Tom hugged me close.
‘Dad convinced her to stay, though. I remember Mum sobbing one night just before Christmas. She told me it was because she was so sorry, that she felt so guilty for wanting to move, she couldn’t stand it. She was all over the place. We all were.’
‘That’s not surprising,’ Tom said.
‘But if we had moved, I’d have gone to a different school, then perhaps I’d have fallen in with the wrong crowd, maybe not got my grades to get into this university. Then we’d have never met. My point proved.’
‘Ah, but you see,’ he replied, pulling me even closer. ‘What if you’d fallen out with your folks, moved away from them and taken a job here as a cleaner? You might have been cleaning my loo and I’d have walked in on you.’
‘I’d have hit you with my loo brush,’ I told him, poking him in the ribs. ‘But I like your version better. From now on, I’m going to believe that everything is written. Written in the stars.’
It was towards the end of November when I went to watch Tom’s rugby training session. He was one of their top players, with the next day’s game being a big one in the calendar. I wasn’t a fan of the game, but he was so revved up about winning, so proud of how far the team had come, that I couldn’t refuse the invitation.
‘You owe me for this,’ I said, stamping my feet and wrapping my arms around my body. It was freezing and a penetrating drizzle cut through the air, soaking through my coat. The bleachers had no cover, and I was cold and uncomfortable. The clubhouse was on the other pitch, which was being saved for the next day’s game, and there was no shelter anywhere at the training site.
Tom ran up to me in his navy-and-red strip. ‘Someone had a spare,’ he said, holding out a small umbrella. It was better than nothing, so I huddled beneath it, accepting the lingering kiss from him before he ran off to warm up. He gave me a salute from halfway around the track. I saw the flash of his smile through the rain.
It must be love, I WhatsApped to Karen. I’m watching him train in the rain . . .
Our exchange kept me occupied until the coach had the players working on their scrum tactics, as well as some other stuff I didn’t understand. After forty-five minutes they were all plastered in thick black mud with their hair stuck flat to their foreheads.
Tom came jogging up to me. His breath was visible in white bursts. I imagined each one changing into a heart shape.
‘We’re on form,’ he panted. ‘Got a good chance tomorrow.’ He was grinning and breathless.
‘Don’t come near me,’ I laughed, backing away. The rain had let up a little and I’d been walking up and down the pitch perimeter to keep warm.
‘Not long now, and then we’ll go back to halls and . . .’ Tom looked me up and down. ‘And get warm,’ he said with a wink.
‘But you’re filthy!’
‘Exactly,’ he called back over his shoulder as he jogged away.
An hour later and I was lying on Tom’s bed. He’d made me a cup of tea before he went to shower. A heap of wet muddy sports kit lay on the floor outside the bathroom.
Tom always kept his room nice, which I liked. I couldn’t help but think about future-husband material, even though we were miles off anything like that yet. Mum had once said that you can judge a man by his sock drawer. She’d been kidding, of course, but I couldn’t help a peek into Tom’s. His underpants were to one side, not folded, but his socks were all balled up and paired off but for a couple of odd ones.
I smiled and closed the drawer, listening to Tom as he sang in the shower. He was happy. His teammates were in good spirits too, feeling they had a good chance of winning the next day. I was going to go along and watch, of course, having checked the weather was set to be fine. I’d asked Karen to come, and she’d accepted, saying we could take a picnic. I wasn’t sure it was really that kind of event, and I imagined Karen arranging cupcakes and vintage china on a patchwork cloth, but I’d agreed to her idea, not wanting to alienate her any more than I already had.
Life felt good as I rolled over on the lumpy bed, breathing in the scent of Tom’s sheets. It was as I reached for my tea that I saw it lying next to his lamp. The letter was half out of its envelope, and most of the florid handwriting was hidden. I couldn’t see a return address on the letter itself, but I spotted the words Love from Mum at the bottom.
I felt a pang of affection, but it was closely followed by a pang of exclusion. I desperately wanted to meet his family, even offering to take him back to my house for a weekend in the hope he would reciprocate, but he’d never seemed particularly keen.
‘I want you all to myself,’ he’d once told me, followed by an explanation of how busy he was with essays. If I was honest, it was the same for me too, it was just that I was less patient than Tom, wanting to make our relationship real to those outside of university. So far we’d only known and loved each other inside the protective bubble of the campus, where we’d not been judged or talked about by anyone who wasn’t doing the same as us. The first few weeks of term were a merry-go-round of partner-testing and swapping, tears and heartbreak, while some refused to even get caught up in relationships at all.
Tom and I had had many conversations about how lucky we felt at having met each other.
There was no drama. No upset.
Simply love and respect.
‘We were meant to be,’ Tom had said. I’d thought the same.
Though one night I had lain awake worrying that he was a kind of Jacob replacement for me. It felt as though we’d known each other our whole lives after all, and we were as comfortable together as brother and sister. However, I’d quickly dismissed that as self-sabotage. Tom was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I was simply scared of being happy again.
I listened carefully.
The shower was still running. Tom was still singing.
A cheeky smile spread across my face. I knew he wouldn’t mind if I read the letter, though I’d never actually ask him. That would be too brazen. Too needy and intrusive.
But there was something about taking a little peek backstage into Tom’s life that was loving and intriguing all at the same time, as if I was peeling away those layers to an even deeper level. Even deeper than sex. We were ready for it, I felt sure, and if Tom did it to me, I’d be flattered. Disappointed if he didn’t.
The letter was written on good-quality paper – one of those old-fashioned pads my nan used after Christmas to thank us for the gifts we’d got her. It was thick and fibrous. The ink had bled.
The writing was large, the script knotting up each side of the paper.
Tom’s mother’s handwriting.
I smiled, sniffing it for traces of her perfume.
I read the first page. News and home; plans and changes.
I held the envelope, held the letter. A mother’s love for her son.
Something fell out from between the pages . . .
I picked it up and looked. I took it all in. I read the words again. And I looked some more, turning it over, reading the back.
My face crumpled.
My mouth went dry and I felt sick as I got up off the bed.
Tom’s muddy kit was cool and damp under my bare feet as I trampled over it, needing to get out.
And then I ran.
I threw up on the grass outside, and then I kept on running. I never went back.
But I never went forwards, either.
Hannah
A figure comes round the corner of the hotel – an elongated shadow. Forewarning me.
Though I don’t take heed.
I sit staring at the dusky sky, feeling nauseous, watching as the light fades around me. The shadow draws closer.
Man-shaped.
I turn away, not wanting to be disturbed.
I’m lost in my predicament – the need to go back in and join Mum for dinner, so I don’t let her down, yet I’m wrestling with the hands that have been round my throat for so long.
I can’t go on like this.
‘Hannah?’ The voice is loud. Accusing.
I slide off the stone wall. Whoever it is scared me. And he knows my name.
I turn slowly, staring at him. Knowing deep inside before my brain registers the truth.
He stares back.
The sick feeling consumes me. A snake crushing me. The trees behind him sway and bend, yet there is no wind. I sit down again.
‘Shit . . .’
The word is a bullet. Cutting through the twilight. Making it seem vile. Green. Poisoned.
I retch.
Even though my stomach muscles keep on cramping, I slowly look up, swiping my hair off my face. A strand draws between my lips, getting coated in foamy slime.
‘What are you doing here? What did you . . .’ I can barely speak, ‘do?’
Hannah . . .
I can’t hear him. I won’t hear him.
Hannah, you have to listen to me. I’d never hurt you. I don’t know what went wrong between us, but there’s no one else . . . you’re the only one for me . . . you know that . . .
Tom stands tall in front of me, his mouth moving, his arms gesturing, then he seems humble and small, sinking down to the grass with me. Both of us lost, both of us on our hands and knees. Searching for something.
I force myself upright. My ears thrum as if a bass drum is pounding inside my head. I back away from him.
Something warm and firm on my shoulders. His hands.
‘Look, Hannah. What’s going on? How are you? I’ve bloody missed you.’ Tom is shaking his head and it feels if we’re on stage – a pantomime with a baying audience. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ He’s almost laughing.
I feel the sick rising up again. I cup my hand over my mouth. He thinks I’ve come to get him back, to make things better.
‘Just stay away from me . . .’
He frowns and I feel a pang of guilt, but I only need to think back to what I saw, what we did. I fight it all down.
‘I’m guessing your mum’s called Gina,’ he says, as if nothing’s happened between us. ‘I’ve been sent to fetch you.’ He shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs the ground – a habit I used to think was cute once.
‘What?’ I say, confused. ‘You should bloody well know my mum’s name, if you’d ever listened to me.’
But he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know anything.
‘Hannah, I always listened to you. I loved . . . love you. And anyway, your mum’s not the only Gina in the world, you know.’
‘Oh, just shut up!’ I pace about. The sickness has been replaced by adrenalin. My breathing quickens until I feel faint. I sit down on the stone wall again. Tom sits beside me.
‘Why did you leave me, Hannah? I deserve an answer.’
‘I told you already,’ I say, turning away from him. I feel his hand pull on my arm. I shrug it off.
‘No, you sent me a text saying: “It’s over.” That’s not an answer. I texted you back and you never replied. I called you many times, and when I went round to your halls, Karen said you’d gone home.’
‘Work was getting too much. I was falling behind.’ My voice is unconvincing. ‘I had to go home to sort things out.’
‘Tell me, Hannah. Tell me what happened.’ In contrast, Tom sounds soft and coaxing. His hand is on my arm again, gently stroking me. I feel the tears welling up. ‘You know none of that’s true.’
He’s right. It’s a lie. It’s just I don’t know how to tell him the truth.
‘I still love you,’ he says.
‘You can’t,’ I say. ‘I don’t want you to. If you love me, it just makes this harder.’
‘Makes what harder?’
Gently, Tom twists me round to face him. I go with it, wanting nothing more than to have things back the way they were. His skin is clear yet his expression is overshadowed by a deep ache.
In an instant I see everything reflected in his dark eyes – jumbled up like washing in a machine, the colours blurred, the garments tangled. Nothing makes sense any more, yet somehow everything does. I don’t know how much longer I can go on.
I pull my feet up underneath me, clasping my hands in my lap, biting my lip until I taste blood.
Tom is watching, expectant.
Hesitantly, I bring my lips close to his ear to whisper, but I change my mind. I kiss him lightly on the cheek instead, immediately wishing I hadn’t. Tom’s eyes are bursting, though not as much as his heart.
‘Oh Hannah . . .’ His hands clasp around mine, balling them up. He squeezes hard, and we just look at each other for what seems like ages.
I curl up inside, desperately wanting to tell him everything, but knowing I can’t. I think back to James in the pub, how I stupidly gave him little pieces of my puzzle – though my tangled and drunken ramblings most likely meant nothing to him. I’d be risking everything if I didn’t keep quiet now.
Taking a breath, I stand up. I need to get back inside. It wouldn’t take much for someone to put two and two together. All things considered, it wouldn’t take much at all for someone to work out that it was me who killed my dad.
‘You found her,’ Mum says brightly.
I sit down, forcing my breathing to stay steady and my eyes not to turn to saucers.
‘Just in the nick of time,’ Tom says, managing to sound perfectly normal as he shuffles in his chair. Our starters are arriving. I stare at the plate of mushrooms before me. All that congealed cheese stuck on them. I swallow hard.
‘Sorry to have been so long,’ I say quietly. ‘I feel much better now, though. It’s a nice evening, but chilly. I think rain is forecast for tomorrow.’
Tom clatters his fork. He fumbles for it, but then it drops on to the floor. When he bends to retrieve it, his shoulder catches his plate, sending it chinking against his empty glass and knocking it over.
‘Sorry,’ he says, sitting up again. His face is red and he gives me a look. ‘Yes, I heard about the rain too.’
Mum and Susan watch us, then turn to each other, and I can’t help wondering what they’re thinking. In fact, that’s been my life since last autumn – second-guessing who knows what, if someone suspects. Wondering if I have murderer written in blood across my forehead.
Tom’s foot touches mine under the table. I don’t know if it’s an accident or not, but I retract quickly, tucking my feet under my chair. I can’t afford to give him any signals, or anything that will lead him back to me.
Sitting staring at my starter, prodding my mushrooms with my fork, I have never felt so trapped, so desperate.
‘Can you believe that Tom studies engineering at the same university as you?’ Mum says to me, leaning really close so that I smell garlic and wine on her breath. I glance at the bottle. ‘Would you like some?’
I nod. If I drink enough, everything might go away. It’s Mum’s philosophy after all.
‘Are you finding your degree interesting, Hannah?’ Susan asks, even though we talked about this the other night. Her eyes dart between me and Tom. Perhaps it’s paranoia, but I reckon they both know something’s up. The pair of them are acting as weird as Tom and me.
‘Yeah, I’m really happy with my subject,’ I say, trying to keep things light. ‘How are you finding yours, Tom? I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around campus.’ I clear my throat.
He laughs confidently, as if he’s never set eyes on me before. No wonder we both got parts in the play. Before we came back inside, we agreed to pretend we don’t know each other. I convinced him it’s simpler that way.
‘I’m enjoying it too,’ he says, leaning forward, resting his chin in his hand.
I chop up my starter because it’s better than having to spout more lies. I feel close to my lifetime’s quota already.
Thankfully, Mum and Susan take over the conversation, going on about job prospects for graduates, but then Susan has to go and ask Mum something about Dad’s job, comparing it to her husband’s.
‘Phil would hate being cooped up at home like that.’ She blushes for a moment, but se
ems unfazed. I remember the time Tom told me about his parents arguing over his dad’s job. It doesn’t make sense.
Mum is about to reply but goes to pour more wine instead. She finds the bottle empty so Susan waves her hand in the air. The waitress soon brings another one.
‘That was insensitive of me,’ Susan says. ‘I’m sorry.’
The pounding in my head ramps up, and it takes all my strength not to reach across the table and punch her.
‘Has something happened, then?’ Tom asks, sounding far too caring for someone who isn’t meant to know me.
‘It’s nothing,’ I tell him, willing him to shut up, but also willing him to grab my hand and take me away from it all.
Gina
Hannah glares at me, bleary-eyed. She’s determined. My heart sinks in a pitiful flurry of disappointment.
‘Why?’ I drop back down on the bed. I’d hoped to leave to meet Steph before she woke up, but by the looks of her she’s not even been to sleep. For the first time in ages, I slept soundly. ‘I thought you were having a nice time.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she says in a voice that tells me she’s serious. The little wobbles are there, hidden beneath the words that don’t make any sense. ‘I just really want to go home.’
‘But we have a couple more days left yet. It won’t take me long to take the keys to Steph. When I get back, I thought we could check out Snowshill Manor. It’s meant to be well worth a visit, and there are—’
‘I still don’t feel well,’ Hannah says. She sounds blank, as if there’s no good reason behind her decision.
I walk over to the window. The chess pieces sit untouched, most in their home spaces, some strewn by the side of the chequerboard. The sky is leaden, pressing down in a gunmetal layer, threatening rain.
If Rick were here, we’d be eating breakfast right now, planning a morning’s sightseeing followed by a light lunch. I can’t help the sob. And I can’t help whipping round to face my daughter. I take a big breath.
In Too Deep Page 20
