I Let You Go

by Clare Mackintosh

  36

  I struggle to breathe. Beau begins whining, licking my face and pushing his nose against me. I try to think, try to move, but the force of the impact has winded me and I can’t get up. Even if I could make my body work, something is happening inside me, spinning my world smaller and smaller. I’m suddenly back in Bristol, not knowing what mood Ian will come home in. I’m making his supper, bracing myself to have it thrown in my face. I’m doubled over on the floor of my studio, trying to protect my head from the punches raining down on me.

  Ian walks carefully down the stairs, shaking his head as though admonishing a rebellious child. I have always disappointed him; never known the right things to say or do, no matter how hard I tried. He speaks softly, and if you didn’t hear the words you would think him solicitous. But the sound of his voice is enough to make me shake violently, as though I am lying in ice.

  He stands over me – his legs straddling me – and lets his eyes trail lazily along my body. The creases in his trouser-legs are knife-sharp; his belt buckle so polished I can see my own terrified face in it. He catches sight of something on his jacket, and picks off a loose thread, letting it float down on to the floor. Beau is still whining and Ian aims a sharp kick at his head that sends Beau three feet across the floor.

  ‘Don’t hurt him, please!’

  Beau whimpers, but stands up. He slinks into the kitchen out of my view.

  ‘You’ve been to the police, Jennifer,’ Ian says.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It comes out as a whisper and I’m not certain he’s heard, but if I repeat it and Ian feels I am pleading it will make him angry. It’s strange how quickly it all comes back to me: the need to walk a tightrope of doing as I am told without offering up the pathetic figure that infuriates him. Over the years I’ve got it wrong more often than I’ve got it right.

  I swallow. ‘I’m – I’m sorry.’

  His hands are in his pockets. He looks relaxed, laid-back. But I know him. I know how quickly he can—

  ‘You’re fucking sorry?’

  In an instant he is crouched over me, his knees pinning my arms to the floor. ‘You think that makes it all right?’ He leans forward, grinding his kneecaps into my biceps. I bite my tongue too late to stop the cry of pain that makes him curl his lips in disgust at my lack of control. I feel bile in the back of my throat and I swallow it down.

  ‘You’ve told them about me, haven’t you?’ The corners of his mouth are edged with white, and specks of saliva moisten my face. I have a sudden memory of the protester outside court, although it feels far longer ago than a few hours.

  ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  We’re playing that game again; the one where he lobs a question and I try to volley. I used to play it well. At first I used to think I saw a glimmer of respect in his eyes: he would abruptly break off mid-rally, and turn on the television, or go out. But I lost my edge, or perhaps he changed the rules, and I began to misjudge it every time. For now, however, he seems to be satisfied with my answer, and he changes the subject abruptly.

  ‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I say quickly. I’m glad I can tell the truth, although I know he won’t believe me.

  ‘Liar.’ He hits me across the cheek with the back of his hand. It makes a sharp cracking noise, like a whip, and when he speaks again the sound rings in my ears. ‘Someone helped you set up a website, someone found you this place. Who is it?’

  ‘No one,’ I say, tasting blood in my mouth. ‘I did it by myself.’

  ‘You can’t do anything by yourself, Jennifer.’ He leans forward until his face is almost touching mine. I steel myself not to move, knowing how much he hates me flinching.

  ‘You couldn’t even run away properly, could you? Have you any idea how easy it was to find you once I knew where you were taking your photos? It seems the people of Penfach are more than happy to help a stranger looking for an old friend.’

  It hadn’t crossed my mind to wonder how Ian had found me. I always knew he would.

  ‘That was a lovely card you sent your sister, by the way.’

  The throwaway comment is like another slap to the face, making me reel anew. ‘What have you done to Eve?’ If anything happens to Eve and the children because of my carelessness I will never forgive myself. I was so desperate to show her I still cared that I didn’t give a second thought to whether I was putting her in danger.

  He laughs. ‘Why would I do anything to her? She’s of no more interest to me than you. You’re a pathetic, worthless slut, Jennifer. You’re nothing without me. Nothing. What are you?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Say it. What are you?’

  Blood trickles down the back of my throat and I struggle to speak without choking. ‘I’m nothing.’

  He laughs then, and shifts his weight to release the pressure so the pain in my arms dulls a little. He runs a finger across my face; down my cheek and over my lips.

  I know what’s coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Slowly he undoes my buttons, peeling back my shirt inch by inch and pushing up my vest top so my breasts are exposed. His eyes run over me dispassionately, without so much as a flicker of desire, and then he reaches for the fastening on his trousers. I close my eyes and disappear inside myself, unable to move, unable to speak. I wonder briefly what would happen if I cried out, or said no. If I fought him, or simply pushed him away. But I don’t, and I never have, and so I only have myself to blame.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here, but the cottage is dark and cold. I pull up my jeans, and roll on to my side, hugging my knees to my body. There’s a dull ache between my legs and a wetness I suspect is blood. I’m not sure if I blacked out, but I can’t remember Ian leaving.

  I call Beau. There is an agonising second of silence, before he creeps warily out of the kitchen, his tail clamped between his legs and his ears flat against his head.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Beau.’ I coax him towards me, but as I am reaching a hand out, he barks. Just once – a warning bark, with his head turned towards the door. I struggle to my feet, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through me, and there is a knock at the door.

  I stand, half-crouched, in the centre of the room, with my hand on Beau’s collar. He gives a low growl but doesn’t bark again.

  ‘Jenna? Are you in there?’

  Patrick.

  I feel a rush of relief. The door is unlocked and when I swing it open I have to choke back a sob at the sight of him. I leave the sitting-room light off, and hope that the darkness is enough to hide the face I suspect is already showing marks.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Patrick says. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I – I must have fallen asleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Bethan told me you were back.’ He hesitates, and looks briefly down at the floor before looking at me again. ‘I came to apologise. I should never have spoken to you like that, Jenna, it was all such a shock.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. I look past him to the dark clifftop, wondering if Ian is somewhere there, watching us. I can’t let him see me with Patrick – I can’t let Patrick get hurt along with Eve; along with everyone else who means something to me. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ He moves forward, but I shake my head.

  ‘Jenna, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t want to see you, Patrick.’ I hear myself say the words and I don’t let myself take them back.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ he says. His face is crumpled and he looks as though he hasn’t slept properly in days. ‘I behaved atrociously, Jenna, and I don’t know how to make it up to you. When I heard what you’d … what had happened, I was so shocked I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t be around you.’

  I start to cry. I can’t help it. Patrick takes my hand and I don’t want him to let it go.

  ‘I want to understand, Jenna. I can’t pretend I’m not shocked – that I’m not finding this hard – but I want to know what happened. I w
ant to be there for you.’

  I don’t speak, although I know there is only one thing I can say. Only one way to keep Patrick from getting hurt.

  ‘I miss you, Jenna,’ he says quietly.

  ‘I don’t want to see you any more.’ I pull my hand away and force myself to add conviction to my words. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you.’

  Patrick takes a step back as though I have punched him, and the colour drains from his face. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘It’s what I want.’ The lie is torture.

  ‘Is this because I left?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with you. None of this has anything to do with you. Just leave me alone.’

  Patrick looks at me and I make myself meet his eyes, praying he can’t read the conflict I feel sure must be written in my own. Finally he puts up his hands, admitting defeat as he turns away from me.

  He stumbles on the path and breaks into a run.

  I shut the door and sink to the floor, pulling Beau to me and crying noisily into his coat. I wasn’t able to save Jacob, but I can save Patrick.

  As soon as I feel able, I call Iestyn to ask him to fix the broken lock. ‘I can’t turn the key at all now,’ I say. ‘It’s completely broken, so there’s no way of securing the door from the outside.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about it,’ Iestyn says. ‘There’s no one’ll be stealing anything round here.’

  ‘I need it fixed!’ The strength of my demand shocks us both, and there is silence for a second.

  ‘I’ll be up shortly.’

  He’s here within the hour, getting swiftly to work, but refusing the tea I offer. He whistles quietly to himself as he removes the lock and oils the mechanism, before refitting it and showing me how smoothly the key now turns.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, almost sobbing with relief. Iestyn eyes me curiously and I pull my cardigan more tightly around me. Mottled bruises are spreading across my upper arms, their edges bleeding outwards like ink-stains on blotting paper. I ache as though I’ve run a marathon, my left cheek is swollen and I can feel a tooth has come loose. I let my hair fall forward over my face to hide the worst of it.

  I see Iestyn looking at the red paint on the door.

  ‘I’ll clean it off,’ I say, but he doesn’t reply. He nods a goodbye, then seems to think better of it, turning back to face me. ‘It’s a small place, Penfach,’ he says. ‘Everyone knows everyone else’s business.’

  ‘So I understand,’ I say. If he expects me to defend myself, he’ll be disappointed. I’ll take my punishment from the court, not the villagers.

  ‘I’d keep yourself to yourself, if I were you,’ Iestyn says. ‘Let it all blow over.’

  ‘Thank you for the advice,’ I say tightly.

  I close the door and go upstairs to run a bath. I sit in the scalding water with my eyes squeezed shut so that I can’t see the marks emerging on my skin. Across my chest and thighs run tiny fingerprint bruises, deceptively delicate against my pale skin. I was stupid to think I could escape the past. However fast I run, however far: I will never outrun it.

  37

  ‘Do you want a hand with anything?’ Ray offered, although he knew Mags would have it all under control. She always did.

  ‘It’s all done,’ she said, taking off her apron. ‘Chilli and rice in the oven, beers in the fridge and chocolate brownies for afters.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Ray said. He hovered awkwardly in the kitchen.

  ‘You can unload the dishwasher, if you’re looking for a job.’

  Ray began taking out the clean plates, trying to think of a neutral topic of conversation that wouldn’t result in an argument.

  Tonight’s get-together had been Mags’s idea. Something to celebrate the conclusion of a job well done, she had said. Ray wondered if it was her way of showing him that she was sorry for arguing.

  ‘Thanks again for suggesting this,’ he said, when the silence became uncomfortable. He lifted the cutlery tray from the dishwasher, leaving a trail of water on the floor. Mags handed him a cloth.

  ‘It’s one of the most high-profile cases you’ve done,’ she said. ‘You should celebrate.’ She took the cloth from him and dropped it in the sink. ‘Besides, if it’s a choice between the three of you spending the night in the Nag’s Head, or coming round here for a meal and a few beers, well…’

  Ray took the criticism on the chin. So that was the real reason for the dinner.

  The two of them moved carefully around each other in the kitchen as though walking on ice; as though Ray hadn’t spent the night on the sofa; as though their son didn’t have a stash of stolen goods in his bedroom. He risked a glance at Mags but couldn’t read her expression and decided it would be best to keep quiet. Lately, everything he said seemed to be wrong.

  It was unfair to compare Mags to Kate, Ray knew, but things were so much easier at work. Kate never seemed to take umbrage, and so he didn’t find himself rehearsing in his head before talking to her, as he had started doing before broaching a difficult subject with Mags.

  He hadn’t been certain Kate would want to come to the dinner tonight.

  ‘I’ll understand if you’d rather not,’ he had said, but Kate had looked confused.

  ‘Why would I—’ She bit her lip. ‘Oh, I see.’ She had tried to match Ray’s serious face, but couldn’t quite manage it, and her eyes twinkled. ‘I told you, it’s all forgotten. I can handle it if you can.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ Ray had said.

  He hoped he could. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable at the thought of both Mags and Kate in the same room. Lying awake on the sofa the previous night he hadn’t been able to shake off the notion that Mags knew he had kissed Kate and had invited her with the express intention of telling him so. Even though he knew that a public showdown wasn’t Mags’s style, the prospect of a confrontation tonight still brought him out in a cold sweat.

  ‘The school sent a letter home with Tom today,’ Mags said. It burst out of her quite suddenly, and Ray had the impression she had been holding on to the news since he got home from work.

  ‘What about?’

  Mags took it from her apron pocket and handed it to him.

  Dear Mr and Mrs Stevens,

  I would be grateful if you could make an appointment with my office to come in and discuss an issue that has arisen within the school.

  Yours faithfully,

  Ann Cumberland

  Head Teacher, Morland Downs Secondary School

  ‘Finally!’ Ray said. He smacked the back of his hand against the letter. ‘They’re admitting they’ve got a problem, then? About bloody time.’

  Mags opened the wine.

  ‘We’ve been saying for – what, over a year? – that Tom’s being bullied, and they wouldn’t even entertain the idea, would they?’

  Mags looked at him, and for a moment her face crumpled and the defensiveness disappeared.

  ‘How did we miss this?’ She fished in vain for a tissue up the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I feel like such a useless mother!’ She fished up her other sleeve, but found nothing.

  ‘Hey, Mags, stop it,’ Ray pulled out his handkerchief and gently wiped away the tears that were spilling over her bottom lashes. ‘You didn’t miss it. Neither of us did. We’ve known something was wrong ever since he started at that school, and we’ve been banging on at them to get it sorted out from day one.’

  ‘But it’s not their job to sort it out.’ Mags blew her nose. ‘We’re the parents.’

  ‘Maybe, but the problem isn’t here, is it? It’s at school, and perhaps now they’ve admitted it, something will actually be done.’

  ‘I hope it doesn’t make things worse for Tom.’

  ‘I could speak to the PCSO who covers Morland Downs,’ Ray said. ‘See if they could pop in and do a session on bullying.’

  ‘No!’

  Mags’s vehemence stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Let’s work with the school to get it resolved. Not everything h
as to be a police matter. For once, let’s keep this in the family, shall we? I’d really rather you didn’t talk about Tom at work.’

  On cue, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Are you okay to do this?’ Ray asked.

  Mags nodded, scrubbing at her face with the handkerchief, and handing it back to Ray. ‘I’m fine.’

  Ray glanced at himself in the hall mirror. His skin looked grey and tired, and he had a sudden urge to send Kate and Stumpy away, and spend the night with Mags. But Mags had been cooking all afternoon – she wouldn’t thank him for wasting her efforts. He sighed and opened the door.

  Kate was wearing jeans with knee-length boots and a black V-neck top. There was nothing particularly glamorous about her outfit, but she looked younger and more relaxed than at work, and the whole effect was rather unsettling. Ray stepped back to allow her into the hall.

  ‘This is such a great idea,’ Kate said. ‘Thanks so much for inviting me.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Ray said. He showed her into the kitchen. ‘You and Stumpy have worked really hard over the last few months: I just wanted to show you both I appreciate your efforts.’ He grinned. ‘And to be fair, it was Mags’s idea – I can’t take any of the credit.’

  Mags acknowledged his comment with a small smile. ‘Hi, Kate, it’s good to finally meet you. Did you find us okay?’ The two women faced each other, and Ray was struck by the contrast between them. Mags hadn’t got round to getting changed, and her sweatshirt had a pattern of tiny sauce spatters across the chest. She looked the way she always looked – warm, familiar, kind – but next to Kate she was somehow … he grappled for the word. Less polished. Immediately Ray felt a stab of guilt and stepped nearer to Mags, as though proximity were a cure for disloyalty.

  ‘What a gorgeous kitchen.’ Kate looked at the rack of brownies on the side, fresh from the oven and drizzled with white chocolate. She held up a cheesecake in a cardboard packet. ‘I brought a pudding, but I’m afraid it looks a bit pitiful now.’