How I Lost You

by Jenny Blackhurst

  “I want to apologize for the way I was yesterday,” she says straightaway before I even have a chance to speak. “I didn’t mean to dismiss that photo; I just didn’t know what to make of it.”

  I look around me quickly; there’s no one close enough to hear. The shelter is pretty empty today and until Cass turned up I’d been sorting through donations at a table in the corner of the large room by myself, my mind never straying far from the events of yesterday.

  Should I tell her the rest? And risk her thinking you’re crazy?

  Quickly I fill her in on the newspaper article in my bag, my findings at the library, and my scare at the house later that night.

  “Shiiiiit. I don’t blame you for being jumpy. Do you want to come stay at my place?”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure it’s that serious just yet. It was only Joss.”

  “Okay, but who the hell put that clipping in your bag? That’s freakier than posting something through your door, right?”

  I’m stupidly relieved that she doesn’t think I might have put it there myself. I wouldn’t blame her; the thought has crossed my mind. After all, I’ve had blackouts in the past and done worse.

  We’re interrupted by Bernie, the center manager, who bustles over with a fresh batch of donations. Since I started volunteering two weeks ago, I’ve been amazed by how many people donate their unwanted belongings. The old Susan Webster would never have done that; she’d have thrown them out. I wouldn’t say I didn’t care, it just never occurred to me to help in that way.

  Bernie hangs around a bit longer than is comfortable and I can tell Cassie is itching for her to leave. The minute she does—giving us a funny look in the process—Cassie begins to talk again. “What if it isn’t Mark?” she says. “Who else would want to make you think you’re going loopy? Maybe his friends? His mum?”

  “Mark’s mum lives in Spain; I never met her. As far as I know, Mark never even told her about Dylan. Something to do with the falling-out they had before his dad died.” I discard a pair of pants with three holes in them. There are some things even people in need don’t need. “And we’re missing the obvious point. How would any of them know where I am?”

  Cassie shakes her head. “Anyone can find that out. All they need is the Internet and half a brain.”

  “What about the Dr. Riley thing? Do you think it’s relevant?”

  “Probably not,” she concedes. My disappointment must show, because she hastily adds, “It does look suspicious, though. I could be wrong. I’m always wrong when I try and guess whodunnit on Midsomer Murders.”

  “Thanks.” Cute attempt to make me feel better about my amateur detective work. “But you’re probably right. So what do I do now? I’m jumping at my own shadow. And someone put that article in my bag.”

  “Well, if it is Mark, he’d probably be staying somewhere close, right? He’s not going to drive three hours from Bradford just to mail a photo and go home again.”

  Ew. The thought of my ex-husband sneaking around Ludlow without my knowing freaks me out. I look quickly at the doorway of the shelter, half expecting to see him standing there watching me. It’s empty, of course.

  “So what are we going to do, call every B and B within a twenty-mile radius and ask if a Mark Webster is staying there?”

  “Or . . .” Cassie replies, dragging the word out over three syllables, “we could call his house and see if he answers. What’s his number?” She pulls out her phone and out of the corner of my eye I notice Bernie watching suspiciously.

  “Let’s wait until we get back to my house.” I put my hand over the phone and motion with my head to the prying eyes in the room.

  The next three hours seem like days, and even the appearance of my favorite regular, Larry, fails to take my mind off my ex and the photograph of the little boy. It doesn’t seem like Mark’s style to me, but it has been a long time since we last spoke. People change.

  “Thanks for today, ladies.” Bernie says her usual good-byes as our shift ends. Something strikes me.

  “You haven’t seen any strange men hanging around the last week or so, have you, Bernie?”

  She grins and jerks her head at Larry. “You mean aside from the usual strange men we get here?” she teases. Larry bats her arm affectionately.

  “Never mind strange men, what about all the crazy women?” he responds with a laugh. I join in, seriously doubting he knows how much truth is in those words.

  8

  While Cassie goes back to her house to change—with the promise that it’s not because she’s been around homeless people—I drive home on my own. When I arrive to an empty doormat, I’m relieved and disappointed in equal measure. The house is too quiet, eerily so, and I head through to the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil, and pop the lid off the coffee.

  I don’t know if it’s the picture of Dylan that’s scraping fingernails over old wounds, but the smell of the coffee makes the fist-sized scar on the top of my arm itch, and automatically I reach up to scratch the puckered skin. A memory I’ve forced into a steel box in my mind seeps back to me. I’m sitting in Oakdale’s canteen, the tables like plastic park benches and the walls such a dirty yellow that I don’t think anyone knows what color they started out as. Cassie sits opposite me, staring at her cold shepherd’s pie as though it might change into a Domino’s pizza if she wishes hard enough. I’m half-aware of someone behind me but I take no notice until the words are hissed so close to my ear that to this day I can smell the stale cigarettes and dog-shit breath.

  “Baby killer.”

  The sharp pain spreads down my arm. At first I think I’ve been punched, my shock merging with horror as I realize the pain isn’t fading, it’s getting worse. Scalding water has molded my uniform to my arm, the material trying to force itself into a second skin. Cassie’s voice rings in my ears, a quick “Oh shit,” then she’s upon me, pouring ice-cold water on my arm and ripping the sleeve from my shirt. I hear the words “Get a medic,” but they’re far away, like I’m hearing them underwater.

  Days later, back in our room—they never called them cells in Oakdale; we were patients, not prisoners—Cassie would tell me I was lucky that hulking Netty Vickers (at Oakdale for the attempted murder of the woman who’d slept with her boyfriend) had neglected to put sugar in the water. Sugar in the water, she said, made it impossible to wash off and caused much more damage. I never asked her how she knew that, just like I never asked her what had happened to Netty Vickers. She got transferred while I was still in the hospital wing. I heard the rumors, though. An accident with a kettle of boiling water, though no one could explain how the sugar got in there. I never heard the words “baby killer” directed at me again.

  The knock on the door is so gentle, and I’m so caught in that memory, that at first I think I’m hearing things. Nope, there it is again, a soft, almost apologetic padding. There are two reasons why such a simple thing as someone knocking on the door freaks me out. The first is obvious: yesterday morning I received a photograph allegedly of a boy who has been dead for nearly four years. The second is that in the four weeks I’ve been here, I’ve yet to have a single visitor, except Cassie, who has a key. When you’ve lived with someone for as long as I lived with Cassie, it seems strange, somehow, to have to open the door for them, and the key that started out as “for emergencies” has migrated into everyday use.

  So I’m reluctant to open the door. Ignoring it would be easy—there’s no one I want to see—but I’ve never been able to let a phone ring without answering it, and now I can’t let whoever’s out there walk away and have me wonder all day who it was. Best just to get it over with.

  When I swing the door open, the man behind it takes a step back. “Mrs. Webster?”

  It’s the second time in two days that I’ve been reminded of that name, and I wonder for a second if I’ve heard him right or if I’m imagining that everyone everywhere knows who I am.

  “Pardon? What did you call me?”

  “Mrs. Webster, I’m
sorry, my name is—”

  “My name is not Mrs. Webster.” I spit the words through gritted teeth at the tall, dark-haired man on the doorstep. “What are you doing here? Are you a journalist? You are, aren’t you? Did you send me that photo? You people aren’t supposed to be here, you know. Can’t you just let me get on with my life?” The words tumble from my mouth desperately, none of them fending off this stranger.

  “I’m sorry, look, I shouldn’t have called you that.” He’s gone red and looks flustered; maybe it’s his first day and he was sent here as a baptism of fire. First day or not, I’m not letting a frigging journalist anywhere near my home. “I’m not—”

  “I’ll call the police!”

  “No, please!” The man puts his hand up. “I’ll go, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

  As he begins to do a quick run-walk down the path, a thought occurs to me. If I let him go, I’ll have more questions than answers. Why is he here? Did he send the photograph? What does he want?

  “Wait!” I shout the word before he can disappear into his car. “Wait there.”

  I’m not letting him back up the path so I hurry down to him, not thinking about how vulnerable that makes me, away from a door to slam. He looked so distraught at the idea of the police, I don’t think he’s going to attack me in full view on the street.

  He gets in the car, and I’ve got more time to take a proper look at him. He’s quite good-looking now that his face has gone back to a nice tan color rather than postbox red. His eyes are a lovely blue and he looks around the same age as my husband. Ex-husband. I’ve got to stop doing that.

  Before he can drive away, I bang on the window, hoping I don’t look as crazy as this feels.

  He winds down the window a little bit—obviously not enough for me to attack him, though. “Why did you come here? Did you post something through my door yesterday?”

  He didn’t; I can tell the confusion on his face is real. “No, why would you think I did?”

  “Because you called me Mrs. Webster. You know who I am.”

  “Someone sent you something?” Too late I realize I’ve revealed too much to a reporter. He doesn’t—didn’t—know anything about the photo and now he’s got a whiff of a story.

  “No. Forget it, it’s none of your business. I’m not interested in interviews. Have I seen you before?”

  “I was at your, um, the trial.” So he’s not new, he wrote about me when I was on trial. I wonder which side of the fence he fell on: the monster mother or the poor unfortunate soul camp.

  “What paper do you work for?” Now I’m interested? Now I’m engaging in conversation with this man?

  “I just want to talk to you. I knew—”

  “What’s your name?”

  He hesitates, and I wonder if it’s because I’m a criminal. It’s fine for him to know every detail of my life just as long as I don’t find out who he is. “Nick,” he answers eventually.

  He looks harmless enough, all spiky black hair and those very, very blue eyes, and for a second I have to remind myself how much I dislike reporters. How a simple “just want to talk, that’s all” can turn into a front-page scoop with an I HATE ALL BABIES headline the next morning.

  “I’m sorry, I’m still not interested. Just leave me to get on with my life, please.”

  He nods and for a few seconds looks like he feels sorry for me. Well, pity is better than hatred, by a hair’s breadth.

  “If you change your mind . . .” He pulls out a notebook and scribbles down a number. “Here.”

  “I won’t,” I tell him, but I take the piece of paper anyway. When he winds up the window and drives away, a sharp, manly smell remains.

  9

  When Cassie arrives I’m still shaken, from both my encounter with the journalist and the memory of Netty Vickers. The noise of her key in the door makes my heart speed up a little until I hear her voice.

  “Aloha, anyone home?” She pads through to the kitchen, where I’m sitting at the table. “Hey, you okay? What is it, another photo?”

  “Worse, a reporter.” I quickly run through the last twenty minutes, and the more I speak the angrier her face gets. Cassie’s such a pretty woman, but when her temper flares up it reminds me of the things she’s been through, the physical and emotional scars she carries and how hardened she’s had to become. The only time she ever let me catch a glimpse of her scars—an oversight when she thought I was asleep—I was reduced to silent tears and she was furious. She’d worked for years at becoming the hard-faced killer people thought she was, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only person who’s seen the real Cassie, scars and all, in quite some time.

  “If he comes back here he’ll get more than he bargained for,” she warns, and I smile.

  “I don’t think he’ll come back. He was pretty scared when I threatened him with the police. Do you think it’s a coincidence? The letter yesterday, him today?”

  She mulls it over, her nails, coral today, running their familiar pattern over the table. “Yeah, probably. You said he looked confused when you mentioned the photo. Face it, you weren’t given protection when you were released, you changed your own name. Finding you probably isn’t that difficult, you’re not Osama bin Laden.”

  “Great, cheers.”

  “Shall we get a guard dog?” She’s wanted me to have a dog since I got out. No hassle for her, instant pet when she comes to mine.

  “Joss would be pissed off.”

  She screws up her nose. “Another good reason. What’s that?” she asks as I throw the articles I found at the library onto the counter next to her.

  “It’s the stuff about Dr. Riley and some bits on the trial,” I say. “I was hoping you’d cast a fresh pair of eyes over them and see something I’ve missed.”

  Her eyes skim the pages. “I can’t see anything at all. Family man . . . two beautiful daughters . . . I’d put money on it that his wife was about to leave him for the family accountant or something. I hate to say it, but it’s probably a coincidence.”

  I’m disappointed but I know she’s right. I’ve just read too many crime novels. “Another one? This weekend’s full of ’em.”

  She bites her bottom lip. “I think I’ve found another. Here.” She passes back the article about Matthew Riley and points at the byline. Nick Whitely.

  “Ah crap. Do you think it’s him? Hell of a coincidence.”

  “Do you think he knows something about Riley’s disappearance? Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Should I have spoken to him? He said he just wanted to talk but I kicked him out so fast he didn’t have a chance.”

  “And what are the three least trustworthy things on this earth?”

  “Men, police, and journalists.” I chant the mantra. “But he didn’t seem very scary. What if I just find out what he wanted, and don’t say a word to him?”

  She’s pretending to consider it. “Okay, we’ll call him. But if he can’t help us, we’re burying him under the patio.”

  I’m pretty sure she’s joking, but sometimes you can’t tell.

  “Shall I?” She picks up the scrawled mobile number from the counter and takes out her phone. “It’s ringing,” she whispers.

  “Give it here.” I grab at the phone and she dances away.

  “Hello, is that Mr. Whitely?” Her phone voice is barely recognizable; she almost sounds professional. “My name is Julie Williams, I’m calling on behalf of Susan Webster. She’s got some questions for you and would like to know if you’re available for a meeting.”

  She frowns, then makes a face at the phone and holds it out to me. “He wants to talk to you.” She covers the receiver. “Just stick to the plan,” she hisses. I wasn’t aware we had one.

  “Mrs. Webster, is that you?”

  “Yes. Do we have a meeting, Mr. Whitely?”

  “That depends. What do you want from me?”

  What’s the plan for this bit? “I want to know why you were at my house.”
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  “I can tell you that over the phone. I just wanted to talk to you, ask you some questions, how life is for you now, how you felt when your husband didn’t stick by you. Call it human interest. Do you want to tell your side of the story?”

  I close my eyes. “Not in a million years.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  At least he’s been honest. Maybe I should try it. “I want information. I want your help.”

  “I’m halfway to Doncaster, Mrs. Webster. You’re not asking me to come all the way back to Ludlow as a favor?”

  “Of course not, we’ll come to you, tomorrow if that’s okay? Can you suggest somewhere?”

  We arrange a restaurant half an hour from where he lives—a two-hour trip for us. When I get off the phone, Cassie is looking at me quizzically. I fill her in.

  “You’d better get your best frock out, ’cause we’ve got to convince this guy that we’re not the nutters the rest of the world thinks we are.”

  Easier said than done. We sound pretty nutty right now. Cassie sticks to her end of the deal and after dialing 141 calls the number I’ve given her for Mark’s house. He picks up, putting paid to my theory that he’s skulking around Shropshire posting photographs through my door. I’m glad I didn’t have to hear my ex-husband’s voice. I’m excited about my meeting with Nick Whitely, but mostly I’m petrified that I’ve made the unconscious decision not to let this go and move on. I’m going to dig up the past and hope my shovel doesn’t hit too many skeletons.

  10

  JACK: 18 OCTOBER 1987