Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  ‘Julia?’ David notices the tears collecting in my eyes and leans forward.

  ‘I’m OK.’ I laugh through it. A sniff and a smile.

  It’s clear that letting David into my life is going to be harder than I anticipated. What happens when I feel the unfamiliar touch of another hand on my shoulder, my back, my arm, my breast? Will my heart pound with excitement, or will I crumple and fold and never be able to do anything else – be with anyone else – ever again? When I consider what the children would think, that’s when Murray appears again, frowning, begging, pleading with me to give him another shot.

  With every last ounce of resolve and energy, I promise myself that falling for David is the right thing to do; that he is the perfect person to replace something that is so long gone, so painfully missing, that for years I never even questioned why it was absent.

  ‘Did I do something to upset you?’ David leans closer still and kisses my forehead fondly. I feel the slight tremor in his hand as he twists me round to face him. Is he nervous too? I wonder. He breathes in my scent, as if he’s downloading my entire life in one gulp.

  Oh, Murray, I beg in my head, what happened to us?

  But before Murray can answer, I close my eyes, hoping any second now that David’s mouth will be on mine, lingering over my skin, keen to rip open the join of my lips. I’m guessing that his hands are aching to spread over my body like spilled treacle, but when nothing happens and I open my eyes, I see that he has sat back again. Even from a distance, I see the flicker of his pupils, his lashes, his desire. But he didn’t lay a finger on me.

  ‘You didn’t upset me,’ I tell him, coughing my way out of embarrassment.

  ‘That’s good. There’s so much I want to know about you.’

  I shift closer to him on the sofa and breathe in deeply, hoping the heave of my chest will urge him to push his fingers into my hair, my skin, and cup my face, rather than delve into my soul. David delivers a further brief kiss; a tiny torment placed carefully on the top of my head. ‘And plenty of time,’ he adds.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, when he stands up and walks to the drinks cabinet. Did he feel it too? David doesn’t say a word. He pours himself a glass of brandy from a decanter and stares at me as if I pose the biggest question in the universe.

  Mary, I think he says, each syllable as wide as the horizon. I swear he mouths my mother’s name.

  But before I get a chance to ask him what he means, someone is hammering on his front door. As David strides to open it, a large male figure looms at the front window.

  That’s when my heart stops beating.

  ‘Ed?’ I call out, tearing into the hallway. Something’s happened to Alex and Flora. ‘The kids,’ I cry breathlessly. ‘Has Nadine sent you? Are they OK?’

  Ed ignores me. He pushes past with another man while two uniformed officers flank the porch. ‘Ed, what’s going on?’ All the blood drains from my head. Not the kids. Dear God, please not my children.

  ‘Dr David Carlyle?’ Ed asks flatly, flashing his CID badge.

  ‘Yes,’ David says calmly. ‘Would you mind telling me what—’ He stands tall, dwarfing Ed and his men. He doesn’t get the chance to finish his question.

  ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the assault of Grace Covatta on the night of Thursday the twenty-eighth of December two thousand and six. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence.’ Ed flashes the arrest warrant and then signals to the constables, who immediately surround David. ‘Do you understand, Dr Carlyle?’

  David’s eyes go wide and black, and for a second he looks at me. In that instant, I see a thousand truths, although nothing I understand. Everything is underlined by dark fear.

  ‘David?’ I say weakly. ‘Ed?’ I’m dizzy and lost. Nothing is real. David is being arrested for the attack on Grace Covatta. It’s impossible. I put out my hand to David, to offer some comfort, but he is handcuffed before I reach him. I can see that he wants to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance.

  ‘David, what do you want me to do?’ I’m there for him, by his side, shaking yet still managing to pluck his coat off the stand and wrap it round his shoulders.

  He is escorted out into the night. ‘I’ll sort this out,’ I call after him, but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge my help, doesn’t say a word. He just allows himself to be led out to the lane where a constable shields his head as he lowers himself into the unmarked car. ‘I’ll get you a solicitor,’ I cry weakly. The scent of him still lingers in the hall.

  Assault? I stand alone in the hallway with the door gaping open to the blackness of the country lane. My heart thumps so heavily, I can feel each beat in my throat. I watch as the police vehicle becomes nothing more than two dots of red light through the trees. The sudden chill makes me shut the door. I lean back on it, sealing me alone in David’s house.

  ‘He would never hurt anyone,’ I whisper, shocked and shivering. ‘Let alone Grace.’ My words are fireflies, ricocheting off the thick stone walls; setting light to everything. I remember when I found her – her broken body an unreadable map of what had happened in the hours before. It is impossible to hold David and Grace in the same thought.

  I stand alone for a few minutes, barely able to keep upright from shock. Numbed, and not knowing where else to turn, I lock up David’s house and head to the only person I know can help.

  I tear down the towpath, each dangerous footfall a step nearer to assistance. My need goes against every grain of reason and sense.

  The light from the boat windows casts ripples of silver across the murk of the water and guides me to Murray’s domain. There is laughter coming from deep inside Alcatraz and I hesitate before knocking on the hatch. It hasn’t occurred to me that Murray might be entertaining. I go ahead and knock. Either way, I need his help. Either way, I don’t have time to hesitate.

  The painted hatch opens in bursts of effort and expletives. Murray’s head pokes up and he squints into the night, not instantly realising it’s me standing on the towpath.

  ‘Julia?’ he says, puzzled at my presence. ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘They’re fine. They’re with Nadine.’ I’m breathless, panting, and while I would like to fall down and sob out everything in Murray’s familiar arms, I know I can’t. ‘Could I have a word? It’s serious.’

  A pause. A frown. ‘Of course, of course. Come aboard.’

  I’ve never been inside Alcatraz. It smells of alcohol and Indian food and looks like it’s not been touched since the seventies. Sprawled on a beanbag is a bearded man I don’t recognise. I barely notice the relief that it’s not a woman enjoying Murray’s company. The man looks at me through drunken eyes.

  ‘It’s David,’ I say, finally catching my breath and not caring if this other man hears everything. By the looks of him, he won’t remember anything tomorrow anyway. ‘He’s been . . .’ To actually say it gives it reality, and that I can’t stand. ‘Oh Murray, he’s been arrested.’ My mouth is dry, barely able to form words. ‘Arrested by Ed, of all people.’

  Murray doesn’t initially understand the gravity of what I’ve just said. He sways a little, or it could just be my arrival on the boat throwing him off balance, and squints at me as if I’m not really there. His world drags with the Scotch flowing in his blood. He finally seems to understand. ‘Really? That’s bad. What for?’ A heavy frown crosses his face, but I still notice the tiny smile beneath.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ I say. It tumbles out, sounding as crazy as any word ever did. ‘Assault.’

  Everything is silent. Alcatraz continues to rock, making me feel even more nauseous. The man in the beanbag struggles to stand, declaring his departure. At least he has the decency to sense the seriousness of my visit. He leaves the boat with a stumble and a brief goodbye to Murray.

  ‘Assault?’ Murray is busying himself, straightening up the place. He rearranges th
e cushions on the ancient sofa, pats a spot for me to sit, lights the gas stove and boils the kettle, glances briefly into the shard of mirror that hangs crooked from the bulkhead. He squints and ruffles his hair. ‘David’s been arrested for assault?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Murray, yes!’ I slump into the sofa. ‘I was at his house and Ed came with three other officers and arrested him. Ed didn’t say a word to me. It was like he didn’t even know me.’ I cover my face. ‘David’s a doctor. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, let alone a young girl.’

  I get up again and pace the length of the boat, wondering how anyone can live in such a confined space. It makes me think of David holed up in a police cell. ‘I have to call him.’ I jab the buttons on my phone, but the call is directed to his voicemail.

  ‘Who?’ Murray asks. He’s not stupid, and the full seriousness finally breaks through the drink. I nod in confirmation when he mouths Grace? ‘Ed’s a damned good detective, Julia. I think on this one you have to—’

  ‘But David didn’t do it! One minute we were . . .’ How can I tell Murray that we were about to share a kiss? ‘One minute we were eating dinner, and then David was being arrested and hauled away. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Firstly, you need to go back to the children and get them tucked up in their own beds.’ Murray hands me a cup of tea, and I can tell from his tone that he is disapproving of me leaving the kids yet again.

  ‘They’ll already be tucked up. It’s Nadine’s night off and she was happy to take them overnight. There’s no point disturbing them at this hour.’

  Murray reluctantly agrees and squats on the floor in front of me. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say, Jules, is that the man you’ve fallen for has been arrested for a very serious crime. He’s a suspect in a very high-profile case. It’s shocking, it’s ghastly and wretched for you. I can hardly believe it myself. But you have to let Ed and his team do their job. I’ll be honest, I’ve never liked the man—’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Murray. This is hardly the time to air your macho jealousy.’ I sip the tea but burn my mouth. ‘Unless David’s found guilty, there’s no way I’m giving up on him.’

  ‘So why did you come to me, then?’ Murray asks gently. He always backs off when I’m upset, and he hasn’t lost that flicker of kindness.

  ‘Because . . .’ I bury my face in my hands. ‘I . . .’ I look up again, my cheeks flushed, my hair spilling from its clip, and my eyes filling with what I don’t want to admit are tears. ‘I don’t know,’ I whisper honestly. I shrug. ‘I came to you because I always have done, and old habits—’

  ‘Die hard?’ We’re both thinking about the drink. ‘I can’t help him, Jules, if that’s what you’re here for.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I add quickly, and it’s the truth. I’m still reeling from admitting I needed Murray on an emotional level. I haven’t yet considered the obvious – that David will require legal help, and fast. ‘But he will need a solicitor. A damn good one. And a barrister if it all goes to court.’ My thoughts tumble over each other. So much to arrange. David will be relying on me.

  I watch, not daring to breathe, as Murray soaks up my admission. Did he think I was here to beg for help? He stares at me, his hair a mess – it’s grown long over the last few weeks – and his clothes not much better.

  ‘Julia . . .’ But he doesn’t say what I think he’s going to say – that if I do ask him for help, he expects something in return. ‘Julia, I . . . You’re right. David needs the best legal representation you can find. It’s not me.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, I don’t want you as his lawyer. But he will be in a police cell right now, and for all I know he’ll have the duty solicitor dumped on his case. I must go down there. We must go down there. I need some support, Murray. Please. Just for tonight.’

  ‘Julia, David is a grown man with enough resources of his own to procure a decent solicitor. Whether he chooses his own or makes use of the duty solicitor is hardly any business of mine. I really don’t think me coming with—’

  ‘Please, Murray.’ The deepness of my voice silences him. I hate myself for this – that I’m not strong enough to go through this alone – and I hate it that he’s fighting the effects of the drink. But here I am desperate for his help, desperate for him to be sober. ‘Please.’ I close my eyes.

  After a moment, I hear his exhalation. ‘Get me a gallon of black coffee, find me a clean shirt from somewhere and I’ll come with you down to the police station. Nothing else.’

  I open my eyes and mouth a silent thank-you.

  ‘And Julia.’ Murray pulls his dirty shirt off over his head. ‘I’m doing this for you, not David.’

  I know that what he really means is he is doing it for us.

  MARY

  I told him that we had to get a few things straight. I didn’t want sex. Not that I wasn’t attracted to him – far from it. He was handsome and intelligent and I knew that he was crazy for me too. And the problem wasn’t that I was twenty-seven and he was only eighteen – although David had never questioned my age outright. No, the big problem was that people like him held the key to my future. He had contacts at the university and I didn’t want to jeopardise them by having a relationship with him. Getting on a course via the back door was fast becoming my only option, so I couldn’t afford to let things turn sour between us.

  ‘I get the feeling you want to leave,’ he said. The landslide of his grin did untold things to me, but I had made a promise to myself: I would not sleep with him. I cherished David’s friendship and his world far too much to mess up. I was living the life I’d always wanted, but one step removed. It was vital that we remain firm friends.

  The party had only just got going. The music was good, the house was filled with intelligent people – albeit drunk ones – and the walls were alight with disco ball sparkles. I’d had a hard day at the café.

  ‘You mean you want to leave.’ I grinned back at him and sipped my drink. It was all hidden messages with us, a secret language of the body and mind. Me, I wanted the luxury of his brain, adding him to my collection of super-friends. David, well, he just wanted to get me into bed. He considered me a challenge. An older woman. All of this, the sum of what we had, in my mind, was nearly-sex. A mind mess of innuendoes and games, each of us trying to sidestep the other’s next move – David so he could get what he wanted, and me so he couldn’t. I admit, it was fun. It kept us going.

  ‘It’s quieter upstairs,’ he mouthed above the music. We swayed against the wall to Abba’s ‘Fernando’, Wings, and the Rolling Stones, and not once did I lead him on. Not once did I respond to his further temptations that we should explore the house, find an empty bedroom and make out.

  ‘That’s what kids do,’ I said, winking, with a look that showed my age. I was referring to the idea of seeking out a vacant room for gratuitous sex, and it didn’t occur to me until later, until he dropped me home without a word, that I’d upset him.

  There’s talk of hospital. Their voices wither like autumn leaves, the news of my future fluttering around me. The results of my MRI scan are not good. They say I have a kind of dementia. All the experts agree that I will be better off in hospital. Perhaps they’re right, but I worry for Julia. I worry so much that I can’t even tell her. It’s too late.

  I watch her pack a bag for me. She wishes I would show some inclination for a pink nightdress or a blue one, ever hopeful that I will leap up and cry, Not that old thing, for heaven’s sake, like I once would have done. But she can pack what she likes. It no longer matters.

  When she has finished laying out slippers and underwear and several skirts and sweaters that haven’t seen the light of day in decades – doesn’t she know I always wear trousers? – she sinks bottles of shampoo and perfume into the mound of clothes. Then, in a fit of desperation, she tosses in the mobile phone she bought me last birthday. I have never used it.

  ‘Just in case,’ she says, zipping up the bag.

  As Julia is making my bed, smoothing
the sheets and blankets flat as if I might never slide beneath them again, her foot catches on a forgotten pile of clothes stuffed under the bed. ‘More washing,’ she says, grimacing, and pulls out the bundle of dirty garments. ‘God, Mum, what did you do, go rambling in these? They’re filthy.’ She holds up my trousers and an old sweater, bound around my muddy work boots, before untangling them and tossing them into the washing basket.

  I don’t say a word. She knows I would normally defend myself, argue about mucking out the goat pen or hefting bales of straw in the rain.

  Later, before we leave, I retrieve the filthy clothes and boots, wrap them in a plastic bag and stuff them in my hospital suitcase. No one should leave their dirty laundry lying around.

  It seems appropriate that David drives us to the hospital. There’s something final about it. To him, I’m nothing more than baggage, and after all this time he’s finally remembered where he left me. There’s something full-circle about it that, back then, I’d never have anticipated. I sit in his great big car, going along for the ride, trying so hard to remember what it felt like to love him.

  The Lawns Private Hospital is at the end of a long drive, lined on either side by chestnut trees. I spy a couple of patients winding across the vast lawn like flotsam. A nurse chases after them, and it’s then that I realise exactly what is happening. I catch a glimpse of David’s eyes – just his eyes – in the rearview mirror. Never before have I wanted to scream out so much. Never before have I been quite so unable.

  ‘Here we are,’ Julia says, because no one else does. ‘It looks more like a hotel than a hospital, Mum.’ There is forced lightness in her voice. ‘They’ll have you better in no time.’ She is speaking to me as if I am a child again.