How I Lost You

by Jenny Blackhurst

  “I have no intention of upsetting him again,” I reply, a bit stung that the concern this time is for my ex, not me. “I’m going back when he’s not there.”

  “No way. No way, Susan, come back here now. Please.”

  “What’s the problem? I don’t have to break in, I’ve got a key. I don’t think he’ll have thought to change the locks. Remember, the only danger in his life was behind bars.” I’m not sure if I manage to sound glib or just bitter.

  “What if he catches you? You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

  Huh? “What do you mean, what he’s capable of? Mark’s never done anything remotely scary in his life. He took back a belt once because the cashier forgot to put it through the till and he didn’t want to be a criminal.”

  “How much do you really know him, though, Susan? What do you know about his background?”

  “What are you talking about? Mark doesn’t have a background. You’re being ridiculous. If I have any chance of finding out what he knows, it’s now, before he remembers I still have a key to his house.”

  “I can see I’ve got no chance of stopping you,” Nick concedes. Clearly he knows me better than I know him after such a short time. “Will you wait until I can get to you?”

  “No.” I am adamant. “I need to do this on my own. I’ll wait until I see his car pass, then I’ll be in and out as fast as I can.”

  “And if he doesn’t leave?” Nick asks, probably already knowing the answer.

  “Then I’ll wait. He can’t stay in there forever.”

  29

  Maybe Nick was right. Mark could stay home for the rest of the night. What am I going to do, just sit here in the car? I can’t even sleep, in case I miss him leaving and I’m waiting here like an idiot while the house is empty. This is the only way he could pass that leads anywhere, the town, the supermarket, so unless he goes for a drive in the countryside at least I’ll definitely see him from here. If he leaves at all. What seemed like such a good idea ten minutes ago now seems ridiculous. What if Mark does catch me? And what did Nick mean about knowing his background? I wonder if he’s found something out about Mark that he’s not telling me, that he thinks I’d prefer not to know. I’m trying not to think about what the implications of that are, so I focus instead on the cars driving past the lay-by, making up stories about the people in them, what their lives might be like and where they might be on their way to.

  It doesn’t take as long as I expected for Mark to leave his house. Just forty minutes after I drove away, I watch his silver Mercedes pass the lay-by I am hidden in, drive to the end of the road, and turn right into the town. I wait a few minutes just to be sure he isn’t coming back, then start the car.

  I park up in an industrial estate a quarter of a mile from the house and walk the rest of the way in a nervous frenzy. If I’m found breaking into my ex-husband’s home—although I’m not intending to damage anything—I will be in a lot of trouble. I might even be sent back to Oakdale to finish my sentence. Can they do that? I should have asked Cassie.

  It takes me ten minutes to get back to the house, checking around furtively the whole way there. If I’m seen, someone will be sure to mention it at the next Neighborhood Watch meeting. I fleetingly imagine Mrs. Taylor next door pinning up Wanted posters on the lampposts in her winceyette nightdress.

  Despite my confidence that Mark won’t have changed the locks, I’m still slightly surprised when my key turns quite easily and the door swings open. I step inside quickly. That’s it then, I’m a criminal. Well, again, I mean.

  The kitchen has changed the most out of the rooms I’ve seen so far. The countertops are the same, but instead of the beautiful sage green I spent hours in the hardware store having mixed just right, the walls have been painted a hideous sickly yellow color. All that’s missing are the chunks of carrot.

  Now that the break-in part has gone so easily, I’m feeling overconfident. I’m going to infiltrate Mark’s office, where a brown folder sitting on the desk marked TOP SECRET will obviously contain all the information I need to find my son. “Wishful thinking,” I mutter, the noise out of place in the silent house.

  The office has changed little since I left. The layout is the same, with the desk in the corner to my right as I walk in and a well-worn red armchair—the only bit of Mark’s former life to seep through into ours—against the wall opposite. A few new pieces of art have replaced the family pictures, and for some reason he’s taken down his degree certificates. That seems strange; those sheets of paper bearing the Durham University crest were his pride and joy. He’s probably having them specially cleaned or engraved or something.

  The old locked filing cabinet still stands next to the desk, although where the key is I couldn’t say. I have no idea where to start. The desk drawers are neat and ordered but yield nothing helpful.

  It never really struck me when we lived together just how little I knew about my husband’s work. Frankly, hearing about his job in IT bored the crap out of me, although I always managed to smile and nod politely at all his work parties. We were only there for the free drinks anyhow; Mark couldn’t stand his workmates either. He was the complete opposite of most of them; they were so wrapped up in their own little worlds that anything as simple as a joke bypassed them completely. I didn’t understand any of it. In my world a cookie was something you ate with a cup of tea while you watched Coronation Street. I wish now I’d at least popped into his office occasionally, if only to see where everything was kept. The only time I remember coming in here was when Mark was working late and I wanted him to come to bed. I wandered in wearing his favorite negligee, which I casually let fall open as he stared at the computer screen. His resolve lasted all of three minutes and we ended up having sex right there on the desk. We laughed like teenagers when I kicked the corkboard clean off the wall and Mark didn’t even break his stride to clear it up. I can still picture it lying on the floor, a small key attached to the back with a strip of Sellotape . . .

  No, that would be too easy. Pulling the board from the wall a little too vigorously, I turn it over, still expecting to find nothing, expecting my memory to be clouded by nostalgia and hope, but there it is, the small silver key still taped to the back of the board. I might not be Sherlock Holmes, but my husband is no Jim Moriarty either.

  I shove the key into the top drawer of the cabinet and turn it sharply, letting out my breath as it clicks. I yank the drawer all the way open to find dozens of files arranged in alphabetical order by last name. A quick scan proves I don’t recognize any of them; nothing as blatantly obvious as a Dylan file, or Dr. Riley. My hopes of an easy find are looking bleaker. Taking out the first file, labeled “Andrews,” I hastily scan the contents. As expected, it is full of computer jargon and business details. I shove it back into its space, careful to leave nothing that might give away my presence. In the bottom of the drawer, underneath the files is a small blue leather book, the word “addresses” printed across the front in gold. I shove it into my bag, certain its disappearance won’t give away my presence.

  The second drawer down is clearly for accounts. Tabs marked “Utilities” and “Phone” contain little more than water bills and itemized phone bills. If I had all day I might be able to make use of the phone bills, but without my knowing which numbers to look for, they’re no use to me. I could just as easily spend my time jotting down numbers for the local takeaway and Domino’s Pizza as anything helpful. I open up the file labeled “Bank” and pull out a small brown ledger with “Accounts” printed across it in black ink.

  The book has three sections, one for bills, one for spending, and one labeled “Misc.” It’s an account I’ve never heard of, not that that means a lot. Mark always took care of the money. He managed to train me well enough to balance my personal checkbook—my spending money—but beyond that I was clueless. As I look back now it seems pathetic; all I knew of our financial situation was what his lawyers offered me in the settlement, an offer I gladly took because in my
eyes I deserved nothing. A fleeting look at the account book tells me I’ve been more than a little shortchanged. I knew, of course, that my husband earned good money—we lived in a five-bedroom house and I wore a different pair of designer shoes to every function we attended—but I had no idea he had these kinds of savings. Huge sums of money entered the account on a regular basis between 1990, when it appears Mark started keeping the ledger, and 1993. With what is stored away in there, we could have been living like kings. At the beginning of the ledger is a note of the money that was already in the account when the records began, and to all intents and purposes it looks like some kind of trust fund. I know Mark’s father was a wealthy man who had died of a heart attack before we met. They hadn’t spoken in years and Mark never wanted to discuss it, but I wonder now if the money was a legitimate inheritance, and why my husband never once mentioned it to me.

  I don’t have time to figure out if Mark’s financial situation is important. I don’t want any more of his money. I do, however, presume that Nick will want to see this, so I snap off a couple of photos of the pages, including account numbers, on my BlackBerry and replace the book carefully. I need to hurry: Mark might be back any second.

  The last drawer is a mess, and so out of character for Mark that it surprises me more than the discovery of the money. There are just piles of papers thrown in, one on top of the other. My heart steps up a beat. If I’m going to find anything, surely it will be in amongst this crap? Scraps of paper scrawled with phone numbers are shoved in between letters, junk mail, and bills. I dip my hand in randomly, hoping that the luck that’s got me this far won’t fail me now. It lands on a photo. Hoping desperately for a picture of Dylan, preferably with an address and a full explanation of how he isn’t dead written on the back, I pull it out.

  What’s that old saying? Be careful what you wish for. I am indeed holding a picture of my son. He looks safe and cozy in the arms of a beaming woman who appears to love him very much. A woman who will, within twelve weeks of this photo being taken, pick up a cushion and hold it over his face until he stops breathing. I want to scream at her, to yell at her to get help before it’s too late, but maybe it was already too late. I can look at the past, I can hold it in my hands, but I can’t change it. I turn over the photograph: no address, no amazing discovery, nothing I don’t already know.

  Susan and Dylan, 3 days old.

  A lump in my throat threatens to choke me. It’s been so long since I allowed myself to look at photographs of my son, and in the last few days I’ve been confronted with his image more times than I can bear. Not just on paper, but in my mind constantly. The love I felt for him for three months hasn’t diminished, and I’d give anything I have now, or have ever had, to reach into this photo and brush my fingers across his soft skin, kiss his tiny lips.

  I take a deep breath and tear my eyes away from the picture. Seeing it has drained the fight from me. I no longer want to find out what’s going on; I just want to go home. I put the photo back where I found it, careful not to leave any sign of my being here, then, pushing those hurtful images to the back of my mind, I lock the drawer, taping the key back behind the corkboard. Out on the landing I avoid looking at Dylan’s door.

  A noise from downstairs makes me freeze. Is Mark back so soon? No, there’s no one down there, just house noises. I might not get another chance, so I decide to check the loft room. What had been a dusty loft hidden by a trapdoor in the ceiling when we’d moved in had been transformed by my fair hand—and an army of helpful builders—into a beautiful bedroom intended for Dylan when he was a teenager. The ladder had been replaced by a set of stairs and a skylight had been set into the roof. Any teenager would love it; it’s so cruel that my little boy will never get the chance.

  Now I move quickly up the stairs and my breath catches as I enter the room. It clearly hasn’t been used as a bedroom since I left. It’s filled with boxes, each one with labels such as “Pictures” and “Pregnancy Stuff,” but there are other, less apparently painful boxes as well, two marked “Magazines” and another four “Uni Stuff.” I open the top of one of the “Uni Stuff” boxes. Inside are three lever arch files, each full of lecture notes and essays. Seeing as I already know how much of a nerd my ex-husband is, neither the copious amount of notes nor the highly graded assignments comes as a surprise. The second university box contains more files of lecture notes, and I’m about to give up when I see Mark’s certificates lying in the top of the third one. They’re still in their frames and they aren’t damaged, so I can’t see any reason for them not to be on the walls. I lift them out and put them to one side. Underneath are photographs: Mark with friends at bars, at various formal dances and festivals. More than a few are of a beautiful red-haired girl, fresh-faced and smiling. Her nose and cheeks are smattered with freckles and she doesn’t appear to be wearing any makeup, but it’s her eyes that have me captivated. They are a vivid emerald green and are full of such genuine happiness that I can’t help but envy her, whoever she is. This feeling deepens the more photos I flick through. Now this girl has her arms around Mark, my Mark; now they are kissing, holding the camera at arm’s length and taking the picture themselves, huge grins on their faces. The more photographs I see, the clearer it is that this is a couple deeply in love, and yet I have never even heard of her. Why would Mark have kept this from me? Between this and the mysterious money, it is looking like I didn’t know my husband as well as I thought.

  I turn each photo over but there’s nothing written on the back. More and more pictures of the happy couple make my throat tighten and my heart ache, yet I can’t stop. The girl on a beach, Mark wearing a backpack and walking gear, somewhere that looks hot. I have to get out of here. I manage to put the photos back in the box and replace the certificates, and I’m about ten seconds from leaving when I hear the key turn in the front door.

  30

  JACK: 27 NOVEMBER 1992

  He hated getting mud on his shoes.

  He hated mud on his shoes and he fucking hated the woods. Woods were for bears and tree-huggers, and he was neither. Bears, tree huggers, and dead bodies.

  They’d left her on the edge where the newer trees had been planted, not thickening up for another hundred meters. Idiots! Further in and the animals might have got to her before the police did. She might not have been found for days. Weeks if that bitch Whitaker hadn’t got her knickers in a twist and reported the girl missing already.

  Well, he sure as hell wasn’t moving her. He was already going to have to burn these clothes and he hadn’t even touched the body. What a waste of a fucking expensive suit.

  He knew he shouldn’t have come but he needed to see for himself. You couldn’t rely on anyone in this world; he hadn’t got to where he was without learning that. You did what needed doing and you didn’t entrust the important stuff to weak-minded idiots who would never amount to anything.

  The light had faded completely now but the moonlight here among the sparse trees kissed the ground and slid over everything on it. There was no noise except the crunching of leaves under his feet. When he breathed out he saw his breath crystallize in front of him. In a few hours this mud would be rock hard, frosty, and crunchy underfoot. She would be frozen like an ice pop.

  He stepped as close as he dared to the body. Even in death the girl was breathtakingly beautiful. A random image of some girl gone to seed, a junkie dead from the cold, flashed through his mind. This one looked nothing like that sort of criminal scum. Despite the clumps of mud and leaves that clung to her long red hair, you could still see it had been in good condition. Her clothes were clean and good quality. She would have looked like any other nineteen-year-old girl were it not for the gaping, blood-filled smile in her throat and the glassy lifelessness of those eyes.

  He felt a small stab of regret. Things could have been so different for her, if only she hadn’t tried to play games with him, hanging off Shakespeare every time she saw him enter a room, pretending she wasn’t attracted to him. Billy was
as bad, strutting around like Captain Big Balls spreading his feathers. Beth had had to find out what Jack was really like the hard way. She’d resisted his flowers, jewelry, even artwork, but she hadn’t been able to resist the chloroform-covered rag clamped over her mouth. Finally he’d made her weak at the knees, although not in the way he’d planned.

  They’d re-dressed her; he was a little disappointed at that but he’d expected it. There was still no way the police wouldn’t know what had happened to her. It wouldn’t be long before they found her here; he’d better be quick about what he needed to do.

  His hand flicked to his pocket, where the girl’s purse still sat, next to the syringe. Getting as close as he could without actually touching the body, he pressed the needle into the back of her knee and drew back. She hadn’t been dead long enough for her blood to thin into water yet, or to dry up, so what he got was a beautiful claret-red syringe.

  As much as he’d like to hang around and watch them find her, he had work to do.

  31

  I’m frozen to the spot, petrified to move in case I give myself away. Maybe I was mistaken—I’m two floors up after all—but then the front door opens and I hear the sound of keys being thrown onto the table in the hallway, followed by the rustling of carrier bags and footsteps carrying them into the kitchen. This is it then. Back to Oakdale for me. There isn’t a chance I’m getting out of this; I mean I’m pretty sure “I forgot my purse and went to look for it in your loft” isn’t going to work.

  Maybe I still have time. I have two choices: I can find a place to hide and hope Mark goes out again before he discovers me, or I can make my way back to the office and climb out of the window onto the extension and risk being seen. Or breaking my neck. It isn’t really the best set of options I could hope for, but it’s all I’ve got. As silently as I can, I push open the door and listen for any noise. The banging of cupboards tells me that whoever’s down there is still putting away shopping, and it’s only a short dash down the stairs to the office. I make it in seconds, and now instead of being trapped in the loft I’m trapped in the office. Not really much of an improvement, I know, but I’m slightly closer to the ground floor.