by Karen Clarke
Tears had blurred my vision. I ran back to my room, threw myself on my bed and pulled the pillow over my head, trying to block out what I’d seen, praying it was a nightmare I’d wake up from any second. Finally, I heard sirens, urgent rapping at the front door, voices filling the hallway and the sound of Mum sobbing. When I ran down, he was already in the back of the ambulance on a stretcher and I knew he’d gone. Was dead before they arrived.
I couldn’t look at Mum when I went back inside. She was sitting, head bowed, at the kitchen table, a tissue pressed to her nose while our elderly neighbour boiled the kettle and uttered condolences, offering to make my dinner. I never talked to her afterwards about what I’d seen; hadn’t told anyone. There was nobody I could unpick my feelings with during the following days and weeks, when I’d tried to convince myself I’d imagined it all, grief mingling with a terrible feeling that at last, a thorn had been removed from my heart and I could breathe properly.
In front of me, Mum spun on the spot a couple of times, raking her fingers through her short layers, looking anywhere but at me. Finally, with nowhere else to settle, her gaze fell on mine. ‘I did it for you, don’t you see?’
‘What?’
She came forward and grasped my shoulders, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘Do you think you would ever have left or had the life you have if he was still alive?’ Her voice was low, steadier than I’d expected.
‘Mum, I …’ I shook my head, trying to break away, but her grip strengthened. ‘You would have stayed to protect me, like you always tried to do. That wasn’t the life I wanted for you, Grace. His heart attack was a blessing.’ Her words, though softly spoken, were pitiless. ‘Of course, I didn’t plan it, but—’
‘You saw an opportunity.’ Finally, I twisted away, feeling cold where she’d touched me, wanting her hands back there, pinning me to the moment. ‘Why didn’t you divorce him?’
She became still, her expression clouding as if she was back there. For a second, I hated that I was doing this, forcing her to relive that day, but I needed to understand. ‘He wouldn’t have let me go, Grace.’ Her words were as clear as the chime of a bell. ‘He said if I tried to leave him, he would kill me. I believed him.’
‘Oh, Mum.’ I pressed a hand to my mouth. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’ She stepped forward, pulling me to her with strong arms. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you went through that, Grace, that you saw what happened. I had no idea. Why on earth didn’t you talk to me about it?’
I thought back to how conflicted I’d felt, scared at seeing a side of my mother I hadn’t known existed. How, when she sold the house and bought the sanctuary, blossoming into the person she was meant to be, it was as if the mother I’d known had died too. As difficult as I’d known her life was with Dad, I’d got used to it, my mother and I accomplices in some ways. The new mother, the one who urged me to leave, to not turn out like her, a woman capable of so much more than I’d thought … ‘I was scared.’ I folded my arms around her, childish tears falling. ‘Everything changed and I was frightened. I had to get away.’
‘Oh, Grace, my love. I’m so, so sorry.’ She pulled back, swiping tears from my cheeks with her thumbs, her forehead resting on mine. ‘I never wanted to hurt you, my darling girl. That was the very last thing on my mind. All this time, I thought … I thought you’d taken me literally, that you’d flown away to live your own life. You were happy, I could hear it in your voice when we spoke and I was happy for you. So happy. I told myself it didn’t matter if you didn’t come back, because you’d made a life for yourself that was different from mine. That’s all I wanted, but I missed you so much.’ Her hands slipped down to mine and held them tightly. ‘I wish you hadn’t been there that day. You were fifteen, a child.’ Her face contorted, as if the reality had finally hit her. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. It was a shock when your dad … when he collapsed like that, after all the shouting. The silence …’ She swallowed. ‘I knew you were upstairs. I didn’t even think to call you down. I hated that you felt you had to hide from him when he was being … to hide from us.’ Her face seemed to collapse. ‘If I could turn back the clock—’
‘Would you have called for help sooner?’
She closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know, Grace.’ Her lashes were sparser than I remembered, or maybe it was the lack of mascara. ‘I just wish you hadn’t seen him – us – like that.’ Her eyes slid up to mine, tears spilling over. ‘It never occurred to me you’d heard anything, that you’d come to see what was happening.’ Understanding flooded her face. ‘No wonder you couldn’t wait to get away.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘You must have hated me.’
‘I didn’t hate you, Mum.’ I took a step back, wrapping my arms around myself. ‘It was … difficult. I didn’t know how I felt.’ I heard Lily’s hunger cry from inside the house, as familiar as my heartbeat. ‘He never got to be a grandad.’ Tears blurred my vision. ‘He was still my dad.’
‘I know.’ Mum wiped her cheeks with her fingertips. ‘But you deserved better; we both did.’
‘That doesn’t mean he deserved to die.’
‘No, you’re right, but he wasn’t a good person, Grace, you know he wasn’t.’
He’s not a good person. That was how I’d described Patrick to Morag and Declan. I’d deprived Lily of a father because I believed he wasn’t a good man; the same reason Mum had deprived me of mine. ‘He wasn’t all bad.’
‘No one is all bad,’ she said sadly. ‘I loved him once.’
I nodded, unable to speak.
‘He might have died anyway.’ She raised her chin. ‘I asked the doctor afterwards whether, if he’d got help sooner, it would have made a difference …’ Her words trailed off. The truth was, we’d never know for sure. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I really am, Grace.’
Was letting someone die the same as killing them? I still didn’t know the answer.
After passing the cuff of her sweatshirt over her eyes, Mum added, ‘If you decide you don’t want me in Lily’s life, I completely understand.’ Her voice held a tremor. My revelation had shocked her, probably even more than she was letting on.
‘I’m not here to punish you, Mum.’ The years I’d stayed away had done that already. ‘I just … I had to say something.’
‘It’s more than I deserve. You being here.’ Her chin trembled. ‘Knowing that you … that you …’ Her voice broke. She dipped her head, bringing her hands to her mouth. ‘I wish I’d known.’
Closing the gap between us, I put my arms around her, felt her body tremble. I thought about why I’d come back, of what I’d left behind, and something released inside me, relaxing its grip. ‘It’s OK, Mum.’ As she pressed her head on my shoulder it struck me. If I hadn’t gone to New York in the first place – if it hadn’t been for my mother’s actions that day – I wouldn’t be here now, a mother myself, my baby inside the house. ‘Mum, I mean it.’ Shifting, I grasped her fingers, thinking of all the times they’d held mine and how hard it must have been to let me go. ‘We’re going to be fine,’ I said. ‘It’s all in the past.’
*
He sliced through the phone wire again and put his knife back in his belt. It would be too late by the time she realised, by the time she wanted to call for help. He had expected her to be a lot more careful, to not be so trusting. The key was gone now so he couldn’t let himself in through the door but it didn’t matter. The window in the bathroom was big enough to squeeze through.
They’d left early, wouldn’t be back for hours. He’d overheard the conversation. He resented her having a day out. What right did she have to happiness after what she’d done? He fingered the little envelope in his pocket, containing the rest of the baby hair, dark and silken. He wondered what she’d thought when she saw it. What he had to do to really scare her.
The attack hadn’t worked, or the note he’d left. It was as if she hadn’t even seen it. He could have done worse, had been tempted that night outside the c
ottage, his hand feeling for his knife. But he wouldn’t risk capture. The dog had been easy to pacify with the bones of the rabbit he’d eaten, but it was touch and go for a moment, the animal’s teeth bared as if ready to pounce. Good job he could run fast, though he doubted he’d have been able to outrun the animal.
He’d watched the policeman come out and those idiot officers, knew they wouldn’t find anything. Those idiot thugs who’d driven out and cased the cottage while it was empty had done him a favour. Now there was someone else in the frame, he could get away with more.
But he was tiring of the game now. The rain was hard to bear when it was so frequent. He had to be careful when lighting a fire that the smoke couldn’t be seen, stamping it out quickly once he’d cooked. He daren’t keep it going all night.
It was raining again now, but he would be nice and dry inside. He would have a look around while he was waiting for her to return. He didn’t smell good and wasn’t sleeping well. Maybe he would have a shower, a sleep. The old man had been over and taken the dog away in his truck. It was now or never.
He kicked leaves over the ashes of the fire, stuffed his rucksack where it wouldn’t be found, and made his way stealthily through the trees.
Chapter 32
‘That went better than I thought it would,’ Morag said.
‘Much better.’ A freeing sense of relief brightened my voice. I’d confronted my mother and the sky hadn’t fallen in. If only I’d done it sooner. Instead, I’d held on to a feeling of guilt, disguised as resentment. Guilty for feeling relief at my father’s death. I’d missed him, but at the same time part of me had been glad he was gone. Guilty for not telling a soul what I’d seen that day. By staying silent, I’d been complicit. You were only fifteen. Did that excuse me?
‘I thought she seemed well.’ Morag’s tone broke in, matching mine.
‘I really think she is.’
We were back on the road, darkness falling, Lily asleep between us once more in the van. Mum had asked us to stay overnight, wanted me to stay longer. ‘I’ve got a spare room and don’t mind sleeping on the sofa.’
I was relieved when Morag insisted we leave, saying she had commitments and needed my help. Mum accepted it meekly, perhaps mindful of not disrupting the new bonds being forged. Back inside, with red-rimmed eyes and a new understanding between us, she and Morag had chatted about their jobs while I made a late lunch of ham and freshly laid eggs, the dog tracking my hands as I worked. They’d been surprised by how alike their lifestyles were. Morag asked about the chickens. ‘I’m thinking of getting some, adding eggs to my delivery list.’
Mum wanted to know about her day-to-day life. She didn’t mention Morag’s old career, but exclaimed how their dad would have been impressed by her sister’s allotment. ‘Remember those roses he grew that he named after us?’
My aunt didn’t talk about their parents, beyond admiring a cushion cover my grandmother had embroidered. I had the impression they were deliberately staying away from anything controversial but that other, more difficult, conversations would be had another time. Mum had said hesitantly, looking at me for permission, that she’d love to visit the cottage – she hadn’t been to Wales for years – and Morag promised to stay in touch.
‘What did you two talk about outside?’ Morag said now. ‘You were gone for ages.’
With a stab of regret, I said, ‘We had a lot to catch up on.’ I would never tell Morag about the part Mum played in my father’s death, even though I had a feeling she would understand. It was Mum’s secret to tell, not mine. I had enough of my own. Elise. The name was like a scratch in my brain. If she hadn’t married Patrick, she’d still be alive.
‘You both looked like you’d been crying.’
‘We were,’ I admitted. ‘It was emotional.’
‘Maybe it’s true that time’s the healer.’ She sounded as if she was talking to herself. ‘You have to be really dedicated to stay angry. Such a waste of energy.’
‘You sounded angry when I asked about your job the other day.’ I felt emboldened by her good humour and the success of our visit. ‘Being a photographer, I mean.’
She changed gears as we approached a junction. I discreetly glanced behind for umpteenth time. No silver 4x4. The reality of what I was going back to felt like a surreal bad dream and, for a moment, I wished I’d taken Mum up on her offer to stay.
‘It wasn’t just the job, not really,’ Morag said. ‘There was other stuff going on. I thought work would be an escape but it just seemed pointless in the end.’
‘I suppose my job’s pretty pointless.’
‘Cooking for people is a nice thing to do; it gives pleasure.’
‘It won’t change the world.’
‘Do you want to?’
I glanced at Lily, washed by passing headlights. Her eyes blinked open and closed again. ‘Maybe this one will.’
When Morag didn’t speak, I looked over and was shocked to see a glimmer of tears in her eyes. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, brushing a finger across her lashes. ‘I’m getting soppy in my old age.’
‘Today’s been emotional for us both.’
We were silent for a moment. It was raining again and the windscreen wipers moved with a hypnotic rhythm. With every mile, I felt closer to being home, despite not knowing what lay ahead.
‘Do you want me to take over driving for a while?’
‘No offence, but no thanks.’ Morag flashed a smile. ‘You haven’t driven for years.’
‘Thanks for the reminder.’ I smiled back, but it was an effort. ‘I’d probably end up on the wrong side of the road.’
‘Talking of driving, we’re getting low on petrol.’
Morag pulled in at the next service station. ‘Want anything from the shop?’ She got out, jacket flapping in the wind.
‘Maybe some orange juice. I can’t face any more coffee.’
As she fiddled with the petrol pump and unfastened the cap, Lily made a cat-like sound and stretched before sinking back into sleep. ‘Did you enjoy meeting your grandma?’ I whispered, stroking the crown of her hair, which rose with static. ‘Someone else to love you nearly as much as I do.’ Mum had been moved that I’d called Lily after her mother.
Your gran would have liked that.
I’m sorry I didn’t use your surname. She’s Lily Evans.
Mum hadn’t blanched at the sound of her married name. It suits her.
The service station was brightly lit. I took out my phone, remembering I’d promised Declan I would call him. Had he been thinking about me? I tried to picture him going about his day and brought up the outdoor activity centre he’d mentioned on Google. There was a picture on the website of a man I assumed was the owner, his friend Hugh, kneeling on a paddle board on a lake, and another of a group of young people windsurfing. Hugh looked friendly and rugged, his weathered face creased with laughter lines. I wondered whether Declan would accept the job offer and found myself hoping he would.
I switched back to the search engine, my fingers moving across the keypad almost of their own volition, typing in Elise Holden, memorial service, New York. There was Patrick in a decent shot for the New York Times again – had he set it up? – standing with his head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. He was wearing a long dark coat, and a lock of hair fell over his forehead adding a sense of poignancy. Various people were gathered around; an older couple I knew from a previous search were Elise’s parents, Clarence and Vanessa Boyd, and a straight-backed woman I guessed was Elise’s sister, cradling a baby draped in a shawl. The image blurred in a haze of tears. Elise would never raise a child.
I shuddered, recalling the feel of Patrick’s hands on my pregnant belly. Breathing deeply, I clicked off the website before I was drawn to look at anything else.
Morag was in the station shop, queuing to pay. I found a tissue and blew my nose. About to put my phone away, I felt the vibration of a text. Ana. My stomach plunged when I read her message. Saw Uncle earlier and showed him the photo you
sent to double check. He says he thinks it’s the man he spoke to but with a beard. I’m worried Grace. X
Outside, thunder cracked. Lily startled, her eyes flying open.
‘It’s OK, baby.’ Light-headed, I found Declan’s Facebook profile and took a screenshot. I enlarged it and sent it to Ana, my fingers fizzing with nerves. This look familiar? When it had sent, I looked through the rain-spattered windscreen. Morag was still queuing, probably swearing under her breath. It was mid-afternoon in New York. I knew Ana would send the image to her uncle right away. Please, hurry, I thought and: Please, please don’t let it be Declan.
Morag was at the till when a message pinged back.
Julio says that’s him. Who is he?
Saliva rushed to my mouth. No, no, no. If it was true, it meant Declan knew Patrick – but how? Hands shaking, I switched back to Google and typed in Declan Walsh New York. Maybe I’d missed something when I looked before. There was his Facebook link, but nothing else. I scrolled up and down a few times then typed Declan Walsh, Patrick Holden, Manhattan, New York and clicked on images. There weren’t many. Until he started running for the DA’s job, Patrick wasn’t particularly newsworthy, but one picture stood out. Taken last year, he’d been attending a charity fundraiser. He was climbing out of his sleek back car outside the Waldorf Astoria, tugging down his tuxedo. His head was turned to the camera, a half-smile on his face, but it was the man holding the car door open that made me cry out. I pinched the screen to zoom in on his face. Declan. His hair was shorter, his expression unsmiling, but it was unmistakably him. Declan had been Patrick’s driver.
