnt need to do a test-you knew."

"You know what that means, dont you?"

"What?" He sounds hopeful.

"Im an arrogant fool who cant be trusted. I really, really thought I was up the duff, but . . . obviously I was wrong. I must be feeling hormonal for some other reason."

"Dont take the word of one test," Sean says. "Check. Buy another one. Can you buy one at the airport?"

"I dont need to." Of course you can buy a pregnancy test at an airport. I tell myself Sean doesnt know this because hes a man, not because he has no desire to venture beyond our living room, and spends every evening on the sofa watching sports on TV.

"If youre not pregnant, why are you so late?" he asks.

Id like to blame the weather conditions at Dsseldorf Airport, but I know thats not what he means. "No idea." I sigh. "Speaking of late, my flight is too. The planes been rerouted to Cologne-were about to set off there on a coach. Allegedly. Hopefully Ill be back at some point tomorrow. Maybe very late tonight if were lucky."

"Right," Sean says tightly. "So, once again, my evening goes up in smoke."

Be sympathetic. Dont argue with him. "Shouldnt that be, once again, my evening goes up in smoke? Im the one whos probably going to spend tonight sleeping upright in the pa.s.sport control booth at Cologne Airport." I hate myself when I use sentences that begin, "Im the one who . . . ," but I have a strong urge to point out that it is not Sean who is trapped in a large building full of electronic bleeping noises and strangers echoing voices, about to be shunted off to another similar bleeping gray-and-white neon-lit building. Sean is not the one struggling with the sense that he is being slowly disa.s.sembled on a molecular level, that his whole being has become pixelated and wont attain proper personhood again until he next walks through his front door. If he were ever to find himself in that situation, and if I happened simultaneously to be sitting on the couch drinking beers and watching my favorite kind of TV, I like to think Id show some sympathy.

And, pregnancy test notwithstanding, Im still an arrogant fool who thinks shes right about everything. Ive tried to be humbler, but, frankly, remembering you might be wrong is not easy when the person youre arguing with is Sean.

"Hopefully youll be back tomorrow?" he says. In the few seconds since he last spoke, he has been shoveling Carlsberg-flavored fuel into the furnace of his indignation. "What, you mean it might be the day after?"

"This may come as news to you, Sean, but Im not exactly a big cheese at Cologne Airport. They dont have to run all their flight schedules past me. Im a powerless pa.s.senger, just as I am at Dsseldorf Airport. Ive no idea when Ill be back."

"Great," he snaps. "Will you bother to ring me when you do know?"

I resist the urge to crush my BlackBerry against the wall and reduce it to fine black powder. "I suspect whatll happen is theyll tell us one thing, then another, then something different altogether," I say patiently. "Anything to keep us at bay while they desperately cobble together a plan for getting us home, and we stand outside the closed duty-free shop, shaking its metal grille and begging to be allowed in before we die of boredom." I havent given up hope that Sean might notice Im not enjoying myself this evening. "You dont really want me to ring you every hour with an update, do you? Why dont you look on Flight Tracker?"

"So you dont care enough to keep me updated, but Im supposed to sit by the laptop, looking-"

"No, youre not supposed to do that. You can accept that Ill be back soon, but that neither of us knows exactly when, and just deal with it like a grown-up."

Sean mutters something under his breath.

"What was that?" I say, reluctant to let an infuriating statement go unheard and uncontested.

"I said, whos the carrier?"

I stop walking.

Its a shock to hear the words spoken so casually. I dont want them in my head, but theres nothing I can do. They are there. They will always be there, even if no one ever again speaks them aloud to me.