You Let Him In

by JA Andrews

  I can’t believe the life I had a few days ago is so different to the life I have now. When I last saw the girls, I was in the office staring out of the window waiting for the I.T. team to fix my computer connection issues. I was filing invoices, talking to suppliers, but now my world is upside down and I am thinking about my husband’s funeral. Those times when I would talk to Lizzie on break, or we would walk with Samantha to the nearest supermarket moaning about our husband’s traits, already feel like another life.

  I can’t get my head around it. Michael being hit like that was so cruel. I can’t shake the image of his body out of my mind. Lying there on the slab, peaceful, with a cold stillness – a shell of his former self.

  Why my husband? Why did this have to happen to us?

  Lizzie’s other half is always away on business but she copes with that; she likes him being away as he doesn’t get under her feet. I’ve met Samantha’s husband Tom a few times on nights out but they’re both joined at the hip in everything they do. If I’m ever invited to a meal out, it’s always the two of them. If I ever arrange a night in with some wine and a rom-com, she can barely keep herself off her phone, checking up on him every five minutes.

  Michael and I rushed into our marriage, which surprised my friends. They didn’t know at the time that I was pregnant. I kept Daniel a secret until I was starting to show. It was a whirlwind from the moment we first met. Michael was everything I wanted in a partner: good looking, ambitious and attentive. He made me happy. It felt right. He swept me right off my feet – but he was a show-off and extravagant in our dating days. No expense spared. He paid for everything.

  Michael proposed to me after six months of us dating each other. We were well established and very serious about being together. He even asked my father for permission, which was so romantic. Michael proposed to me during a picnic, in the days when we would take long walks by the rivers. I will never forget that day in the spring. I stood up to shake the sandwich crumbs from my dress and as I looked away, Michael pulled the diamond ring from his pocket, knelt on one knee and blurted it out the moment I turned back around.

  ‘Will you marry me, Jenny Evans?’ he asked, his hands trembling with nerves. I hadn’t even noticed the glistening ring for the worried expression on his face. ‘Will you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I responded, though I thought he was joking at first because it took me off guard. ‘I love you so much. Of course I will marry you. Yes.’

  He recreated that same picnic when we first moved into this house. He always liked to make romantic gestures – but over the last few months he became distant. I can’t even pinpoint when it started. It happened gradually. I think our arguments were down to the pressures we put on ourselves – stressing about what we couldn’t afford, what we needed for the house. Michael was working long hours while I was unable to do more than a couple of days work a week. This house seemed a pressurised environment. We should have made more time for each other. We were both at fault for that.

  There’s a knock on the door. I can hear Lizzie’s voice a mile away. Even in the office, everyone talks about how loud she is. We asked her if she was deaf but she seems to be one of those people who shouts when they’re on the phone.

  ‘Hey, Jen,’ says Lizzie as I open the door. ‘You’re not going to hide from us that easily. Come here and give me a hug.’

  Lizzie wraps her arms around me and I suddenly feel the need to burst into tears. That moment when someone else shows you a sign of sorrow – it triggers me. Samantha smiles and waits for her turn. Of everyone in the office, I’m glad it’s these two. We are inseparable in the office.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Michael,’ Samantha says while coming in for a hug. ‘The office has had a whip-round and a card for you here, babe.’

  I grab the envelope and card. I open it to reveal that the whole office has signed it. That’s really quite touching. I don’t count the names or read the messages in any detail but fold it back up again. I place the online shopping voucher back inside and the three of us stand here staring at each other.

  ‘Thanks for the voucher,’ I say to break the ice and the awkwardness. ‘How is everyone back at the office?’

  ‘Oh, you know, hun. Mitch is still his old miserable self. Got a temporary team leader role and it’s gone straight to his head,’ Samantha replies. ‘Promotions are coming up and you know how everyone suddenly starts acting super professional when these come about.’

  ‘It feels like I’ve been away from the office for months, even though it’s only been a couple of weeks,’ I reply. ‘Mitch has always been a bastard. He’s fair though. I’m sure he’ll make a great team leader.’

  I lead them both through to the lounge. I quickly pop upstairs and make sure Daniel is in his bedroom with the baby gate shut. It feels strange talking to my friends about random work chat when I am looking at them wondering how they would cope in my situation. They must feel awkward?

  ‘Jen, if there’s anything, you know, anything we can do for you, just ask,’ Lizzie says. I know I can count on her too. ‘Whether it’s babysitting, a chat about stuff, you name it.’

  I nod and smile at Lizzie. I know she means well. She’s a genuinely nice person who would do anything for anybody but she has a reputation around the office as a gossip. She’s usually the first to know about any drama and I’m guilty of being the first to demand what she knows. She calls it her office survival techniques.

  ‘Thank you, Liz,’ I reply, wondering if I’ve been talked about much. ‘I bet I’m the talk of the office right now, aren’t I?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Samantha interrupts. ‘None of us knew Michael that well but we care about you. We can’t imagine what you’re going through. This is shit you only hear about on the news, isn’t it? No, we mean, it. Anything you need, you just ask. We know you’re not going to be in work for a while.’

  ‘I had to identify Michael’s body yesterday,’ I blurt, changing the subject. I’m crying but I need to talk about it with someone other than Donna, who is dealing with her own grief. ‘I don’t know how to describe him. I knew I was looking at Michael. I recognised him but it was like looking at someone else with his face. He looked so peaceful.’

  Lizzie comes over and puts her arm around me. Samantha moves closer.

  ‘I couldn’t imagine looking at my Tom,’ Samantha says. ‘I bet he’d still expect a selfie.’

  I smile with them for a second. I know she’s trying to lighten the mood. They wouldn’t be used to seeing me this upset. In the office I’m usually the bubbly one. I’d walk round Monday mornings asking what everyone got up to at the weekend. Then by Friday I’d try convincing people to do a Mexican wave to celebrate that the week was finally over. I like to get to know people and they’re used to my quirky ways. I’m touched that they care and it has been good seeing them, despite my trying to put them off.

  ‘I read about the accident at the Taverton Hotel in the paper,’ Samantha continues. ‘I didn’t associate it with Michael at first. I got to the part about the witness and thought how tragic. I can’t remember his name now but he came across very kind.’

  ‘Gary Taylor,’ I reply. ‘He was the one who called the police – but I struggle to look at that paper now. I’ve put it away in the bedside cabinet drawer.’

  ‘It just doesn’t seem fair,’ Lizzie says. ‘I hope they find the bastard that did this. I was saying to Sam on the way over that I only saw Michael in town the other week. I recognised him from the photograph on your desk and some of your Facebook pics. I was trying to see if you were about.’

  I catch Samantha glancing at Lizzie – giving her that awkward look like she has said something she shouldn’t have. Lizzie has noticed it too.

  ‘What, Sam?’ says Lizzie. ‘It’s cool. I think we should mention it.’

  ‘Mention what?’ I ask, sitting to attention. ‘What’s wrong. What is it?’

  Samantha shakes her head.

  ‘I’m not getting involved. I told h
er she doesn’t know anything,’ says Samantha, glaring at Lizzie. ‘I don’t think now’s a good time.’

  Samantha takes out her phone to distance herself from the conversation as Lizzie continues.

  ‘I was walking past the shopping centre the day before Michael died and Michael was at the cash machine. You know, the one by the entrance next to the passport photo booth. I looked around for you but couldn’t see you anywhere. It was wads of money, Jen. I know it only lets you take out five hundred pounds but it must have been a right handful of notes. It was eleven in the morning and I was waiting for the bus. You know how late they can be, coming up to lunch.’

  I’m anticipating what she has to say, nothing so far seems out of the ordinary, but Samantha puts her head down.

  ‘Liz?’ I ask. ‘What is it you’re trying to say?’

  ‘It wasn’t so much him – but the others,’ Lizzie replies, slowing down her flow of speech. I nod as if to signal for her to hurry up and tell me. ‘Two men came over and I saw Michael hand over the money. It looked like they were having an argument at first. It didn’t last long. It seemed a little odd. Just saying.’

  I stop for a moment. I convince myself she must have been mistaken, Michael has never mentioned this.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, but I don’t disbelieve her. ‘He’s an accountant. He has to deal with all kinds of transactions?’

  ‘I know what I saw, Jen,’ Lizzie replies, nodding her head. ‘If you’d been at work I would have said something to you then. I just thought you might want to know.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Samantha interrupts. ‘Her timing is terrible. You know what she’s like. I did say it could have been anything. Doesn’t mean he’s a—’

  ‘A what?’ I interrupt. I think I know where this is heading. ‘A drug addict?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lizzie says, shaking her hands about. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It didn’t look like anything work related. Michael was in a suit. The others looked a bit rough – but I got on the bus and never saw them again.’

  ‘Thanks for your concerns, though. I’m glad you told me. Don’t worry,’ I reply. I could have done without this revelation today. ‘Knowing Michael it was probably work related. He has to deal with all sorts of small traders. I never get involved in any of his finance work. It’s not like I’ll ever find out now.’

  For twenty more minutes we sit talking about our husbands, reminiscing over some bad girly nights out. With every minute that passes, I want them to leave. I keep wondering if my husband was a drug dealer – but I’d have known. Surely I’d have seen the signs.

  All they’ve managed to do is add to the doubts I have about Michael.

  Nine

  Jenny

  I’m still struggling to sleep which comes as no surprise under the circumstances. The last couple of days have been a living hell. My life has been turned upside down in the blink of an eye. Something doesn’t feel right about Michael’s death. I can’t stop reminding myself about how urgent it was for him to leave the house that night. I know we had an argument but he seemed desperate. Michael was tense and he wasn’t normally in that much of a rush to leave.

  The image of Michael’s body haunts me and I weep and wail through most of the early hours. The vision of his lifeless corpse covered in stitches and bruises is stuck in my mind, while thinking about the coldness of his hand makes me want to cry again. I’m comforted that he wasn’t alone and the thought leads me to think about Gary. Knowing that someone was by his side, Michael should have understood that help was at least on the way. I try to imagine that if it was me there with a stranger beside me, I’d have a sense of hope that he would at least try to get some help.

  We are too young for this to happen. He was taken way too soon. The thought of Michael on that ice-cold metal slab, before being closed within a confined refrigerated space for his last resting place, makes me feel sick. I hope they find the bastard that did this.

  Daniel wakes up, calling for me around one o’clock. He does this sometimes but then falls asleep again after I tuck him back into bed while telling him stories about his father. He listens, although I’m not sure if he’s taking it all in. There was a time when I woke up with Michael touching my bump while I was pregnant. It wasn’t his hand across my stomach that woke me but the sound of him reading Shakespeare. He had read some blog on the internet that said that reading to your child while it was in the womb helped with development. I laughed about it for weeks. It still makes me smile thinking about that memory now.

  ‘I want our little man to have the best start in life,’ he said to me. ‘I want him to get good qualifications, go to university.’

  Daniel hadn’t even been born yet but even then Michael was trying to plan ahead.

  ‘So long as he’s fit, healthy and happy he can be whatever he wants to be in life,’ I replied. ‘We’ll love him no matter what.’

  All I have now are memories.

  It’s as though Daniel hasn’t a care in the world. At three years old he doesn’t know any better. I wonder if he will ever remember his father when he’s older. I have plenty more stories I can share. If it weren’t for Daniel, I would most likely lie here in bed and forget about the world. The only comfort I could receive right now would be to lock the doors, turn off all the lights and shut the world away while I grieve for my husband.

  With the newspaper spread across the bed, I drift between thoughts of my husband walking out of the door, which is the last memory I have of him alive, and the witness who saw the accident. I feel frustrated that this person was the last man to see my husband and to comfort him in his dying moments. I think of this tragic scene and can’t break away from having this overwhelming need to speak to the man face to face. I want to ask him if he noticed the wedding ring. What were my husband’s last words? I need to know exactly what he saw. I need to hear it for myself.

  I keep re-reading parts of the statement over and over until I have built up an image of the deadly scene in my head. The details play out in my mind like a short violent movie. My mind imagines a car racing down the road and crashing itself into Michael’s body, which is then dragged underneath the car. I imagine the agonising pain he must have been in. Then, I see the male witness, who I have imagined to be a tall man in his late fifties with grey hair, standing over my husband while calling for an ambulance. I keep visualising Michael’s face crying out for me, yet I am nowhere in sight – his wife, the mother of his only child, who has done nothing but argue with him lately. I can’t contemplate the pain he must have been in.

  It breaks my heart that I couldn’t have been there to comfort him at the end. That last breath, his last thoughts play on my mind. I am angry with myself for my part in that whole day. I blame myself for the argument. The last thing I would have wanted was for Michael to die thinking I never loved him or wanted him. My only wish was that we could get back to the way we were before Daniel was born – have random days in bed, long walks on the moors, those times when he used to bring me flowers and I would cuddle up to him on the sofa, forcing him to watch all the soaps. He hated it but watched them for my sake. Memories that remind me that all we needed was to make more time for each other. I’m partly to blame too. I shouldn’t have put pressure on him to cover the mortgage while I dropped to part-time hours.

  I glance at the clock on the bedside cabinet to see it is fast approaching seven in the morning. The only sleep I have had all evening was a couple of hours after I called my mother again and put Daniel to bed. Already I am thinking about Daniel’s breakfast which reminds me that Michael only prepared this for us the other day – the last ever meal he made for his son. I have to accept that everywhere I look and turn there will be constant reminders of his presence, triggering memories of the moments we shared together in this house.

  My mobile phone rings. My heart flutters and my stomach sinks. I shake at every noise as I battle with my nerves. I huff at the thought of having to speak to someone, but I don’t recogni
se the number. If it’s anyone important, then it will ring again. Having ignored the first attempt, I bolt up out of bed and answer the phone immediately when it rings again.

  ‘Hello,’ I mutter, tired and quiet. ‘Jenny, speaking.’

  ‘Jenny, it’s Sharon, your FLO,’ Sharon replies. ‘Sorry if I’ve woken you, I’m literally about to pass by your house on my way into the station. I’ve got some important news. There’s been some developments and I wanted to call you as early as possible but I’d like to see you face to face. I was just checking that you’re in, love.’

  I remain speechless for a few seconds before I reply.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. Well I’ve not planned anything,’ I reply, wondering if she could tell me immediately. ‘Is this nothing you can share with me now by phone?’

  ‘No, love,’ Sharon replies. ‘Get a brew on and we’ll have a chat. See you soon.’

  What possible news could she have to share?

  Instantly I am flustered because Sharon is on her way with very short notice. I’ve not cleaned the house, Daniel is still in bed and I’ve left the wine bottles all over the kitchen. I don’t know why she’s doing this. I’m sure she could have told me on the phone. She must be checking up on me and probably wondering how I am coping alone with a child. I can cope. I know I can cope.

  In the time it takes me to splash some water on my face and wrap a dressing gown around myself, Sharon has parked the police car on the kerb outside. She is all dressed in uniform, attracting, and has the attention of the neighbours no doubt.

  ‘Come inside,’ I say, letting Sharon through the door. ‘Good timing, The kettle’s just popped. Tea, coffee?’

  Sharon glances around. I have left Daniel in his room. I am a good mother. I hope she can see that.

  ‘Tea. White, no sugar, love,’ Sharon replies while following me to the kitchen. ‘How are you feeling? Stupid question I know but it’s always good to ask?’