“I loved her.”
She tipped her head back against the tree, staring up into the evening sky. After a long moment she said, “I know.”
“You do?”
She nodded. Swallowed. “I don’t know what to do, Dad.”
“Pack your bag, get on a train, go home.”
“Gil … ”
“You can do without Gil.”
“I love him, like you loved her.”
“Puddle. Nothing else matters now. You need to go home.”
Gil poured himself a generous slug of scotch, swallowed a large mouthful of it straight down. He stretched, rolled his shoulders. She said little, did nothing, yet the flat was quiet without her. Peaceful, without her. He closed his eyes. The doorbell rang. Jem had a key. He frowned, put the glass down on the kitchen table, walked into the hall and opened the door.
Cecily said anxiously, “Tell me I’ve done the right thing.”
“Oh God.” He drew her into the flat, into his arms. Held her for a long time, pressing her body the length of his, breathing her in. “Oh God. For me, absolutely the right thing.”
“For her?”
“I don’t know.” He released her. “I don’t know.”
They went into the kitchen, where he poured her a drink. “I couldn’t bear it,” she said. “You sounded so exhausted, so down. You didn’t sound like you.”
“I don’t feel like me. I feel depressed and guilty and … hopeless. ” He shook his head.
“That’s why I came.” She hung her bag over a chair. “I thought I could talk to her properly. Tell her how much Alex loved her, and Marianne. How compared to them, I was nothing to him.”
“Which isn’t true.”
“No, but if that’s what she needs to hear … where is she, anyway?”
“She went out.”
“I thought she didn’t go out.”
“She’s not what you’d call predictable.” He smiled, looking at her. “I’ve missed you so much.” He reached for her hand and drew her close to kiss her.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t, because I’ll want – ”
He kissed her again, lingeringly. “You’ll want?”
“You.”
He laughed, lifted her hair from her shoulder and kissed the skin beneath.
Jem threaded her way through the dark and unfamiliar streets, recalling a building here, an advertising hoarding there. She had often felt uneasy, out late in the city, gangs of hoodies roaming, dark alleyways cloaking who knew what. Tonight her head felt packed with explosives, the numbness dissipated, feelings cracking electrically across her brain. She reached the foot of the steps of the house, took them quickly, then in through the front door and into Gil’s apartment. Immediately she heard his voice from the sitting-room, a woman’s reply. She stilled, closed the door silently behind her, let her bag slip soundlessly to the floor. Glancing to her right she saw the empty kitchen, a handbag which wasn’t hers slung over a chair. Twenty feet ahead of her a woman stood in the bay of the sitting-room window. A slender, very attractive woman with tousled tawny hair. She was, improbably, the woman from the café on the square. She was Cecily Ward. Her father’s mistress. Gil’s friend.
Jem remained rooted in the shadows of the hall.
Gil was saying something, his words having become a babble as he walked towards Cecily Ward. He was smiling. And then he did an impossible thing. He lifted Cecily’s hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. Turned it over and kissed her knuckles. Leaned in to kiss her mouth.
She stared, her knees weakening. Understanding washed over her like a winter wave.
Of course.
She backed into the kitchen, gripping the worktop to prevent herself from crumpling to the floor.
Of course.
She was nauseous, her hands trembling. She heard – “ … a quick wash, can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure,” Gil said cheerily. “You know where it is.”
Jem dropped further back into the depths of the kitchen, watched Cecily whisk past, heard the click and lock of the bathroom door. Her heart was hammering. And there was Gil, in the doorway.
“Jesus Christ! When did you … ?” He read her face, and knew instantly. “Oh God.” He came towards her. “Oh Jem – ”
She snatched a knife from the block and rammed it into him.
His expression froze in disbelief. She pulled the knife out again and pushed it into her pocket. He opened his mouth. Nothing came. He staggered back a step. The front of his shirt bore a wet scarlet bloom. She would remember forever the shock and confusion and hurt in his eyes.
When she left a moment later, scooping up her bag, tumbling down the steps and careering across the road into the night, he had already sunk to the floor, a widening pool of his blood seeping across the tiles.
I’m moving as fast as I can locking doors, throwing bolts, drawing curtains and all the time there’s a keening, whining noise which I know at some distant rational level is me. In the bathroom I vomit again. It gets in my hair. I’m crying and shuddering now, pulling blankets from the bed because I need to sleep but not up here, not in a bed, up here there’s too much space.
Downstairs I drag cushions from the sofa and stuff them under the kitchen table. Crawl inside with my blanket. Sheltering from the bombs. I pull the blanket around me for suddenly it’s cold. So cold. I can make out shapes on the dresser. A pile of books, hardbacks on their sides. I can’t quite read the titles but the gold lettering glints at me from their spines. Bottles, squarish ones of oil, taller ones of wine. It calms me for a minute, staring at these things, working to identify them even though they’re ours and have been sitting where they are now for the best part of a decade. My heart rate begins to slow. There’s a can of some-thing and a cable, an extension lead maybe or a phone charger, an old spherical CD player with its mouth open like a Pacman and a photo of me and Dad in a frame.
He’s gone now.
They’re all gone now.
I’m sick again into my hand. Or I would be, if there were anything left in my stomach to hurl. I jerk up to find something on which to wipe the acid from my palm, hitting my head against the table, gritting my teeth in pain and sobbing.
I want him back.
And here he is. Storming in, angry, terrified. He’s breathing hard, his hair damp and wild, and his bloodshot eyes are those of a stranger. He makes me pack a bag and we flee through the night. We cross the channel, running blind. I’m falling apart and he holds me together, grim and determined, without trust, without hope. He vanishes and I panic, the demons rushing in. I can’t make it right even in my head.
and it’s then that it comes
the pounding on the front door
I freeze, clamp my mouth shut to stop the whimpering.
Again. A fist against the wood. Heavy with urgency. My eyes squeeze shut and I draw up my knees, bury my head against them.
Go away go away go away go away
And it does.
It’s gone.
Then he shouts my name and my unravelling is complete.
About Catherine Marshall
Catherine Marshall was born in Birmingham and studied Literature and Theatre at North Cheshire College. She began writing at the age of eleven and sold her first short stories to Jackie magazine while she was still a student. As well as contributing short stories to a variety of magazines, she has written and published two romantic novels.
Catherine is the author of Masquerade and Excluded and her new novel, Still Water. She is married with two children and lives in Lancashire.
Other books by Catherine Marshall:
Excluded
Stephen Lord is one of the good guys. He believes in justice, second chances and the power of redemption. He is also the headteacher of Rapton Community High School, where the pupils are running wild and the staff on the brink of mutiny.
Dean Bywater too is interested in justice. Fresh out of prison and seeking retribution for a tragedy rooted in his p
ast, he returns to Rapton to find his fifteen year old nephew Callum poised between dreams of an army career and burgeoning criminality.
Meanwhile, A* student Todd is carrying a burden he cannot share even with ace teacher Finn Macallister or his sympathetic form tutor, new recruit Leigh Summers.
As the new school year begins, one small act of cruelty sets in motion a series of events which will have dreadful consequences for them all.
Reviews:
The collapse of civilisation in a depressingly hopeless school, where a head, Stephen Lord, despite his best liberal intentions, cannot prevent a spiral down into tragedy. That's the setting, but Excluded is a wonderfully intelligent novel, where there are no simple questions or answers. The characters are real, painfully so sometimes, and their motivations are complex, as they are caught in a web of seemingly inevitable consequences like a Greek tragedy.
Catherine Marshall is a promising new talent, and is most certainly going to become a respected fiction writer. Her characters have depth, and the twists and turns of her plot keep you on your toes right to the very end. Excluded is a gritty read, with some soft touches - a must for readers who love a good story teller.
Masquerade
A week marooned among strangers seems to Anna to be the perfect opportunity to reinvent herself. Leaving behind the mess that her life has become to attend a Psychology summer school in Bath, she is hoping for some sense of perspective, perhaps even an escape. But Anna comes to realise that she is not the only one searching for answers. Among her fellow students are Carys, who is being stalked by her abusive ex-husband, Michael, grieving for the loss of his wife, and Jack, enigmatic and nonchalant and hiding troubles of his own.
As the hottest week of the summer draws on, unsettling events spring from the shadows of their pasts. Reliving old passions and discovering new ones, Anna becomes aware of sinister undercurrents. Amid disappearances and death and the threat of violence, she finds that no one is quite what they seem, and that someone is guarding a secret which will have terrible consequences for them all.
Reviews:
Who wouldn’t like to spend time at a summer school where nobody knows you and you can reinvent yourself, assuming any identity you want for a few days? But what if everyone around you is doing the same, and not always for idle reasons? An Open University summer school in Bath brings together mature students Anna, Michael, Carys and Jack, seemingly total strangers, to study identity. They all have pasts to put behind them but not all of them are willing to do so. The disparate strands are skilfully woven together into a fuse that finally sets off a dramatic and shocking explosion. I knew something was coming, but I didn’t guess what. This is a psychological thriller, where personalities and motives are finely and sympathetically drawn and apparent truths disappear up a host of false trails. The descriptions of summer heat in Bath (it’s clearly Bath, though it’s not named), had me reaching for a cold drink. A very good read.
It keeps you guessing, and wanting to read more. As each character is introduced, you only get to see a snippet of who they are, and the true picture of each one is revealed bit by bit through the story. It keeps you intrigued until the very end. I really enjoyed it.
Catherine Marshall, Still Water
(Series: # )
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