He blinks at me. ‘You don’t know my name?’
I shake my head.
‘I never told you or you forgot?’
‘You never told me. When you came to my house that very first time neither of you told me your names. You told me probably the worst news I’ve ever had and you were nameless people to me. And then, after that, you never said what your name was. All the other people who came introduced themselves but you never did.’
‘I must have done.’ He is wild-eyed as he searches through his memory, examining that time; he wants to pinpoint a moment when he would have told me what he was called. I was in her house every day, he’s thinking, I must have told her my name. ‘I must have done,’ he repeats, unable to locate that moment in time when he allowed me to know who he was.
I shake my head.
His eyes slip shut in regret. ‘I look back sometimes at your case and regret so much,’ he says, more to himself than to me. ‘I’ve learnt so much since then.’
‘But not how to tell me your name, clearly,’ I joke.
‘Trainee Detective Clive Malone.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Clive Malone.’
‘Mrs Mackleroy, you’re in a police cell, I don’t think you have much to be pleased about.’
‘No, you’re right. My daughter’s in hospital and it’d be great to get back to her.’
‘You’re going to be here for a while, I’m afraid. There’s nothing I can do to make this go away.’
‘I don’t want you to. I needed to show that man, the man whose car I attacked, that he had to stay away from my daughter.’
‘There are better ways of doing that,’ he replies.
‘Yes, there are. I wanted to be arrested. I’ve been such a bad mother, I’ve been absent, I haven’t been paying attention and I didn’t even notice how awful things were getting. I wanted to be locked up for a bit as punishment. Scaring the living daylights out of the bastard who’s been abusing my daughter was a bonus. I’m not going to prison, though, am I?’
‘No. If you’re willing to accept a caution, I’ll see if I can get your interview moved up and get you out of here as soon as possible.’
‘Thank you, Clive Malone.’
‘It’s the least I can do, given everything.’
‘Don’t suppose you can leave the door open?’ I ask him as he prepares to leave.
‘Afraid not. But I’ll see if you can be moved to an interview room.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Clive Malone smiles at me before he disappears. I pull my knees up to my chest and lower my head onto them. I deserve to be here. I really do. Not only for smashing Ray Norbet’s car, but for all of this.
I’m going to turn this around, though. I am going to make everything OK again. I have to.
Aunty Betty and Phoebe are both asleep when I get back to the hospital.
Aunty Betty has worked her magic and someone has found her a full-recline chair and she’s made herself comfortable under a couple of white waffle blankets. In the darkness of the room I drop into the easy chair I occupied earlier, the beeps punctuate the silence, the flashes push pinholes in the darkness.
I want to take a shower, I want to wash off the crimes I sat amongst in the prison cell. I want to cleanse myself so that I can start again all clean and new. That’d be good, wouldn’t it? It’d be symbolic.
As quietly as I can, I shift the chair closer to Phoebe and reach out for her. I rest my forehead on our linked hands. Without her, without Zane, there is no point.
I close my eyes and sleep. Everything’s going to be better in the morning.
Thursday, 23 May
(For Friday, 24th)
Saffron.
We’re so alike, you and I.
When you were attacking that bastard’s car, you felt the rage like I did, didn’t you? I saw it in your face, it was a power rush like no other. It’s like you become another person.
I heard what you said, too. I’m glad you told him. He’s disgusting. I’m sorry I thought Phoebe had been sleeping around. It’s awful what he did to her.
Someone told me that you accepted a caution, which is why the police let you out so soon? Why did you do that? If I was you, I would have explained what he did and they would have realised that you were completely justified.
I think they’d understand why I had to do it, too. I didn’t plan to, but when it happened I felt like you did – I was almost blind with rage at what he was saying to me. They were words you’d put in his mouth, but he didn’t have to say them, did he? I’d arranged it so we were alone. There was no one around who would know and there was no one who could tell you. And he kept saying those things.
It didn’t have to be that way. I was so … enraged. But you understand now, don’t you? You see why what happened to him, happened. I didn’t murder him, I didn’t plan it, but the rage took over.
It’s not that far a leap from a car to a person, if you think about it.
I think we should meet, and talk it all through. I think we could be friends, I really do.
A
LVII
I read the letter, delivered with flowers to Phoebe, while I sit on the closed toilet lid of the shower room that’s attached to Phoebe’s room.
This woman is everywhere that I am. She follows me, she doesn’t seem to sleep, she doesn’t seem to miss a thing. She’s getting braver, too. It doesn’t seem to matter to her whether or not I spot her, if she was there yesterday, close enough to hear what I said to Ray, near enough to see my face. I have no doubt in my mind now that she’s coming for me. I have to be ready and waiting. I return the letter to its envelope, then fold it in half, cutting her words in two. I fold it again, cutting them again. Then they are shoved into the back pocket of my jeans. They’ll have to stay there until I can add them to the others.
I wash my hands, cleansing her from me, then return to Phoebe’s room. Aunty Betty has charmed her way into a shower and a proper lie down in one of the nurses’ rooms. I went back to the house and collected changes of clothes for both of us early this morning – having to take a taxi there and back because my car is still at Imogen’s house, probably with several parking tickets covering the windscreen and the serious danger of being towed.
Phoebe has had breakfast, she’s had her consultant visits and now she is sitting up wearing her white gown, her cannula still taped like a white whistle to the back of her left hand, and her name written on a white band around her right wrist. She is obsessively flicking through the limited channel range on the small TV hanging above the bed as she has been all morning.
My daughter looks about six, right now, her face waiting for the wonders of the world to be visited upon her. I drop heavily into the seat beside her bed and she gives me a sideways glance. ‘I know that look,’ she mumbles before she switches the television off. I move it out of the way so I can see her properly.
‘So, Curtis really would have been the father,’ I state.
She attempts a shrug but can’t because the nerve connection between her shoulder and the operation site/the ectopic pregnancy mean shrugs and turning too quickly are agony. ‘I told you.’
‘Yes, you did. But you didn’t act like he was because of Ray.’
Her dark eyes, surrounded by red veins widen in trepidation. ‘You know about that?’
‘Yes. I went through your phone. And before you start to freak out, I should have done that a long time ago. I have no insight into your life, Phoebe, and that’s wrong. It’s my job to protect you from the bad things in the world and I did a terrible job of that partly because I didn’t want to be like my own mother. I went too far the other way. That ends, now. I’m going to check your phone and your computer regularly and anything amiss then you lose privileges, OK?’
She wants to shrug, I can see it in her face. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘Yes it is. You are young. I know you feel like a grown-up, and that you want to do whatever you want, but you can’t just yet. You can
have some freedom and independence, but not totally. And things like phones and the internet, you can have but only if I’m able to check regularly what you’re up to and to make sure you’re not getting into things you can’t handle. I’d love for you to talk to me about your life, too. I’d like you to tell me what’s going on with you and ask my opinion and for advice but I can’t force that. All I can do is to promise that I will try to balance being your mum who makes the rules with being someone you can talk to. Does that sound fair?’
‘Suppose.’
I rest my head back on the seat and stare up at the ceiling. I must stay awake, I must not slip off into a deep, deep sleep that lasts for a thousand years.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me off about Ray?’ she asks cautiously.
‘Not right now. I haven’t the energy.’
‘Are … are you going to tell him you know? And Imogen?’
‘I’ve told them. And they know not to come near any of us again.’
Her eyes triple in size along with her gasp. ‘What did you say? What did they say? Are they angry with me? Is Imogen going to tell me off again?’
‘They weren’t happy, but like I said, they know not to come near any of us.’ I’m going to think about moving Zane’s school so he can be away from Ernest. It’s not his fault, but the less contact Zane can have with that man, the better.
I rub my fingers across my eyes, they feel like burning coals in the ice-cold furnace of pain that used to be my head.
‘Mum?’ Phoebe asks.
I lower my head to look at her.
‘He was nice to me. Remember you asked me if he was nice to me? He was. Curtis, I mean. He wanted to use a condom and I kept saying we didn’t have to because of what Ray had told me.
‘Curtis is, like, my bestie even though he’s a boy and I told him that I didn’t want Ray to think I was a stupid little girl. I wanted Ray to like me so much. And Curtis said he wasn’t into hooking up and that he liked me so he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea if we did it. I was so gutted because I thought, if I wanted to do it with Ray he’d be put off if I wasn’t, like, experienced. And then, Curtis, like, changed his mind out of the blue and he said he wanted to. And we did it at his house after school when his dad was still at work.’
I’m in the perfect state to hear this, to ease myself into a relationship with my daughter where she is open with me, because I’m too exhausted and drained to run around with my hands over my ears, screaming at her to shut up talking to me about sex.
‘He was really nice to me. He kept asking if I was sure and if I was all right. And he said if I wanted to stop at any time we could and we didn’t have to do it at all. I felt really safe.’ I’m sure that’s why he changed his mind, I think. He knows my daughter, he knew she’d find someone else and he wanted her to be safe the first time, to be treated well. ‘It was nice, too. I kind of, you know, like, enjoyed it.’
‘I’m glad.’ Joel was the first person I had that with. I’d had sex so many times and it’d been great, enjoyable, orgasmic most of the time, but the first time I had emotionally safe sex, where I wasn’t worried about hiding what I felt, was with the man I married. That’s what it was like with your dad, I almost say, but catch myself – there really are some things you don’t need to know about your parents.
‘I wanted to tell you cos I didn’t want you to hate him or nothing like that. He didn’t do anything wrong and he was nice to me.’
‘I don’t hate him. Have you told him what’s happened?’
‘Yeah, and Uncle Fynn. They’re both coming in later. Is that OK?’
‘Yes, tell anyone you like. Apart from your grandparents. Either set. I don’t need the hassle right now. We’ll tell them another time or never, I haven’t decided yet.’
Phoebe’s face falls. ‘Oh.’
‘Oh, Pheebs! You could at least have warned me. When did you tell them? I need to get my story straight for when they show up.’
‘Buuurrrnnneed!’ Phoebe chuckles. She holds onto her stomach so she doesn’t damage herself in the process. ‘Not even I’m that stupid, Mum.’
Her face, lit up with laughter, is one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in my life. It almost makes up for the letter burning a festering hole in my pocket and the clock ticking over my head that’s counting down the time to when I have to confront my husband’s killer.
LVIII
I’m walking the corridors waiting for Fynn to finish his visit with Phoebe.
If I keep walking, I won’t fall asleep. Both Phoebe and I have dozed on and off this afternoon, but nothing deep enough to make me feel refreshed instead of tired and grubby. Aunty Betty has found a whole new life in the hospital and keeps dropping in to let me know she’s OK, then she’s off. I’m not sure how she’s managed to gain access to so many other wards when everything has a security lock on each entrance and exit, but I don’t question it. She’s like a giant toddler: playing happily and nicely somewhere I can mostly see her so I let her get on with it.
I stop beside the door to Phoebe’s room and lean back against the wall. It’s cool and solid against my back, much like a bed. My eyelids come together and I drift. Float away from all of this. Allow myself the freedom to let go of consciousness and succumb to the beauty of—
‘You look exhausted.’
My senses snap to attention and I struggle upright. ‘It’s always good to get updates from the talking mirror,’ I state.
After a smile of recognition, he becomes serious. ‘You should have called me, Saff,’ he states.
My tired heart is aching. It is aching at the centre of my chest and I want to tell him that. I want to talk to him, for him to be my best friend again. For us to get back what we had. ‘Should I?’
‘Yes, you know that.’ He rests his gaze on the wall beside my head, down the corridor over my shoulder, to the ceiling above, but never on me. Anywhere but on me. He still can’t stand to even look at me. I should take his hand and press it to my chest, ask him to feel this very real and very painful ache that echoes across my heart because of how we are with each other now.
‘Can’t we talk about this, Fynn? See if—’
‘Come on, Saff, what’s to talk about? My feelings haven’t changed, have yours?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘I’ll take that as a …’ Fynn’s words trail away. His line of sight is fixed over my shoulder and then it isn’t. Instead he is hanging his head, he is struggling to disguise a mixture of emotions on his face, the main one I can see is betrayal. My stomach, a vat of constantly churning nausea, starts to turn itself inside out: I know what he’s seen, who he’s seen. He thinks I called Lewis and not him, that when Phoebe could potentially have died, I didn’t think to contact him but I instead phoned the new man in my life. ‘No. I’ll take that as a no. I’ll see ya, Saff.’
‘I’ll see you, Fynn.’
I screw up my eyes and bite down hard on my lower lip so I don’t have to watch him leave me again. It’s been too many times already, my heart can’t take much more of this.
*
‘Trust our children to bring us together again,’ Lewis Bromsgrove says.
We are in the café on the ground floor of The Alex and the last time the kitchen door swung open, I’m sure I saw Aunty Betty back there in a pinny and hairnet. But I’m probably hallucinating. I hope I’m hallucinating.
I offer him a wan smile. Beside his large cappuccino, I have in front of me a large black coffee in a cardboard cup and a Danish pastry. I don’t want the pastry. I can’t remember the last time I ate, but I don’t want the pastry. I often buy something like that as a cover, though, when I meet another person for coffee or tea. I’ll start to eat it and will ‘find’ a hair or a patch of mould in it so I can’t possibly devour it but I don’t want to cause a fuss, so it sits there, uneaten. It’s the perfect disguise because whoever I’m with thinks I eat, and I have the chance to test myself. To test my willpower and how strong I can be in re
sisting food.
Sometimes, I’m not that strong, so I’ll strip what I have to pieces. I’ll take the icing off a cupcake, the cream off a carrot cake, the filling out of a pastry – claiming they’re too sweet – and eat the other stuff. The stuff with fewer ‘empty’ calories. And then, as soon as I can, I’ll do whatever it takes to not keep those calories in. Right now, I don’t want this pastry and I don’t bother with my elaborate ruse. I ordered it because that’s what I do when I have coffee with someone else.
We sit, the busy café carrying on around us, without speaking for long minutes.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lewis eventually says. ‘I should have told you straight away.’
‘I don’t know if you should have, actually,’ I admit. ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot and, as Joel would have pointed out, it was good that she had an adult she could and did turn to at such a desperate time. You did a good thing for a frightened young girl and that’s honourable.’
‘But?’
‘I’m not Joel. I can’t square it in my head that you would keep something so big from me. It took me a while but I finally twigged that it’s only a problem because we’re attracted to each other and there’s all this potential between us.’
Lewis grimaces in agreement.
‘If you were simply Phoebe’s teacher, what you did would be fair enough and understandable. But, there’s this thing between us – if anything happened, you’d potentially become a stepfather-type figure in Phoebe’s life, and it would drive me insane with worry wondering what other secrets you had with Phoebe or Zane.’
Lewis removes his gold-rimmed glasses and clatters them on the table, almost like a prize-fighter throwing in the towel. He nods, resigned it seems to what I’m saying, what it means, and rubs tiredly at his eyes.
‘Apart from with Curtis, I suspect you’ll always be a teacher who wants to help children, first, which is commendable, but not great for someone like me who already has huge trust issues.’
Another nod. I wonder how much he can see without his glasses. I’m slightly delirious and have an urge to pick them up, put them on and parade around going, ‘Hello, I’m Lewis Bromsgrove and I’m so delicious that Saffron wants to lick me.’