The Cry by Helen Fitzgerald Page B

car. There are three police cars parked on the street in front and two journalists taking photos and waiting for interviews, microphones in hand. Mrs Robertson’s black Golf is in the driveway – I recognise it. I watch Chloe walk up the front path and along the veranda, my mum and dad behind her. When the door opens, it’s him. He looks even younger than he did four years ago but his head seems to have grown and his body shrunk. He’s short. I never took much notice, but he’s stumpy. I don’t find him attractive at all. How wondrous. I don’t find him attractive! He’s kind of puky, with his thinning over-worked hair and his under-worked body. (That’s a bit of a spare tyre, I think. Just a bit, but it’s there.) He’s oddly proportioned, short and balding and fat. Phil runs 5k every night. Phil looks good for his age, not like some old guy trying to look young. Phil has all his hair. Why am I thinking this? We’re just friends. As if Phil’d ever go for me.
    I am one shallow piece of work to be thinking these things, but he’s still at the door and I can’t help it.
    What strikes me more than how he looks is that he is a stranger. I scan him one more time and wonder who he is and why I allowed him to kidnap my self-worth. He’s just some guy. Some guy who makes me burn with anger. I can feel it now. He hugs Chloe. I hear someone crying, or more than one person. Hard to tell. They all go in, shut the door.
    I wonder if Alistair thinks I’d be capable of something like this, really. He knows I have a Japara – he gave it to me in the early days, when he still bought me thoughtful presents. He bought his and hers, in fact, so we could hike together ‘in any weather, at least once a month’! He wouldn’t know for sure that I still have it, but he does know I loved it, and that I never throw things out. I berate myself for caring what he thinks. It’s always annoyed me, that I care what he thinks of me.
    I’ll be here a long time, I suppose. I wonder about heading to the pub. I wonder about texting Mum to tell her I’ve gone for a walk and to text back when they’re done.
    There’s a knock at the window. A woman. I press the button to wind down the window and she pokes a microphone at my face. ‘Excuse me, are you related to the Robertsons? Would you answer—’
    I press the button and the window goes up, not fast enough. ‘Go away,’ I say pushing her microphone out so it doesn’t get caught.
    As uncomfortable as it is, I will not go away. I won’t risk losing Chloe to him, no matter what. I don’t trust him.
    Another knock, a woman squealing: ‘We just want to ask you a few questions.’ I wave her away, and turn the radio on to drown her out.
    She knocks, bangs on the window. Another journalist bangs on the other one. The car feels like it’s shaking. I put my hand on the horn and leave it there till they back off a little, only a little. I open the window and tell them I’ll get the police to move them on if they don’t leave me alone. I notice Joanna looking out the window to see what’s going on.
    I close the window, sigh, and shut my eyes, wondering what they’re doing and saying in there. He’ll be hugging my daughter and telling her he loves her. My mum and dad will be nice to both of them, my issues superseded by theirs. It angers me. It shouldn’t I know. See, I really am bad.
    I need a drink.
    Gone for a walk , I text Mum. Txt when you’re leaving and I’ll meet you at the car .
    She texts me back: ok .
    Two journalists follow me. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Are you related?’ ‘Do you know the parents?’ ‘Just a few questions.’ I run, and they’re not desperate enough to keep up with me.
    The pub is closed. It’s 4 a.m., after all.
    I run back to the car, elbow some hacks out of the way, get in, and lock the doors. The curtain in the house twitches. Joanna.
    I will not feel sorry for her. I will not lose focus. No matter what has happened, I will not lose Chloe.
    I