The Man I Married

by Elena Wilkes

  ‘Today’s going to be great before the weather packs in. We should go out for the day somewhere.’ He turned and leaned against the work surface. ‘A picnic maybe, what do you think? How about Kent? Do you know Whitstable or Broadstairs? Both are nice. … Bloody hell, don’t look so worried!’ He laughed and reached out to stroke my hair. ‘I’ll be with you all the time. It’s not too far. It’ll be fun.’

  * * *

  The car journey was like purgatory. He chatted on and on all the way down, pointing out this and that, pausing only to ask me if I was okay: too hot or too cold? Did I want to stop? Was I comfortable? I tried to respond normally: reassuringly, with ‘I’m fine’, ‘I’m great’ and looking as though I was relaxed and happy.

  Had he known I’d thought about going to Kent? Or was it just a coincidence?

  ‘Let’s stop in Whitstable. It’s a bit more lively there.’

  He found a parking space quite close to the beach and messed about in the back dragging out all the stuff he’d brought before pottering down onto the stones to look for exactly the right spot. He made a great show of spreading out the blanket and fussing with the stones underneath, arranging cushions and settling them around me, before opening up the basket with practised ceremony and bringing out a load of salads and cheeses and a bottle of wine. He was cheerful and over-talkative. We ate and drank and spoke about the view and watched a little dog chasing a ball into the sea. I accepted it all with a strange sense of pending anxiety. I had a blank, other-worldly feeling, as though I was watching him performing in a play in which I had a repeated walk-on part. I was exhausted; I couldn’t talk anymore; I couldn’t think anymore. I lay back in the warmth of the late autumn sunshine, shutting him out for a while. The cluck and hiss of the waves soothed me. The little dog barked excitedly and someone called its name.

  I heard, rather than felt, him move as he shifted in beside me. I was suddenly awake, my whole body on high alert. I opened one eye and immediately stiffened.

  He was lying propped on one elbow, gazing down at me, so close, his eyes crinkling in the sunlight. He was smiling curiously. I couldn’t move. He raised a hand and tickled a long sea grass head down my cheek. I wanted to swipe it away.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he sounded dreamy. ‘When you’re feeling better, when you’re really feeling strong enough, we should talk about stuff – Stuff about the future.’

  I stayed still.

  ‘A family, maybe. Babies. That’s something you’d like, isn’t it?’

  My skin crawled at the thought. I brought up one hand as though shielding my eyes from the sun so that he couldn’t gauge my expression.

  ‘I’m probably not quite there yet.’ I said carefully. ‘Diane and I have been talking—’

  His finger came up and he touched my lip gently. I had to will myself not to flinch.

  ‘Just when you’re ready.’ His fingers stank of sap. ‘I think you’re doing brilliantly with Diane. You’ve obviously connected with her – she’s really pleased with your progress.’

  A gull’s laughing waul kited overhead and a rush of sea air and tiredness washed over me. She’s spoken to him about me. Of course.

  ‘But how do you think you’re doing? I mean, not just what you tell her. I mean deep down.’

  I was aware of his lengthening shadow falling across my neck. I would’ve liked to have sat up, shifted away from him, faced him, but I knew instinctively I had to remain exactly where I was.

  ‘I’m much better,’ I said firmly. ‘I feel more like my old self and I’m healing really well. Getting out of the house feels so good. Maybe I should consider going out on my own sometimes? What do you think? Not far… See how I get on.’

  I smiled but watched his face cloud a little. The sun was behind him so he appeared a black cut-out silhouette with pits where his eyes should’ve been. ‘I think it’s a bit soon for all that,’ I heard a little intake of breath. ‘Let’s just see how you go.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘You’re right. Let’s just see how I go.’

  * * *

  We got back late afternoon. Paul was his usual attentive self, helping me out of the car, insisting that I do nothing, even though it was clear I was perfectly capable of carrying a few bags and blankets. He dumped the basket onto the kitchen table and I began to sort out the dirty plates, loading the dishwasher and putting odd things back in the fridge.

  ‘I don’t know what you want to do about dinner later?’ I had my back to him so I wasn’t immediately aware of anything amiss. He didn’t respond. I looked round.

  He was staring at me with a look of incomprehension.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I stopped, with a cup in my hand.

  ‘Is anything ever enough for you? Why do you always have to criticise?’

  ‘Criticise?’

  He mimicked the look on my face. ‘You really are un-fucking-believable.’

  ‘What did I say?’ I bent to close the dishwasher door.

  ‘Seriously? After all I’ve done.’ He looked at me open-mouthed. ‘If you really have no idea then there is no way I’m going to spell it out to you.’ And he stomped off upstairs.

  I stood listening to the creak of him walking back and forth overhead. Every inch of me was on high alert. This was the first time since I’d come out of hospital that I’d seen this side of him. I had no idea where it had come from. My nerves jangled and pricked the length of my spine. Was this a test to rattle me? Would he bring it up with Diane and use it against me? I took a deep breath and concentrated on putting stuff back in the fridge and packing the picnic things away. I would keep calm; I would hold it together. I would be aware: very, very aware. Putting the kettle on to boil, I started to make tea. I heard Paul’s footsteps on the stairs. My gut froze in absolute panic.

  ‘Are you making me one?’ he called out.

  ‘Can do,’ I kept my tone light.

  He walked into the kitchen and went to the cupboard.

  ‘About earlier,’ I said fishing a teabag from the cup. The surface of the liquid shimmered as though an earthquake was about to happen.

  ‘What about earlier?’ He reached a saucepan from the washing up rack and put it away.

  ‘Whatever I said, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ I glanced at him. His head jerked round at me and he frowned.

  ‘Upset me? You didn’t upset me. What do you think you said?’

  I gave a nervous laugh. ‘I have absolutely no idea, something about dinner.’

  He pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Haven’t got a clue what you’re on about. I haven’t even thought about starting dinner. Why, are you hungry?’

  ‘Oh no. It’s fine. Whenever.’ I said guardedly.

  ‘We said I was cooking pasta, didn’t we?’ He came over, kissed my cheek and then clocked the expression on my face. ‘Go and put your feet up and watch some telly. I’ll give you a shout when it’s done.’

  And the moment passed. I tried to let it go – breathe through it, stay focussed and not react, but the earthquake I had felt wasn’t just inside me, it was inside Paul too. I could feel the deep rumbling within him, I could hear the hiss of building steam. The ground under me was splitting opening and I couldn’t find any way to stop it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I began not to know myself. I mean, really not know. I was functioning but empty. It was as though I was sitting in the centre of a room that was filled with doors, but each door was terrifying. I knew I should get up and walk through one, but I couldn’t. I was stuck there, in that chair, in that house in front of that window, watching the world, but not connecting.

  Moire, I knew, was trying to help me. That telephone was a link with the other side. I watched as the messages came through: one after another.

  Are u okay? How do u feel 2day? Do u feel safe?

  Questions, questions, that I just didn’t have the answers to. I never replied.

  Days slipped by and I couldn’t discern
the time. Time slipped by and I don’t think I moved. I needed Emma, or I needed someone like Emma, but I couldn’t get hold of her. Was she still in France? I left messages, I sent texts, but nothing. And what would I say to her?

  I knew I should be throwing Moire’s phone away, but the thought of Paul finding it in the rubbish was terrifying.

  It sat in the pocket of my dressing gown like a ticking bomb. In the end I zipped it into an old scatter cushion on the armchair. It would be close but somewhere he’d never find it. I also resolved to tell Moire that she had to stop. I couldn’t help her. I was sorry but I just couldn’t.

  It was her grief talking. Her sister and children had died, it was a terrible thing and she blamed Paul – of course she did. People blamed people for things out of their control. I knew I had to say something.

  Moire I know you don’t want to hear this but I think you should talk to someone. You’ve been through a terrible thing. There must be someone out there who can help you find some kind of peace. I do hope so. You deserve it. Lucy

  I pressed ‘Send’ and waited. Nothing came back. I waited a bit more. There was silence. I prayed that would be enough.

  * * *

  ‘Heard from Emma recently?’ Paul didn’t take his eyes from the TV screen.

  ‘No, actually I haven’t.’

  He flicked though channels, one after the other. ‘Strange. I don’t think she’s back yet. Maybe she found some new bloke over there and sent the old one home. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Probably.’ I smiled and tried to read his face.

  ‘By the way, I’ve arranged to go back into work – just a couple of hours to start with. Is that okay?’ He turned to look at me.

  ‘Of course. No problem.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure?’ His gaze didn’t drop. I swallowed.

  ‘Good thing is, I’ll get the TV remote all to myself, then. What a treat that’ll be,’ I teased. It was as though someone else was speaking the words.

  He seemed convinced. ‘I’ll go in tomorrow then. Just half a day to start with then. Let’s see how you get on?’

  I smiled and then suddenly my smile froze as I felt the phone tucked behind me vibrate just once.

  ‘You okay?’ He looked concerned.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I reassured him, ‘why?’

  ‘Oh, that’s good then,’ he breathed. ‘For a second there you looked like you were scared.’

  * * *

  That night I slipped out of bed while he was asleep. Each stair cracked like a gun going off and my heart went with it. At the bottom I paused and listened: all I could hear was the restless beat in my ears, but nothing moved. Not daring to put any lights on, I unzipped the phone from its hiding place and I read her reply.

  Meet me tomorrow.

  I know he’ll be at work. I’ll tell you everything and then you can judge for yourself.

  She gave me a time and the address of a café not far away. My hand trembled as I pushed the phone back inside the padding and a creak overhead set my heart thudding. I walked quickly into the kitchen and ran the tap: ‘Water’ I’d say. ‘Just getting a glass.’ I rehearsed it in my head over and over so that it would sound natural. I stood for a few moments, listening, but I couldn’t hear anything else. Creeping back up the stairs, I eased our bedroom door open, inch by inch. His back was a hump of duvet and his snores gargled gently. I slid back into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling.

  How the hell did she know where he’d be? See her again? The very thought of it shook me to my core. The idea of leaving the house on my own filled me with a terrible churning anxiety. I glanced across at Paul; the black sockets of his eyes stared back like a cadaver. What if he ever found out? What if he caught me? What if it was all a trap? What if…? What if…?

  * * *

  The next afternoon, I watched Paul pack his things together into his computer bag.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be alright?’

  He’d been monitoring my every move all morning.

  ‘There’s nothing you need or want? If you think of anything, ring me, and I’ll pick it up for you on the way home.’

  ‘There’s nothing, I’ll be fine, don’t worry.’ I grinned broadly, feeling my cheeks strain with the effort.

  He came over and kissed me and I found myself holding my breath. ‘Bye then!’ I managed to sound cheery.

  I watched as he walked down the path. I was counting the seconds until he got into the car. He began to back off the drive and I had a sudden surge of joy and took a great gulp of air. The whole atmosphere in the house had changed: it felt light and airy, as though a pressure had been lifted clean away. My ribcage expanded as I filled my lungs: my whole body feeling suddenly bright and aware and alive. I could do anything I wanted right now. I could run a hot bath and lie in it for hours, I could watch television, I could eat Nutella straight from the jar.

  You could meet Moire.

  No.

  I glanced at the clock.

  What are you afraid of?

  His anger. His rage. His attack. I shrank at the idea. It was much easier to stay indoors, be safe, do as I was told.

  My body was fearful but my spirit rebelled. I didn’t allow myself to think. I put clothes on. I slipped on some shoes. The soles of my feet tingled with the press of the leather. My jacket was heavy and constricting; it wouldn’t let me lift my arms properly to open the door. I stepped across the threshold. The world was sharp and in focus; the light felt too bright. There was a strange precarious sensation of not being guarded. What was I doing out here?

  You’ve come this far. You can do it.

  The driveway spanned away in front of me for what seemed like miles. I managed to put one foot in front of the other. The main road was another country, but I wasn’t going back now. The new car sat there in all its insipid pale blueness. I could do this, I really could.

  My knees nearly gave way as I tried to reverse, but I made it onto the road. Thankfully, my hands and feet remembered what to do and the streets slipped by easily. I pulled up at the café and shakily turned off the ignition. I could see she was there. I was nervous and angry with myself, and nearly turned around and drove home. But somehow I made it across the road.

  She didn’t notice the door opening; her fingers were fiddling nervously with the cup handle as she agitatedly chewed at her lip.

  ‘Lucy!’ She rose and leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘No, no, I’ll get it.’ I flapped with my bag, searching for my purse. I was aware that she was watching me as I walked up to the counter. I brought my coffee to the table and sat.

  ‘How’s it going?’ She searched my face.

  ‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’ I took a sip.

  ‘You got my messages?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did, but what I said, Moire, I did mean—’

  ‘Wait… before you say anything. You want proof –’ She paused a moment and then reached down into her bag. ‘– So I thought you might like to see these.’ She drew out a folder. It was battered and greasy-looking. She flipped it open and pulled out a wad of newspaper cuttings in a transparent wallet.

  I saw the lettering ‘Shropshire Herald’ on the first one. She slid it across the table towards me and I saw the date: Monday August 22nd, 2005.

  House of Horrors, the headline said. Her name bounced out at me: Caitlin Reece, 24, and her unborn child were found dead with Eloise, 3, and Roisin, 18 months, in the early hours of yesterday morning.

  A rollercoaster lurched through my stomach. The words swam blindly.

  ‘Caitlin was pregnant.’ Moire’s face was a mask of pain. ‘I knew. So did he, I think. I’ve always thought that was the trigger.’

  No no no…

  Her partner, Paul Weberman, 24, was found with a life-threatening stab wound. Police suspect the attempted murder of Mr Weberman was part of a murder-suicide. Ms Reece had been suffering with depression after the birth of her youngest child. No one els
e is being questioned in connection with this incident.

  ‘Paul Weberman?’ I looked at her. ‘Attempted murder?’ None of this made any sense. ‘This isn’t what you said… You’re saying Paul…? That Caitlin tried to…?’

  ‘Paul Weberman is now Paul Webb. Here—’ she pulled out a photograph of them all together: Paul, Caitlin, the children, one no more than a babe in arms. They were at some kind of event. ‘See? Look at the name there—’ My eyes scanned down.

  Caitlin Reece, author of The Dark Room, with her partner, Paul Weberman and their two children.

  ‘She was interviewed by their local paper years ago.’ Moire traced her finger down the picture, touching the baby. ‘They used this photograph, after—’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘But—’

  ‘He told them she was suffering from depression and that she’d tried to kill herself. Paul has plenty of psychiatrist friends to call on if he needs to.’

  John McAndrew’s face drifted through my mind.

  ‘He said that one day she flipped and tried to harm the children. He tried to stop her and she stabbed him. When they found her, she was in the bath. Both of her wrists had been opened up… And the babies—’ The words wouldn’t come.

  ‘The babies were in her arms, one on either side of her.’

  Her eyes glistened with anger and grief. ‘Paul was unconscious, minutes away from dying.’ Her jaw contracted angrily. ‘They looked at the evidence and they believed his version of events,’ she said simply. ‘A fine, upstanding, decent, highly respected middle-class white man,’ she sneered. ‘Of course he was telling the truth.’

  I looked at the slew of articles and photographs in front of me. There was a photograph of Caitlin and the two children: one I’d not seen before. The three of them were sitting on a log in a wood, close together. Roisin was on Caitlin’s lap, her baby hands extended to the camera. Caitlin was looking down at Eloise and laughing into her upturned face. I couldn’t look. I pushed them away.