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uilding was still in use as a church, and landed on the altar unexploded.
He talked about himself too. He told me that he used to play the violin, that his mother had been a
concert-class performer, and his home had been full of music as a child. He told me that work was
going well, and that he’d just decided to specialise in general paediatric surgery. I got a sense that his
interest in all things was intense, thoughtful and absorbing, whether it was music, architecture, or the
small bodies and lives of his patients. He had a rare sensitivity.
The concert began. A violinist, dressed in black, stood centre stage and, with utmost care, he freed
the first few notes from his instrument, and they hung crisply in the air around us. He played with an
elegance that captivated and seduced, and I felt John relax beside me. When his hand brushed mine
and he didn’t move it away, it seemed to give me balance. When he gently held my fingers in his, it
felt like a counterpoint to the emotional intensity of the music, and also an encouragement to let myself
feel it, become absorbed by it.
This memory: the music, the feelings, flashed through my mind in the car. It was as if I wanted to
rewind my life back to that point, and start it over again, to hold on to that perfect moment, so that
what came afterwards wouldn’t turn to crap, wouldn’t lead us to now. Which was impossible, of
course, because the memory was gone as soon as it arrived. The reality was that instead of comforting
me, the cold grip of John’s fingers felt desperate and futile, just as mine must have done to him.
The traffic stayed slow as we travelled through the city centre: taillights and signposts, concrete
shapes and scud clouds under a granite sky. The River Avon disappeared and then reappeared on the
other side of the road, brown and choppy still, a shopping trolley abandoned on the far bank. I kept
my eye on the water, tracking its progress into the city, because I couldn’t stand to look at the people
outside the car, all the people who were having an ordinary Monday at the start of an ordinary week,
the people who knew where their children were.
The police station was a large concrete cuboid building, Brutalist in style. It was three storeys
high, with tall rectangular windows set into each level at regular intervals, like enlarged arrow slits
in a castle wall. In typography from around half a century ago, the sign announcing where we’d
arrived sat on a thin concrete rectangle above the doors and stated simply: K EN N ETH STEELE
H O U SE.
The inside of the building was startlingly different. It was state of the art, open plan, busy and slick.
We were asked to wait on a set of low-slung sofas by a reception area. Nobody gave us a second
glance. I went to the loo. I barely recognised myself in the mirror. I was gaunt, white, a spectre. There
was mud on my face, and the gash across my forehead was livid and crusty with blood that had
strands of my hair caught in it. I looked dirty and unkempt. I tried to clean myself up but it wasn’t very
effective.
When I got back to reception, John was still on the sofa, elbows on his knees, head hanging. I took
my place beside him. A uniformed officer with a pink face and thinning grey hair came out from
behind the front desk and approached us across the wide foyer.
‘It won’t be long,’ he said. ‘There’s somebody on their way down to fetch you just now.’
‘Thank you,’ John said.