It always amazed me how different my parents were from those of my friends. My mum and dad still kissed each other good-bye every morning, and held hands when we went to the park, me clinging on to my mum’s other hand, swinging it back and forth. My dad still brought home flowers, even when he hadn’t done anything wrong, and Mum got up—in the middle of the night, it seemed—to make Dad’s sandwiches for work.
The day I told Mum that Mark and I were trying for a baby, we were sitting in the garden, flicking through the Sunday papers. She just smiled and said, “Not a moment too soon, love.” It wasn’t until much later that I found out she’d already known about the illness that would take her life.
We tried for two years before admitting that something might be wrong and going to see the doctor. By that time Mum had already had two rounds of treatment and seemed to be doing really well. She got out in the garden three times to tend her tomato plants and came shopping with me for a couple of new dresses for the trip they were planning. Dad took her away to Italy the weekend I went into the hospital for my egg harvest. Three months later we found out I was pregnant, and the month after that we were back in the same GP’s room to be told that Mum’s cancer was back.
She fought harder than before, but I knew this time that she wouldn’t live to see our baby born. The only thing I cling to now is that at least it meant that she never had to experience his death either. My father, on the other hand, has had to live through the loss of his only wife, his only grandson, and his only daughter, all within a space of two years.
Dad sat in the dock every day of my trial. On the first day I made the mistake of glancing over, to try to catch a glimpse of him. The moment my eyes found him, sandwiched in between my brother and his wife, he looked up and saw me staring. His jaw was clenched and he was forcing himself not to cry, not to show how upset he was. For a moment I imagined him running down the steps from the gallery, gathering me up in a hug and refusing to leave my side until I was allowed home. This was the first time that he couldn’t make everything better for me. I couldn’t bear to look at him again for the entire four-week trial, not until the jury read out their guilty verdict. The eyes of the press were trained on me and my husband when the jury returned; mine were fixed on my father. The last time I saw my dad, he was sobbing like a child.
A quick check of the hallway: the package is still there, on the table where I left it. As I stand staring stupidly at the inanimate object, trying to decipher its exact contents by psychic energy, a pounding on the front door makes me cry out.
“Susan?” It’s Nick. Even after everything, relief floods through me when I hear his voice. I cross the hall quickly, ignoring the package once more, and open the door. “Are you okay?” he asks. I nod and point to the table, watching realization cross his face.
I know immediately what he’s thinking.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I tell him. “That the timing is perfect. That I put it there. Well, I didn’t.” I don’t know why I’m so desperate for him to believe me. Maybe if he believes me, I can believe it myself.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Nick states. I get the feeling he doesn’t know what he thinks himself. I push on.
“You think I put it there after yesterday, to make you take me seriously again. Well, I didn’t. My neighbor Carole brought it by an hour ago. She came in, we talked. You can call her and ask her. Go on.” I fumble for my mobile phone, where I have Carole’s number saved. “Call her.”
Nick ignores my rambling. “You haven’t opened it?” It’s a stupid question really, seeing as it’s still wrapped in brown paper. Resisting sarcasm, I shake my head.
“Do you have any gloves?” he asks. For a fleeting moment I wonder if he’s cold, then I realize he means to pick up the box. Thank God I didn’t produce my woolly thermals.
“I have a pack of vinyl ones in the bathroom,” I tell him, then, feeling the need to explain myself, I add, “For cleaning the toilet.”
Looking like a crime-scene investigator, Nick dons the gloves and hands me a pair. He picks up the box, carries it into the kitchen, and places it on the counter. He takes a knife and positions it inside the fold of the brown paper. Shit, he’s actually about to open it. I hold my breath, as though whatever is in there can’t hurt me, can’t affect me if I’m not breathing. The lid comes off and I exhale.
“It’s a hairbrush,” I say stupidly, picking the small blue brush up out of the box. It’s full of hairs, not baby hairs like my son’s, but hairs belonging to an older child. I’ve never seen it before in my life.
“What about this?” Nick asks, lifting a folded piece of cloth from the box. “Does this mean something to you?”
I don’t need to take it from him to see what it is. The piece of cloth is a baby’s blanket, hand-stitched throughout a mother-to-be’s pregnancy and given with love to her baby boy on the day he was born. I’d made it using pieces of material from my own baby blanket and squares of light blue and green cloth. There’s a patch that has toy soldiers marching along it I’d come across in a charity shop in Devon on our last weekend away before Dylan was born; a square of beige with white spots left over from the material I’d had the nursery curtains made from; and a fleecy patch with a picture of a giraffe and an elephant. I’d trimmed the whole thing in light blue satin that had been so fiddly to attach I’d almost given up and thrown it in the bin. No, this is one of a kind and there’s no getting away from that. And there’s only one person in the world who knew where it was.
My mind goes into overdrive. Did he send this? Does he know about the photograph? Did he send that too? I know I have to call him, demand to know what the hell he’s playing at, ask him why he sent this here, but I can’t bring myself to do it. At least now I know the truth: Dylan isn’t alive, he’s been dead for four years just like everyone told me, just like the jury heard at the trial.
Does this mean my ordeal is over? Now all I have to do is glue together the newly shattered pieces of my life and try to forget—something I’m practically a professional at by now.
I haven’t spoken since Nick lifted the blanket out of the box. To his credit, he doesn’t push me, just waits for me to process the contents. The words stick in my throat; I don’t want to say them out loud.
“It’s Dylan’s,” I manage to whisper. I’m stalling. Nick is a clever man; he’s already figured that much for himself. “I made it for him.” Another pause, then I push on. “Dylan’s things went to charity, things he’d never worn or used, but his real stuff went into storage. I couldn’t expect Mark to keep it in our home, so I asked someone I trusted. Someone I knew wouldn’t let me down.”
“Who?” Nick asks. He is speaking as gently as possible but there is urgency in his voice. He knows the revelation might bring us closure on all this, then he can return to his normal life. I realize I don’t want it to be over, not just because of who has caused this or because I’m in denial of my son’s death, but because I can’t stand what I’m thinking. I can’t just pretend I don’t know, though, so I answer as strongly as my voice can manage.
“My father,” I tell him, breathing in deeply to stop the tears. “I gave it to my dad.”
18
JACK: 18 OCTOBER 1987
Matt and Adam had met them at Jack’s cousin’s party. Her mum and dad had gone away for the whole weekend and she was supposed to be staying with their grandmother, which basically meant waiting until their grandmother fell asleep at eight o’clock and sneaking back round to her own house to let them all in. She was the year below him in school so her mates were no more than fourteen, but old enough to want a bit more than jelly and ice cream at their parties.
“Jack!” His cousin greeted him by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. She’d already had a couple of drinks; Granny must have gone to bed early tonight. “Come in.”
She led the way through to the front room, where several groups of girls were sitting separately from the few boys in
the room, giggling and throwing them secretive looks. Adam and Matt carried the booze through to the kitchen and Jack gestured for Billy to follow him.
“Hey, Shakespeare, nice to see you again.” She smiled. “Can I get you a vodka?”
Billy nodded. He’s nervous, Jack thought fondly. Bless him. His cousin disappeared into the kitchen and returned two minutes later with Matt and drinks for all of them.
“Come on, mate.” Jack nodded at the vodka she handed him. “Drink up.”
Matt gave Billy a sideways look. “Here,” he hissed. “You can have this if you want.” Jack watched him swap Billy’s vodka for his beer. “Might be easier on you if you’re not used to drinking.”
Jack scowled. “He’s not a baby, Riley. Let him drink what he wants.”
Matt shrugged. “Whatever.”
“I’ll just have this for now.” Billy nodded. “Save the harder stuff for later, right?”
Jack screwed up his nose. “Whatever.”
“Um, I think this one needs a lie-down.” Jack guided the young girl over to where Billy was still deep in conversation with his baby cousin. The girl—was it Vicky, Nicky?—clung to his waist but it didn’t stop her wobbling dangerously. She’d been fine until five minutes ago, when Jack had suggested going outside for some fresh air. She’d hit the air and started to sway. Jack had just managed to catch her before she fell to the floor. “I’m going to take her upstairs.”
Billy jumped up. “You’re not going to . . . you know . . . are you? She’s plastered.”
Jack laughed. “What kind of person do you think I am? I’m just going to put her upstairs to sleep it off. If she’s lucky, I might get her in the recovery position.”
His cousin smiled and put her hand on Billy’s arm. “Don’t worry about it. Vicky’s always like this. She’ll sleep it off and be fine.”
Ah, so it was Vicky then. Would be best to know her name if he was going to screw her. And his cousin had the hots for Shakespeare! How had he not seen that before?
“Anyway, he’s got his prick-tease housekeeper to go home to.” The little bitch smiled, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. How long had she known about Lucy?
“What?” Billy turned his narrowed eyes on Jack. “Are you sleeping with Lucy?”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, Billy.” He gestured to his cousin, who was looking very pleased with herself. “She’s just winding you up. Lucy’s too skinny for me. I like a girl who knows how to eat.” He grinned and pinched the flesh of the girl lounging on his arm. “Isn’t it about time you found yourself a little something, Billy?” He shifted the girl uncomfortably to one side and she giggled, her eyes still closed. He was desperate to get her up to one of the bedrooms—his auntie and uncle’s preferably—but he wasn’t leaving without ruining his cousin’s evening in return for her dropping him in it. He turned to a group of three girls who were trying their best to smoke a cigarette between them without looking like they’d never done it before, and gestured one of them over.
“Sally,” he started.
“Samantha.”
He gave his best winning smile. “Sorry, yeah, Samantha. This is Billy, he hasn’t seen the pond yet. Would you show him?”
Samantha grinned. “Yeah, sure, Jack. C’mon, Billy, it’s pretty cool.”
Billy didn’t even have time to object before he was dragged off in the direction of the back door.
“Asshole,” his cousin hissed at him.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m busy. Keep your fucking mouth shut in future.” He walked off, but not too fast to miss her adding, “I hope she gives you crabs.”
19
Nick recovers a lot quicker than I do, and before I even realize what I’m doing I’m standing in the back garden, my hands shaking as I struggle to light a cigarette with one hand and hold my coffee in the other. I smoked a lot at Oakdale, through boredom or as a way to get fresh air—I know, I know—and even though I quit when I left, I still keep a packet in the house just in case. Tea for problems, coffee and cigarettes for a crisis.
It’s a full ten minutes before Nick speaks to me, and when he does it’s tentatively, as though he’s trying hard not to upset me further.
“When was the last time you saw your father?” he asks. I’d almost forgotten that we’ve only just met and he’s got no idea of my family situation.
I take a deep breath. “My dad tried several times to visit me in Oakdale.” I feel guilty just saying the words. “But I turned down every request for a visit and refused to leave my room.”
Nick looks confused and I don’t blame him. The evening has drawn in and it must be cold—I can see the goose bumps on his arms—but I can’t feel it and he doesn’t complain. Maybe my body is shutting down, switching off my senses one by one until one of these days I’ll just stop, wherever I am.
“I thought you said he’s supported you? Stood by you? Why didn’t you want to see him again?”
“He did support me.” I see Dad’s face again, the way it crumpled as the foreman said the word. Guilty. “More than I deserved. And he refused to abandon me, even after I’d gone away. He sat outside the facility week in, week out. Eventually, after about ten weeks he gave up and stopped coming.” I was so relieved and so disappointed. He’d lasted longer than my husband but in the end he still did what I’d known he’d do, what everyone else from my old life had done. He gave in and left me, leaving the album behind with two wardens.
I’m not telling Nick the whole story. I’m not telling him how the warden my father handed the album to refused to give it to me—I’d never been “nice” enough to him to earn my privileges. It was a rock and a hard place: if I didn’t complain, he knew he could treat me however he wanted, and without sexual favors I’d never see what my father had sent me. If I complained to the head warden I’d be branded a whinger and a snitch, and more than one of the officers would make my life unbearable. I’m not going to tell him how I got the album, how Cassie just walked in and handed it to me one morning without a word, and didn’t once complain when I couldn’t bring myself to open it for three years. Something else I’ve never asked about, something else I owe her more than I could ever repay her for.
I wanted Dad to forget about me, pretend he had never had a daughter or a grandson. I couldn’t bear the thought of him visiting me each week, having to endure the searches by the wardens—glorified prison guards and most of them bloody bullies. I imagined him having to deal with my situation at work, in the pub and at the golf club, daily reminders that his daughter was a murderer. It would be hard enough for him without the added shame of having to sit across from me and make small talk about the weather or what Jean next door had done with her begonias.
In the last four years I’ve thought about my dad at least twice a day. I’ve wondered what he’s up to, how he’s coping, and whether he’s keeping okay. I tried so hard to take care of him after Mum died, to make sure he didn’t get depressed or too lonely. After I went away, did anyone do that for him? Or was he allowed to just fade into his own little world, where I was responsible for everything that was wrong in his life? Did he grow to hate me in my absence? It’s no more than I deserve.
Nick listens to my story without interrupting and takes my hand when I begin to cry silent tears.
“But if your dad supported you through everything, why would he be tormenting you like this now?” he wonders, more to himself than to me.
“Don’t know,” I admit, “but I know that blanket is one of the things I asked him to pack away for me before the trial began. I couldn’t bear the thought of it going to charity, or worse, being thrown away. No one else could have sent it to me, no one.”
“And your dad would know that,” Nick reasons. “He would know that by sending it you would realize it was him. I don’t know much about your family, but it doesn’t sound like the work of a heartbroken old man. And how would he know where you live? He doesn’t sound the type to skulk round in the bushes outside your home.”
“I don’t know,” I repeat, sounding like a stuck record but not knowing what else to say. “Is there anyone your father would have given the blanket to? This is really important, Susan; think, please.”
There is an urgency in his voice that I don’t feel entirely comfortable with, and I wonder if he’s getting too close to the whole thing. This isn’t his mess. Am I going to end up with another ruined life on my conscience? Another broken career, another man in tatters?
When I don’t say anything, he pushes on. “I think you need to see your father, Susie.”
I hear this and I know it’s true, but the only thing I can think is that he called me Susie. Mark is the only person who has ever called me that, and hearing it coming from another man’s lips feels strange. How can it feel like I’m cheating on my husband by speaking to another man? I haven’t seen Mark in four years. I forced myself not to write to him or call him; it took so much willpower to cling on to the last bit of my self-respect when all I wanted to do was beg him to come and see me, to tell me that I wasn’t completely alone. It was like another bereavement, losing Mark; he was in a place where I couldn’t ever see him, speak to him, lay my head in the crook of his arm and share my grief for Dylan. For all I know, he could be with another woman now, he could be remarried and—God knows I’ve thought this enough times—have another child. The problems we had conceiving were mine, not his, and I’ve tormented myself with visions of my ex-husband and his pregnant wife a hundred times. So why can’t I move on and let myself be happy? Why is it such a crime for me to want this man to hold me, make me feel better?
“Now?” I realize Nick is looking at me expectantly. “You want me to call him now?”
How I Lost You Page 9
