Not long…
When I get to the reception of the prison, there’s a man sitting behind a counter. He’s doing a crossword and pays me little attention until I’m in front of him.
‘Can I help?’ he asks, not sounding as if he actually wants to do so.
‘I’d like to see my dad.’
The man looks up from his paper and creases appear in his forehead. ‘Who’s your dad?’
‘John Evesham.’
He eyes me for a couple of seconds as the creases deepen. ‘Wait here,’ he says, before pushing himself up with a groan.
The man disappears through a door at the back of his office, leaving me alone in the waiting area. There’s little to see here, other than two rows of plastic chairs, like the ones we have in school. There are posters, too, listing the things that people are not allowed to take into the prison. I scan the page – although there’s nothing on there that I’m carrying.
I’ve done it. I know I’d planned it all but I can still hardly believe it worked. All those months of plotting and working. It won’t be long now…
There’s a sound of something metal clinking and then a second door opens behind me. There’s a different man this time – and this one’s in a dark uniform.
‘Madeleine, is it?’ he says.
I almost reply to say that it is – except that I didn’t tell the first man my name.
‘Who are you?’ I ask.
‘Your aunt called us,’ he says. ‘You didn’t go to school today, did you?’
He crosses the room and sits on the plastic chair in front of me, meaning that we’re at the same eye level.
‘She’s on her way,’ he says.
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘Can I see my dad?’
The man in the uniform shakes his head. ‘It’s not up to me… but no.’
The pain is back in my feet but, this time, it’s so much more. Everything hurts. It’s like there’s something inside, waiting to explode. Suddenly, there are tears on my cheeks. ‘I want to see him.’
‘I know you do, love.’
‘He didn’t do it. He didn’t kill him.’
The man in the uniform leans forward and tries to put a hand on my shoulder. The only reason he doesn’t is that I pull away.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ he says.
‘He didn’t do it.’
‘There’s nothing I can do.’
He reaches for me again but I slap his hand away, creating a sold thwack that echoes around the room.
‘He didn’t do it,’ I say, pleading and wanting him to understand.
The man doesn’t try to touch me this time. Instead he smiles in the way so many adults have in the past few months. He pities me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says – but I know that he isn’t.
Twenty
I push open the door and head into the kitchen, where there’s a figure stepping backwards away from the oven.
It’s not Richard.
‘What are you doing home?’ I ask.
Kylie turns to look at me: ‘I wondered where you were.’
‘Why didn’t you text or call?’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise!’
My daughter drops an oven glove on the table and then steps around the table, holding out her arms for a hug. She’s slimmer than I remember and wearing a grey hoody with her university’s logo on the front. When she steps away again, I look her up and down properly. There’s something unbelievably calming and comforting about having her here, home and safe.
‘I like the new hair,’ I say.
Kylie touches it instinctively. She has let it grow longer so that it’s past her shoulders. There’s a lighter tinge now, too. ‘I wanted a change,’ she says. She waits for a second and then adds: ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Richard…?’
It takes me a second to realise what she’s said. Kylie knows and she has every right to be aggrieved. I even lied to her yesterday when I told her Richard was visiting a friend. That was only a day and a half ago. It’s barely believable. I’ve lived weeks since then.
I sit at the table, needing to be off my feet. ‘What did you hear?’ I ask.
‘It’s all over Facebook, Mum. My friends have been texting me too. They say that little girl – Alice – was seen getting into Richard’s car before she was found in the stream…?’
It’s a question, even though it isn’t.
‘It’s true,’ I say. The folder with the screengrab given to me by DI Dini is still on the side and I point her towards it. She removes the picture and then stares at it for a good thirty seconds before returning it to the folder and the countertop.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says.
‘Neither do I.’
‘…And he’s missing?’
‘I’ve not seen him since Sunday morning.’
‘Oh, Mum…’
Kylie steps around the table to crouch. She rests her head on my shoulder and clasps her arms around my front. I grip her hands with mine and we stay like this for around a minute until Kylie pushes herself back up.
‘I meant to ask… did you go through my room for some reason…?’
It takes a moment for me to realise what she means. ‘The police were here,’ I say.
‘Because of Richard?’
‘Yes. They searched the house and took some of his things. His office is mostly empty.’
‘Do they really think he tried to… kill her…?’
It sounds so brutal… so surreal.
‘I don’t know what they think.’
Kylie eyes me for a moment and then shakes her head momentarily before crossing towards the oven. She ducks to look through the glass at the front.
‘What are you cooking?’ I ask.
‘Pizza.’
When Kylie first decided she could cook at around the age of eleven, it was because she’d figured out how to put a frozen pizza in the oven. I’ve not thought about this moment for years but now it’s so vivid, it’s as if I’m back there in our old kitchen with her looking up to me proudly. She needed my help to get it back out again because she had pushed the tray too far back.
‘How did you get back?’ I ask.
‘One of my friends was driving to Cardiff – but he went a bit out of his way and dropped me in Bristol. I got a bus from there.’
I don’t question the ‘he’.
‘When did you get in?’
‘About an hour ago. I saw your car outside and assumed you were home. I’ve got a bagful of dirty washing for you…’ She slips into a grin and then a small laugh that’s hard not to reciprocate.
‘You had a bag of dirty washing on the bus?’
‘I did get a few funny looks.’
I laugh and it feels wonderfully refreshing to be talking about normal things. ‘Let’s have it then,’ I say.
Kylie skips from the room and then heads upstairs before returning moments later with the promised bag that she puts down next to the table.
‘Have you washed any clothes this term?’
‘I did a wash about a month ago but I knew I was coming home for Christmas…’
The smile is there again and, though I feign an annoyed frown, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m not ready to let her go completely… and it also gives me something to do.
As Kylie watches on, I empty the clothes onto the table and then sort everything by colour and material type. I load up everything for the hot wash first and then set the machine running, before transferring her clothes partly to her bag and partly to the basket that sits by the washer.
By the time that’s done, Kylie’s pizza is ready. She swaps it to a plate and then sits at the kitchen table as I watch on. The normality of all this is breathtakingly touching to the point that I have to blink away the tears.
Kylie is partway through the second slice when she looks up and takes me in: ‘What happened to your cheek?’
I’d forgotten until she mentioned but, now she has
, my skin burns.
‘Gemma,’ I say. ‘Alice’s mum. I was in the pub toilets and she came in after me.’
She frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She slapped me a couple of times.’
‘She… what? Why?’
‘I’m not sure. I guess because she thinks it was Richard who attacked Alice and left her in the stream.’
‘You should tell the police.’
‘Nobody else saw it, plus everyone will think I deserved it anyway.’
‘You’ve not done anything wrong.’
I know she’s my daughter – and I know it’s true – but there’s still something comforting about hearing this.
‘She can’t just go around hitting people, Mum.’
‘I’d be angry if I were her.’
Kylie stares at me for a moment before realising she’s not going to change my mind. She’s halfway through the pizza slice and takes another bite before looking up again. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
I laugh at this and she looks at me incredulously.
‘What?’
‘It’s got to be a good four or five years since you last asked.’
‘Take it or leave it.’
‘That would be lovely.’
Kylie fills the kettle and then sets it boiling, before returning to her pizza. Perhaps it’s the comfort of having her home, or maybe it’s because she’s the one person I know I could tell without any risk of it getting around. Either way, for the first time, I say the one thing I’ve been keeping to myself.
‘I don’t think I should have married him…’
Kylie freezes with a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth. ‘Because of all this?’
A shrug. ‘I think I regretted it at the time – but I felt too far in to turn away.’
‘Why?’
‘I think because I was feeling old—’
‘You’re not that old.’
‘I’m old enough. You were in your teens and I knew you’d be leaving at some point. I thought it was my last chance to find somebody.’
Kylie looks on but I can see that she doesn’t quite get it. Times have moved so fast and young women have a lot more awareness over what they can achieve with their lives. I think they’re probably a lot more confident about saying no to things they don’t want to do – and that includes boys. She also doesn’t yet know what it’s like to be single, mid-thirties, with a child.
I had Kylie when I was only twenty and my entire adult life has been given over to raising her. I don’t regret a moment of that – but that doesn’t mean I could stop myself from thinking ahead.
‘Do you love him?’
It’s such a simple question and yet there’s no simple answer. The truth is that I’m not sure whether I’ve ever been in love with anyone. It was exciting to be with Richard, certainly at the beginning. Some of that was because of his position compared to mine. Later, when he asked me to marry him, I said yes. I figured there were few reasons not to. I felt safe with him and he wasn’t controlling or abusive. He was financially secure and, though I wasn’t poor, that held an appeal. More importantly, I didn’t think there would be a line of men asking me in the future.
I should have paid more attention to the other signs – that we never did the normal things that couples do. There were no cinema visits or meals out. We didn’t have other couply friends and rarely sat down to watch television together. He had his interests and I had mine. I thought that was liberating but, in the end, I think it’s probably more dividing.
I don’t answer Kylie’s question – because I’m not sure of the truth. Perhaps I do love him? Or, maybe, I don’t know what that is.
‘Oh, Mum…’
It’s the second time Kylie has said it – but this hurts more than the first. It’s the embarrassment that stings. I feel like the teenager and she’s the adult.
Neither of us speak for a while as there’s little to say.
Kylie finishes making my tea and, as I sip at that, she eats the rest of her pizza, before rinsing the plate in the sink. When she sits back at the table, she fidgets for a moment and then says what’s on her mind.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘None of this means I shouldn’t stand by him.’ It’s not quite the answer to the question.
‘How do you figure?’
‘He could be a victim, too.’
Kylie is silently biting her lip.
‘He could be,’ I say, with a little more insistence.
She still doesn’t reply and we’re at an impasse, where we remain for a good minute or so.
‘What about university?’ I ask.
Kylie sits up straighter. It’s quite the change of direction. ‘What about it?’
‘I thought you had exams, or…?’
‘I’ve got coursework due on Monday – but I’ve already done half of it and I can submit online. Half the people on my course have already gone home.’
‘How’s it going in general?’
‘Fine.’ She stretches high and then cricks her neck, before yawning. I know she wants to avoid this conversation and am not convinced it’s a real yawn. ‘I think I’m going to go to bed,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Do you need anything doing?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Kylie hesitates as she passes me, as if she’s not sure whether to hug me another time. She’s still a teenager, after all. It’s only a moment – and then it’s over as she continues walking. The stairs creak and then there’s the sound of her door opening and closing.
I sit by myself for a little while, knowing I should probably go to bed as well. I’m tired but I’m not. I want to sleep but I won’t.
When I check my phone, I’ve missed Theresa’s text. I’d forgotten I’d asked her if she wanted a drink. She says she can’t make it out tonight but that maybe we can do it another time. I leave it at that, not wanting to bother her any further.
There’s a squeak from above and I realise how comforting it is to hear someone else’s footsteps. It’s easy to forget how reassuring such small things can be.
I potter around downstairs, finally emptying those bags of baking goods, as well as doing other bits of cleaning. When there’s nothing left to do, I take myself up to bed and then lie awake, listening to the barely-there voice from the next room. I assume Kylie is either chatting on her phone to one of her friends, or watching a video on her laptop.
My eyes are open, but then they’re not. The clock says five hours have passed. Whatever noise was coming from Kylie’s room has now gone silent. Except… there’s something tickling the edges of my thoughts. I was asleep but then I heard… something.
A second later and a booming crash thunders through the house.
Twenty-One
WEDNESDAY
I head down the stairs, still blurry and confused from the abrupt interruption. It’s only the grogginess that stops me from moving so quickly that I miss the splinters now lying across the hallway floor. The white of the moon glows through the newly created hole in the glass of the front door, with the shards glistening bright like a carpet of crystals.
There’s the sound of a door from above and then Kylie’s on the top step.
‘What happened?’
She’s speaking with the sleepiness that I feel.
‘I don’t know… I guess someone…’
Kylie edges down the stairs and stops next to me, looking over the banister towards the half-brick. We both know what’s happened.
We’re also both barefooted.
‘I’ll get some shoes on,’ Kylie says.
‘No. I’ll do it.’
‘Should we call the police? They might want to see this before it’s cleared away.’
‘What are they going to do? It’ll take an age to get someone out at this time.’
‘They might get DNA off the brick, or something?’
I consider it for a moment. ‘I think they’v
e got more important things on.’
Kylie doesn’t question this, though she does sit on the stairs as I tiptoe around the edge of the glass and pluck my wellies from the rack that’s close to the door. I crunch across the carpet and then open the front door. The frozen breeze bristles through and there’s nobody there. Whoever threw the brick will be along the lane and on their way back to Leavensfield by now. There’s no question it will be a villager who did this. I head across the drive to the road anyway, looking both ways across the deserted tarmac. My car sits untouched on the driveway.
I close the door when I get back inside. Kylie is still on the stairs.
‘Anyone there?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Do you think it was Gemma?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ I pause and then add: ‘You should go back to bed. I’ll clean this up.’
Kylie watches me for a moment and then pushes herself up. ‘I think you should call the police.’ She hovers, waiting for a reply that she doesn’t get – and then she heads back to her room.
It’s around eight a.m. when the sun finally rises and a sliver of light passes through the window onto the kitchen floor. The long winter nights were starting to bite at me a good few weeks before any of this happened. I’ve never been much of a fan of this time of year. Christmas is the respite, with the food and drink, the glamorised TV shows – and, when she was younger, Kylie’s everlasting excitement at presents. Other than that, the four darkening months from November to February always mirror my moods. Moving to Leavensfield has only made that worse. I lived in a town before this and, though it was no bustling never-sleep city, there were always lights. Always people. It’s easy to feel abandoned and forgotten out here.
I blink away from the laptop screen watching the light from the window creep across the floor towards the cabinets. It’s probably because Kylie’s home that my mind feels more focused this morning, despite the wake-up call. Regardless of everything else, I need to get on with some work. That starts with my emails – with which I only deal on my laptop. The embarrassing typos became far too much when I used my phone.
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 15
