"Get over it. What a funny phrase that is! As if one's grief is a fallen house, and one has to pick one's way over the rubble to the ground on the other side..."

"The Night Watch" – Sarah Waters

The house is quiet, without her, seems quieter than before, since...

That's daft, that's stupid, I know, it doesn't make sense, but it does. It shouldn't make any difference why it's quiet, why she's not here. I mean, there were loads of times she was out when... before... loads of times when I was home on me own like. When she was at work, when she went to the shop sometimes, when she was out at night, those times. I used to put the telly on didn't I? God it seems like years ago, not weeks. I can barely remember what it was like. I used to put the telly on in the other room and pretend like everything was normal. Stupid cow. Maybe that's the difference in the quiet. I don't put telly on any more.

But it's not that. I'm trying to stop pretending to myself. I stopped that when I asked her to leave. Threw her out. Oh God I don't want to think about it. That's maybe the worst thing I've ever done. I keep trying to decide that – what the worst thing is, the worst thing I've done in my whole life.

I'm trying to stop pretending stuff, yeah, like I used to. Trying to stop lying to myself. Like when I'd tell myself that she was only popping out for a drink and I didn't fancy a pub myself, I'd rather have a quiet night in. Or she was only having a bit of a drive round and it was normal to want to get out by herself for a bit after being cooped up in a shop all day, being nice to snotty-nosed strangers. Like she wasn't that drunk. Like it wasn't a problem. Like I could cope.

Like – I didn't care any more.

That was a lie. That was pretending. Maybe that was the worst thing, telling her I didn't care enough, that it was too much, that it wasn't worth it. She wasn't worth it any more.

I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking.

It's definitely quieter now. Even quieter than after that. I thought nothing could be quieter than the silence of that night after the door shutting. I just sat down. My knees sort of gave way like. That sounds a bit over dramatic but it was just gentle like. I shut the door and then I was sitting on the floor and I couldn't get up, didn't want to. I just sat there with my back against it for, I don't know how long. And I could see her, in my head, walking down the street, looking back, swearing under her breath, ducking her head, turning the corner. Then I couldn't see her any more.

I don't know how long I sat there, going over and over it. I was crying, didn't even realise at first. And then thought, maybe I was wrong, maybe she hasn't gone, she's still there on the other side of the door. So I pushed myself up and I opened it. I don't know what I was going to say, I didn't have it planned out or anything, I didn't do it on purpose. It just hurt so much, having her gone, and it was so horribly quiet. I think if she had been there, I would have said come back in. I think I would. I wouldn't have been able to stop myself hugging her. And maybe then things would have been different. Maybe.

But she wasn't.

I got a bit of glass in my hand that day, must have been when I was getting up to open the door, one of them tiny slivers you get, probably from when those little twats broke the window. It's been stuck in the heel of my hand. I didn't even notice it at first. It just niggles mostly, or stabs at me every so often, like when I lean on it a certain way. I keep poking at it but I can't get it out.

I went into work the other day. You know what the funny thing is, I actually thought it was going to be all right. That's me pretending to myself. See I'm good at that, it's a hard habit to break. And I was kidding myself that I was doing all right, right up till I was on a break and these lasses behind me were looking through a magazine or something. I was just drinking my brew, keeping my head down, ignoring all the funny looks, pretending. Then one of them says "what the hell was she thinking?" I don't know what about. They had a magazine. Maybe it was a dress or summat, some stupid bit of gossip. And that was me, in pieces. I had to get out of there before I started crying in front of them all. Because that's just it, that's the point, that's what I keep asking myself. What the hell was she thinking? And they all laughed. Because it's funny. I never knew what Helen was thinking. I never knew what was going on in her head. I never had a bloody clue.

So I'm sitting here at our kitchen table. At the table in my kitchen. With a bottle of vodka. Still in my black suit. And I'm asking her. And I'm listening to the quiet that answers back.

It's different again today. When I come back in it had changed. Now she's laid to rest. I hate that phrase. I would really, really, seriously like to throw my glass across the kitchen and smash it off the edge of the sink to kill that phrase. But what's the point?

She was there today, that Detective Inspector woman, the one Helen... took. What was she thinking? She looked small from a distance, small and a bit fragile, and you could see why maybe someone would think they could kidnap her. But when she came up close – she shook my hand and she said... well, when you saw her up close she seemed bigger, does that make sense? Like, she was so professional and proper, I mean, she scared me a bit. It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense. She said she was sorry. And that doesn't make sense either. Maybe I should have spat at her, or sworn at her or something. Is that what Helen would have done? That doesn't mean it would have been a good idea of course. I dunno. She could be real charming, our Helen, when she wanted to be. She could be the sweetest in the world.

Not so much lately though.

Not her fault.

Anyway, I didn't do any of that today. I said I was sorry too. Daft, aren't we? Proper English that. Everyone apologising and shaking hands.

That blonde one was there too. Janet. And the other one. All being very serious and nice. Bit like that day. But they were probably only doing their jobs. Don't suppose they'll ever think much of her again, our Helen. Unless it's part of a case I s'pose, they will do then, I daresay they take it all very serious and do their jobs right. But they won't think of her, as a person. They never knew her. Not like I did.

They won't sit at home and ask questions that they can't get answers to, and remember how she was, the little everyday things about her, and they won't take two mugs out the cupboard in the mornings and have to put one back again or all those stupid things.

They won't try to work out what was the worst thing they ever did, and wonder what they could have done different.

They won't sit here and listen to the quiet that gets thicker and thicker in the night.