by C. L. Taylor
‘Oh, dear. I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘I don’t know how much of that is down to her mental health issues and how much is down to …’ He shrugs. ‘We … we haven’t had the easiest of times recently but I thought we’d get through it …’ He tails off again, suddenly uncomfortable with how much he’s sharing with Fiona. It feels good to get all this off his chest, but she’s still his boss. She may be sympathetic on the surface but, beneath the understanding veneer, he knows she’s weighing up how competent he is to continue doing his job.
‘What did the social worker say?’
‘She’d gone by the time I arrived at the house. So had Jo and Elise. But I spoke to her on the phone.’
God knows what the social worker had made of the whole situation. He’d asked Jo to give her the phone and then he’d gently explained that his wife had been suffering from terrible anxiety recently and that Lorraine should be aware that there was a possibility that his wife had concocted the story about someone ransacking the house because she was ashamed at how messy she’d left it. He’d certainly noticed how untidy it was when he’d driven Jo back from the police station. Lorraine had listened silently while he explained how worried he was about Jo and her ability to look after Elise. A concern that was shared by at least one member of staff at his daughter’s nursery.
‘I let myself into the house,’ he adds. ‘It was an absolute shithole. I get why Jo didn’t want to let the social worker in, but nothing had been taken. It certainly wasn’t a burglary. Jo’s convinced that this Paula woman got in and wrecked the place, but there was no sign of forced entry. All the doors and windows were intact. The only way she could have got in was if she’d walked through a wall.’
‘Jesus Christ, Max.’ Fiona pushes her hair back from her face. ‘I had no idea you were going through all this. Bloody hell. I’d noticed that you were looking a bit more knackered than normal but I’d put that down to a few celebratory nights out.’
He snorts through his nose derisively. ‘I wish.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Max doesn’t answer immediately. He lets his gaze wander to the corner of Fiona’s office where an enormous yucca plant stands like a sentry, then he rubs his hands over his face, sighs and lets his hands collapse into his lap.
‘What can I do?’ he says softly. ‘I’ve tried to support her. I’ve been there for her when she’s needed me to be there. I’ve given her space when she’s asked for it. But she’s getting worse, not better. And now I’m really worried about Elise.’
‘Of course you are,’ Fiona breathes and Max can hear the concern in her voice. Fiona’s got children too; one’s at university and the other is about to do his A-Levels. She’s unashamedly non-maternal but she cooed over Elise’s baby photos when he showed them round the office, just like all the other parents. ‘Listen, Max, I don’t imagine there’s anything I can do but, you know, if you need a bit of time off to sort things out then just tell me. And if you’re struggling with your workload I can take a look at that too.’
‘Thank you.’ Normally Max would rather die than be this vulnerable in front of Fiona, but he needs her on side and if that means swallowing his pride then so be it. ‘I really appreciate—’
He’s interrupted by the shrill ring of his mobile. He fishes it out of the inside pocket, glances at the screen and then looks at Fiona.
‘It’s Jo,’ he mouths. There’s no need for him to whisper – he hasn’t accepted the call yet – but it feels right. It suits the vulnerable side he’s just shown his boss.
‘Take it,’ Fiona mouths back and Max nods.
‘Max!’ Jo’s voice is loud, so animated that they can both hear it, despite the speakerphone not being on. ‘Have you been home yet?’
‘I have, yes. Where are you?’
‘I’m at Helen’s. In Cardiff. I’m staying here tonight with Elise. Did you see the state the house was in?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Have you rung the police?’
‘I thought you were going to.’
‘I’d like you to do it, please, Max.’
‘But—’
‘I can’t ring them. I was arrested for possession of drugs! Please Max, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take …’
As Jo continues to rant and rail, Max presses the phone into his chest, muffling the receiver. ‘Mind if I take this outside?’ he whispers to Fiona.
‘Of course,’ she says and gives him a look of sympathy and bewilderment. ‘Absolutely.’
Chapter 20
I’ve been into the house twice now. The second time was vile; ferreting around in crap so I could smear it all over the place. But the first time, I was in and out like a flash. Hiding the drugs in the toilet cistern felt like a cheap trick – a cliché – a scene from a million crime shows – but I had to make it easy for the police to do their job.
Getting hold of the drugs was a piece of piss; convincing someone else to report them was more difficult. The police won’t take one phone call seriously. They’d be raiding houses all the time if everyone with a grudge rang them up and made an allegation. But I know how to turn people round to my way of thinking, to make them feel sorry for me, to convince them they’re putting right a wrong.
Idiots.
People are idiots. They hear and they see what they want to see. If I tell them I’m a victim they see me as a victim. They pity me. They want to help. Helping relieves the awkwardness they feel, those uncomfortable feelings of ‘shit, I’m glad that’s not me’. Well, let them enjoy that brief moment of superiority, because it’s all an illusion. They’re the ones who lied to the police. Oh dear. Oh dear. Who’s the victim now?
Chapter 21
‘Well?’ Helen says as I hang up the phone. ‘What did Max say?’
‘The police haven’t been in touch since he rang them yesterday which means we still don’t know when someone’s going to come round to test for fingerprints. But they’re treating it as a burglary, regardless of whether anything was taken.’
‘Well, that’s good news.’ Her anxious expression softens into a smile and she reaches across the kitchen table to tap my hand. ‘I told you they’d take it seriously, didn’t I?’
I was a silent, shaking wreck when I turned up at her house yesterday evening. For Elise’s sake I held myself together all the way from Bristol to Cardiff, but as soon as she and Ben were tucked up in bed I burst into tears. Helen put one hand on my shoulder and guided me towards the kitchen. She sat quietly beside me as I sobbed, then, when I finally quietened, she pushed a glass of red wine towards me and said, ‘Talk when you’re ready.’
She listened as everything tumbled out, in one big, hopeless, confused mess, then she stood up, walked over and wrapped her arms around me.
‘It’s going to be OK, Jo,’ she said softly. ‘You’re safe. Nothing bad can happen here.’
That made me start crying again. The relief I felt at being able to talk to someone who wasn’t going to criticise me, arrest me or take my child away was overwhelming. I didn’t have to be strong, combative or evasive any more. I didn’t have to protect Helen from what had happened. I didn’t have to worry about hurting her feelings or not adding to her stress. She wanted to help me. And, equally importantly, she believed every word I’d just told her.
‘So what happens next?’ Helen asks now.
‘I don’t know. Yesterday the police told Max they’d make enquiries, whatever that means.’
I glance at my mobile, to check I ended the call to my husband before I say any more. He texted me three times after I slammed the phone down on him yesterday. The first one was angry, telling me that he had been in a really important meeting with Fiona when I’d rung up to scream at him. Then, several hours later, a single line – When are you coming back? I didn’t reply. When I reached for my phone this morning there was another text waiting. Can you ring me please? I need to know that you and Elise are OK.
‘I don’t think he believes me, Helen
, about any of the stuff that’s happened. He saw the state of the house and he still called me hysterical on the phone. When I finally convinced him to ring the police he asked if I should go back to my GP to get my meds increased.’
She sighs. ‘So you’re serious, then, about divorcing him?’
‘Yes. Our marriage is over. There’s nothing left worth saving.’ I stand up and peer round the kitchen door and across the hallway into the living room. Elise is sitting on the sofa, one of Effie’s ears in her mouth, staring, transfixed, at the television. ‘I should take her out. To the park or something.’
There’s a small gasp behind me.
‘What?’ I turn to look at Helen.
‘Seriously?’
I stare at her, stumped, and then I understand. She’s not the only one who can’t remember the last time I suggested taking Elise to the park.
‘If you’re up to it there’s a lovely park five minutes’ walk away. I often take Ben there after school.’
I try to imagine walking out of Helen’s front door and strolling hand in hand down the street to a park I’ve never visited before. I picture Elise laughing and squealing as I push her higher and higher on the swings but I’m distracted by my thudding heart and the line of sweat that trickles down my temple. I don’t think I can do this.
‘Jo.’ Helen touches my forearm. ‘It’s OK. You don’t need to. We could bundle Elise up and take her out into the garden. We’ve still got Ben’s old slide and plastic playhouse in the shed. She’ll still have a lovely time.’
‘But I want her to have a normal life, Helen. I want her to be able to play outside with other children.’
‘She does that at nursery.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do. Of course I do. And suggesting a trip to the park is a good start. One step at a time. OK?’
We have a lovely time playing chase, slides and houses in Helen’s back garden, despite the frosty February air. When we finally return to the kitchen our noses and cheeks are pink. We eat lunch, all three of us around the small kitchen table, and Helen and I both laugh at Elise’s horrified reaction when Helen dares to put a tomato on her plate. Afterwards I wash up while my best friend produces the remains of a packet of flour, some salt and a jug of water and helps my daughter make play dough. The afternoon passes in a blur of painting, playing and cups of tea. I try my best not to dwell on what’s happened, or to worry about what could happen, but I can’t ignore the feeling of dread sitting low in my chest. Each time I fall silent Helen notices and cracks a joke or makes a comment, drawing my attention back to her and Elise. I don’t know what I did to deserve such an amazing friend, but the gratitude I feel is overwhelming.
‘I’ll only be gone for twenty minutes tops,’ she says now, pulling on her coat. ‘You sure you’ll be OK?’
‘Of course.’ I slot another Duplo block into the castle I’m building with Elise on the living-room carpet. ‘We’ll be fine.’
Helen does up her zip. ‘Help yourself to tea or squash or whatever you need.’
‘We’ll be fine, honestly. Go and get Ben.’
‘OK. Well, I’ve got my phone.’ She taps the pocket of her coat. ‘Ring me if …’ She shakes her head and laughs. ‘You’re not going to need to ring me! Have a cup of tea. Chill. I’ll see you in a bit.’
I hear the sound of her footsteps in the hallway and the click of the front door as she pulls it shut behind her, then there is silence, save Elise’s snuffling beside me. Her nose has been running since lunch but I’m not overly concerned. When I first took her to nursery I couldn’t believe how many coughs and colds she came home with, but I’m used to the odd sniffle now. Cuddles, Calpol and plenty of sleep, that’s normally enough.
‘Here.’ I pull a tissue out of my pocket and hold it to my daughter’s drippy nose. ‘Blow.’
Elise presses her face into the tissue and moves her head from side to side, smearing snot over both cheeks.
‘Eww!’ I dab it away. ‘Snot bags!’
My daughter giggles and reaches for the dirty tissue. I hold it above my head and laugh. ‘No! It’s dirty!’
She stands up and launches herself at me, one hand on my shoulder, the other reaching for the Kleenex.
‘Mine! Mine!’
I dig around in the pocket of my jeans for a clean tissue that I can substitute for the dirty one but, as my fingers close over the cellophane packet, my phone rings. Elise wails in protest as I scramble to my feet and cross the hallway into the kitchen where my phone is vibrating on the table.
‘Mine!’ she shouts, clutching my leg as I press my mobile to my ear.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Jo,’ says a voice I recognise. ‘It’s Lorraine Hooper. Are you free to have a quick word?’
My stomach lurches. ‘What about?’
‘I’d rather talk to you about it in person if that’s possible.’
‘I’m in Cardiff,’ I say. ‘I’m seeing a friend.’
‘Right, right.’ I can almost imagine her nodding her head. ‘Well, it is very important. Were you planning on coming back to Bristol today at all?’
‘Not really, no. The last couple of weeks have been really disruptive for me and my daughter and we could do with a couple of days away to relax and—’
‘It’s your husband,’ Lorraine says. ‘He’s applied to the court for a child arrangement order for Elise.’
‘A what?’
‘A residence order. Max wants Elise to live with him.’
Chapter 22
‘Are you OK, Jo?’ Helen whispers as Mr Harrison flicks through paperwork.
I nod mutely but I keep my gaze trained on the closed office door. To get back onto the street I need to turn right, walk down the corridor, take a left, get into the lift, press ‘G’ and then I’d be out of the glass front doors of Harrison & Partners, family law solicitors. The car is in the NCP car park on Prince Street, floor 3, parked in the corner next to a red Golf GTI. But what if there’s a fire? Mr Harrison didn’t tell us how to get out safely and I didn’t see any stairs when we got out of the lift. I saw some when we came in. They were on the right of the reception desk. The lifts were on the left. So that means if I turn left out of the door and carry on down the corridor and take a—
‘Jo.’ Helen places her hand over mine and squeezes it. ‘He’s going to help you. Try not to worry.’
I nod again and focus my attention on the framed certificate on Richard Harrison’s wall, on the gold band on the third finger of his left hand, on his receding hairline, on the dark hairs that protrude from each nostril, on the studious look in his eyes behind his wire-framed glasses. He was almost blasé when I spoke to him on Tuesday afternoon. ‘Of course I can help you, Mrs Blackmore. It’s natural to panic in a situation like this but you’ve come to the right place.’ Helen was amazing when I told her about the phone call I received from Lorraine Hooper. She got straight onto her laptop and started Googling. Then she got out her phone, rang a number and handed it over to me. The earliest he could see me was today, Thursday. I spent most of Wednesday Googling for information on residency orders and UK family law.
This morning she arranged for Ben’s dad to take him to school and pick him up afterwards. We set off for Bristol at quarter past seven, with Helen in her car leading the way and me behind, with Elise strapped in her car seat in the back. We’d considered just taking one car but Helen’s got an early meeting tomorrow and she didn’t want to end up stranded if she needs to stay with me in Bristol overnight. I didn’t want to leave Elise at nursery, not when I’d kept her away for three days in a row, but Helen convinced me it was the right thing to do. Elise would be fine, she said. She’ll be surrounded by familiar faces while we talk to Mr Harrison. When we pulled up outside the nursery and I saw my daughter’s excited face, any doubts I might have had about dropping her off swiftly disappeared.
‘Right.’ Mr Harrison looks up from his pile of papers. ‘So, as I explained to you on the phone the o
ther day, your husband has applied to the courts for a residence order for Elise, that is to say that he wants the child to reside with him. He has also applied for an interim residence order. This means that the court will decide who Elise will live with while they make their final decision.’
He pauses. ‘Do you understand so far?’
I grip the arms of the chair.
‘Yes,’ I breathe. ‘I understand.’
Helen reaches across the gap between our two chairs and touches my hand.
Mr Harrison glances back down at the papers on his desk. He seemed so confident when I walked into his office. He shook my hand firmly, offered us a seat and a coffee, barely reacted when we both said no and then strode back to his seat. But the atmosphere in the room has changed since he’s looked through his file. I don’t know if it’s my trepidation I can sense, or his.
‘OK.’ He sits back in his chair and runs his hands back and forth over the plastic arms. ‘The situation we have is this – your husband thinks that Elise would be safer in his care than yours and, in his court application form, he has listed areas of concern surrounding your mental health and your drug problem.’
‘I haven’t got one! They were planted.’
‘And we’ll work together to prove that. We will also have to prove that your mental health issues are being correctly and appropriately dealt with and that they in no way prevent you from being a good mother to your daughter. Your husband mentions your agoraphobia, your anxiety and your irrational behaviour with the nursery staff who care for your daughter. He suggests that you are not fully recovered from the postnatal depression you suffered after your daughter was born, or the second-trimester loss of your son Henry eighteen months earlier.’
I press my hands to my mouth but there’s no hiding my horrified gasp. Henry’s death was the worst thing to ever happen to either us. It broke us both. I felt as though someone had ripped out my heart. Max did too. I hated God for taking Henry away from us. I hated the world. Why me? Why us? Why Henry? Why punish us by taking our baby away from us before he even got chance to draw breath? The days after Henry’s death blurred together. I’d drink myself to sleep only to wake up and feel the pain afresh all over again. Some mornings I cried because opening my eyes meant I was still alive. The pain dragged on and on and on as, somehow, I lived through the most horrible, horrendous, agonising days of my life. I felt as though a hole had been ripped in my chest and it would never, ever close.
