Suspicious Minds

by David Mark

  Bastard, she thinks.

  Says it aloud, in case it helps. ‘Bastard.’

  Her heart aches for Jude. In this moment, it aches far worse for Maeve.

  She spends the afternoon putting the books back, tidying away and generally making things nice. She feels guilty and sad. By the time Jude comes home she’s drunk the rest of the Stag’s Breath. She greets him with sloppy kisses, over-compensating: trying to make up for her disloyalty by being too much of what he likes.

  She feels so bad, she doesn’t even mention the missing buttons on his shirt front, nor the blood beneath his nails.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  In the third week of October, Jay turns up at Wolfcleugh.

  Betsy has barely used her mobile phone these past weeks, save for the occasional text to Carly telling her that things are going well, and enquiring whether she might have a moment to retrieve her meagre possessions from her old house. She hasn’t thought much about Jay. Her old life has begun to feel unreal. She feels as if that life happened to somebody else. Being Betsy is liberating, she has decided. All the bad stuff happened to Liz.

  She’s emerging from the cool of the dingle when she spots the car, moving up the track with such excruciating care and attention that it appears almost static. She’s waist-high in brambles: scratched and blood-jewelled in the gap between her green welly boots and the hem of her shorts. She’s stopped paying heed to such trivialities. Barely scratches at her insect bites or makes a fuss when she has to ask Jude to tweeze something sharp and invasive from her skin. She hasn’t been here long but it truly feels as if she has planted herself in this earth. She has a fanciful notion that if she fell asleep on the damp grass of the valley, she could be somehow sucked into the earth and absorbed; perhaps a tree would grow to show where she had lain.

  Things are better with Jude. His ‘I love yous’ are vocal now, and the poems are there when she wakes. He writes of nothing but her and how she makes him feel. How she has changed him. Saved him. She does not recognize the person he writes about, but manages to take pleasure in his words, even while wondering how silly he will feel when he realizes that he’s fallen for somebody who doesn’t exist.

  As soon as she sees the car she feels the old familiar knot of panic in her gut. He’s come to take her back. No, worse, he’s come to tell her that he’s pressing charges for attacking him that last night they were together. She runs through a multitude of possibilities and none are good. She assesses her appearance and knows at once that he will greet her with scorn. She’s every inch the country wench. She’s always been good at dressing correctly for the role that she is playing and she has thrown herself into character these past weeks. She’s got a wicker basket over her arm and a floppy hat pushed down on undyed hair; a tangle of blacks and browns shot through with the occasional fleck of grey. Her hands are grimy, nails unpainted. She wonders if he’ll even recognize her.

  Jude, she thinks, suddenly. What will Jude do?

  She lets out a breath, hot and sticky, and quickens her pace. Cranes her neck as she moves down the valley and spots the space where Jude’s quad bike is supposed to be. She must have been at the dingle longer than she thought. It has a habit of swallowing her up. It reminds her of entering a church; a cool, sacred space. She has lost countless hours just sitting by the water, dangling her feet in the river, acquainting herself with the flowers, the birds; the creatures that buzz and flutter and crawl. She picks flowers that she likes the look of; plucks berries and fruits and gathers up fungus and brings them home to Jude, who delights in telling her the names of her specimens, and their uses. She is picking up knowledge as a tree draws in water. She has begun to wash her face in elderflower dew; a preservative of youthful looks. Had she anyone to tell, she would delight in informing them that expensive face creams contain the exact same element that can be found on the humble hedgerow flower.

  She arrives back at the bastle just as Jay is pulling up. Despite his best efforts, there is dirt on the side panels and grit stuck in the big treads of his whitewall tyres. He glances in her direction as she scurries across the little footbridge and towards the courtyard, looking at the bastle with a newcomer’s eye. She feels suddenly embarrassed of her new home. For all the work that has gone into it the place is still more of a ruin than a home; everything having a scavenged, jumble-sale look about it. She looks at the rusting guts of the tractor and horsebox abandoned at the side of the path. Considers the child’s swing, upended and half-submerged in thistles and nettles. The dog shit by the door; the dry slime varnishing the five-bar gate which opens into the courtyard and its panorama of rotting furniture and unbegun restoration projects. It never looks like this when she is sitting outside with Jude, but here, now, infected by Jay’s presence, she suddenly feels as though her fairy-tale castle is very shabby.

  The door of the Audi swings opens. Jay climbs out. Gives her a blank look. Turns away. Then spins his head back towards her.

  ‘Liz?’

  She doesn’t have a chance to answer. The passenger door opens and out climbs Anya. She’s grown a little. Filled out. Her face creases into a wide-mouthed expression of surprise and delight as she takes in her former stepmum, standing on the footbridge in wellingtons and straw hat, holding a basket full of wildflowers.

  ‘Liz!’

  Betsy isn’t sure how to greet either of them. Can’t make herself smile or frown or force her feet to run back to the safety of the wood. Instead she moves forward and snatches off her hat, pushing her sweat-soaked hair back from her face. Jay looks at her as if she’s something that the cat has thrown up. He can’t seem to help himself. He looks the way she had known he would: striped polo shirt tucked into beige chinos with expensive mountaineering trainers, spotlessly clean.

  Anya scampers around from the far side the car and runs to Betsy, who finds herself instinctively opening her arms for a hug. There is a collision of bodies, a tangle of hair, and then she is sitting on her backside while Anya hugs her tight and the air fills with the scent of fresh-picked sprays of honeysuckle. Betsy colours, feeling even more ridiculous, as Anya starts laughing and disentangles herself from the fulsome embrace. She manhandles Betsy to her feet.

  ‘Oh my God, you look amazing! You barely even look like you, and wow, that tan looks like you’ve been to Tenerife. We saw a bird of prey on the way – a real one, I don’t think it was an eagle, though it might have been, but Dad said he doubted it, but maybe you’ll know, it had white feathers underneath, but anyway wow – you’re all sort of firm, like a boxer, but in a good way, of course, and––’

  ‘Anya,’ says Jay, barking out her name as if calling a dog to heel. ‘Stop your chatter. You’ve seen her. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Now, I have places to be.’

  Anya turns to her father, who is opening the rear of the car and pulling out three bin liners, each tied neatly at the top with lengths of twine cut to precise lengths. He drops them at the grass verge as if they sicken him. ‘Your clothes. A couple of books. A phone charger. There wasn’t much else.’

  Betsy realizes she still hasn’t spoken. Feels Anya’s eyes on her. Turns to the girl and manages a smile, even as a swarm of different feelings buzz at her insides. She feels disgusted with herself when she remembers the reason for his rage.

  Of course he’ll be angry, of course he’ll be distant – you sent his private pictures and messages to people whose opinion matters. Then you left him. Went off with another man. What did you expect – a bunch of flowers?

  ‘I wish I’d known you were coming,’ says Betsy, addressing her remarks to Anya. Then, as if reading from a script: ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Don’t lie to my child,’ says Jay, giving the slightest shake of his head. He looks genuinely sickened by her appearance. ‘You don’t miss her. Not the way she misses you, though God knows why that might be. Been a misery guts for weeks now. Wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace. Pushed and pushed until I told her the truth of what you’d done. Where you’d gone. W
ho you were with. And she still wanted to come see you. So look, Anya’ – he sneers as he says it, looking as though he would gladly throw down a petrol bomb and drive away – ‘look at the princess in her palace. Back in the fucking gutter.’

  Anya’s face twitches, a prelude to tears. She bites her lip. ‘I don’t need to know about the nasty stuff, Liz – I just wanted to see how you were doing good, and, well, Mum said maybe you and I could still see each other sometimes, if you were OK with that, and she doesn’t think Dad’s told me everything …’

  ‘Another lie,’ spits Jay. He looks at the crumbling walls of the bastle. ‘Not much up from a pigsty, is it?’ He sneers at her, looking pleased with himself. ‘I should imagine that right about now you’re just starting to move from being delighted with the novelty of all this, to grumbling about the imperfections. I should imagine that the bits which were making your heart glow and your bits throb a fortnight ago are starting to irritate you a little bit. I’d imagine you’re starting to miss some of the luxuries. You’re offering helpful bits of advice about things you know nothing about. You’re talking about how things aren’t quite what they used to be, and maybe a holiday would help, or a new pair of shoes, or perhaps if you could just go and get your hair coloured at one of those posh places that charge eighty quid for a blow dry you might start feeling more like your old self …’

  ‘Don’t …’ protests Anya, urgently, staring up at Betsy, who still can’t seem to make herself speak. ‘Don’t say that, Dad …’

  ‘I know you better than anybody, Liz. I always knew what you were but I figured you could at least be house-trained. Didn’t even need the whip to do it, did I? I mean, you weren’t much of a maid or a cook or even a particularly decent showpiece on my arm, but I stuck with you despite it and all I asked in return was that you try and smile and act like it was appreciated. And what do you do? Self-harm, suicide attempts; drama after fucking drama, and then all this BPD bullshit, as if having an interesting syndrome means you’re entitled to act so …’

  Betsy jerks her head, eager to hear the final insult. ‘So what, Jay?’

  ‘So atrociously,’ he says, and his whole demeanour is of a man eager to bang his fist on a boardroom table. ‘You’ve got your hooks in this one, I see. Poor sod doesn’t know what he’s letting himself in for, does he? I should have brought him a gift, really – or at least a receipt. This is what you think you are now, is it? Some local yokel, some country bumpkin, living with a man who probably killed his first wife!’

  Betsy feels Anya slip her hand into hers. She looks down at her and sees herself reflected back on the brown of her irises.

  Jay snarls at the pair of them, shaking his head in disgust. ‘I’ve tried and I’ve tried to work out what any of you want and all I come up with is that you want everything. Everything and more. And then you still act as if it’s some sort of chore – as if every man is a punchline.’

  In the distance, Betsy hears the low rumble of a quad bike. She isn’t sure if she wants it to be Jude or not. If he turns up she can’t see it ending well for Jay, but how can she let her new man knock him senseless in front of Anya? She looks at the girl and feels her heart double in size as she sees the desperate pleading in her eyes.

  ‘It’s funny you chose today,’ says Betsy, as brightly as she can. ‘I was actually thinking of you when I was up in the woods collecting flowers. Well, it’s called a dingle, actually, which is a brilliant word. And I was remembering how good you are at drawing, and I thought “I wonder whether Anya would be able to draw these flowers” and maybe if it were good enough I could put one in a frame. It would have to be good, of course – you’d have to give it your best. So how about I send some pictures to your mum’s phone and you draw them and send them to me, and we’ll stay in touch that way for a while, eh? It’s lovely here. Maybe it would be best if it was your mum who brought you, though – it’s not really fair on your dad.’

  ‘Fair on me?’ spits Jay. ‘Do you know what she said when I told her what you’d been doing? She said there were two sides to every story. Do you believe that? My own daughter!’

  Betsy ignores him. Bends down and picks a tiny flower at random from the mass of stems and petals in her basket. She places it behind Anya’s ear. ‘I only know this one because I asked about it the other day,’ confides Betsy. ‘It’s an ox-eye daisy. Look at the yellow in the middle – it’s the brightest flower I’ve seen. If it’s still OK when you get home, draw me a picture of it in one of your notebooks.’ She crouches down, knees creaking. ‘I’m pleased you’ve missed me. I’ve missed you too. But maybe things are all a bit raw for now, eh? And much as I want you to meet my friend it might be best if we save that for another day.’

  Betsy falls silent as she hears the louder rumble of an approaching vehicle, moving up the track far faster than Jay had done. She doesn’t recognize the sound of the engine. She climbs on to the bottom rung of the footbridge over the drop and sees the top of a dark blue van. Jay has heard it too, and Betsy can tell from the look on his face that he is concerned the driver will go straight into the back of his treasured car. He waves his hands as if signalling the driver of a train, and visibly shrinks in on himself as the van comes around the corner and slams on the brakes in a shower of dust and stones and pollen; little ting-ting-tings of shingle hitting the rear of Jay’s vehicle. In the driver’s seat, a big man with a goatee, clearly uncomfortable in a shirt three sizes too small. Beside him, the man who had brought her the four thousand pounds that day after the accident. Brendon.

  Betsy has been waiting for this. Has, at times, been eager for confrontation or at least a chance to score a victory of some sort – to show Jude she can handle herself by sending one of his tormentors packing. But there have been no visitors. No altercations. No proof that Campion has been doing what Jude claims. And now, with Jay and Anya in the forecourt – and Jude God knows where – this is when they choose to make their presence felt.

  She suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to run.

  Anya slides her hand into hers again. And they stand, two statues, locked together, as doors slam.

  A small voice, deep inside Betsy, telling her not to worry – that he will be home soon.

  The valley, cruel in its silence.

  TWENTY-NINE

  She can hear her own blood moving in her veins. Can feel the pulse and thump of her heart. Beneath her skin, aphids and ladybirds, prickly ferns; honeysuckle climbing up her spine and threading through the struts of her ribcage like roses through an arbour …

  She hears the catch in her voice as she tries to speak. Coughs. Tries again. Her tongue, a salted slug, turning to mush behind her teeth.

  ‘Liz?’

  Anya’s voice is a spark. She finds herself chattering. Gabbling. She wants everybody gone. Wants to retreat to the wood and sit with her back to the trees and her feet in the grass and stay blissfully hidden away from anything real, or cruel, or ugly.

  ‘… well, I don’t know if this has been what everybody wanted but there’s lots to be done and I think these men have some business interests to discuss so maybe it would be best if you rescheduled, like I said … Jay … Jay, you should probably be off …’

  A sheen of sweat glazes her skin. She feels all hot inside, her tongue puffy. She’s light-headed, overwhelmed by a sudden exhaustion. ‘Jay, are you listening … it’s not good for Anya …’

  He isn’t paying any attention to her. He’s watching the big man climb down from the van and stretch his arms out, crucifixion-style, as if he has been sleeping in too cramped a space. He looks at Jay, then at his posh vehicle. Gives a little nod, appreciating the model. ‘That the diesel or the petrol?’ he asks. ‘I like the whitewall tyres. Kept it nice. I know what they say about Audi drivers but it hardly seems fair. Engine better than a Beamer, so I’ve heard.’

  Jay seems to grow two inches in height. He loves his toys. Likes nothing more than to head into the garage and slide himself under his big beast of a car – hi
s spotless blue overalls ironed to show off a razor-sharp seam. She doesn’t think he actually knows what he’s doing, but he always seems very pleased with himself after spending half a day on his back, staring up into the greased mechanical guts of his pride and joy, wheeling himself around on the little plastic creeper; the jack taking the strain; bland pop music drifting from a state-of-the-art stereo on his pristine workbench.

  ‘Petrol, of course,’ purrs Jay, proudly. ‘Gives you that extra kick. You don’t want to be changing down the gears looking for that extra few miles per hour. Not in the back of beyond. You get one chance to overtake a tractor or some little old dear in her Citroën, you want something aggressive under the hood, am I right? Wonderful engine under there.’

  The man sucks at his cheek, peering down to look at the bodywork. ‘Our mam drives a Citroën. French for “lemon”, isn’t it? Seems a poor choice of name from a marketing point of view. Pretty apt, though.’

  ‘Worth saving up for. Some good deals too.’

  ‘Yeah? Fancied one myself last time I was between vehicles. Ended up going for the Nissan. I know, I know, but the missus reads all the guides on value for money versus security and somebody filled her head about the bloody Nissan, so I’m stuck with it. I’m jealous, mate. Well jealous.’

  Betsy gives Anya’s hand a little squeeze. There’s a chill to the air, suddenly, as if a storm is gathering. She watches the exchange between the two men with a sense of rising panic; an intuition that the pleasantries will not last long.

  ‘You’ll be paying for it, I presume,’ says Jay, with a little smirk. ‘I reckon that means you get the biggest say.’

  The man looks at him, angling his head slightly and staring at him in a way that Betsy remembers from childhood. She’s seen teenage lads act like this – making themselves still, their eyes hard, their whole demeanour transformed into a clenched fist just by the subtle jutting of their jaw.