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TWENTY-TWO

GARETH

I checked one more time in the mirror, poring over my hairline again.

It had definitely shifted in the past few months.

I did wonder if that was due to the days of no showering, insane levels of stress, and a diet consisting mostly of microwaveable macaroni and cheese from the shitty store at the end of the street just to not die of starvation along with Mep.

Needless to say, I had certainly looked better.

In my defence, it had been a long day, and seeing your wife on trial after you’d been the one who’d turned her in was a pretty stressful situation, especially when the reasons why she’d had a penchant for the odd murder had become all the clearer.

I was just about to google the cost of a hair transplant in Turkey when my phone – which was teetering on the edge of the sink – began to aggressively buzz.

I snatched it up before it decided to end it all and leap off the side.

The number wasn’t one I recognised. But nevertheless, I decided to pick up.

‘Hello?’

‘Ah, hello, Mr Donoghue, I hope you’re okay. It’s Dr Patel. I’ve tried ringing this number a few times as I couldn’t reach your wife. I was calling to talk a bit more about when you’d like another appointment to discuss further options regarding fertility treatment.’

It took me a second to click who it was. Our appointment with Dr Patel felt like a lifetime ago.

‘Oh, Dr Patel,’ I said, straightening my back as if I had to stand to attention. ‘I thought that we were waiting on you to call us back?’

‘Ahhh, may I ask if you’ve spoken to your wife about this recently, Mr Donoghue?’

I steadied myself by placing a hand around the rim of the sink. Oh, Fran, what else haven’t you told me?

‘Ahh, now I understand. Sorry, it’s been a bit of a long day,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t sense any uncertainty or lack of confidence in my voice. ‘This is about the test results, yes? She did tell me about them. So, we need to come in for some more tests?’

It was a wild guess, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything if I showed I was ignorant.

‘Yes, that’s it, so just find a time with your wife when you can call reception and we can get you booked in to discuss the next options.

I know it can be quite distressing and concerning at times like this, and it can be easy to be pessimistic about your chances of conceiving.

But this isn’t an opportunity to give up all hope.

There are options, even if it isn’t the news we were maybe hoping for. ’

I didn’t know what to say. Fran would tell me that I was buffering right now, as I racked my brain to figure out why she would keep this from me too. When had she found out? Presumably, before the arrest? But a more concerning question kept wrangling its way into my head.

Was she keeping anything else from me?

‘Well, I was just checking up on you,’ the doctor remarked, filling in the uncomfortable silence between us. ‘How about you find some time to talk to your wife about when you could next come in, and we can go from there?’

‘Off the record, though, doc, what are our chances?’ I muttered, running my hand back and forth through my scraggly hair, trying to ignore the various strands that were breaking off and floating down towards the sink.

‘I wouldn’t like to guess, Mr Donoghue. How about we just run some more tests, and then we’ll discuss that if and when we come to it?’

‘Sounds great. Thank you, doctor.’ I didn’t know what else to say. ‘Ch…cheerio,’ I said with a vocal flourish, like some posh aristocrat, cringing at myself as I hung up the phone.

Why had I said ‘cheerio’?

Up until three months ago, I’d felt like my marriage with Fran had lasted where others had failed because of our commitment, courtesy and communication.

That was, after all, what was in How to Make Your Marriage Work , which I had read cover to cover leading up to our wedding.

It was what I always told people when they asked me why we looked so content with each other, why we always stared lovingly into each other’s eyes, and why we seemed to still… well…like each other.

After a final glance at my hairline, I took a deep breath and steeled myself. To enact this plan, I knew I needed unwavering focus and confidence. If I hesitated, it could all come crumbling down.

‘Oh, Gareth, are you even meant to be here?’ A pause. ‘You look like shit.’

‘What did you just say?’ I grunted, before fully distinguishing whose gruff London accent it was.

I turned around to see it was Darren, standing there with this weird look on his face like he didn’t know if he should say something cocky, or not say anything else at all. Probably only the third thought he’d ever had in his life, poor bloke.

‘Nothing, just…have a good day, man,’ he said, his voice trailing off as he strutted over to the urinals.

I felt a deep urge to hiss something venomous to Darren, to finally call him out on his bullshit. But the smallest, tiniest iota of patience I had told me it was best to keep my mouth shut and walk away.

‘Heard your wife’s chances aren’t looking good,’ Darren muttered as he approached the urinal. ‘And did you hear we found a knife? She really was a crazy bitch.’

‘Don’t you dare speak about my wife, you piece of shit.’

Darren froze just as he finished fiddling with his fly.

His dick was already out, but he was so clearly stunned that he spun 180 degrees, cock swaying with him.

I thought maybe it would be tiny, justifying all his ultra-machoism, but there it was, flaccid – actually somewhat average – not as small and misshapen as I’d previously expected.

But no one calls my wife a bitch, although Darren’s tone suggested he was speaking about Fran from first-hand experience.

‘What did you just say to me?’ Darren asked.

I stood my ground, Impulsive, Tired, Depressed Gareth taking control, edging myself closer to Darren, trying to maintain eye contact. But admittedly it was quite hard to be threatening when someone had their cock out.

‘You know what I said. What are you going to do about it?’ I said, lightly pushing my hand into his chest. That sounded like something someone who knew what they were doing would say.

I hoped in execution it came across as assertive as I hoped.

I wanted Darren to throw the first punch.

I knew I could take it, and I’d been waiting desperately for months to throw a clenched fist back, straight into his jaw.

I saw his eyes flash with fury before he realised his appendage was still unsheathed: I had a one-up on him. I bet that wouldn’t do great for his mobility in a fist fight.

I pushed Darren again, doing my best to provoke him as I saw his hand begin to contract into a fist.

‘What are you going to do? What are you going to do?’ I goaded, continuing to barge him. His back slapped against the tiled bathroom wall as he desperately struggled to put his dick back in his trousers in order to throw a punch.

‘What’s going on here?’ another voice behind me asked.

This one was easy to recognise: Steve. I couldn’t glance at him as that would mean breaking the macho stare-down, but I did wonder what was going through his brain, seeing this situation.

I wondered what was going through Darren’s brain too, actually.

To be fair, I wondered what was going through my own brain as I stood there, eyes locked with one of the people I resented most in the world, still with his dick out, desperately trying to tuck it away.

‘Go on then, Darren, I’ll let you throw the first one for free,’ I muttered, genuinely wanting him to – just so I’d finally have the chance to sock him back, right in his skull.

‘To hell with this,’ Darren murmured, successfully placing his penis back in his pants, zipping up his fly, and marching past Steve out of the bathroom.

‘Gareth?’ said Steve, clearly shocked at both my presence and appearance as I rotated towards him. ‘What…what are you doing here? You know you can’t be here. Vivian said you couldn’t come in while Fran’s trial was happening!’

I followed Darren’s lead and barged past Steve, out the door and along the office floor as he shifted into a half-walk, half-jog after me.

I reckoned I had about three minutes to prepare the email, and then five minutes to talk to Vivian.

I could be in and out in no time, before there was a chance for any officers to escort me out.

‘Gareth? Gareth? Talk to me,’ Steve snapped, nipping at my heels like an overexcited terrier as I navigated through the winding maze of desks and office booths. A few confused faces peeped over the separators to inspect whatever kind of commotion was occurring.

‘What’s there to say, Steve?’ I said back to him as I sharply turned a corner, hoping I would lose him, but he only smacked into a notice board before promptly continuing his high-speed pursuit.

‘Urgh, I don’t know, like, why you’re still at the station when you should still be on compassionate leave?’ Steve asked, frantic.

I reached my desk, strolled over to my desktop, and powered it on as Steve reached out, trying to push the off button before I slapped his hand away with a fair deal of force.

‘Ouch,’ he said, almost sounding offended that I had actually hit him.

But I ignored him, turning his incessant nagging into background noise as I logged into my account and waited for it to boot up. I think it was safe to say that I was becoming a touch unhinged. I realised I just didn’t care any more.

Steve attempted a softer approach, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘Look, I know you’re having a tough time, Gareth. But you can’t just barge into the station like this. You need to go home.’

‘Steve,’ I said, swivelling my head to look him dead in the eyes whilst my fingers hovered over the computer keyboard, ready to put in my password. ‘Do you really think that you, of all people, can lecture me about what I can and can’t do?’