Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  ‘So, tell me.’ I still wasn’t used to the sound of my voice. ‘What’s a young girl like you doing roaming the countryside at night?’ It was as if I was talking to myself all those years ago; as if I was looking into a mirror from nineteen seventy-six. There was so much I wanted to know. She would help me understand.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I bet I’ve got a longer one,’ I replied. We bumped along.

  ‘You have to turn right at this junction,’ she said. There was already a quake in her voice. Just a hint of fear. The moonlight made her nose seem bigger, her cheekbones prominent. I glanced at her lips. Lips where he had been. I wanted to scrub her clean.

  ‘OK,’ I whispered, turning the opposite way. There was a pause; a moment for her to decide what to say.

  ‘Are we going somewhere else first?’ Her hand crept on to the door handle.

  Truth was, I didn’t know where we were going. Maybe I wanted to drive the rest of my life away with Grace – me – as my passenger. I would be safe then, perhaps prevent it from happening. I could ask her about David, find out if she’d met Jonathon, if she still worked at Café Delicio, if she was studying at university and finally going to make something of herself. I could tell her not to go to the wedding; I could tell her to turn the open sign to closed on the café door when David walked by. I could tell her the pain never goes, never lessens, never stops ruling every decision of your life. I could do all that.

  The more I drove, the clearer it became – resolving like the dawn would do in just a few hours. Behind us, a car came down the lane from the direction of David’s house. To begin with, the headlights were fireflies in the hedge but turned into bright moons as they neared. In my mind, I imagined it was David following us. In my mind, I imagined everything worked out fine.

  MURRAY

  Flora refuses to let go of her mother.

  ‘You can come in with her if you like,’ the nurse says. She holds out her hand to our daughter. Flora pushes her face into Julia’s shoulder.

  ‘Is it really necessary?’ I ask when we are inside the cubicle with the doctor.

  ‘If there are signs of . . .’ she mouths the word ‘abuse’ above Flora’s head, ‘then the police need to know. Action can be taken. Flora will need treating. Counselling.’ She speaks in a gossamer-thin voice. Mostly mouthing.

  ‘She’s deaf,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.’

  The doctor closes her eyes for a moment. ‘I need to check for vaginal interference. Trauma. Bruising. We will need to take photographs. Swabs.’ Her words are suddenly loud, clipped. Determined.

  ‘No way,’ Julia says. ‘There’s no way David would have hurt Flora.’

  Did David hurt you, Flora? I sign. Flora is lying on a white couch and is wearing a hospital gown. She had to take her clothes off standing on a sterile plastic sheet to catch any forensic evidence that might fall from her. Her clothes were bagged and labelled. Even her doll was taken from her. Did he hurt you? I sign.

  Flora shakes her head and signs, I didn’t mean to leave the boat. It was boring. David found me on the lane.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Julia says. ‘David didn’t kidnap her at all.’

  I slip my arm around Julia’s waist. She hasn’t said she wants me back. She hasn’t said she doesn’t. A part of her still believes that David is innocent.

  Flora has tears in her eyes as she lies back on the couch. I just catch her hands quiver sorry as I leave the room. It is no place for me as the doctor begins her work.

  Twenty minutes later, the paediatrician calls me into her office. Flora nestles on Julia’s knee. She is licking a lollipop but her tired eyes keep drooping shut and her head falls forward.

  ‘Good news, Mr and Mrs French.’ Julia doesn’t correct the doctor about our names. A good sign. ‘Your little girl is fine. The only trauma she seems to have suffered is guilt at having wandered off. Other than that, she’s perfect. I’m going to get a child psychologist to assess her. To be on the safe side.’

  Julia and I nod in unison. It’s the first thing we have agreed upon for as long as I can remember.

  Ed is waiting for us in the department reception. ‘Are you here as Uncle Ed or Detective Inspector?’ There’s the seed of something in my voice now that I know Flora is unharmed. It’s hope; it’s the first glimmer of good in months of mess. Already my eyes are stinging from the brightness of it all.

  ‘I’m here as both,’ he says. ‘And with that, I advise you all to go home. Together.’ Ed’s eyes sweep around my family. He has been looking after Alex while we attended to Flora.

  ‘I got to ride in Ed’s police car, Dad. And he let me talk on the radio.’ I ruffle my son’s hair and he pulls away. ‘Not cool, Dad.’

  ‘Talking of cars,’ I say to Julia, sighing at the logistics, ‘your car and your mother’s Land Rover are still at . . .’ I don’t know what to call it. I don’t even want to say his name. ‘Need picking up from . . .’

  ‘We’ll fetch them tomorrow,’ Julia replies. She drapes her coat over Flora’s arced back. She is clinging on round my neck, just about asleep now. ‘Let’s get home,’ she says, and Ed offers to give us a lift, although I can’t honestly say I know where home is any more.

  The rock had landed on a polished side table, smashing a lamp and a vase. David swung round at the sound of breaking glass but Flora didn’t stir. Her back was to the window and I was careful to avoid her, but I had to get in somehow. Carlyle was hardly going to open the door to me. Flora was looking at something – photographs – and it was only after I pushed in all the glass with my coat wrapped around my arm that she turned to face me. I leapt through the window, banging my head on the stone lintel.

  Get back! I signed to her, but my coat got in the way of my hands and the urgent warning was lost. David stood, his mouth gaping, choked with excuses. He didn’t attempt to defend himself. He just stared at me, almost as if he was pleased to see me.

  ‘You bastard!’ I yelled, and strode up to him, swinging a punch on each side of his face. Then I rammed him in the guts with my foot and fists and would have done more but Flora was close up, watching, stunned, crying. Her hands got tangled as she tried to sign. I pushed Carlyle down on to the sofa. He didn’t fight back, not even when I dialled Ed’s number. The police were on the way.

  ‘What have you done?’ I yelled at Carlyle, but he didn’t reply. I towered above him, giving him no chance of escape. Strangely, calmly, he picked up the photograph album that Flora had been looking at and flipped quietly through the pages. When I saw the pictures, I felt sick. Each leaf was crammed haphazardly with photographs of Julia, Mary, the kids, even me in places. They were stuck in roughly with Blu Tack or tape, as if they had previously been displayed somewhere else.

  It’s OK, honey, I signed to Flora. Uncle Ed’s coming to help us. The pain of not being able to hug my daughter properly until the police arrived was agony. My hands itched both to thump Carlyle again and cradle Flora.

  Are you the bad man because you hit David? Flora’s hands shook as she signed. She wouldn’t look at me. Will you go to prison now? she asked. I shook my head, watching as David turned the album pages.

  No, but I should, I thought. Pictures of my wife and kids flashed before me. It was as if Carlyle was showing me what I had been missing all these years by having my nose shoved in a bottle. If I’m honest, Flora, I sign, I think I’ve just been released.

  The house smells damp and it’s freezing. I swear it’s actually warmer outside in the orange glow of the streetlights than in here. I turn on the central heating and the boiler makes a grinding noise, but after fifteen minutes – the same length of time it takes to knit my family together with hugs, smiles, tea and blankets – we feel a layer of dry heat creeping through the small house.

  ‘So,’ I say. Julia sits opposite me at the kitchen table. She wanted to go home to Ely. She wanted me with her. Ed stopped off with us at Northmire on the way home to check o
n Mary. She was sleeping, the breath falling from her chest steadily. Brenna and Gradin were settled in their room and complained bitterly when Julia insisted that they come with us back to Ely.

  ‘We won’t do anything wrong,’ Brenna said. She nudged her brother but he didn’t speak, still suffering the trauma of a few hours down at the police station. Ed didn’t press charges in the end, although he’s convinced there’s something troubling the boy; something he’s bottling up.

  But Julia insisted that the pair come home with us. ‘We can’t possibly leave you.’ And she packed up a few belongings.

  ‘Do you think she’ll be OK?’ Julia asks about Mary as we sit in the kitchen.

  I nod, thinking how beautiful my wife looks, how unusual this is. Us, together, calm, at home.

  Then she says, ‘Just one night. That’s all I need. Just one night at home, normal, as it used to be. The four of us.’

  ‘Four plus two,’ I say, laughing. ‘They’re all crashed out. All exhausted.’ And I know what she means about the one night at home. If it’s all I get, I will stretch out the memory for ever.

  She cradles her mug in her hands. ‘Oh, Murray,’ she says. Then she calls out my name, but not so loud that she will wake Flora. Beneath the table, her foot curls round my ankle.

  Earlier, our daughter couldn’t wait to climb between her own sheets. She surrounded herself with soft toys, and Julia and I kissed her simultaneously on each cheek, just like we used to. Then we looked in on Alex. He was reading, waved a hand at us without looking up. ‘Some things never change,’ I whispered to Julia as we went downstairs.

  ‘And some things do,’ she replied.

  Now, as we sit in the kitchen, Julia finishes her drink. ‘I’m so tired I could sleep for a thousand years.’

  ‘Then do,’ I reply. ‘I’ll sit and wait for you.’

  JULIA

  There’s a stack of mail to sort through, but this particular letter arrives alone on our first morning home. I tear the seal and slide out the papers, skimming the formal letter before studying the official document. Everything is in order with the divorce. It’s nearly final.

  Murray left early and went back to Northmire to persuade Mum to go back to hospital. All the kids were still asleep so he’d insisted I stay here with them.

  ‘Nadine’s offered to ferry the cars back with me. She wants to help. I spoke to Ed first thing too.’ Murray had hesitated. ‘Kidnap charges have already been brought against . . . him.’

  I toss the divorce papers on the table. Flora stands in the doorway, sleepy, rubbing her eyes. She seems quite unaffected by what happened to her. Alex pushes past and makes for the food cupboard. I slide the papers back in their envelope, so he doesn’t see.

  Hey, darling, I sign to Flora. Did you sleep well? I know she did. I went into her room six times during the night.

  For the briefest of moments, everything feels normal. We are in our kitchen, the breakfast scrabble about to begin. If Murray was here, he’d be hunting for a clean shirt. Alex would be catching up with missed homework, and Flora playing with dolls when she should be dressing. Me, well, I’d be the one ironing the shirt, conjugating French verbs on the fly, insisting Flora get ready for school. Somehow, I’d suddenly be dressed and ready myself, and with the chaotic disorder of the universe empowering us, we’d tumble into the car and be delivered at our destinations. The day would begin. The day would be normal.

  I can’t stand to think of things not ever being normal. Murray back at the boat, Mum alone at Northmire with no one around to hear if she speaks anyway, me and the kids alone again.

  ‘Murray,’ I say, pretending he is here. He turns, hopeful, his face fresh and untouched by alcohol. ‘What about if . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Maybe you could, or rather we could, give it another go.’ It doesn’t come out right. ‘How about, for the kids’ sake, we try . . .’ I pause. He wouldn’t like that. ‘Maybe we could see someone . . .’ He definitely wouldn’t like that. I grab him by the shoulders. ‘Murray French, I love you. I love you, I love you,’ I say, and this time he understands completely.

  ‘Mum, who are you talking to?’ Alex spoons cereal into his mouth, grinning.

  ‘Your father,’ I say, not letting go of Murray’s shoulders.

  ‘But he can’t hear you.’

  ‘Oh yes he can,’ I say, dropping a kiss on to his invisible mouth.

  MURRAY

  It’s propped up on the kitchen table at Northmire, leaning against the pepper mill as if someone forgot to drop it in the postbox. A small white envelope with Julia written on the front makes me pause, frown, pick it up, turn it round and round, run my finger beneath the unsealed flap.

  I stand it up against the pepper mill again, shrugging, but stop in the doorway. It’s Mary’s handwriting.

  ‘Mary,’ I call out. Not because she will reply but so that she hears me coming and isn’t surprised or half dressed. I suspect she will be in exactly the same position as we left her – asleep in bed. Today she will have to go back to hospital. Thank God that Julia had one night away from all the mess; one night with me. I stop halfway up the stairs and take a moment to relive our closeness.

  Upstairs, I open Mary’s bedroom door a few inches. I am right. She is sleeping. She looks childlike, as if her life has rewound to the beginning – her skin strangely smooth, bloodless.

  ‘Mary,’ I say. ‘It’s Murray.’ I pull back the curtains. Light floods in.

  The sheets are bound around Mary’s body, pulled tight across her chest. Her hands lie clasped over her waist. Her hair spreads on the pillow, more silver than ever before. The medication bottles sit empty on the bedside table.

  ‘Oh God, Mary. Mary, no!’

  I shake her. She is lifeless.

  I don’t touch anything. I can’t, because my hands are shaking. I leave the room, already tainted with a faintly sweet smell. Gasping for air, I run downstairs. I stop in the kitchen, panting, thousands of memories spilling in my way, tripping me up, as if the house just doesn’t have room for them any more.

  The letter for Julia still sits pristine and white on the table. I think about the consequences if I open it; think about them if I don’t. I sit down because my legs won’t hold me. As I unfold the paper, Mary Marshall speaks loud and clear.

  Dear Julia,

  When you read this, I won’t be here to explain. Read these words carefully and without prejudice, and whatever you do, don’t believe for one minute that I wasn’t totally in control of myself. Have you ever known me otherwise? Can’t you tell already that it’s me speaking, finally, clearly, effortlessly? My handwriting, although a little shaky. My words, perhaps a little pompous. My decision – a coward’s way out.

  But preferable to the lie that I have lived for thirty years.The truth, Julia, was harder to say than the deceit I have spun around us. I couldn’t have you find out from him; but then I didn’t have the courage to tell you myself. You would have hated me. I have truly been bound up by my own guilt, my own shame . . .

  When I’m finished, the letter flutters to the floor. Mary’s words escape; butterflies set free.

  The guard at Whitegate Prison remembers me. There are no planned appointments, no scheduled visits, no meeting cell booked. I’ve come straight from Northmire, leaving Mary in bed. No one except me knows that she took an overdose. I must be quick or Julia will come looking for me at the farm. I need to be the one to tell her.

  ‘Back so soon?’ he asks. ‘You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. I’ll need to phone through for special clearance if you haven’t got this booked in.’

  I think he takes pity on me. T-shirt, jeans, trainers. My zip-up coat is muddy from searching the fields. My face is layered with sadness. Sheila would scream at me to smarten up, to buck up. There’s no point in telling her that he’s not my client any more. No point in telling the guard, either. I’ll never get through security then.

  ‘OK, you’re in. Let’s get started,’ he says a few minutes later. The front desk guard beg
ins the necessary paperwork. I place my hand on Mary’s letter. It’s folded into my coat pocket. In the end, Mary had her say.

  He sits at a table set squarely in the middle of a small room. There are no windows and, as usual, the guard leaves us alone. ‘Thirty minutes,’ he says, and I want to tell him that Mary’s story will take at least that number of years.

  ‘Carlyle,’ I say. It’s impossible to tell if he shows remorse. His plain prison clothes, his plain expression, his plain posture give nothing away. ‘I’m not your lawyer any more.’

  ‘Hardly worth a visit to tell me that, was it?’ His voice is unemotional and he barely moves as he speaks.

  ‘I know who you are,’ I state calmly. Inside me a storm rages. ‘I know you are Julia’s father. What I want to know is why.’ My voice is barely above a whisper but deafening to Carlyle. He flinches. I lean over the table. I don’t know if I’m asking why he kidnapped my daughter or why he raped my mother-in-law.

  I never knew why he hurt me, Julia. I never understood why your father turned into someone else that night. I’ve always blamed myself . . .

  He sighs. ‘Flora?’

  I nod. A good place to start.

  ‘Because she is just like Julia. I missed her childhood and saw Flora as a second chance.’ He lays his hands flat on the table. His answer is slick and prepared. ‘And because she doesn’t speak and I don’t sign, we had a silent understanding. I never planned to take her. I certainly never meant to keep her longer than an hour or two, but how can you cram a missed childhood into such a short time? She’s my grandchild. It was wrong, I know—’

  ‘Wrong?’ I yell. ‘Wrong doesn’t even come close to the agony you caused my family.’ I want to punch him, throw the table at him, beat him to a pulp. But it wouldn’t help. Flora has already confessed to wandering off the boat.