Never Leaves Me

by C J Morrow

  But he was my husband for ten years. He was the love of my life.

  ‘How did it go?’ Stephen is pulling the car onto the main road; he’s had the sensitivity not to ask me until now.

  ‘Okay. Yeah. Okay. I don’t have to go back unless I feel I need to. Then I can just ring for an appointment.’

  ‘Wow. That’s good. Isn’t it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Is it? I don’t know. ‘Can we pop by my house on the way home?’ I’ve surprised myself with my request, but I need some answers and I feel they are in my own house. If Robin was having an affair there must be evidence, or at least clues somewhere. And who the hell is Carly? An ex-wife? A mistress?

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’ He sounds puzzled.

  ‘Maybe there’s something in his email about Carly, on his computer or somewhere.’

  ‘Worth a look,’ Stephen says, indicating and turning the car in the direction of my house. Mine and Robin’s.

  We sit on the drive for a moment or two as I fumble my keys out of my handbag. I’m shaking as I get out of the car and the keys jangle in my hand.

  ‘Here.’ Stephen takes the keys. ‘Let me.’

  I follow him up the path, wait while he unlocks the door then follow him into the house. I stop in the hall.

  ‘Someone’s been here.’

  ‘What?’ Stephen turns and frowns.

  I look down at the hall table, stare at the post laid on it. ‘That’s today’s post. Look at the postmark. How can it be there? It should be on the door mat.’

  Stephen steps back and puts his arm around me, he squeezes my shoulder and pulls me into him.

  ‘Oh, Etty. I just picked that up when we came in.’

  ‘Did you? I didn’t see you do that.’

  ‘No? You’ve had a difficult afternoon. Perhaps we should just go home.’

  I stand and wait for a moment, trying to recall him picking up the post. He’s right, I am tired.

  ‘No. Let’s stay. Let’s see if we can find anything.’ I push the handle on Robin’s study. ‘That bloody letter would be a start.’

  ‘What letter?

  ‘The one supposedly from Mads.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Stephen grimaces as though dispelling a myth.

  ‘It’s real. I’ve checked. Doesn’t mean it is from Mads, but it does exist.’

  ‘Okay. Oh, by the way, I rang Robin’s school. They knew about the funeral already, saw the notice in the paper.’

  ‘Good. Is anyone coming?’

  ‘Yeah. The head and some others, depends if they can get cover.’ He raises his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Difficult for them, you know.’ He says it as though he’s quoting.

  ‘Oh well. Whatever.’ There will be Mum and Dad, Sally and Stephen and me, and Robin’s mother plus the others, whoever and how many that may be. I’m almost past caring.

  I sit down at Robin’s computer and switch it on. I go to his email and I’m glad that it logs on immediately, no need for a password. His inbox is full of mail, accumulating over the weeks since he died. I hear myself sigh. Most of it is junk mail. I start to scroll through – this will take ages.

  ‘You could search it.’ Stephen is leaning over my shoulder.

  ‘Yeah?’ I know I can. Why didn’t I do that? I feel my energy sapping away.

  ‘Would you like me to?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He leans over and takes the keyboard, speedily tapping away.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says as we watch the search go through Robin’s emails. ‘No Carly.’

  ‘Good.’ Is it?

  ‘Do you want to search anywhere else?’

  ‘Like where?’

  ‘Documents? Internet history. Other email accounts?’ He shrugs.

  ‘Are there other email accounts?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’d have to look.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how to.’ I use a computer every day at work, who doesn’t? But hunting around looking for stuff you don’t even know exists, well, I wouldn’t know where to start. We have an IT department at work for that.

  ‘No. Well, I’m no expert but we could have a look. Fumble around.’

  ‘Fumble.’ I smile. So does he. We’re flirting. Odd really, given our circumstances. Odd, yet right.

  I get up and offer him the chair. ‘Go on. You fumble while I have a good look for this letter. It must be here somewhere.’ I try a flirtatious laugh but this time it doesn’t quite work.

  I go through the pile of post again, finding nothing but bills. I will need to tackle these, but not now. I hunt through the kitchen drawers – I’m really clutching at straws here, we never put paperwork in the kitchen, but…

  I check our bedroom, the spare rooms, the sitting room, dining room, every damn room. Finally, I drift back into Robin’s study to find Stephen frowning at the screen.

  ‘Find anything?’ I ask.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No Carly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything else?’ I’m asking because he’s still staring at the screen.

  ‘Nothing you’d want to see.’

  I lean over him, staring at the screen. He flicks the internet browser off.

  ‘What? If you’ve found something, let me see.’

  ‘Just some dodgy websites on the internet history.’

  ‘Dodgy?’

  ‘Bit porny and stuff.’

  ‘Really?’ I don’t want to believe it. ‘Show me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Show me. I want to see.’

  Sighing, Stephen opens the browser and flicks up the history, it shows a list but he doesn’t click on any of the links. There are several sexy schoolgirl links. I shudder.

  ‘Have you clicked on any?’

  ‘God, no.’

  Then, further down the list I notice lethal suicide drugs, suicide drug recipe, painless suicide.

  ‘Oh my God, what’s that?’

  Stephen turns and his eyes meet mine. ‘You don’t want to look at those.’ He closes the browser.

  ‘Have you?’

  He nods slowly.

  ‘Do you think he bought stuff? Do you think he…’ I can’t bring myself to say it.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s hardly going to be like Amazon where you get a receipt and notification of delivery.’

  ‘What would it be like then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shuts the computer down. ‘Did you find the letter?’

  ‘No. I think it must have got thrown away. Or not got here, more likely. Lost in the post. It’ll turn up next year, you know, like you read about in the papers.’ I affect a laugh, I’m trying to be jolly but I can’t stop thinking about those websites. It’ll just be some clever marketing ploy and nothing to do with Mads. ‘Do you think…?’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Stephen, cuts in, as he stands up and rubs his back, stretches his arms above his head. ‘All this has made me feel…’ he shakes his head and groans.

  ‘Yes, but…’ But what?

  ‘Come on.’ He takes my arm and leads me out.

  We’re in the car before I finish my train of thought. ‘Do you think we should tell someone? The police?’

  Stephen turns and looks at me as he starts the car.

  ‘Tell them what?’

  ‘Those websites. You know.’

  He turns the engine off, takes my hands in his.

  ‘Etty. If, and it’s a big if, those sites mean anything, what’s the point? It won’t bring Mads back, will it? Robin won’t stand trial for it, will he? All it will cause it heartache. Is that what you want, having all your private business in the papers? What about your mum and dad?’

  ‘The police won’t put it in the papers.’

  ‘Course they won’t. Bet it’ll get there though, somehow.’

  ‘Maybe. But we should tell Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Really? You don’t think they’ve suffered enough. Would it help them to know that their son-in-law might have murdered their daughter? Will it bring her back?’

  ‘N
o, but…’

  ‘Don’t do anything, not yet. Wait. Think about the consequences. Think about the pain. More pain, heaped upon pain. I’m sorry you had to see that list. No need to inflict it on them. Is there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t do anything. Don’t.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘We should all be focusing on the future, our baby, our life together. Give your parents something lovely to look forward to. There’s scans to look forward to, we could get one of those 3-D ones done. Shall we find out the sex?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I think about the baby, this tiny little being that has already survived so much, growing inside me.

  ‘Your husband was a controlling bastard but he’s gone now. Let’s put away our suspicions and focus on the future.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He’s right, of course he is.

  ‘Let’s get through this bloody funeral and move on.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, agreeing with him. Of course, he’s right.

  ‘And let’s give it a week or two before we sort your stuff out here. Let’s give ourselves a bit of breathing space.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay. Yes.’ He’s definitely right on that one. It’s exactly what Dr Bev said.

  We haven’t bothered with a funeral car. Dad drives the five of us in his car; Mum, Sally and I cosy up in the back, Stephen rides shotgun next to dad.

  Shotgun, that had been Stephen’s joke, as though we were driving into hostile territory.

  Robin arrives in the hearse direct from the chapel of rest, it waits outside for us to enter first.

  It’s cold in the crem; heavy rain overnight has made the air damp and chilly.

  ‘Soon warm up,’ Stephen says, hugging me then grimacing as he realises how distasteful his remark is. Black humour, I suppose.

  There’s no sign of Robin’s mother or the others, as we take our seats across the front row on the right-hand side. Maybe they’ve changed their minds. I worry that I might have given them the wrong date.

  ‘Where is she?’ I whisper to Stephen. ‘We did tell her the right time, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did.’

  There’s just us. Five people. Five people: one is indifferent towards Robin and three hate him. But he was the love of my life.

  We’ve been sitting here for two minutes when the door opens. I turn, expecting to see Robin’s lonely coffin approach, but I’m wrong. A gaggle of girls burst through the door. School girls. They pile into the back row on our side.

  The website addresses flash before my eyes.

  More people come in, I recognise Robin’s headteacher; he’s accompanied by two others, teachers I assume.

  Robin’s mother wears sunglasses and a black hat; self-consciously I touch my own head, wrapped in a dark scarf to hide my scars. Caroline’s shoes tip-tap down the centre aisle and she sits in the front row on the left-hand side. I’m so mesmerised by her that I hardly notice the others until they sit down. Four rows. There are four rows. Fifteen, perhaps twenty people?

  Next to Caroline a tall man with abundant grey hair blocks my view of anyone beyond him; maybe there is no one beyond him. The people in the rows behind her look like black crows, their faces indiscernible, their heads bowed.

  The music we have chosen plays as Robin’s flower-bedecked coffin is wheeled down the aisle.

  Words are said, music is played, it seems to go on forever yet at the same time it is over in no time and soon we’re standing outside waiting for the coffin flowers to be brought out into the garden – more draughty outside corridor – of remembrance.

  There are more flowers than we ordered.

  There are more people that I expected.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Robin.’ It’s his headteacher, he’s taking my hand in both of his. ‘He was very popular. He is sadly missed at school.’

  I bet he is; I glance over at the gaggle of school girls.

  He introduces me to his colleagues, they shake my hands and spout their platitudes. They’re so, so, sorry.

  I smile and nod and thank and bite my lips. They wouldn’t be sorry if they knew the half of it. Not sorry at all.

  Robin’s mother approaches, presses a hand on my shoulder when she reaches me.

  ‘Juliette,’ she says.

  ‘This is Robin’s headteacher,’ I say, wishing they would all go away. Where is Stephen when I need him?

  ‘I’m Caroline, Robin’s mother.’ More hand shaking, more sorrow. ‘And this is Robin’s father.’ The grey-haired man steps forward, ignores the headmaster and gripping my shoulders, pulls me in tight. He stifles a sob in my ear. ‘And this is Robin’s daughter, Carly.’

  Twenty

  Carly. Unmistakeably Robin’s daughter. She even has his lop-sided grin. Her eyes are red-rimmed and doleful. She looks at me from under her eyelashes.

  Mum, Dad, Sally, Stephen and I are silent, dumbfounded. Time seems to stand still.

  Then the heavens open and despite being undercover we soon realise that the rain is hitting the ground with such force that it rebounds, trying its best to soak us.

  Everyone makes a dash for their cars.

  We sit in Dad’s car, the windows misting over, our coats damp and clinging to us. When no one else speaks I realise they are waiting for me to say something.

  'I didn’t see that coming.’

  Mum puckers her lips as if the words I told you so are fighting to escape.

  ‘I thought his father was dead.’

  ‘We all did, Sally,’ Dad says. ‘Because that’s what Robin told us.’

  Mum puckers again. Liar is battling its way out of her mouth. I can’t help but admire her restraint.

  ‘He looked like he’d had a stroke,’ Dad continues. ‘Did you notice that?’

  It’s only Stephen who says yes.

  Dad starts the car, flicking on the windscreen demister and the wipers. We sit and watch as our view clears.

  ‘We’d better get along to this thing then, or they’ll think we’re not coming.’

  ‘Must we?’ Mum spits then clamps her mouth shut again.

  No one answers but Sally pats Mum’s hand.

  ‘Let’s just get it over with,’ I say and I pray there are no more revelations.

  The community room is large and airy. It’s obvious it’s for old people; the high wing back chairs have been pushed to the edges to make way for the tables that are laden with food.

  ‘Where the hell did these all come from?’ Sally voices all our thoughts. There must be fifty people in the room. I don’t think they were all at the funeral.

  Caroline spots us, raises a hand in welcome, finishes her conversation with an elderly woman, then comes over. We’re hovering around the food table by the time she reaches us. She’s carrying a glass of white wine.

  ‘You didn’t know about Carly,’ she says, by way of a greeting. It’s hard to tell if she is pleased or disappointed.

  ‘No.’ I can’t be bothered to dress it up or prevaricate.

  ‘His daughter by his first marriage.’ Caroline puts her wine glass on the table and helps herself to a plate, napkin and fork, she picks up a sausage roll, a scotch egg, a tiny triangle of sandwich and dumps them on her plate.

  ‘First marriage?’ Mum says. She is fighting the sound of triumph from her voice.

  ‘Yes. He was very young. So was Carly’s mother. Too young.’ Caroline rolls her eyes.

  ‘How old is Carly?’ Stephen picks up a plate and helps himself to food.

  ‘Twenty-one. Just finishing university.’

  ‘Did Robin see her much?’ Stephen again.

  ‘Monthly. At least. Sometimes he’d pop round in the evenings. Less the last few years what with her being away. At university, I mean.’ She arches her eyebrows.

  ‘Robin said he couldn’t have children.’ I wish Stephen wouldn’t dig but at the same time I want to know. I think.

  ‘Well, no, not now.’ Caroline laughs and picks up her glass of wine, takes a long, slow sip. ‘Not after Car
ly. He went off and had the snip.’ She makes a scissor movement with her fingers and laughs. ‘Not that he told anyone. Not his wife. Not then anyway. But that’s our Robin.’ She turns to me. ‘Always secretive, as you no doubt know.’

  I manage a noncommittal smile.

  ‘After all, he didn’t tell us about you. Although, I had guessed there was someone. When did you marry again?’

  ‘Ten years ago.’

  Caroline shrugs her shoulders and sighs. Either she doesn’t care or she’s an amazing actor. I can’t tell, but I don’t think I’m bothered either way.

  ‘Is she here?’ Mum says.

  ‘Carly. Yes. Over there. She has some friends with her, for support. It’s hardest for her, I think. Losing her dad.’

  ‘I meant his first wife,’ Mum persists.

  ‘God, no. They hated each other. She’ll probably dance on his grave.’ She grimaces. ‘Well, you know what I mean, grind his ashes, or something.’

  ‘How young was she?’ I ask, my voice tiny.

  ‘Sixteen, when she had Carly. Barely legal.’ She rolls her eyes again. ‘How old were you when you got together? Legal?’ We all know what she means when she says got together.

  ‘Robin said his father was dead.’ Dad cuts in, saving me from answering as Mum turns her face away.

  ‘Mmm. Well, to Robin, I suppose he was. They haven’t seen each other for years. We divorced when Robin was eleven. He was a drinker,’ she adds as she knocks back the rest of her wine. ‘But I’ve seen more of the old sod since he had his strokes. He nearly died then. Maybe that’s what Robin meant.’ She smiles, a brief, hollow smile.

  ‘He also said you lived in Brazil.’ Dad won’t let this go.

  ‘So I hear. Odd that. I wonder why he chose Brazil, I’ve never been there.’