The Man I Married

by Elena Wilkes

  The Man I Married

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Letter From Elena

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  The Man I Married

  Elena Wilkes

  To Ian

  And to Amy, Susie-Sue, and Karen

  Prologue

  Blood has a smell.

  I look around me. I’m sitting on a bench.

  It comes again.

  It’s visceral, like meat.

  I gaze down at my hands. I don’t recognise them; they lie upturned and curled in my scarlet-stained lap. Every crease is dark with what looks like rust. My palms open like flowers and I feel the skin stretch and tighten. A cold breeze skims the wet patches on my dress. The wool sticks unpleasantly to my skin and a chill slides down my spine.

  I close my eyes.

  Behind the lids the dying winter sunlight zigzags in orange and purple flashes. Somewhere beyond the bushes I can hear the girls, giggling. I squint; I can’t see them now, but I know they’re there.

  ‘You can’t hide in here forever you know!’

  There’s a woman’s voice. She’s getting closer.

  ‘I think it’s time we should be going though, don’t you? Come on!’

  I squint. The viburnum bush trembles; its propeller-headed flowers nod and bounce in bright pink bells against the thicket of black. I imagine her reaction as she walks past. She’ll see the state of me and I’ll see her face: the shock at my matted hair and dishevelled clothes. She doesn’t know who I am and I wouldn’t want to scare her. ‘You don’t know me—’ I’ll say. She’ll look at me wary and unsure.

  ‘—But can I tell you what happened? I think you’ll understand when I explain.’ I’ll hold out my hands and she’ll see the state of them.

  I know my story is also her story.

  I’ve done this for her, for the children, for all of us.

  I turn my face into the last rays of the sunlight and let it seep under my skin.

  That’s why he’s dead.

  Chapter One

  Some men have a darkness in them.

  But this wasn’t a man, this was a boy.

  I walked into the sparse grey office at HMP Ravensmoor one blustery afternoon in April. I hadn’t been back to Yorkshire now for over a year. ‘It’s the weather,’ I always joked. ‘It puts me off.’ That was true: partly.

  A sudden gust of wind against the barred window sent weird flickering stripes of light across the table where he was sitting: there was an odd, sickly smell in the room, like cheap plastic. He might look like a boy but his presence filled the whole room.

  ‘Ah we meet again! Lucy isn’t it? I’m sure you remember me. I’m Simon.’ He got up and held out his hand. The familiarity jarred. I was acutely aware of the dry, yet sticky coolness of his palm against my own.

  ‘I’m sorry Mr Cartwright couldn’t be here,’ I replied, stiffly. ‘He sends his apologies.’

  I pulled away from the handshake, gesturing for him to sit, which he did, shoving his hands under his thighs and leaning forward the way small children do.

  ‘No problem.’ He twitched a shrug and smiled. ‘I’d much prefer you as my probation officer. I asked for you specifically. Did your boss mention it?’

  I ignored the question. Dropping my briefcase onto the desk, I heaved out a file and laptop and flipped open the lid. I could tell his eyes were raking over my every move, but when I looked up, he was staring intently at the edge of the desk, tapping his foot against the leg and making it judder.

  I busied myself, pretending to study the screen as it loaded, but my eyes kept being drawn to this small, tight figure. His incongruity struck me yet again: the pale freckled complexion with a hint of outdoor ruddy tinge, the longish pretty-boy dark hair, his slim build, like some posh sixth-former. But the blue eyes had a deadness behind them that betrayed what he’d done.

  He looked away suddenly. ‘Oh! The door’s closed. Does that bother you?’ he went to get up with a false show of politeness.

  I knew precisely what he was doing; he was hinting at how dangerous he was. If this was some kind of test then I wasn’t going to fail it.

  ‘It’s okay, Simon, if it doesn’t bother you then it doesn’t bother me.’ I looked down at my files as though I were searching for something, aware that his face had dropped. ‘This is just a quick chat about your release tomorrow. Nothing too scary… I don’t bite,’ I added.

  I was pleased to see he wasn’t smiling now. He sat down again. He looked a bit sulky.

  ‘So, you have your train ticket from York to King’s Cross sorted?’

  He nodded into his chest.

  ‘I see your new address is on file, and you’re quite clear about the sex offender registration process, yes?’

  I saw the tiny flinch at the words but he managed another nod.

  ‘Then I think everything is in order this end. Is there anything you want to talk to me about? Any questions? Any concerns you’ve got?’ I was pleased I had the upper hand.

  He raised his head and regarded me carefully. I was reminded how blue his eyes were.

  ‘People have been telling me you’re clever.’

  ‘Oh yes? Well, don’t believe everything you hear.’ I met his steady gaze.

  ‘The guys on my wing have been saying stuff. Some of them have come up from the London nicks and a pretty girl like you attracts attention wherever she goes. Word gets round. It’s amazing the things they talk about—’ he flashed me a smile. His teeth were unpleasantly small, like a row of seed pearls.

  ‘Really.’ I didn’t drop eye contact. I wasn’t going to be drawn. I’d seen it all before: the vague sexual impropriety; the intimidation masquerading as flirtation.

  He returned my stare. ‘They say you’re good with people. I can tell you’re the kind of person who can suss people out, so we’ve got a bit in common already,’ his smile spread to a grin. ‘I’m hoping we’ll be able to keep in touch once I get settled. It’ll be nice to see a friendly face once in a while and have a catch up. You’re based in London too, aren’t you?’ His look didn’t waver. ‘North London. Am I right?’

  I felt a slight frisson of alarm. ‘Dave Cartwright is your allocated probation officer,’ I replied carefully. ‘And the meetings and appointments we set up are to do with ensuring that you won’t re-offend and to help you lead a positive and fulfilling life after your release, not –’ I made the point firmly, ‘– to have a chat.’

  Even as the pat words left my lips, I knew I didn’t believe one iota of it with this individual. He had an obvious need to control and to dominate. It came off him like a stench.

  He paused, quietly assessing me before he spoke. ‘Do you think people out there hate me?’

  ‘I think people hate the kind of offences you committed.’ I didn’t allow my gaze to waver.

  ‘But do you hate me?’

  The question caught me off-guard.

  ‘I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I took children – I bought little children, used them and sold them on, so I can see why you would.’ He held out his hands as though he was explaining something perfectly commonplace. ‘How could I have done that? It is revolting
, I know, but then to me it was just a business transaction… You know, like selling on a second-hand car, or a collectable watch or a fancy bit of estate jewellery – it was all the same, just a different thing to me, just a different commodity.’ He stopped speaking and I realised he was slightly out of breath. ‘But now I see what I did. I can see it as wrong which is why I’m a different person now. I’ve changed. Things have changed me.’

  Nothing had changed him.

  I was amazed I was the only one who could see it. I hated this part of the job for exactly this reason: how easily these kinds of offenders pulled the wool over people’s eyes. I knew he’d be out on the street again, scoping out the children’s homes, sniffing round the runaway kids on the street, having a laugh, giving out the bits of dope and the sweets, making them feel wanted and special. I saw the bait going down and the ultimate snap of the trap. They’d been bought and sold and didn’t even know there was a market – Such was the lure of wanting to be loved.

  ‘You don’t believe any of that for a second do you, Lucy?’

  He’d caught me.

  ‘It’s not about what I believe. It’s about what the evidence tells us, Simon,’ I lied. ‘Stuff from your risk assessment and the work you’ve done with your psychiatrist… Err… Dr Webb.’ I flipped through the file. ‘For example, your psych report says—’

  ‘We both know those are just the men who control all this,’ he waved airily. ‘Expensive professionals producing expensive reports to justify their own existence. A little old probation officer can’t challenge the might of a psychiatrist, can you Lucy? That’s not your job. You have to buy into what they tell you, but I can see you don’t. It’s written all over your face.’

  ‘As I said—’

  ‘I didn’t do these things because I’ve been damaged, or abused, or because I have a sickness, which is what Dr Webb wants me to believe. I did it because…’ he leaned forward, holding his palms out as though he was offering me a gift.

  ‘Because I enjoy it… Oh, sorry –’ his gaze dropped and so did his smile. ‘– Past tense, I enjoyed it. But I won’t anymore.’

  ‘Really.’ My voice was stony.

  ‘No, I’m not going to do any of those things again.’ He shook his head like some abhorrent parody of a five-year-old. ‘And it’s not the desperate egos of the psychobabblers and the shrinks who’ve made me stop. It’s something far more…’ he gazed up pretentiously, searching for the word, ‘… compelling.’

  ‘Go on.’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this.

  ‘I’m being haunted.’

  I didn’t allow my gaze to falter.

  ‘Have you ever been haunted, Lucy?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘By the things you’ve done?’ The corner of his mouth tipped into an odd smile. ‘I suspect you are… But I’m haunted by the children.’

  Something cold prickled, but I didn’t look away.

  ‘The children. They come here. They stand at the end of my bed at night, watching me. Just watching, nothing else.’

  ‘And who do you think they are?’ I pressed.

  ‘I don’t think anything, Lucy. I know who they are.’

  The darkness behind his eyes moved like a quickening shadow.

  ‘Of course they’re not real—’ the azure eyes flickered abruptly in amusement and I felt the ground shift; I could breathe again. ‘Dr Webb says they’re a manifestation of my guilt and show an aspect of my new self-awareness.’

  ‘Right.’ God these men and their high-blown assessments. I tried to keep my face open and neutral. Not a flinch.

  ‘He says I should use them as a reminder of who I once was, someone I recognise and acknowledge but a person who I don’t know very well anymore.’

  If only that were true. ‘Good,’ was all the response I could muster. His smug self-regard irritated me.

  ‘When you think about it, I’m so lucky, aren’t I?’ He brought his hand and laid it flat on his chest like some camp drama teacher. ‘All these wonderful professional people who believe in me now. It’s fabulous, don’t you think? The psychiatric help I’ve received! The fantastic case workers who’ve supported me! I’m really, really blessed. It must be great for someone like you to see someone like me on the road to recovery.’

  ‘It all sounds very positive, Simon.’ The hint of sarcasm in my tone wasn’t lost on him and he sighed appreciatively.

  ‘I’m glad you think so, Lucy. I think so too.’ His eyes went blank. ‘What you think is very important to me.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘I want to show you. I want to show all of you that I’ve got better. All I’m asking for is a chance, Lucy, a second chance…’ the blue of his eyes glittered earnestly. ‘Even you must give me that, surely? I mean, come on, don’t we all deserve one of those?’

  * * *

  I stood outside the prison and rang for a taxi. Then I dialled Emma, praying she’d pick up straightaway.

  ‘You’ve finished then? Great! Me too.’ I could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I was just catching up on a bit of retail therapy. They’ve got some brill shops up here haven’t they?’ I felt my neck and shoulders relax. Suddenly things felt right. ‘The two of us should wangle a trip up here again…’ she paused. ‘Erm… What’s the matter?’

  I shook my head in silent astonishment. Emma had this unfailing ability to intuit even the tiniest change in my mood.

  ‘How do you do that? You’re the only person I’ve ever met who can read me like a book without my saying a word.’

  ‘Lucy,’ she sighed. ‘You’re hardly a difficult book – War and Peace you are not. In fact, I’d say you’d struggle at being a two-page pamphlet.’

  ‘Thanks, Em,’ I grinned. ‘You always make me feel so much better about myself.’ And that was true; she actually did.

  ‘More revolting offenders then, I take it?’

  ‘More revolting offenders.’ I nodded dully. ‘A particularly grim one who’s going to be released down in London so he’ll be on my patch, unfortunately. A sex offender. Kids.’

  ‘God! I don’t know how you keep doing it. You’re too good at all that stuff, that’s your problem. You’ll notice Viv doesn’t give me all the shit cases because she doesn’t trust me with them. She thinks we’ll end up on the front page of the Sun.’ She chuckled merrily. ‘You need to give off an air of complete incompetence like I do, and she’ll leave you alone. Anyway, given all that, I’m assuming you need vodka?’

  I realised I could discern the chink and hubbub of chatter in the background and I felt my jaw drop. ‘You’re already in the pub?’

  ‘Does the Pope stand on a balcony?’

  ‘Not with you, I hope. You’d keep harassing him to try on his hat.’

  Emma laughed. ‘You’re such a comedy cock-head, aren’t you? Anyway, I’ll text you the address so don’t be long, I’ve got shed-loads to tell you.’ She sounded excited.

  ‘Oh God. Really?’ I clocked the taxi coming around the corner. ‘Right. The cab’s coming. Get me a voddy. A double. Actually, if I’m going to listen to you, I shall probably need two.’

  The taxi ticked up to the kerb and I slid into the back and gave the driver the name of the pub. It was strange being back in this part of the country; it all looked the same but very different. I was so thankful that this time tomorrow I’d be on my way back down south where no one’s interested enough or cares enough to gossip about what you’ve done or who you’re seeing. Your business is your business. Yorkshire was too full of knowing looks over the photocopier, the smirks and whispers – ‘Is she the one who…?’ In the end I’d become a joke. Moving was the only answer. It was the best thing I could’ve done and I had Emma to thank for that.

  She and I had met six months before at some Personal Development for Probation Staff conference in a terrible Holiday Inn in Loughborough. The place was a dizzying expanse of static nylon carpets and tootling pan-pipes wherever you went. The chap running the course kept banging on about ‘effective co
mmunication’ but was using a dried-up marker pen and kept scrawling diagonally across his flipchart so that we had to peer at it sideways. Emma was sitting across the other side of the room and kept sighing and making me laugh, So when we were asked to ‘find ourselves a partner’ we made a bee-line for each other. Unfortunately, it was one of those psychometric personality test quiz things that we both knew was a complete bag of bollocks before we’d even started it.

  ‘Oh Lord, a northerner. This’ll be interesting,’ she’d grinned. ‘I’ll speak slowly and you can see if you can manage to read my lips. Now… are you ready? Eyes down… Okay… Agree or disagree on a scale of one to six…’ She pored earnestly over the paper.

  ‘Eh? You’ve lost me already.’

  ‘Christ, a real clunker. I’ll mime it if you like.’

  We giggled non-stop like schoolkids, finally working out that her personality type was a ‘caregiver’: a people-pleaser, highly sensitive, looking for approval from others, with a tendency for self-absorption. By contrast, I was a ‘duty fulfiller’: well-organised, loyal, faithful and dependable with a need for security that tipped over into being controlling.

  ‘So I’m a bit of a namby-pamby twat and you’re a mind-numbingly boring fascist. Is that what it’s telling us?’ She pushed the sheet across the table.

  ‘Seems like they’ve got half of it right, then.’

  The course tutor gave us a warning look, so we had to shut up.

  ‘So are you pining for your whippet and your chavvy jeggings then?’ she said as we were packing our stuff away.

  ‘You’re such a snob and so behind the times,’ I shook my head and laughed. ‘Most of us have pit bulls and shop at Primark.’

  ‘But you do put curry gravy on chips, don’t you?’ She looked genuinely concerned. ‘Don’t burst my bubble about that too!’

  ‘Rest assured,’ I patted her arm. ‘You can sleep easy. We do.’

  Meeting her in the bar later meant we laughed and got drunk together. Getting drunk meant I told her stuff that was happening back at work, only hinting at the ‘Dan’ situation, then weeping copiously but scrabbling to find a tissue. She’d gone off to the toilet and come back with a whole toilet roll and got a dirty look from the bar manager. I didn’t tell her the whole sorry story, but I think she filled in the blanks.