by Cathy Glass
Aisha gave the children a final kiss and hug each and then hugged and kissed her parents. They didn’t resist. Sarah took hold of her grandma’s hand, while James stood proudly beside his grandfather. They went out the front door and Aisha went with them and then waited on the pavement as her mother settled the children under their seat belts in the rear of the car, and her father put their bag in the boot. Her heart ached at the sight of her parents finally allowed to be grandparents – something they should have been doing for years. As her mother straightened, Aisha threw her arms around her. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘I’ve always loved you.’
‘We love you too, darling, take care and look after yourself. We’ll speak soon.’
Aisha stayed on the pavement and waved until the car was out of sight. Then she returned up the path and into the house where she shut and bolted the front door. How quiet and lonely the house now seemed without Sarah and James. She wandered around the downstairs unsure of what she should be doing, or feeling, and then sat in the armchair and rested her head back. Thoughts came and went as she stared into space and the wintry light of afternoon slowly faded into dark. Just twenty-four hours before she’d fled this room in fear of her life. And although she’d run in terror, aware of what Mark would do if he caught her, her conscience had been clear. Now she carried a weight so heavy that if she didn’t tell someone soon it would very likely destroy her and drive her mad with guilt.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Aisha woke to the sound of knocking followed by the ring of a bell. It was growing louder, more insistent. Bang. Bang. Ring. Ring. What a noise, she thought as she surfaced, it was enough to wake the dead. Her eyes opened. The room was now lit by the morning sun and she realized that someone was at the door, calling through the letterbox. ‘Mrs Williams? Hello? Are you in there? It’s Inspector Calder, Stan Calder. Police.’
Aisha jolted forwards out of the chair, across the lounge and down the hall. Sliding the bolts, she flung open the front door and stared at the two of them. Dishevelled and disorientated from sleep, panic gripped her. ‘What’s the matter? The children? They’re not hurt?’
‘No,’ the inspector said. ‘That’s not why we’re here. I’m sure they’re fine.’ Relief flooded through her. ‘I’m sorry we frightened you,’ he said, ‘but we have a few questions about the accident. This is my colleague, WPC Lewis. May we come in?’
‘Oh yes, yes of course, come in,’ Aisha flustered. ‘The children are staying with my parents, I thought something had happened to them.’
Leaving the inspector and his WPC to close the door, Aisha stumbled back down the hall and into the lounge, dizzy from waking so suddenly and then standing too quickly. She returned to the chair. ‘I’m sorry. I must have dropped off. I haven’t been sleeping. Do you have the time?’
WPC Lewis looked at her watch. ‘It’s ten thirty. Are you all right, Mrs Williams?’ she asked, concerned. ‘Is there anything I can get you? You shouldn’t really be alone at a time like this.’
‘No, I’m fine, really,’ she said. ‘What was it you wanted?’
‘Just a few points to clarify. It’s nothing to worry about.’
As they sat on the sofa Aisha saw them glance around the room, taking it all in. She felt rough – all night sitting in the armchair, drifting in and out of consciousness, you could hardly call it sleep. And the nightmares that had plagued her while she slept and had continued each time she awoke: the shadow, the familiar outline of Mark, accompanied by his voice. She could almost have believed he was there, accusing her, like a revenging ghost.
‘It won’t take long,’ the inspector said. ‘It’s more a formality.’
Aisha thought there was now a certain formality in his manner, compared to the last time she’d seen him – at the police station when she’d made a statement after the accident and he’d been so kind and thoughtful. When had that been? she wondered. Yesterday or the day before? She really didn’t know; she was losing track of time, with no sleep and all the worry.
The inspector cleared his throat and leant slightly forwards on the sofa. Aisha looked at him, and tried to focus and understand what he was saying. ‘Mrs Williams, there are a few points in your statement I need to clarify, if you don’t mind. You said it was the first time in years you had driven. Could you tell me how long exactly?’
Why did he want to know that? She thought, immediately going on guard. And what was the right answer? She’d had plenty of practice in the past trying to find the right answer, but still hadn’t perfected it. ‘Five or six years, I think,’ she said. ‘We sold my car when the children were little. Mark said we didn’t need it.’ Be careful, she warned herself, and tried to clear her head. ‘We didn’t need a second car,’ she said evenly. ‘Living so close to the shops and tube, there was no point. Why? Is there a problem?’
‘No, just clarification.’ He nodded and the WPC wrote on the pad she had opened on the arm of the chair. ‘And your husband wanted to go with you on your first outing to make sure you were safe?’
‘Yes, that’s correct. Mark thought it would give me confidence if I knew he was following. He also wanted to try out his new bike.’
‘Not the best choice of evenings,’ the inspector said dryly. ‘The road conditions were atrocious. We had three separate RTAs on the M25 that night.’
She wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question but the inspector appeared to be waiting for her reply. ‘I know,’ she agreed and shifted in the chair. ‘I was worried before we left. I said we should wait. The weather might have been better over the weekend.’
She stopped and glanced at the WPC, who had her eyes down and was still writing. Then she looked again at the inspector who was looking at her as though expecting her to say something else, but what? More detail? She didn’t know. She wasn’t very good at lying, she’d never perfected the art; unlike Mark.
‘I should have insisted we waited,’ she added. ‘I knew I would remember how to drive. You don’t forget that skill in five years, but Mark hadn’t been on a motorbike in over twenty years. I should have stopped him and refused to go.’ She tried to read the inspector’s expression but it was impossible.
‘I know how painful this is,’ he said, lowering his voice respectfully. ‘Try to remember it was an accident. We won’t keep you much longer.’ He paused again but clearly hadn’t finished yet. She shifted again in the chair and tried to concentrate. ‘Mrs Williams, could you explain exactly what happened in the moments leading up to the accident? I know you covered it in your statement, but I’m trying to get a more detailed picture.’
Aisha felt a little nerve start to twitch in her neck. ‘I’ll try,’ she said, ‘but it’s all a blur … it was dark and it all happened so quickly. I remember seeing Mark in the wing mirror, he was travelling a few cars behind me, three, I think. The car in front of me slowed to about fifty and I saw a space in the middle lane so I indicated and pulled out. Mark must have been trying to overtake at the same time and …’ She stopped and in the silence she heard the horrendous crunch of metal and splintering glass and felt the jolt as the car wheels went over the bike, just as it had done that night.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, that’s all I can remember,’ she said.
The inspector nodded sympathetically. ‘Thank you. That’s more or less what the other witnesses said. And the car was owned and maintained by your husband?’
‘Yes, as far as I know.’
‘We’re having the car and the bike checked by forensics for any sign of faulty brakes and steering. Another formality, I’m not expecting to find anything.’
No, you won’t find anything wrong with the car or bike, Aisha thought, although wouldn’t it be wonderful if you did – proof that it wasn’t my fault after all! The inspector had stopped talking now and was looking at her. She wondered if she was supposed to add anything, but couldn’t think what, so she just nodded.
‘Well, that’s it then, Mrs Williams,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to
have had to call on you at this time. I can file my report now.’
Aisha didn’t think she’d added much beyond what she’d said in her original statement but he was standing now ready to go. ‘We’ve notified your husband’s parents,’ he said, ‘as you asked us. ‘Is there anyone else who should be informed?’
Aisha thought. ‘His work, I suppose.’
‘We’ll see to it first thing on Monday. Anyone else?’
‘I don’t think so.’ In truth she’d no idea who Mark knew or anything about his life outside the house. His life had always been separate from hers and the children’s so she didn’t know who should be informed he was dead. But she could hardly admit that to the inspector.
‘We’ll leave you to it then.’ The WPC also stood, closing her notepad. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Williams.’
The inspector nodded and the two of them began towards the hall. But as they passed the bureau on the way out of the lounge the inspector paused and looked at the photograph. ‘Is this Mark?’ he said, picking it up.
‘Yes. It was taken soon after we met.’ Aisha looked at the photograph he now held: her and Mark seated side by side on the bench beneath the oak tree. ‘Mark stopped a passer-by and asked if he’d mind taking our photograph,’ she said quietly. ‘We were so much in love then, Inspector, I thought it would last forever.’
The inspector looked at her, his grey eyes reflecting empathy. ‘I lost my own dear wife last year, after nearly thirty years of marriage. The hurt fades, but it never completely disappears. At least your children are safe.’
‘Yes, thank God they are. I’d die if anything happened to them.’
‘One last thing,’ the inspector said, returning the photograph to the bureau. ‘I know it sounds trivial, but I will need to see your driving licence and the car’s insurance at some point. If you have them to hand, I can take them with me now if that’s easiest.’
Aisha stared at him. ‘I’ve no idea where they are, Inspector. My husband looked after all the paperwork.’
‘Don’t worry. You can put them in the post, save you a trip to the station.’ He nodded a goodbye and continued into the hall where the WPC was waiting. Aisha followed them to the front door. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said again. ‘Look after yourself. I’ll be in touch.’
She smiled weakly and watched them go; then closed the door and drew the bolts. She stood in the hall, her mind racing. Her driving licence? The car’s insurance? Where were they? She didn’t have a clue. She hadn’t seen her driving licence since she’d moved in, and she’d never seen Mark’s car insurance – there’d been no need as she never drove the car. And a familiar and threatening voice returned – the one that had told her not to turn on the heating and had haunted her during the night: Now you’ve done it. You weren’t insured to drive my car. They’ll know you took it without permission and that’ll be the end of you and your story!
She spun round to confront him but the space behind was empty. There was only one thing to do, she thought, find the insurance and prove him wrong.
Chapter Twtnty-Five
Shirts. She had never seen so many shirts and most of them were brand new! Half a dozen were still in their cellophane wrappers, with matching ties laid diagonally across the chest. There was every shade of blue, grey and beige, to match his suits and casual jackets. The ones Mark had worn had been washed, pressed and folded, and looked as new as those in the packets. ‘I wonder what silly sod spent hours ironing these,’ Aisha said out loud. And a now familiar voice came back: You did. You stupid fool. Repeatedly. Because, as usual, you could never get it right.
Aisha yanked out the drawer as far as it would and, scooping up the shirts, dumped them in the bin liner. It was already half-full and was going to the charity shop, together with the two bin liners she’d already filled. She hadn’t intended clearing his things out now, it had happened as a result of looking for his car insurance, her licence, and hopefully his will. But far from giving her some relief as she hoped it might, being in his bedroom and going through his belongings had made her grow increasingly agitated and angry, as though in disturbing Mark’s clothes she was disturbing him.
Closing this drawer she opened the one below. She gazed at the meticulously neat piles of underpants, which had been bought by his mother from Marks and Spencer and sent in the post each Christmas. Although Mark hardly saw his parents, his mother still sent him pants and socks every year. Aisha received a headscarf and the children a ten-pound note each, which had been a lifesaver and went on food.
‘As if you weren’t old enough to buy your own sodding pants!’ Aisha cried out loud, tearing off another bin liner. ‘Allowing your mother to buy you pants at your age! That’s weird.’ She grabbed the pants in handfuls and stuffed them in the bin liner.
In the same drawer, to the right, lay piles of his white cotton handkerchiefs. Dozens and dozens, starched and ironed to perfection. Three piles were perfect triangles with points so sharp you could cut yourself. The other two piles were squares, with their edges exactly aligned. Mark always had three clean handkerchiefs each and every day, triangles in the jacket pockets – breast and inside pocket, and a square one in his trouser pocket ready to shake out if he sneezed. Three a day, every day, rarely used, but crumpled and left for her to wash and iron, just the same. Careful not to disturb their shape, for she hadn’t wasted hours to have them creased now, she took them out and laid them in the rubbish sack, on top of his underwear. And as she did she remembered the handkerchief he’d used to mop the droplets of rainwater from his face on their first date. It cut through her like a knife, for to think of the Mark she had met and loved was more than she could bear.
Closing this drawer, Aisha slowly stood, and then went to the double wardrobe, which was solely Mark’s. It was crammed full of his suits, hanging lifeless in their polythene jackets like Bluebeard’s women. Mark liked his suits, he thought he cut a dash in his suits; a ladies’ man, a man about town: a cad, Aisha thought. He wore his suits in strict rotation, a new one every weekday. He took them to the dry-cleaner on a Saturday morning and he collected the five from the previous week at the same time. A wardrobe full of suits. Twenty-five? Thirty? She’d no idea. Unhooking them from the rail a couple at a time, Aisha folded them in half and laid them in bags for the charity shop. Soon, another three bags were full.
With the rail in the wardrobe clear, she could now see the full extent of his footwear: a four-tiered rack of shiny leather shoes, sitting obediently in pairs as though under starter’s orders. ‘Four racks, each containing six pairs of shoes,’ she counted out loud. ‘That makes twenty-four. And not your mass-produced, high-street rubbish either. Oh no, yours had to be handmade by a cobbler in the City.’ Aisha had no idea how much they’d cost, and it was probably better she didn’t know. She reached in and took out the first pair and ran her hands over the smooth soft leather. You could tell they were good quality by their rich, deep shine, and their suppleness. She bent the toe up and watched it spring back, unmarked, without a crease.
‘How many pairs did the children and I have?’ she said, stuffing the shoes into another bag. ‘One each. That’s all. And even those, we couldn’t afford to have repaired. Fuck you! You bastard. Well, you won’t be needing your precious shoes now. Not in the state you’re in!’
With the shoe rack clear, she tied the tops of the bags, sat back on her haunches and surveyed them. Some lucky bargain hunter was going to find a real prize in the charity shop. Then it occurred to her that Mark owned a newer, more expensive piece of footwear – the boots he’d been wearing at the time of the accident. She wondered if they were still on his feet. Did they put corpses in the morgue with boots on? She didn’t know. But even if they didn’t, no one was going to be interested in bloodstained boots, even if they were expensive and had only been worn for a few hours. Stacking the bags along the landing, she returned to the bedroom and looked around. She was doing well, progressing quickly, though she admitted it helped not hav
ing the children home. It was surprising, she thought, how little time it took to remove someone from a room when you put your mind to it and got down to the job in hand. A good deal less time than it took to remove them from your life, she thought.
Ignoring the small cabinet which contained her own meagre assortment of clothes, she opened the door to the large built-in cupboard. Like all the other drawers and cupboards in the bedroom it had been Mark’s and he had told her to keep out. Aisha remembered how she’d obeyed Mark’s order as though the doors might have been booby-trapped. Don’t you dare go in there! No dear, I won’t. And she hadn’t, ever, even when he was out of the house, so great was his power. Inside the cupboard a matching set of empty suitcases was stacked at the bottom, and Aisha thought they may as well stay there for now. Beside the cases was a brand new set of golf clubs and two similarly pristine squash rackets. She remembered they had ‘taken Mark’s fancy’ years ago so he had treated himself, but they’d never been used. Aisha thought she might be able to sell them later, and raise some much-needed cash. She moved them to one side and revealed a box of Christmas decorations – bought for their first Christmas together and untouched ever since. Christmas, she thought bitterly, some joke Christmas was. There wasn’t much peace on earth in their house. On the top shelf was another cardboard box and it looked vaguely familiar. Aisha reached up and carefully slid it down.
Squatting on the floor, she peeled off the browned Sellotape and lifted the lid. With a flash of recognition, almost déjà vu in its intensity, she realized it was her box, one of the ones she’d packed when she’d left home and had moved in with Mark after their marriage. She took the top item and unwrapped it from the old newspaper, and discovered Tina, her favourite doll. The next parcel contained half a dozen little china elephants she had collected as a child, and the next a babushka doll her father had given her. Aisha delved deeper and found some old paperwork: greeting cards – twenty-first birthday and graduation – bank statements from years ago, her birth certificate, and postcards from India tied with a ribbon. And yes! Eureka! Here was her driving licence! It was the old-style paper type, and she unfolded it and read the print. She had passed her test when she was eighteen and of course it was still valid, it ran until she was seventy! Terrific, she thought, that should keep the inspector partially happy at least. Thank goodness.
