Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  “Mr. Adams, please don’t call me. I can’t help you.”

  I braced myself. “But you can, you just don’t want to! There’s a difference.”

  The old lady bristled. “Well, you should respect my decision, whatever you believe.”

  “I will, but Mrs. Pascoe, will you just do one thing for me—just one?”

  “What is it?”

  “When I hang up, will you just sit down, close your eyes and imagine you are me. Concentrate. Put yourself in my shoes. I’ve lost my wife, my child, and I’m losing Jenny. I can’t rest, Mrs. Pascoe. I can’t rest because I don’t know. Even if the truth—this whole picture—is ugly, I need to see it. I need to come to terms with—”

  “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Adams…”

  I replaced the receiver gently and wandered into the kitchen. My heart was racing as I stared at the kettle. A half bottle of whisky stood within a few feet of it. Decisions. I poured myself a glass and sat down, flicking on the TV to drown out the sound of the rain beating relentlessly against the windows.

  ***

  I called Ellen Pascoe back at seven. “Very well,” she said wearily, “You can come round if you wish, if only to talk things through.”

  I climbed behind the wheel of my car and set off. I was dressed in a t-shirt with joggers and a pair of old trainers, but I wasn’t out to impress the old lady with my fashion sense. I was wondering how I was going to get the stubborn old woman to spill.

  “Don’t tell Victoria that you’ve been here,” she said, greeting me with a dour expression that told me I wasn’t exactly welcome.

  The house smelled of fresh bread so I made some casual comment about the delights of home cooking. Ellen cast me a look. “I’ve always baked my own,” she said. “Benjamin loved it, though judging by his weight, a little too much, I’d say.”

  I smiled, remembering that this old lady was probably lonely, too, and if I played it carefully, she might actually begin to enjoy my company. I made some comment about the weather, glancing over at the window. Ellen Pascoe smiled.

  “They never seem to get it wrong when it comes to the rain,” she said as I followed her through into her lounge.

  The room was gloomy, lit only by a small lamp in the corner. A local newspaper lay open on the table next to her chair and the TV flashed its pictures silently.

  I took my chair, wondering if we were going to make polite conversation all evening, and wished we had a bottle of brandy to share rather than the weak tea she placed in front of me. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing stronger,” she said, reading my mind. “I’ve never been a drinker…most alcohol tastes awful.” Ellen Pascoe smiled gently, as if she really had made an attempt to put herself in my place. “Sherry is the only thing I can stomach but I don’t really bother.”

  “Maybe I should take a leaf out of your book.” I laughed. “I’m inclined to drown my sorrows, although they always seem to resurface the next morning.”

  “You and a million others,” Ellen replied with a reproachful look.

  A silence hung between us, as heavy as the clouds that had rolled over England for the past twenty four hours. I had to begin somewhere. “I’m lonely, Mrs. Pascoe. I’m lonely and confused.”

  The old woman looked up at me, “Well, maybe you and Jenny should get away somewhere. It doesn’t have to be abroad. Just away from—”

  “I can’t, Mrs. Pascoe. I can’t escape.”

  “And does Jenny feel this way?”

  “I think so.”

  “Maybe you should ask her.” Ellen looked frail and her voice sounded strained. “Like I’ve told you, I can’t help. You should concentrate on your daughter.”

  “I need to know the truth.”

  “No, you don’t!” There was a determination in her voice, but Ellen’s eyes betrayed her. I saw a longing, maybe even fear. “Jenny needs you. That’s the only truth that matters!”

  I instinctively reached into my pocket and pulled out the photograph of Jenny and handed it to the old lady. “This is my daughter.”

  Ellen looked as though I’d cast a hot coal into her lap. She stared at me. Why are you doing this? Why? It was as if I was gazing into her soul. Her lips never moved but the words were written across her face. Finally, she glanced down at the picture resting on her lap. I watched as she lifted the photograph closer to her failing eyes with trembling hands. “She’s…she’s beautiful… So beautiful…”

  I waited. Ellen Pascoe looked up. “She has his eyes… His eyes…”

  “Whose eyes?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer, glancing back at the photograph. “Oh, she is so lovely…so…”

  The old lady began to cry, and I could do nothing but watch helplessly. She was in her own world, and nothing I said would have registered in her mind. The picture of you…I have a picture of you.

  I heard the song again. The picture is the key! The voices echoed in my head. Elizabeth—Hanna—Sebastian—Josie. They sang like a choir as Ellen Pascoe wept.

  “Whose eyes, Mrs. Pascoe—whose eyes does she have?”

  Ellen looked up at me as the tears rolled down her face, drawing a paper handkerchief to her mouth as if she were preparing to stifle the words that might have escaped in a moment of weakness.

  “She’s lovely…”

  “Whose eyes?”

  The old lady looked at me, pleading. Don’t ask me again. Please don’t ask me!

  Her skeletal fingers stroked Jenny’s cheek. I fell silent, leaving the old lady alone in her thoughts. It felt right. The picture is the key.

  “Can I see her?” Ellen’s voice was as weak as her tea, but the question came like a thunderbolt out of a summer sky.

  “You want to see Jenny?”

  Ellen nodded slowly, still holding the paper handkerchief to her lips “If that would be all right with you…and Jenny, of course.”

  I was in control. My opponent as old and stubborn as she was, had found herself on the ropes. I delivered my final punch. “Mrs. Pascoe, I’m sure she would love to meet you, but if I agree to your request, you must answer my question. It’s as simple as that.”

  Ellen looked at me, her face already having surrendered to the years, now wearing the expression of a defeated soul. She didn’t answer at first, choosing to gaze once more at the photograph. My heart was racing again, my palms were hot and damp.

  “If you want to see Jenny, you will have to tell me the truth. The whole truth.”

  Ellen didn’t look at me. She placed the photograph on her table and pushed herself up onto her feet. I watched as she moved silently, the world resting on her ageing frame. An old lady who, it seemed, was growing visibly frailer as I looked on. She returned five minutes later with an envelope in her hand. “Here,” she said curtly. “If this is what you really want.”

  I pulled out the letter, oblivious to Ellen’s gaze, and began to read.

  ***

  Now I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d listened and walked away. But I also know it had never been an option.

  I remember nothing of the drive home—the red lights, traffic islands or junctions. My head reeled and my heart continued to thud like a bass drum in a marching band. I threw off my coat and flopped into the chair. My hands shook violently as I opened the letter that had been addressed to Benjamin Pascoe, praying that I had misread the whole thing. But I had recognised the handwriting immediately. It was Elizabeth’s.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, praying to my father’s God for strength. This couldn’t be true—Elizabeth was not capable of such deceit.

  Dear Ben,

  I had to write to you, I’m so sorry. Robert has been home for three weeks now, and I know we will be okay…at least, I thought so. I could have got through the guilt of our brief affair because, after all, my husband’s fling with that hairdresser was the reason I came to you for therapy in the first place. I might have even told him eventually, just to get it all out into the open.

  But something awful has happened and
I’m not sure I can live with it. I’m pregnant, Ben. It has to be your child. I cannot abort a life, so don’t ask because it’s not an option. I don’t want any money from you and I don’t want you in the child’s life. Please respect my marriage and I will respect yours. Just let me know how I can deal with this. Should I tell Robert? I don’t want to lose him, Ben. I love him and hate the whole idea of watching him bring up your child in ignorance.

  I think I know what you will say. He will be a better father if he thinks the baby is his, and I should consider the welfare of the child above everything else. Again, I’m sorry. I have no one else to talk to about this. No one.

  Elizabeth xx

  I sat for three hours as darkness descended on the room, numb from my feet to my head. Jenny had never been mine. I had no one. Hanna had been my only child and she was gone. How was I going to break the news to that girl lying in the hospital bed? The girl I’d shared the last seventeen years with? Who was she? Her half-brother had killed my wife and child…Hanna, my baby.

  I vomited, taking to my bed and lying in the darkness as the world continued without me. The truth was unbearable. I had owned up to my affair with Melissa, but Elizabeth had taken her secret to an early grave.

  I called Josie at two that morning. She sounded hazy, but I detected no anger in her voice.

  “Jo, I need to see you…now.”

  “Robert? What’s up, hun? What’s happened?

  “I can’t say…I need to see you.”

  There was a pause. “Stay where you are, sweetheart, I’ll come to you.”

  ***

  Josie arrived half an hour later. She had thrown a housecoat over her nightgown and left a note for Lou. I’d made some coffee and switched on the TV, but the moment she stepped into my space I instinctively pulled her into my arms. Jo held me, remaining in my embrace until I felt able to release her.

  “This sounds serious, hun,” she whispered, kissing my neck gently.

  “It is,” I replied. “I’m living in some kind of nightmare.”

  I poured our coffee, wishing I could shake myself awake and discover I’d been in bed all along, but it hadn’t been a dream.

  Jo read the letter several times over, and she remained with her head down for some time before I realised she was crying. I took her in my arms once more with nothing more than a deep need to hold, to comfort and to be comforted. I tried to thank her for being there, but Jo pressed her finger to my lips and kissed me passionately. My need for comfort turned to desire.

  It was grief, frustration, love and confusion that took hold as we tore at each other’s clothes. I needed to belong. I needed contact. We made love as the twenty-four-hour news channel rolled in the background. When it was all over, I rolled onto my back. “I can’t believe we did that,” I whispered.

  Josie rolled back towards me and placed her arm across my chest. “You regret it?”

  “No—but it feels weird—we’ve been friends for so long.”

  I lay for a moment, listening to my own heartbeat, suspended in a surreal world as Jo slipped on her housecoat. I remained, staring at the ceiling as she poured us a brandy, wondering what the future held. I had lost a daughter and gained a lover…or had I just lost a friend as well? I wondered where Lou fitted into all this. How was I going to face him?

  Jo returned with the brandies looking troubled. She knelt down beside me, gazing into her glass.

  “You know what this means, don’t you,” she said darkly.

  I didn’t answer but Jo continued. “It means that unless you believe in coincidences—and I mean coincidences—of the million to one kind…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think it was an accident…Darren Pascoe goes joy riding and kills two people…his father’s mistress and her daughter…”

  I don’t understand why it had not occurred to me in those hours following my visit to Ellen Pascoe’s home, and yet it was obvious. As obvious as Victoria Pascoe’s reluctance to help me. It had not been in an effort to spare me the pain—it had been all about Darren.

  Josie downed her brandy. “What if that kid had found out about Elizabeth…maybe even discovered that letter? Maybe the marriage broke down because Victoria discovered that he had another child. Darren would have blamed Elizabeth…”

  I lay naked, the perspiration from our love-making drying on my skin. Josie patted my arm.

  “Go and get a shower. You smell like shit.”

  I rose obediently, like a child obeying its mother, relieved that someone was taking control. The exhaustion was debilitating, leaving me weak and unable to reason. Maybe that was a good thing. I was able to concentrate on the sensation of the warm water cleansing my body. My mind, at that moment, felt like a vacuum, and each time Pascoe’s name entered that vacuum, it vanished into the darkness.

  I found Josie pouring another brandy. She glanced at her watch and handed me my glass. “I’ll call Lou in the morning and ask him to open up at lunch.”

  “You’ll stay?” I asked.

  Jo nodded and smiled. It was one of those smiles that fades quickly and is usually followed by tears. Josie bit her lip. “I couldn’t leave you, hun—not at a time like this—I mean, this is…” She shook her head. “This is just…shit!”

  I hugged her clumsily and our glasses clinked.

  “I should be telling you that you are still Jenny’s father, that you’ve been there for her since she was born and that’s what parenthood is all about, but I can’t…it sounds so…”

  “Feeble?”

  Jo shrugged. “I guess.”

  She slumped back into the chair and raised her glass wearily. “Cheers, anyway!”

  I sat next to her, wondering if the painkillers that Elizabeth had been prescribed months before her death would live in harmony with the brandy—and even if they didn’t, would it really matter? Jo seemed to read my mind.

  “Look, sweetheart, I know you’re a stable kind of bloke but all this shit… Well, it can be hard to take.” she reached out and closed her hand over mine. “Just don’t do anything stupid, okay? I mean, even if it enters your mind for a nanosecond—tell me.”

  The truth was simple. There was nothing to live for, but I had never really possessed the strength—or the cowardice?—it takes to die. Sure, I’d thought about it, yet the knowledge that I could never swallow that pill, pull that trigger or throw myself from any height, swung like a safety net beneath me.

  I nodded and Jo smiled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. I mean, think what it would do to Jenny.”

  I sighed. My head banged like crazy. “I need to do something…something positive…”

  “Sleep on it, hun. Just sleep on it.”

  ***

  Sleep came three brandies later, and I woke at eleven like a twisted corpse, my head propped up on the arm of the couch. Josie was making coffee and I smelled toast. She breezed by, as the world came slowly into focus, and pulled back the curtains. I blinked as the room flooded with light.

  “It’s black coffee,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen only to reappear moments later with a tray of toast, honey and cereal and a silver pot I hadn’t seen in years. Josie placed the tray on the coffee table and perched herself on the arm of the couch, waiting for me to stir.

  “What’s this in aid of?” I asked, trying to raise my reluctant frame from the sofa.

  “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” she announced, sliding into the space beside me as I finally achieved an upright position. “I’m just making sure you get some decent food down you.”

  I smiled wearily. “You’re a bossy bitch—has anyone ever told you?”

  “Well, Mr. Adams, a bossy bitch is just what you need right now!”

  “Right. What else have you got planned for me—after the four star breakfast, that is?”

  Josie poured us both a coffee and I watched as the steam rose and swirled from the cups.

  “Actually, I have got something planned.”

  “D
oes it involve us being naked?”

  The words slipped out before I could stop them

  Josie blushed, which was in itself unusual. “Actually, no. It involves you going around to Victoria Pascoe’s house with that letter.”

  My heart lurched. “What?”

  “Let’s move this forward. Ask her if she thinks it’s just a coincidence that her son managed to mow down his father’s mistress.”

  “I can’t. She’ll—”

  “What? Get the police?”

  “I was going to say that—she’ll just deny it.”

  Josie turned, and there was anger in her eyes. “She’s covering for her son, Robert. She’s an intelligent woman, and you can bet that she knows exactly what happened that day—and why he drove up your street.”

  “But shouldn’t I go to the police?”

  “No. Pascoe couldn’t have stage-managed the accident. He couldn’t have known that Hanna and Elizabeth would have been standing behind that ice cream van just as he turned into your road. Even if he knew what Elizabeth looked like—even if he had recognised her from two hundred meters away and drove at her in a moment of fury…” her voice trailed off. “It would never hold up, hun.”

  “You think it was an accident, then?”

  Josie shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe he just wanted to check out the house—check out his half sister. Maybe it was just curiosity. But maybe he had something else in mind. That Taylor kid was an evil little bastard, and Pascoe was obviously influenced by him.”

  Half sister? My Jenny and the Pascoe kid? I felt numb. Jenny wasn’t mine but my heart could not accept the fact.

  “Go and see Victoria. You need to keep active—do something!”

  I stared at Josie. She was serious. I buried my head in my hands. Part of me wanted justice, whatever the price, and if Pascoe had deliberately mown down my wife then I wanted him to rot. But Josie was right. He was a kid in emotional turmoil, devastated by his parents’ divorce and looking for answers.

  I felt Josie’s hand brush my arm. “You have nothing to lose, Rob. Nothing at all.”