The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

  It can’t be that hard. I’ve done it before. The police reminded me of that.

  But that was before they discovered my personal diary and wedding album. What else might they find if they dig deeper?

  Meanwhile, my solicitor’s warning rings round my head. If it was me, I would want to find out what happened to my ex. Please resist that temptation. It could do more harm than good.

  That’s all very well but I can’t shake off the suspicion that Tanya knows something. That woman is evil. She stole my husband. What else is she capable of?

  The train is packed. Just as well I reserved a seat. It’s on the aisle, because it’s easier to get to the loo that way. Of course, that will only help if I sense a seizure coming on. I don’t always get the burning aura, and the humming is becoming increasingly rare for some reason.

  I glance at the man sitting next to me on the window side. Is he the type who will freak out if I roll to the ground and thrash around? Will he pull the emergency cord? I’ve never actually had a convulsion on a train before, but there’s always a first time.

  When it initially happened in front of David, he was hysterical. I know this because, when I came round, he was screaming. That made me scream too. We were in the kitchen right by the phone but he hadn’t even had the presence of mind to ring 999. I did it instead. I didn’t know what had happened, so I described my own symptoms as falteringly recounted by David. Falling on ground. Eyes rolling. Shaking.

  ‘A possible one-off.’ That’s how the young duty doctor had described it at the hospital. ‘Go home and rest. Let us know if it happens again.’

  These thoughts – and more – go through my mind as the train rattles its way towards Paddington. I reach into my bag and feel for the bottle of tablets. Did I take one or two or none this morning? The more I think about it, the less sure I am.

  I wake with a start. Someone is nudging me. It’s an elderly woman. Her face is creased with concern. Instantly, I know I’ve done it again. The other seats around me are empty. People tend to clear the room when an epileptic is in full fling. ‘I’m sorry,’ I stutter.

  ‘No need to apologize,’ she says. ‘I’m always doing it.’

  Really?

  ‘So easy to doze off on trains. At least that’s what I find. I’m relieved I could wake you. Deep in the land of nod there, you were.’

  I am swamped with relief. ‘So I was just asleep?’

  ‘What else could you have been, love? Anyway, we’re here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. But she’s already on her way, gathering great pace with her stick. Hastily getting down my stuff from the overhead rack, I make my way onto the platform and head for the Underground. ‘Avoid public transport where possible,’ my consultant had advised. ‘You might fall on the line or have a seizure as you go down the escalator.’

  But I don’t know the bus routes, and if I get a taxi, there will be a record of someone dropping me off.

  Of course, that shouldn’t matter. It’s not as though I’m going to do anything to Tanya. Merely ask her a few questions. But even so, the fewer witnesses the better. Mind you, when she sees what I have in my bag, I bet she won’t want anyone else to know either.

  Then I stiffen. There’s a broad-shouldered woman in police uniform talking to one of the orange-clad TfL officials at the barrier. She glances at me. My mouth goes dry. There’s no law that says I can’t be here, but I feel as if I’ve skipped bail. Then she goes back to talking again. I insert my travel card (included in the rail ticket, which I’d paid for with cash) and go through. I wait for someone to tap me on the back. But it doesn’t happen.

  I hover now at the top of the escalator. Heights always do this to me. I’m all right if I can’t see the bottom. But there is no one in front. So I have to wait until someone else arrives.

  When they do, I am so relieved that I step in quickly after them. But they walk down on the left. The space in front falls away from me. I grip the rail tightly.

  I’m going to fall.

  And that’s when I see him.

  On the escalator going up on the other side.

  A tall man. Slightly hooked nose. Rugby build. Well-cut grey overcoat.

  ‘DAVID!’

  People are turning round. Staring as I scream his name.

  He looks straight ahead. He hasn’t heard me. Or else he doesn’t want to.

  My fear of falling is now replaced by the fear of losing him all over again.

  I run down the escalator, fear forgotten, my bag bumping against my hip. Down to the bottom. Up the adjoining escalator. Run. Don’t look down. I emerge at the top, panting. The policewoman is still talking to the worker at the gate.

  He’s nowhere in sight.

  I want to fall to the ground. Sob with relief that my husband (for he’ll always be that) is alive. And I want to weep with anguish that I can’t put my arms around him and tell him that I don’t really wish he was dead. I’d only said that in anger. I’ll tell him how much I miss him and that I understand he made a mistake with Tanya. Of course I will take him back. All he has to do is get to know the E word as I have done. It would be so much easier if there were two of us to fight it.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  My heart stops as I hear his deep voice.

  ‘I’m having problems with my Oyster. I’ve added twenty pounds, but it’s not showing.’

  It’s the tall man with the slightly hooked nose. The rugby build. The grey overcoat. He’s come up to the TfL worker.

  I can see him more clearly now.

  It isn’t David.

  20

  Scarlet

  She was lucky. If the window had been higher and there hadn’t been long, soft grass below, it could have been much worse. Lucky, too, that it was her left arm that was broken. It meant she could still use a pen when she started school the next day.

  She’d like school. The whole class was excited about seeing her. It was only just down the lane. We’ll walk with you on your first day and after that you’ll probably want to come back with one of your new friends. Then you can write a letter about it to your mum.

  That’s what they told her. Not all at once but in bits. Scarlet listened to Dee but tried to block out Robert’s voice. It wasn’t easy. It sounded deep, just like Mr Walters’. The very thought made her shiver and feel sick, even though Robert’s hands were lean and brown instead of white and flabby.

  ‘Why do you think she still won’t talk?’ she’d heard them say when they returned from the hospital. It had been dark by then. Scarlet was meant to be in bed but she’d moved to the floor again. Still she couldn’t sleep. Everything creaked. The boards below the carpet when she turned over to get comfortable. The ceiling too, as though someone was walking around above. Scared, she crept out of the room and sat on the staircase near the lion and the apple, listening to the voices floating out of the kitchen.

  ‘Traumatized, poor kid. Imagine if you’d been through all that with your mother. It took me years to get it out of my system – if indeed I have. You’re lucky, Robert. You and your golden childhood.’

  Dee sounded cross.

  ‘I know, love. I’m sorry. But I want to make it right for her.’

  ‘She’s frightened of you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I can tell from her eyes. Yet she’s all right with me and the social worker. If you ask me, a man has upset her. Maybe she’s even been …’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions, love?’

  ‘NO.’ There was the sound of something heavy. A fist on the table? ‘You don’t understand.’

  Dee was crying now. Scarlet almost felt like running down and putting her arms around her like she used to with Mum when she cried. But then she’d be discovered.

  ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.’

  That was Robert’s voice. Something stirred inside Scarlet. Not just fear in case he couldn’t be trusted, like Mr Walters, but jealousy too. Dee h
ad someone to look after her. She and Mum – they didn’t have anyone.

  Quietly, Scarlet tiptoed back and lay on the floor, putting the pillow with its little blue-and-yellow dots over her ears to block out the creaks around her. Just as she finally drifted off, Dee was knocking on the door and gently telling her that it was time to get up.

  This was a school?

  Scarlet looked with amazement at the pretty red house at the end of the lane. It had grass around it instead of concrete as well as swings like a proper park. Then a horrible thought hit her. Supposing they made her play the game and the police took her again?

  ‘It’s a very small church primary,’ said Dee, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘So they’ll make you feel at home. I know it will seem strange to begin with, but you’ll be all right. I promise.’

  She spoke in the same voice that Mum used when she didn’t really mean something but was just trying to make her feel better.

  ‘Scarlet still isn’t talking,’ she heard Dee tell the teacher. ‘We don’t want to force her. She’ll do it in her own time.’

  Would she? It was so much easier to stay silent. That way she wouldn’t have to tell anyone what happened when Mr Walters had opened the bedroom door.

  Everyone looked at her when the teacher showed her where to sit. Instead of a shared table, she had a desk all of her own with a lift-up lid. The girl next to her had a picture of a pony on the inside of hers. It was black with a floppy fringe. Once, Mum had told her there was a horse in the field next to her house when she was growing up in Whales. How cool was that! Carefully, Scarlet took her own precious photograph out of her pocket and stuck it to the lid with bits of Blu-tack that were already there.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked the girl with the pony.

  ‘My mum and some other people,’ Scarlet wanted to say but the words stuck in her throat again.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, has it?’

  ‘We heard you’re living in the home for weirdos.’

  This was a boy whose desk was on her left.

  ‘The ones that take in kids without parents.’

  Not true! She still had a mother, even if she was in prison. Then a terrible thought struck her. What if Mum had died, and no one had told her?

  The teacher was pointing to a map now, but Scarlet felt too sick to listen. As soon as the lesson finished and they were sent into the playground for ‘break time’, Scarlet knew what she had to do.

  ‘Was it school?’ asked Dee a few hours later when they collected her from the railway station. ‘Was anyone horrid to you?’

  Scarlet looked out of the car window. Fields, fields and more fields. Yellow and green and yellow again. She still felt sick but hungry too. It had been a long time since breakfast.

  ‘Then why did you run away? If the station master hadn’t called us, you might be on a train to goodness-knows-where by now, and anything could have happened to you.’

  ‘Because I wanted to visit Mum, of course,’ said Scarlet in her head. ‘Make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘You’ve got to say something, love, or we can’t help you.’

  This was Robert.

  ‘DON’T CALL ME “LOVE”!’ Scarlet wanted to shout. Mr W had done that. And other names too. She should have stopped him. But then she might have got into trouble again.

  ‘Can you write it down instead?’

  No. That would make it even more real.

  ‘Did the other kids tease you about the colour of your skin?’

  Scarlet was about to nod when Robert spoke again.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Dee. The teacher would have put a stop to that.’

  ‘I know you want to see your mum.’ Dee’s voice was softer. ‘I wasn’t able to live with my parents either when I was your age. It’s not that she doesn’t want to see you. She’s not allowed to at the moment for lots of different reasons. But she’s safe and well. I promise you.’

  How did she know Dee wasn’t lying?

  ‘In fact, she’s sent you a present. It’s a CD which we can play when we get home. It’s got her voice on it.’

  Really?

  Robert, who was driving, made a noise in his throat. ‘I’m still not sure this is a good idea. It might upset her even more.’

  ‘Let me handle this, OK? You go back to taking your precious pictures.’

  After that, no one said anything until they got home. When they asked if she was hungry, Scarlet shook her head. But Dee put a bowl of pasta in front of her with a cheesy tomato sauce that she’d made herself on something called an Ah Ger.

  ‘Shall we hear your mum now?’

  They went up to her bedroom. Dee plugged in a CD player.

  ‘Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Scarlet.’

  Dee had been right. It was Mum’s voice!

  ‘She recorded this specially for you! Isn’t that nice? The people in the prison helped her.’

  ‘Scarlet lived in a pretty house far away from her mum. But her mum still loved her very much.’

  ‘See?’ Dee was cuddling up to her. ‘I told you she was all right.’

  They listened to the story right to the end. When it finished, Scarlet wanted Dee to play it again, but the words wouldn’t come out. Then Dee said goodnight. ‘Won’t you use your bed now? I think your mother would want you to.’

  So she did, but she hid under the duvet all night, listening carefully in case the door opened and Robert came in.

  They made her go to school the next day. ‘It will be good for you,’ Dee had said when she’d walked with her down the lane. ‘Watch out for that puddle.’

  Too late. There was so much mud here! It stuck to the green tights Dee had bought her to go with her uniform. Her blazer was second-hand. Dee had told her this as though she was sorry. But Scarlet liked it, even though it itched a bit and had someone else’s name on the label. Dee had written Scarlet Darling over it in black pen, but you could still see the other writing below.

  ‘It would help you settle in if you could talk,’ said Dee as they got closer. ‘Your social worker thinks you should see the educational psychologist.’

  What was that? But once more, the words were too scared to come out of her mouth.

  When she got to the classroom, everyone stared again.

  ‘Heard you tried to run away,’ said the girl with the pony next to her.

  Scarlet ignored her. Instead, she lifted her desk lid to say hello to Mum.

  ‘I’m sorry I left you here,’ she said silently. ‘But I just wanted to find you.’

  Mum smiled back at her. But something was different. She had something black above her mouth. A moustache. Like the uncle who rode the motorbike.

  ‘It wasn’t me that drew on it,’ said the girl. ‘It was him.’ She pointed a finger at the boy on the left.

  ‘It was only a joke. GET OFF ME. YOU’RE HURTING.’

  Scratch. That’s what Mum had told her to do if she really wanted to hurt someone. And put your fingers in their eyes. It gave you time to run away because they wouldn’t be able to see.

  ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’

  This was the teacher, trying to pull Scarlet away.

  ‘DON’T KICK ME LIKE THAT!’

  Then another teacher came in and held her good arm behind her back. The first one was standing in front of her. ‘Why did you do that, Scarlet?’

  ‘He messed up Mum.’

  The words came out of her mouth without her realizing.

  ‘So you can talk, after all. What do you mean?’

  Tears were pouring down Scarlet’s cheeks now. The words stopped again.

  ‘Kevin drew a moustache on this photograph.’ The girl was pointing to it. ‘That’s when she got upset.’

  ‘It was only a bit of fun. And that picture can’t be her mum, cos she’s blonde and not a darkie.’

  Darkie? She’d been called that before by someone in the street, and Mum had gone mad. Spat at the man and told him to mind his own fucking business.

  ‘K
evin! You know it’s wrong to make racist remarks or mess with someone else’s belongings. It’s also wrong, Scarlet, to be violent towards anyone. I am going to have to call your foster parents.’

  ‘BUT I WANT MY MUM.’ Scarlet lunged at her photograph. ‘GIVE HER BACK.’

  ‘When you’ve apologized,’ said the teacher. ‘Say sorry to Kevin.’

  To the boy who had hurt Mum? No way.

  ‘Then you can’t have your picture. No good crying like that. We operate a zero-tolerance policy towards bullying here. Into my office. Now.’

  Robert seemed almost as sympathetic as Dee.

  Of course, Scarlet told herself, that was a trick to make her like him.

  ‘I can Photoshop that,’ he said when the head teacher gave her back the photograph after he’d had a ‘little word’ with her.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ll use some special photographic techniques to wipe out the moustache. Nice to hear you talking. Maybe it was because you got upset, and the words fought their way out.’ He patted her shoulder as he spoke. Scarlet jumped backwards.

  Dee noticed. She took Scarlet’s hand. Her skin felt soft, but it was a nice soft. Not like Mr W’s. ‘There’s no need to be scared of Robert – or me,’ she said gently. ‘We’re here to help you. That boy is going to get told off too. But you need to write a letter of apology to him. It’s all right. I’ll help you.’

  ‘Would you like me to show you how I can take away the moustache?’ asked Robert. ‘We can go into my dark room in the basement.’

  Scarlet began to shake. What if he touched her?

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Dee. ‘It’s all right, love. In fact, it’s like magic.’

  It was, too! Scarlet watched with amazement as Robert put Mum into a special machine which made her come out as good as new. ‘Are these all your cameras?’ she asked, without meaning to.

  ‘They certainly are,’ said Dee, rolling her eyes. But she said it in a nice voice as though she was pretending to be fed up.

  ‘Tell you what.’ Robert took one down from a high shelf. ‘Would you like one? I can teach you how to take pictures.’

  Dee was nodding. ‘A hobby’s always a good thing.’