I Let You Go

by Clare Mackintosh

  ‘It’s mine,’ I say abruptly, and I kick it violently back under the bed.

  Patrick’s eyes widen but he says nothing, getting to his feet awkwardly and carrying Beau downstairs. ‘It might be an idea to put the radio on for him,’ he tells me. He speaks as though he is the vet and I’m the customer, and I wonder if it’s out of habit, or whether he has decided enough is enough. But when he has settled Beau on the sofa, with a blanket around him and Classic FM on loud enough to drown out the quietest rumbles, he speaks again, and his voice is more gentle now.

  ‘I’ll look after him for you.’

  I bite my lip.

  ‘Leave him here when you go,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to see me, or speak to me. Just leave him here and I’ll come and get him, and I’ll have him while you’re…’ he pauses. ‘While you’re away.’

  ‘It could be years,’ I say, and my voice cracks on the final word.

  ‘Let’s just take each day as it comes,’ he says. He leans forward and drops the softest of kisses on my forehead.

  I give him the spare key from the kitchen drawer and he leaves without another word. I fight back the tears that have no right to spring from my eyes. This is of my own making and however much it hurts it has to be done. But my heart still leaps when there is a knock at the door barely five minutes later, and I imagine Patrick has come back for something.

  I fling open the door.

  ‘I want you out of the cottage,’ Iestyn says, without preamble.

  ‘What?’ I put my hand flat against the wall to anchor myself. ‘Why?’

  He doesn’t look me in the eye, reaching down instead to pull Beau’s ears and fuss his mouth. ‘You need to be out by the morning.’

  ‘But, Iestyn, I can’t! You know what’s going on. My bail conditions state I have to stay at this address until my trial.’

  ‘It’s not my problem.’ Iestyn finally looks at me and I see he isn’t enjoying this task. His face is set hard, but his eyes are pained and he shakes his head slowly. ‘Look, Jenna, the whole of Penfach knows you’ve been arrested for running over that little lad, and they all know you’re only here in the bay because you’re renting my cottage. As far as they’re concerned, I might as well have been driving that car myself. It’s only a matter of time before there’s more of this’ – he gestures to the graffiti on the door, which despite my scrubbing has stubbornly remained – ‘or worse. Dog mess through the letter box, fireworks, petrol – you read it in the papers all the time.’

  ‘I’ve got nowhere to go, Iestyn,’ I try to appeal to him, but his determination doesn’t waver.

  ‘The village shop won’t stock my produce any more,’ he says, ‘so disgusted they are that I’m putting a roof over the head of a murderer.’

  I take a sharp breath.

  ‘And this morning they refused to serve Glynis. It’s one thing getting at me, but when they start on my wife…’

  ‘I just need a few more days, Iestyn,’ I plead. ‘I’m due in court for sentencing in a fortnight, and then I’ll be gone for good. Please, Iestyn, just let me stay until then.’

  Iestyn thrusts his hands in his pockets and stares out at the sea for a moment. I wait, knowing there is nothing else I can say to make him change his mind.

  ‘Two weeks,’ he says, ‘but not a day longer. And if you’ve got any sense you’ll stay away from the village until then.’

  41

  You stayed in your studio all day and would disappear back there of an evening, unless I told you not to. You didn’t seem to care that I worked hard during the week, and that I might like a little comfort in the evenings, someone to ask about my day. You were like a mouse, scurrying down to your shed whenever you got the chance. You had somehow become well known as a local sculptor; not for your thrown pots, but for the hand-sculpted figurines that stood eight inches tall. They had no appeal for me, with their warped faces and disproportionate limbs, but it seemed there was a market for such things, and you could hardly make them fast enough.

  ‘I bought a DVD to watch tonight,’ I said, when you came into the kitchen one Saturday to make a coffee.

  ‘Okay.’ You didn’t ask what the film was, and I didn’t know. I would go out later to choose one.

  You leaned against the worktop as the kettle boiled, hooking your thumbs into the pockets of your jeans. Your hair was loose, but tucked behind your ears, and I caught sight of the graze on the side of your face. You saw me looking and flicked your hair forward until it fell across your cheek.

  ‘Would you like coffee?’ you said.

  ‘Please.’ You poured water into two mugs, but only added coffee to one. ‘Aren’t you having one?’

  ‘I don’t feel very well.’ You sliced a lemon and dropped a piece into your mug. ‘I haven’t felt right for a few days.’

  ‘Darling, you should have said. Here, sit down.’ I pulled out a chair for you, but you shook your head.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m just a bit off colour. I’ll be fine tomorrow, I’m sure.’

  I wrapped my arms around you and pressed my cheek against yours. ‘Poor baby. I’ll look after you.’

  You returned the embrace and I rocked you gently, until you moved away. I hated it when you pulled away from me. It felt like a rejection, when all I was trying to do was comfort you. I felt my jaw tighten and instantly saw a watchfulness pass across your eyes. I was glad to see it – it showed me you still cared what I thought; what I did – but at the same time it annoyed me.

  I raised my arm towards your head and heard the sharp intake of breath as you flinched, screwing your eyes tightly shut. I stilled my hand as it brushed your forehead and gently removed something from your hair.

  ‘A money spider,’ I said, opening my fist to show you. ‘That’s supposed to be lucky, isn’t it?’

  You were no better the following day, and I insisted you stay in bed. I brought you dry crackers to ease your churning stomach, and read to you until you told me your head was aching. I wanted to call the doctor, but you promised me you would go as soon as the surgery opened on Monday. I stroked your hair and watched your eyelids flicker in your sleep, and I wondered what you were dreaming of.

  I left you in bed on Monday morning, with a note by your pillow reminding you to see the doctor. I called from work, but there was no answer, and although I rang every half-hour from that point, you didn’t answer the house phone and your mobile was turned off. I became frantic with worry, and by lunchtime I decided I would go home to check you were okay.

  Your car was outside the house, and when I put my key in the door I realised it was still on the latch. You were sitting on the sofa with your head in your hands.

  ‘Are you okay? I’ve been going out of my mind!’

  You looked up but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Jennifer! I’ve been calling you all morning – why didn’t you pick up?’

  ‘I popped out,’ you said, ‘and then…’ You tailed off without any explanation.

  Anger bubbled inside me. ‘Did it not occur to you how worried I would be?’ I grabbed the front of your jumper and hauled you to your feet. You screamed, and the noise stopped me thinking straight. I pushed you backwards across the room and held you against the wall, my fingers pressing against your throat. I felt your pulse beat fast and hard against my own.

  ‘Please don’t!’ you cried.

  Slowly, gently, I pressed my fingers into your neck, watching my hand squeeze tighter as though it belonged to someone else. You made a choking noise.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  I let go of you. ‘You can’t be.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But you’re on the pill.’

  You began to cry, and you sank down to the floor and wrapped your arms around your knees. I stood over you, trying to make sense of what I’d heard. You were pregnant.

  ‘It must have been that time I was sick,’ you said.

  I crouched down and put my arms around you. I thought of my father; how cold and unapproach
able he had been all my life, and I vowed never to be like that with my own child. I hoped it would be a boy. He would look up to me – want to be like me. I couldn’t stop the smile forming on my face.

  You unwrapped your arms and looked at me. You were shaking, and I stroked your cheek. ‘We’re going to have a baby!’

  Your eyes were still shiny, but slowly the tension left your face. ‘You’re not angry?’

  ‘Why would I be angry?’

  I felt euphoric. This would change everything. I imagined you full and taut with child, dependent on me to keep you healthy, grateful when I rubbed your feet or brought you tea. When the baby was born you would stop work, and I would provide for you both. I saw our future play out in my mind. ‘It’s a miracle baby,’ I told you. I gripped your shoulders and you tensed. ‘I know things haven’t been perfect between us lately,’ I said, ‘but it will all be different now. I’m going to look after you.’ You looked straight into my eyes and I felt a wave of guilt engulf me. ‘Everything will be all right now,’ I said. ‘I love you so much, Jennifer.’

  Fresh tears burst over your lower lids. ‘I love you too.’

  I wanted to say sorry – sorry for everything that I had done to you, for every time I had ever hurt you – but the unformed words stuck in my throat. ‘Don’t ever tell anyone,’ I said instead.

  ‘Tell them what?’

  ‘About our arguments. Promise me you’ll never tell anyone.’ I could feel your flesh pushing up between my fingers as I held your shoulders, and your eyes grew wide and scared.

  ‘Never,’ you said, the sound little more than a breath. ‘I’ll never tell a soul.’

  I smiled. ‘Now stop crying – you mustn’t stress the baby.’ I stood up and held out a hand to help you to your feet. ‘Do you feel sick?’

  You nodded.

  ‘Lie on the sofa. I’ll get you a blanket.’ You protested but I guided you to the sofa and helped you lie down. You were carrying my son, and I intended to look after you both.

  You worried about the first scan. ‘What if there’s something wrong?’

  ‘Why would there be anything wrong?’ I said.

  I took the day off work and drove you to the hospital.

  ‘It can already close its fingers. Isn’t that amazing?’ you said, reading from one of your many baby books. You had become obsessed with the pregnancy, buying endless magazines and trawling the internet for advice on labour and breastfeeding. No matter what I said, the conversation would inevitably turn to baby names or lists of equipment we should be buying.

  ‘Amazing,’ I said. I had heard it all before. The pregnancy wasn’t working out the way I had expected. You seemed hell-bent on continuing work in the same way as before, and although you accepted my offers of tea and foot massages, you didn’t seem grateful for them. You paid more attention to our unborn child – a child who as yet had no idea he was even being spoken about – than to your own husband, standing right in front of you. I imagined you leaning over our newborn, oblivious to my own part in his creation, and I had a sudden memory of the way you played with that kitten for hours at a time.

  You clutched my hand when the sonographer smeared gel on to your belly, and squeezed it tight until we heard the muffled sound of a heartbeat and saw a tiny flicker on the screen.

  ‘There’s the head,’ the sonographer said, ‘and you should be able to make out his arms – look, he’s waving to you!’

  You laughed.

  ‘He?’ I said, hopefully.

  The sonographer looked up. ‘Figure of speech. We won’t be able to tell the sex for a good while yet. But everything looks healthy and it’s the right size for your dates.’ She printed off a picture and handed it to you. ‘Congratulations.’

  The midwife appointment was half an hour afterwards, and we sat in the waiting room with half a dozen other couples. There was a woman on the other side of the room with a grotesquely big stomach that forced her to sit with her legs wide open. I looked away, and was relieved when we were called in.

  The midwife took your blue folder from you and looked through your notes, checking your details and producing fact sheets on diet and pregnancy health.

  ‘She’s already an expert,’ I said. ‘She’s read so many books there can’t be anything she doesn’t know.’

  The midwife looked at me appraisingly. ‘And how about you, Mr Petersen? Are you an expert?’

  ‘I don’t need to be,’ I said, meeting her gaze and holding it. ‘I’m not the one having the baby.’

  She didn’t reply. ‘I’ll just check your blood pressure, Jenna. Roll up your sleeve and rest your arm on the desk for me.’

  You hesitated and it took me a second to understand why. My jaw clenched but I leaned back in my chair, watching the proceedings with forced indifference.

  The bruise on your upper arm was mottled green. It had faded significantly over the last few days, but it was stubborn, as they always were. Although I knew it was impossible, I sometimes felt that you deliberately hung on to them, to remind me what had happened; to provoke me into feeling guilty.

  The midwife said nothing, and I relaxed slightly. She took your blood pressure, which was a little high, and noted down the figures. Then she turned to me.

  ‘If you’d like to step into the waiting room, I’ll just have a quick chat with Jenna on her own.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said. ‘We don’t keep anything from each other.’

  ‘Standard practice,’ the midwife said briskly.

  I stared at her but she didn’t back down, and I stood up. ‘Fine.’ I took my time leaving the room, and went to stand by the coffee machine where I could see the door to the midwife’s room.

  I looked around at the other couples: there were no men on their own – no one else was being treated this way. I marched across to the consulting room and opened the door without knocking. You had something in your hand and you slipped it between the pages of your pregnancy notes. A small rectangular card: pale blue, with some kind of logo in the centre at the top.

  ‘We need to move the car, Jennifer,’ I said. ‘We’re only allowed to park for an hour.’

  ‘Oh, okay. I’m sorry.’ This last was directed at the midwife, who smiled at you and ignored me completely. She leaned forward and put her hand on your arm.

  ‘Our number’s on the front of your notes, so if you’re worried about anything – anything at all – ask.’

  We drove home in silence. You held the scan picture in your lap and every now and then I saw you put a hand to your stomach, as if trying to reconcile what you felt inside with what you held in your hand.

  ‘What did the midwife want to talk to you about?’ I said when we got home.

  ‘Just my medical history,’ you said, but it was too quick, too rehearsed.

  I knew you were lying. Later that day, when you fell asleep, I went through your notes, looking for that pale-blue business card with the round logo, but it wasn’t there.

  I watched you change, as your stomach grew. I thought your need for me would increase, but if anything you became more self-sufficient, more resilient. I was losing you to this baby, and I didn’t know how to get you back.

  That summer was hot, and you seemed to revel in walking around the house with your skirt rolled down under your bump; a tiny T-shirt riding up above it. Your belly button popped out and I couldn’t bear to look at it; couldn’t understand why you were happy to wander around like that, answer the door, even.

  You stopped working, even though you weren’t due for weeks, and so I cancelled the cleaner. It made no sense to pay for someone to clean the house when you were at home all day doing nothing.

  I left you with the ironing one day, and when I returned you had finished it all and the house was spotless. You looked exhausted, and I was touched by your commitment. I decided I would run you a bath; pamper you a little. I wondered if you might like a takeaway, or perhaps I would cook for you. I carried the shirts upstairs and turned on the taps
before calling you.

  I was hanging the shirts in my wardrobe when I noticed something.

  ‘What’s this?’

  You were immediately abashed. ‘It’s a scorch mark. I’m so sorry. The phone rang, and I got distracted. But it’s on the bottom, I don’t think it will show if you tuck it in.’

  You looked so upset, but it really didn’t matter. It was just a shirt. I put it down and stepped forward to give you a cuddle, but you flinched and drew an arm protectively across your stomach, your face turned away and screwed up in anticipation of something I had never even intended to happen.

  But it did happen. And you had only yourself to blame.

  42

  Ray’s mobile rang as he was manoeuvring his car into the last available space in the yard. He pressed ‘accept’ on the hands-free and twisted round to see how much further he could inch backwards.

  Chief Constable Rippon got straight to the point. ‘I want you to bring forward the Op Falcon briefing to this afternoon.’

  Ray’s Mondeo nudged the blue Volvo parked behind it.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘That wasn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for.’ There was an amused note in the chief’s voice that Ray had not heard before. He wondered what had happened to put her in such good humour.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  Ray got out of his car, leaving the keys in the ignition in case the owner of the Volvo needed to get out. He glanced at the bumper but could see no obvious mark. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘The Op Falcon briefing is scheduled for Monday,’ Olivia said, with uncharacteristic patience, ‘but I want to bring it forward. You might have seen on the news this morning that several other forces have been criticised for their apparently tolerant approach to drug possession.’

  Ah, Ray thought. That explained the good mood.

  ‘So it’s the ideal time for us to launch our “tough on drugs” stance. We’ve already got the nationals lined up – I need you to pull the relevant resources together a few days early.’