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Will is the next most obvious candidate. But Hannah isn’t sure about him either. There was something wrong, that night at the play. Some kind of reserve or antagonism between him and April that didn’t seem to mesh with the loud, performative sounds coming through the wall the following morning. And, though it makes her flush to think of it, Hannah knows what Will sounded like—sounds like—during sex, both now and then. She watches the countryside rippling hynotically past the window, thinking about her husband—thinking about the way he holds himself over her, bracing his weight on his forearms, staring into her eyes, silent, concentrated, attentive. He doesn’t whimper and grunt and thrash about like someone in a blue movie.
Why. Why didn’t she stay behind that morning? Why didn’t she curl up and wait in the living room armchair to see who exactly came out of April’s bedroom?
Why didn’t she confide in April what had happened?
Because she was traumatized, and in denial. Because she was recovering from—and now ten years on, she can say the words, without feeling they are too strong—an assault. And because she didn’t know. She had no idea how important that question would become. She didn’t know that many years later, so much would end up hanging on it. Her happiness. Her future. Her marriage.
It is at that moment that the train goes into a tunnel and momentarily loses power. The lights in the carriage go out—just for a second—and it’s then that Hannah feels it. Something just below her belly. A flutter, like a bubble popping, or an elastic band snapping, or something small and slippery and feathered rippling inside her.
She goes utterly still. She doesn’t even breathe.
And then the train comes out of the tunnel and the carriage is flooded with light again and she is left, sitting perfectly still, her hand over her stomach, iridescent with happiness. And for the first time since John Neville died, she isn’t thinking about April, or the past, or the fact that she may have condemned an innocent man to die in prison.
She is thinking about her baby, and the new life inside her. And her happiness is so intense that it hurts.
BEFORE
“Well fuck you.”
“Well fuck you.”
The voices came clear through the door of April’s room, making Hannah wince, wondering if they knew she was sitting just on the other side of the wall, working on her final essay of the term.
She thought about calling out, Hey, some of us are trying to study as a jokey way of alerting them to her presence, but before she could do so the door to April’s bedroom opened and Will walked out, slamming it bad-temperedly behind him.
“Oh.” He had the grace to blush when he saw her sitting there. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“No, gosh, I mean—it’s fine,” Hannah said. She put down The Faerie Queene and stood awkwardly, twisting her fingers together. “You weren’t disturbing me.” The lie makes her cheeks color. “I mean, I could—should—have moved. Are you—”
Are you okay was what she wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure if it sounded patronizing, or disloyal. She was supposed to be April’s friend—April, who was probably listening from the other side of the doorway right now. She couldn’t be seen to be taking Will’s side.
But Will was frowning, and now he came across the room to stand closer, looking at her with an unsettling intensity.
“Hannah, what happened to your face?”
Hannah felt a sinking feeling inside her. Was this how it was going to be for the next few days? Having to tell the story over and over?
“Does it show?” She knew she was evading the question, but she still hadn’t made up her mind what to do about Neville. Could she really face taking it further?
Will nodded.
“I mean, it doesn’t look terrible, but it does look like you had an argument with a door and lost.”
“That’s pretty much it,” Hannah said with a shaky laugh. It was another lie—or as near to one as made no odds—but she couldn’t bear to tell Will the truth. His reaction would be worse than Emily’s—she would probably get frog-marched down to see the Master, and have to face that exquisitely polite skepticism all over again.
“Are you coming to April’s closing night on Saturday?” she asked at last, more as a way of changing the subject than because she really wanted to know.
Will’s mouth twisted, and his eyes met hers.
“No, it’s my mother’s birthday weekend and she’s not—well, never mind, that doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m going home to Somerset. I’ll be back Sunday. That’s what we were—well. You heard.”
For a minute they stood in silence, holding each other’s gaze with an intensity that was almost painful. His eyes were a clear brown, like peat water. She could see a muscle move in the side of his jaw as he swallowed. He took a step towards her, one hand outstretched, and something shivered down her spine—a prickle of desire so strong it felt like water running over her skin.
For a moment she thought he was going to touch her. But then, involuntarily, she glanced at April’s closed bedroom door—and somehow that one simple thing broke the spell between them. Will dropped his eyes and took a step back as if he had only just remembered why he was here.
“Well, see you around,” he said. And then he was gone.
There was a long pause, and then April’s bedroom door opened. She was scowling, and Hannah had the strong impression that she had been listening and waiting for Will to leave.
