I Live Here Now: a short story by Ian Rankin

Ever since his daughter’s death, John Bates had all but given up. Eunice had been 17, bubbly and surrounded by friends, keen to leave school behind to study history at university. She’d been a passionate cook and hockey player, not yet ready for a steady boyfriend, and loved absolutely by both her parents. But then one night she had consumed almost an entire bottle of vodka before climbing on to a parapet and leaping into a river swollen by over a week of near-constant rain.

John and his wife Emily had sat numbed for days on end as relatives and neighbours passed through the house, offering solace and paying tribute. Now, six months on, Emily was back at work at the florist’s, increasingly busy as Christmas approached. Breakfasts were quiet affairs, the radio saving them from talking. They watched TV each evening and sometimes walked to the local park, where they’d see teenagers they didn’t recognise sharing spliffs and cans on benches, wrapped up more warmly as the weather turned.

The shops had begun extending their hours, excepting the ones lost to the pandemic. A few media reports had suggested that Eunice’s suicide had been in reaction to the virus, but Bates doubted that. Then again, she had left few clues. He had gone through her bedroom, checking beneath the bed and at the back of the built-in wardrobes. He had eventually gained access to her computer and mobile phone — the phone itself having been left on the parapet, proving itself the nearest thing to a note that she would leave. Counselling had been offered but rejected, though John sometimes caught a glimpse of Emily’s tablet as she digested some online resource for bereaved parents. He thought she even belonged to a group who met via Zoom, though she was careful never to mention it, the meetings timed to take place when he was elsewhere.