by Adele Parks
‘No, no she hasn’t.’ Mark sinks back into their comfy sofa. He is a strong-looking guy – usually – but tonight he looks reduced. The sofa swallows him up. He looks dazed. Confused.
‘It did take a bit of getting used to at the time,’ Fiona admits, throwing him a sympathetic glance. ‘I kept calling her Kylie for ages, but it really irritated her, so I had to get used to Leigh. I’ve come to think she suits Leigh and it rolls off the tongue naturally. I never slip up and call her anything else now.’ It is awkward. Who would have thought Leigh would have kept that from him? His embarrassment feels solid in the air.
‘I’d like you to take a look at this photo, please.’
The police officer hands Mark a printed sheet. He can’t stop himself smiling. Fiona peeks over his shoulder to see what brought the joy to his harried, blushing face.
She looks so pretty!
But then Mark’s mercurial face collapses again, he just can’t keep a check on his emotions, they are relentlessly assaulting him. He looks up, puzzled. ‘Where was this taken?’ he asks.
‘I’m not certain. Somewhere in London,’ replies the police officer.
‘When?’
‘Some time around Christmas.’
‘I don’t— I don’t recognise the dress,’ he stutters.
‘No?’
‘Or the venue.’
‘It was this woman’s anniversary.’
‘This woman? What do you mean? This is a picture of Leigh.’ The officer moves her head a fraction. Not quite a shake but certainly not a nod of agreement. Fiona thinks there is a level of sympathy in her expression. Mark is the sort of man women feel sympathetic towards, she has long been aware of that. When Leigh first met him, she was always saying, ‘I just feel so sorry for him. I want to make things better for him.’ As though he was a wounded stray, which in a way he was, as he was a widower with two boys. ‘This is a picture of Kai Janssen,’ says the police officer carefully. ‘Does that name mean anything to either of you?’
‘Is she a relation of Leigh’s?’ Fiona asks. ‘The similarity is striking. A cousin, perhaps?’ The officer gives a small shake of her head. She keeps her eyes fixed on Mark.
‘I don’t understand. What sort of anniversary? A work anniversary?’ asks Mark.
‘No. Her wedding anniversary. I’m sorry to be the one who has to inform you, Mr Fletcher, but there is strong evidence to suggest your wife is a bigamist.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Fiona demands hotly. Mark says nothing. His mouth is gaping open and closed, open and closed. He looks like a fish on a riverbank gasping for breath. Or maybe waiting for the hammer to bash his head. Stop everything.
‘I’ve just come from her other home. The home she has shared with Mr Janssen for over three years. I’m really sorry.’
The officer says the words ‘really sorry’ but she does not appear sorry. She is studying Mark carefully. Working out what he’s thinking. Whether he knew this. Fiona wonders: did he? He drops his head into his hands, so no one can look him in the eye. Fiona feels sick, her mind is working overtime. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying Leigh is there at this other home with this Mr Janssen?’ she asks.
‘No, unfortunately she’s missing from there too.’
Fiona offers to make tea. She really wants a glass of something stronger. Vodka, ideally. She thinks of the countless times she and Leigh have had a vodka here in Leigh’s home – Leigh prefers it with orange, Fiona likes cranberry. She’d take it straight right now. Although, honestly, she feels dizzy enough. A cup of tea is far more sensible, considering everything. The young male police officer follows her into the kitchen, leaving Mark and the policewoman alone. Mark still has his head in his hands. His shoulders are shaking. It looks a lot like he’s crying but Fiona can’t see his face to know for sure. He could, she supposes, be shaking with shock. Or anger. Fiona looks at the policeboy; her guess is that he’s in his mid-twenties. Even so, he is assured, purposeful. She’s glad he followed her into the kitchen. She’s unsure whether she can manage making the tea, he’ll have to do it. She plonks herself on a breakfast bar stool.
‘I’m just trying to process what your colleague has just claimed.’
‘DC Clements is pretty certain she has her facts straight. She did some checks before we came over here.’
‘Leigh has been secretly married to someone else for three years?’
‘Yeah. Daan Janssen. He’s in bits, too.’
Fiona is pretty sure that isn’t information that should be shared with her, but she files it away to examine later. It might be useful; it might be important. ‘Leigh is this Kai? They are definitely the same person?’ Her voice is high with incredulity.
‘Kylie, you said so yourself. Kai. Leigh.’
‘That’s fucking madness.’
The policeboy deftly moves around Leigh’s kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, until he finds mugs, spoons and teabags. He adds milk and sugar to Fiona’s, even though she mutters that she only drinks almond milk, that she doesn’t take sugar.
‘Drink it up,’ he instructs. Fiona is not lactose intolerant; she just prefers the taste of almond milk, but it obviously isn’t the moment to be fussy. She does as he says. ‘Quite the shock, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No.’
He leans closer, lowers his voice. ‘Even though you’re her best friend? You can say if you did know. You haven’t committed a crime or done anything wrong in keeping your friend’s secret.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Fiona asserts firmly. He shrugs. Fiona notices that he is wearing a wedding ring; she’s surprised, he seems so young. She suddenly feels old and unsure. This boy is married.
He spots her staring at his ring and asks, ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Hard for you to get your head around this, then. Your best friend being married twice at the same time.’
‘Hard for anyone, I should imagine,’ Fiona snaps. She doesn’t want to sound irritable, but it is undeniably annoying that a child, practically half her age, is guessing at her emotional range. It’s true she has never been married even though she’s nearly forty-four, but she is aware of the concept. It has just never happened for her. Of course, there have been relationships. She’s lived with various partners before, but she’s never had anyone drop down on one knee. All three of her live-in relationships ended with infidelity. Theirs, not hers. Two left for other women and she chucked the third one out when she discovered he was being unfaithful. Fiona is no mug. She knows her worth. Leigh often says that men find Fiona intimidating or ultimately inaccessible because she is married to her work. It’s certainly true that her work takes up a lot of her time and that she feels passionate about it, but should that be an insurmountable barrier? Fiona wonders how people find it so easy to meet and marry. More and more men Fiona meets nowadays are married and looking for nothing other than a side dish. That is not something she can sign off on.
She briefly wonders whether this policeboy will remain faithful to his wife. He probably is now. He’s so young, they are most likely at it like rabbits, totally absorbed in one another, but will they stay faithful? Fiona doubts it, given her experience. The good ones are few and far between. Suddenly, Fiona is aware of the ungracious thoughts swirling around her head. She shouldn’t be thinking about the policeman’s marriage. She should be thinking about Leigh. What the fuck is wrong with her? She is probably in shock.
Fiona and Constable Tanner take the mugs of tea back into the other room but as soon as the tray is set down, the policewoman stands up and says, ‘Well, let’s leave it at that for tonight. It’s late. We’ll be in touch tomorrow. I’ll leave you two to drink your tea.’
The moment the door closes behind them Fiona dashes into the kitchen and opens the cupboard where Leigh keeps the vodka.
‘What the fuck?’ she says as she sloshes generous measures into two glasses.
Mark gives a
weak shrug of his shoulders. Lost, defeated. ‘I don’t understand. I can’t believe it. They must have it wrong.’
‘They seemed pretty certain. They wouldn’t have come round here unless they were sure,’ she says carefully. She doesn’t want to twist the knife but it’s in no one’s interest to hide from the facts. Mark stares at Fiona. Glares. His face is stone.
She doesn’t like it.
Suddenly, she feels uncomfortable; it is as though the air is being sucked out of the room. She sees the tension build in his face, will it explode through his mouth or fists? He has no control over this situation. Mark needs to be in control. They are too close to each other and yet utterly distanced. It’s odd. Normally they get on really well, but he’s making her feel uneasy. She straightens her shoulders and reminds herself that everything about this is odd. Off-the-scale crazy. No one is behaving normally. Some women don’t get on with their bestie’s partners, but Fiona has always loved Mark. She’s always thought he was one of the good ones who are few and far between. He looks cold now. Stony. She doesn’t know how to reach him.
‘They clearly think I have something to do with her disappearance,’ Mark continues to glare. His chocolate eyes that bowled Leigh over more than a decade ago bore into Fiona. Alive – not with passion, the way they were for Leigh – but spitting anger. Fiona edges away from him and her back bangs up against the corner of the kitchen counter. She winces. He reaches out a hand towards her, but then hesitates from making contact when he sees her instinctually shrink a fraction. ‘Ouch, are you hurt?’ His tone is forced jovial.
Fiona shakes her head. ‘I’m fine.’
Her voice seems to jar Mark back into himself, in an instant his expression changes. Melts. He looks suddenly vulnerable. ‘You don’t think I have anything to do with her disappearance, do you?’
Fiona holds his gaze, wondering what to say. The truth is no one knows what people are capable of. Who knew that Leigh was capable of being a bigamist, married to two men, running two lives for years and never telling a soul? Never telling her. Fiona thought she knew her best friend inside out. She thought Leigh trusted her. Who can say what secrets Mark might be hiding? What anyone is capable of. It is totally feasible that Mark discovered Leigh’s lie. What might that have led to? Crimes of passion are reported in the newspapers all the time. People murder betraying loved ones. It happens.
Fiona takes a deep breath.
She does not believe that about Mark.
‘No,’ she says eventually. ‘No, I don’t think you have anything to do with her disappearance, obviously not. My guess is she has run off. Leading a double life must be—’ She shrugs, embarrassed. ‘Well, fuck, what must it be, Mark? Unbelievably stressful. I can’t comprehend it.’
Fiona pours them both another vodka. They knock them back without saying anything more for a moment. They can’t find the words.
‘It can’t be true,’ says Mark eventually.
‘But she is only here half the time,’ Fiona says quietly, trying to convey as much sympathy as humanly possible. ‘And the photo.’ She shrugs apologetically, although it isn’t her that should be apologising.
‘What shall I tell the boys?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. You should talk to the police. See whether they think this is going to hit the papers.’
Mark looks horrified. ‘Do you think it will?’
‘Well, it might, it’s – you know— Juicy. And well—’ Fiona falters, finding it difficult to say any of the stuff that needs to be said. ‘It might hit the papers if she hasn’t just run off. If there is more to this.’ If they find a body. ‘I hate it that these thoughts are even in my head.’
‘This can’t be my world,’ says Mark. ‘It can’t be Leigh’s world.’
‘But it is.’ Fiona coughs to swallow the tears that are threatening. ‘If the papers pick up on this the boys need to be prepared and protected.’ Mark nods. ‘Would you like me to stay? To be with you when you tell them?’
He nods again. ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa, you can have our bed.’
‘No, no, Mark. I’ll take the sofa. Honestly.’ Fiona doesn’t want to lie on their sheets. She doesn’t want to smell Leigh’s sweat, perfume or washing powder, maybe their loving, whereas presumably that is something Mark might need.
‘I should have taken the sofa,’ he mutters. Fiona doesn’t really understand his meaning. She thinks he’s not thinking clearly when he adds, ‘I want to meet this other man.’
‘What? No!’
‘I have to. I need to see him. See their home. See it all for myself.’
‘That’s probably not a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
Fiona plays with her empty glass, wishing it were full. ‘Well, she’s missing, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘So— Well— In cases like these, the husband is always the suspect and we know you didn’t do it.’
‘You just said you think she’s run away.’
‘Well, yes, let’s hope she has.’
‘She’s not dead, Fiona.’
Fiona sighs. ‘We don’t know what she is.’
17
Kylie
Wednesday 18th March
I slept last night. I didn’t expect to but the blackness swallowed me. I woke as the morning sunlight crept under the boarded window. I strain my eyes and look around the room for the millionth time. Waiting for something new to jump out at me, something that will help me get out of here. What? I’m not sure. It’s not as though a trapdoor is suddenly going to appear. I’ve checked every link of the chain to see if there is a loose one: there isn’t. The zip ties that bind my hand to the chain have chafed the skin on my wrist, but no matter how much friction I create, they are unchanged, immovable. I’ve scoured the room for a nail or a sharp edge, something I could use to wear away at the plastic but there’s nothing. The place is immaculate, bare, barren. Other than the water bottle, which is almost empty now. And the typewritten notes.
As the morning passes, I am forced into using the bucket, and the smell of my own pee now lingers in the room. It’s oddly not too disgusting because it is at least human and familiar when everything else is sterile and strange. Although I imagine I will feel differently when I need to do more than wee. Waves of horror and panic slosh through me, leaving me feeling helpless and lost as I wonder how long I might be locked up here for. As I consider being here might not be the worst thing that could happen to me. What is he planning to do to me? I swallow back tears. I try to think about real, physical things, not allow my imagination and fear to take control.
I consider the emptiness of the room. It is not usual. Spare rooms in most homes are stuffed with boxes of old toys or paperwork, unused exercise machines, the ghosts of hobbies – taken up with enthusiasm but not sustained. This room is nothing like that. And the rooms people are kept captive in on TV – on the occasional newspaper report about a real-life example of someone horrendously unlucky – always reveals a squalid, filthy place. Abductors normally live chaotically; the broken and spoilt property reflecting the ravaged lives of damaged, dangerous people.
The empty sterility of this room suggests something much more icily resolute. It has been deliberately cleared, carefully prepared for the purpose of keeping someone captive. My captor has not taken me on a whim. The thought is chilling. I’ve always believed that anything that has been planned has more chance of success than something that is impetuous. Have I been kidnapped? Does someone think Daan is wealthy enough to pay a ransom for my return? My heartbeat speeds up again. My fingers start to shake once more. I force myself to take a deep breath. I have to stay calm and focused. I’m practised at remaining level-headed and in the moment. Panicking won’t help.
I’ve been trying to remember how I got here. It’s tricky to concentrate because my head still aches and I’m beginning to feel the effects of not eating since Monday morning but it’s important, so I focus. I remember Monday, taking Seb to school. We walked under
a cloud. I was thinking about the row with Mark, what had been said, what was left unsaid, what I couldn’t speak of. Seb is generally sunny-natured but I know he resents me walking him to school, so he is never at his best on those journeys. I suppose I have to stop that ritual soon.
I laugh cynically to myself, maybe the decision has been made for me? If I don’t get out of here, Seb will have to get himself to and from school no matter how much I want to cling to him. Who will Oli kick against, without his mother to nag him? My sad laugh turns to a definite wail. The thought of my sons left without me lacerates. I push them out of my head. I’ve trained myself to do that. I’m vulnerable if I think about them, so I mustn’t. I am the world’s best at compartmentalising. What I need to think about now, is how I got here because it might help me understand where here is and how I can get out. I need to focus.
After I dropped off Seb – a quick squeeze of his shoulder, no chance at all of pulling him into a tight hug or planting a kiss on his head even though I longed to – I walked to the park. On the days my family and friends think I get the late train to Scotland, I meet Fiona and we have a quick coffee and a slice of cake at the café in the local park. I remember meeting her. She couldn’t stay long because she had an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Her hair is long, like mine – she was going for the big chop, she said she fancied wearing it chin length, but she was vacillating at the last minute about her decision. She showed me a picture on her phone of some Hollywood woman I half recognised but couldn’t put a name to, sporting a centre-parted, wavy lob. I encouraged Fiona to go for it. ‘I love the soft bends below the cheekbones, it keeps things modern and breezy,’ I commented. Or something like that. It seems unbelievable now that we were talking about hair texture and volume. I remember watching her walk away and feeling the usual twinge of sadness that we are not quite what she thinks we are. She thinks we talk about everything, share everything. As I watched her long, narrow back disappear into the distance I felt the space between us. A gap I have created.
