let’s get you to your friend, then,’ she said and helped me to my feet. ‘I’m so, so sorry you’re going through this,’ she offered. ‘It’s awful.’
I nodded because I didn’t know what to say, and despite the sickness and the pain in my chest, it still didn’t feel real. I didn’t know just how awful it was to become. Once I knew how she died, I knew it would only be worse. But for that moment I just kept thinking of my friend, hair tied back in a ponytail. Embracing life again in a way she hadn’t through her thirties. My friend smiling from her Facebook page. My friend who had the most contagious laugh in the world.
My friend who was dead.
Julie was perched on the edge of her sofa, her knees tight together, her body stiff with shock. She lit one cigarette off the end of another and continued smoking. Her hand shook as she brought the cigarette to her lips. Her eyes closed on the inhalation and as they did, a tear escaped, running down her already streaked face.
She looked wretched. Old. I’d never looked at one of my old school pals and thought we looked our age before, but Julie did in that moment, in that room. Her usually neatly preened hair was messy, strands of copper escaping from her ponytail, frizzy and unkempt. Her make-up was mostly gone, washed away by her tears and the rough way she pulled the sleeve of her cardigan across her cheeks to dry her face. Her skin would be red and sore later, I thought, as if that would matter. As if that was important in the grand scheme of things.
I’m not sure what I expected. Perhaps that we’d run into each other’s arms and cling on, sobbing like lost souls. That didn’t happen. Julie looked at me through glazed eyes and just shook her head while I sat down at the opposite end of the sofa, my adrenaline gone and a weariness washing over me.
‘Do you want a cup of tea or coffee, or something stronger?’ Julie’s husband, Brendan, asked me.
It had been him who’d let me in, who’d hugged me awkwardly at the door and who’d warned me that Julie was ‘in a bad way’.
‘I’m on the vodka,’ Julie spoke, her voice hoarse.
I noticed the tall glass, half full of a clear liquid and ice cubes, on the floor by her feet.
‘I’ll stick with tea,’ I said, knowing I’d have to deal with the girls later.
How would I tell them? Tell Molly her godmother was gone? I felt something in my stomach contract.
‘Probably the wise choice, I just … I just needed to block it out. Or something,’ Julie said. ‘Oh, Rachel, I can’t believe it. I can’t get my head around it.’
‘How much do you know?’ I asked her.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Ronan called me. He was in bits, Rachel. Could barely talk. He said the police had just called to their parents’ house, asked about distinctive marks, hair colour, clothes, that kind of thing. They’d found a bank card or something stuffed into her trouser pocket.’ Her voice broke as she spoke. ‘They’ve got to go for a formal identification. Can you imagine that?’
A sliver of hope surged inside me. ‘So the body hasn’t been identified yet? They could be wrong, Julie. Someone could have stolen her card or something. It doesn’t mean it’s her.’
Julie sighed, dragged on her cigarette again. ‘It’s her, Rachel. They had jewellery – that bracelet she always wears. They described the tattoo on her wrist. The identification is just a formality. It’s definitely her.’
The feeling of that sliver of hope disintegrating almost broke me in two. ‘But maybe …’ I offered to no one in particular, the sentence dying on my lips as I realised how futile it was.
Julie just shook her head. ‘I wish. I really, really wish. I can’t stop wishing and hoping, but Ronan was as sure as he could be. He’s going with their parents. He says he’s not sure his mother or father will be up to the task of identifying her. He might have to do it.’
My heart ached for Ronan, Clare’s older brother by eighteen months. As much as he’d roll his eyes at us and our giggling, melodramatic, annoying teenage ways, he’d been almost as much a part of our gang back then as any of us were. He and Julie had even shared an ill-fated snog at the youth club Halloween disco once. It was such a drama at the time. Drama. We hadn’t known the meaning of the word.
This wasn’t how our lives were supposed to go. Julie, Clare and I – we were meant to live to a ripe old age and become our own version of the Golden Girls. This wasn’t meant to be how it ended. I wondered whether I should have a drink, after all. Numb the senses. Dull the edges, just as Julie was doing.
‘Do they know what happened?’ I asked, not sure if I was ready for the response.
Julie’s hand shook more as she took another sip from her glass, shuddering slightly as the vodka slid down her throat.
‘It definitely wasn’t an accident,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have details – I’m not even sure that I want to know them. But the police are treating it as a murder inquiry. I imagine it’ll be all over the news by teatime.’
Brendan walked back into the room and handed me a mug of tea, but my hand was shaking too much to hold it. I sat it on the coffee table in front of me and looked at my friend. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say. It was taking all my strength to keep breathing normally.
‘She was so happy, Rachel. I don’t know when you last spoke to her, but she was so happy. Said she felt her life was finally going in the right direction. She was finally over that bloody break-up and was ready to move on. It was the brightest I’d seen her in years. I don’t understand it. Who would do this to her? You know Clare like I do; she wouldn’t ever hurt a fly. I don’t understand …’ She finally gave in to her tears, her body shaking.
I thought of the last time I’d seen her. It was about three weeks before. We’d met for a hurried brunch one Saturday. She’d been so happy – glowing, in fact. Told me she believed more than ever that it was absolutely true that life began at forty. She was happy in work, hoping for a promotion, and she’d met someone.
I wondered about him. Did he know? Jesus, could he have done it? We knew so little about him. Had the police spoken to him yet? Did they know who he was? Clare had always been coy about him when we’d talked. Said she didn’t want to ‘jinx’ it. But she’d met him through a dating app and they’d been out a couple of times.
‘He’s a real gentleman. Not a player, like so many of the men on those sites. He seems genuinely interested in a relationship,’ Clare had said.
I’d warned her to take it slowly. She was a romantic at heart – threw herself into relationships too easily. Allowed her heart to be broken. She’d reassured me. ‘We’ve not even slept together yet,’ she’d whispered, blushing. ‘But I’m enjoying the snogging sessions.’ She’d sounded so upbeat. Young. Innocent. I’d been almost jealous of her joie de vivre.
‘Joy of life’. How quickly things had changed. I sat, numb, looking at Julie.
‘Have the police spoken to her new man?’ I asked.
Julie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. If they can find him, but you don’t think he’d be behind it, do you? He was making her happy.’
‘There’s something about
