The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

  For a minute, Scarlet thought the woman’s face softened. Then it went hard again. ‘Give it here, then, and I’ll put some boiling water in the carton. Don’t want you hurting yourself on your first night and getting me into trouble. Here’s a spoon. Go into the room on your right and you’ll find the others.’

  Scarlet felt her stomach falling in. ‘But I don’t know them.’

  There was a hoarse laugh. ‘You soon will.’

  There were four boys lying on the sofa. On the floorboards – no carpet in this room – were a crowd of girls. One had thick black stuff round her eyes like Mum sometimes put on when she was going out. When that happened, Scarlet had to be very good and stay in bed until Mum came back. The telly in here was so loud that it hurt her ears.

  Uncertainly, Scarlet crouched down next to the girl with black stuff, who gave her a dirty look. ‘Not another kid. If Mrs W thinks she’s putting down an extra bed, I’m going to bloody well report the cow.’

  ‘Right. And how are you going to do that?’

  This question came from a boy with ginger hair. ‘You know you can’t win.’

  ‘And you know you can’t keep coming into our room. I’ll tell on you. I’ve said it before.’

  ‘But you don’t mean it, do you, Angie? Cos you love it really.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Maybe I will now someone else has just arrived.’

  ‘Her?’ The black-eyed girl was glaring at Scarlet. ‘Call that competition?’

  ‘You wasn’t much when we first …’

  ‘Shut up. Or I’ll smack your bleeding gob.’

  ‘All right, you lot.’ Mrs Walters was at the door. ‘Enough arguing. Off to bed.’

  ‘It’s only seven o’clock.’

  ‘You know the rules. We need time to ourselves.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Scarlet put up her hand like she did at school and wanted to ask a question. ‘But I still haven’t got my pyjamas or toothbrush.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to sleep as you are, won’t you?’

  What about the stuff Mrs Walters had promised to find?

  ‘And there’s a mug of shared toothbrushes in the bathroom; just help yourself.’

  That wasn’t clean! Mum had always been very particular about the uncles ‘keeping their mitts’ off their pink ones.

  ‘You’ll be sleeping next to Dawn,’ Mrs W continued. ‘You’re lucky. I’ve found a mattress to put on the floor. Your toilet’s at the end of the corridor. Don’t use the one at the top of the stairs. It’s ours.’

  ‘That’s right,’ muttered the girl with black lines. ‘One for three of them. And one for nine of us. Ten now with you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Scarlet. ‘I’m not going to be here for long. Just until they let my mum come home.’

  ‘That’s what they told me,’ said a girl with a turned-up nose, who seemed a lot nicer. ‘That was at Christmas.’

  Christmas! That brought back happy memories. Last year she and Mum had played the ‘game’ next to Santa’s grotto inside the big shopping centre. Afterwards, because she’d been such a good girl, Mum had taken her to see him. He’d given her a necklace with pretty red-and-blue beads. She’d kept it under her pillow.

  They were queuing up now to use the toilet. She could smell it from here. Ugh!

  ‘What’s school like?’ Scarlet asked her new friend, who turned out to be Dawn, the one she’d be sleeping near. (So pretty!)

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t go that often.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t like it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘I do.’ Scarlet felt herself going red. ‘I love reading and writing stories and drawing pictures.’

  ‘Fucking hell. We’ve got a swot.’

  It was the girl with black eyes. ‘I don’t know what your last school was like, but you won’t like this one. I give you that for nothing. Tell Mrs W you’ve got a stomach ache. Then you won’t have to get on the bus, and she’ll pretend she’s keeping you at home so she doesn’t get reported to Social Services. But as soon as the bus has gone, she’ll push you out of the house and tell you not to come back until four. Then you can do what you want.’

  ‘Won’t the teachers check?’

  ‘Depends. They can’t always keep up. If they do, you might have to go to class for a bit but then you can drop out again.’

  ‘I don’t want to do that.’

  ‘I don’t think you get it, Scarlet.’ The black eyes came closer. ‘It’s not what you want. It’s what we want you to do.’

  ‘That’s right.’ It was the ginger boy with a rash of red spots all over his chin and yellow bits on top. ‘If you want us to be nice, you’ve got to do exactly what we say. Just wait for the word. It might be tomorrow or next week or the week after that. We’ve got to make sure it’s safe first.’ He stepped towards her, looking mean.

  What was he going to do? Sometimes when she got really frightened, she couldn’t help …

  ‘Shit.’ The black-eyed girl was pointing. ‘The new kid’s just pissed herself.’

  Scarlet went red and hot. She wanted to run away and hide. Everyone was looking.

  ‘Baby, baby,’ chanted the boys.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ demanded Mrs W. Her beady eyes took in the damp patch on the swirly red landing carpet.

  ‘I don’t believe it! They’ve only gone and sent me another bedwetter! That’s it. You’re out, my girl. First thing in the morning.’

  Sometimes I’ll get a phone call from a husband who wants to buy a voucher for his loved one, to celebrate a special occasion. One man said his wife was ‘too shy for her own good’. So I treated her with eucalyptus for confidence and (because I hadn’t cared for the husband’s arrogant tone) I blended it with basil for ‘mental enthusiasm and concentration’. With any luck, that might sharpen her mind and get rid of him.

  Yet physician heal thyself! I should have taken a dose of my own medicine when David cut our honeymoon short for ‘an important meeting’. Was Tanya there too? Bet she was. That woman deserves to be punished. And so does my ex.

  7

  Vicki

  16 February 2018

  They insist they’ll have to keep me in for another twenty-four hours because I don’t have anyone at home to look after me.

  ‘No one at all?’ different nurses keep asking, even though I’ve told them enough times. Their disbelief makes me feel worse. What kind of woman gets to her mid-forties and doesn’t have a lover or a best friend or a child or a parent or someone to be around at a time like this?

  Patrick … Patrick …

  The emptiness in my chest should surely have eased by now. But as each year passes, it seems to get bigger.

  Still, at least the detective with his fawn raincoat and that policewoman with her narrowing eyes have gone. I try to brush away my fears. Tell myself that they can’t accuse me of having something to do with a walkabout ex-husband just because I have memory lapses. But I get the distinct feeling they will be back.

  A chirpy orderly with a HOSPITAL FRIEND badge comes round with a trolley. Its wheels click as she rams it by mistake into the bottom of my bed. Drinks. Sweets. Newspapers. Would I like anything?

  I’m about to say no. I’ve ignored the news for years now as part of my ‘determined to stay positive’ attitude. But then I spot a tabloid which was a favourite with the girls. Its headline screams out: WEALTHY BUSINESSMAN STILL MISSING.

  He is staring right at me. My skin goes cold with goosebumps. Then hot so that my cheeks burn. And cold again.

  ‘Fears are growing for missing property dealer David Goudman. Police are appealing for anyone with information to get in touch.’

  My fingers trace the distinctive outline of his nose. I can almost stroke his face. Smell the expensive musky cologne he used to wear. Imagine his arms around me. The touch of his lips on mine. The horrified look in his eyes after I had my first seizure.<
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  Until now, none of this has seemed real, despite the visits from the police. Men like David are invincible. Bad things don’t happen to them. But the picture and the news story mean I can’t pretend any more. My ex-husband has disappeared. And I might – or might not – have something to do with it.

  When I get home the next day, the first thing I do is take the thing that was behind the pillow and slip it under the mattress instead. Just in case.

  Then I put on the radio for company and microwave some soup. Parsnip and carrot with a hint of ginger and curry powder, which I’ve added for kick. I’m feeling hungry. Seizures often do that to me but it’s not the same for everyone. There are no definite rules because there are over forty different types of epilepsy and each person will be affected differently. At least this is what I was told when I finally got a diagnosis.

  There were other ‘helpful tips’ too.

  You might find that your character changes. This could be due to the medication rather than the condition. Yes. I used to be so much more confident.

  Some relatives and friends find it difficult to accept. Too true.

  Someone with epilepsy is not advised to live alone. If only I had a choice. ‘You do have an alarm, don’t you?’ said the nurse when she discharged me.

  ‘Sure,’ I’d said. But the truth is that I quite often don’t wear it. Especially when I have clients.

  ‘What’s that round your neck?’ they might ask.

  ‘Just a little red button which I press if I think I’m about to have a seizure. Providing I get enough time.’

  How well would that go down? An aromatherapist is meant to help others. Not be in need of healing herself.

  I brush the thought from my mind. Attempt instead to concentrate on the client whom I’d rescheduled for tomorrow. It will do me good, I tell myself. I need to get back to normal. That was another piece of advice from the consultant. Try not to let it ruin your life. Keep taking the meds. Don’t alarm yourself over the statistics. Plenty of people still have jobs and families.

  But what kind of employer wants someone with an official record like mine? The only option was to go self-employed. It would be, I told myself, a new start.

  Now, to clear my head, I go for a walk along the promenade. Below me, the beach drops away. When I first came here I was disappointed to find the beach was shingle. But that was because the tide was up. When it’s out, it’s sandy. Two different people. Like me.

  When I get back, I spray lavender onto my pillow for a calm sleep. It doesn’t work. In my dreams, David runs after me along a beach. ‘I’m sorry,’ he’s shouting. ‘I’m sorry …’

  I wake with a start with the night still black outside and the clock showing 4.12 a.m. next to me. For a moment, I think that it’s true. That he really is sorry for not sticking with me. And then I feel a huge grey wave of regret and sadness, because if he’d supported me, things would have been different.

  All I can do now is hope against hope that David turns up. Soon.

  My client – one of my regulars – is five minutes early, but I’m ready for her. The room is warm, and my usual soothing ‘angel’ music – like the sound of a light breeze or lapping waves – is playing. I like this woman with her soft, gentle manners. Indeed, there have been times when I’ve been tempted to explain my condition to her.

  I’ve a feeling she might understand. But I daren’t risk it.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks when I answer the door.

  When rescheduling, I’d deliberately not mentioned my hospital stay. Now I’m nervous. My hands begin to sweat. She lives in town, so maybe someone has told her. I can almost imagine it: That aromatherapist with the red hair who lives in one of those converted flats? Found her having a fit under the bench on the seafront, they did.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply tersely.

  ‘I’m still having my migraines,’ she says. And then I realize that her ‘How are you?’ was simply a matter of courtesy.

  Immediately I snap into professional caring mode. ‘Let’s see what we can do, shall we?’

  Lavender, of course. Citrus scent. Clary sage. Jasmine. My chosen middle note, my top and my base, as I learned during my training. Now blend. She lies back on my couch, her head in my hands. I massage the oils into her temples in a slow circular motion. ‘Lovely,’ she breathes. ‘You’ve got such a deft touch. Have you always been able to do this?’

  I stiffen. Even though this woman has been here before, she’s never asked questions about my past. She’s just taken it for granted that the black-and-white framed certificates on the wall are a measure of my competence.

  ‘Not always,’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘So what made you become an aromatherapist?’

  I swallow the tension in my throat. ‘I went to one when … when I needed to tackle some of my own issues. I found it calming. And then I decided to train as one myself.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ she murmurs, eyes still closed. ‘What were you doing before?’

  I can’t tell her the truth. ‘Just running a home, actually.’

  ‘Don’t undersell yourself.’ Her voice is gently admonishing. ‘I was a full-time mum until my youngest went to uni.’

  I have a sudden vision of rosy cheeks and a soft brown floppy fringe. A strong nose. Freckles. That wonderful baby smell.

  ‘How old are yours?’ she asks.

  My hands slip.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘My left eye.’ She sits up. ‘Your finger went right in it. The oil is stinging.’

  I’ve never done that before.

  She leaves without making her next appointment. That’s two clients I’ve lost in the space of a few days. One thanks to the police. The other due to my own stupidity.

  I try telling myself that it’s not the end of the world. I still have other clients on my books. Even though I haven’t been here long, I’ve had some good responses to my adverts and through referrals. This is a small seaside town. People talk. That’s good and bad. What if the last client spreads the word about her eye? How many onlookers had spotted the ambulance at the bench?

  It’s not going to be long until my secret is out once more and I’ll have to move. Again.

  Because the truth is this. No one really likes the thought of someone who can – at a minute’s notice – go ‘crazy’. That’s what he said to me when it first happened.

  David. The man whom I have every right to hate. The man I could easily destroy if I wanted. And maybe now’s the time.

  I walk across to the desk where I keep my important papers. I open the file marked ‘Bills’. It’s still there, hidden between the neatly filed copies of receipts, in case I ever need it. Should I have told the police? Probably. But although I’m angry with David, it’s Tanya I really blame. She’s the bitch who lured him from me. I suspect she was there all the time, even before the E word stole my life.

  And this piece of paper implicates her too.

  Is David’s disappearance connected? There’s only one way to find out.

  I feel myself babbling on in my head. Typically, after a seizure, we’re unable to function very well. It can be hard to speak or understand things around us. Memory is impaired and there’s a general sense of confusion. Getting back to ‘normal’ may take hours or days. Often we sleep for most of the time. Certain artists with epilepsy claim they find their condition ‘useful’ because it gives them ‘an awareness of an altered state’ before, during and shortly after.

  Yet right now the effect on me is different. I just want to do something. And right now, that means having it out with the woman who stole my husband.

  I lock the windows, which are rattling in the wind. Turn off the music. Pack my meds – even though I might not take them – in my small case with a change of clothes in case I get an incontinent seizure. Put on my red jacket.

  I’m at the door now. I open it. And jump.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I demand.

  Dete
ctive Inspector Vine looks down at my bag in a movement clearly designed to be casual but which is more of a risk-assessment. ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘To see a friend,’ I retort with more confidence than I feel.

  ‘I need to show you something first.’

  He is waving a file in his hand. The sergeant – the same one as before – is at his side.

  ‘May we come in?’

  It might sound like a question, but it isn’t. I could refuse him entry – he hasn’t mentioned a search warrant – but if I do, it makes me look guilty.

  I find myself being almost marched to my own kitchen table. He opens the brown envelope. There’s a photograph inside.

  I stare at it. The image looms in and out. Eventually, I manage to speak. ‘Where did you get this from?’

  ‘Someone who works for your husband. She didn’t realize the significance until recently.’

  ‘Significance?’ I repeat, partly through shock and partly to buy myself time.

  ‘The thing is, Vicki,’ chips in Sergeant Brown, ‘that this picture was taken just before your ex-husband disappeared. You told us that you hadn’t seen him since 2013. Five years ago. Yet here you both are. Is there something you’d like to tell us?’

  8

  Scarlet

  12 March 2007

  The phone call came on Scarlet’s fourth day at the Walters’. They were having breakfast, and the ginger boy was fighting for the last piece of toast.

  ‘Listen,’ hissed Dawn, the girl with the turned-up nose. ‘She’s talking about you.’

  Really?

  Mrs W was just outside the kitchen door in the hall. She kept repeating the same words loudly. ‘All right, I’ll make an exception and keep her.’

  Then she came back in and said that Scarlet could stay, as long as she was a good girl.

  Being a good girl at home meant putting out the bins for Mum and doing her homework. But Scarlet hadn’t done any homework since she’d come to number 9 Green Avenue. Because her new friend Dawn hadn’t let her go to school. ‘It’s for your own good. Trust me,’ she’d said.