by Jane Corry
But then it all went wrong. I thought he’d be pleased when I told him that I was the one who had hit you. Hadn’t he said that he’d wished you were dead? He’d clearly encouraged me. But he denied it, saying that I’d killed his baby boy. He insisted we couldn’t risk seeing each other for a bit until it all died down. Then he did what I’d always wanted him to do. He left you. But not for me – for Tanya.
I couldn’t believe it. But David soon realized his mistake. Not long after they got married, he rang to say he missed me. The sex, he said, was ‘boring’. He wanted his ‘bad girl Jackie’. So we went back to our old routine: meeting up every now and then when we could both get away.
This time, I didn’t nag him about commitment. I bided my time. I’d wait for years if necessary.
But then he went missing. I was terrified in case the police linked us and came knocking at my door. And I was scared in case something terrible had happened to him.
When David turned up again at the trial, I was so relieved. I ran up to him outside the court and flung my arms around him. But he pushed me away, declaring he didn’t want anything to do with me. He said he’d changed and that he wanted to go straight now.
I returned to my flat, my heart broken. My fiftieth birthday was approaching, and I still didn’t have anyone. Just the prison, which had become my life. And an ex whom I couldn’t get out of my head.
I’ve tried calling David so many times. But he never answers. And now I know. He just wanted me when I had something he needed.
So this is my final act of revenge. It’s not an apology. I want that man behind bars. And I know you can put him there. Goodbye.
I read the letter over again, still in shock. My friend and colleague. David’s lover. David’s dead ex. My baby’s killer.
And then I reread the first letter from my solicitor. The bit where she tells me that David has been arrested.
64
Helen
2 January 2019
‘Do you work here?’ asks the scared-looking kid with a torn brown rucksack on her back.
‘Yes.’ That’s right, I sing inside my head. I’ve got a job in a hostel where I once scrubbed the shit off the walls. It’s a bit cleaner now, though. New management. They were looking for staff and they didn’t seem to mind at the interview when I told them I was a single mother. The most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me! Now I’m in charge of kids like this one.
‘May I help you?’ I continue out loud.
She shifts nervously from foot to foot, eyeing the baby in my arms. (I’d just been feeding her. My daughter’s appetite is, it seems, insatiable.) ‘I need somewhere to stay. Social Services suggested I came here.’
‘Is this the first time you’ve been away from home?’ I ask gently.
The girl shakes her head. ‘Been in care all my life. My mum – she’s in prison. My last foster family was OK but then they had to move.’ She takes in the brightly coloured walls and the lively noticeboard which I’ve been rearranging. ‘There’s table tennis?’
‘That’s right. You’ll like it here. Just keep your head down and don’t do anything wrong.’
‘I’m not like that.’ She looks at the noticeboard again. ‘Cool pictures.’
‘I took them myself.’ I try to sound casual. ‘In fact, I’ve won a few competitions.’
‘Wow! I’ve always wanted to take photographs.’
I get a sudden flashback of Robert, my foster father, donating his old camera and showing me how it worked. Taking pictures had somehow made all my anxieties melt away. I contacted them a few months ago to apologize for everything. Dee wrote back saying all was forgiven, but that Robert had been ill and it might be better if we didn’t see each other for a while. Maybe this is my chance to go some way towards making up for my terrible behaviour.
‘I can teach you, if you like,’ I tell the girl in front of me.
‘Wow! Thanks.’
And for the first time in a long while, I begin to feel there might, after all, be a decent way forward.
Later on, one of the hostel kids knocks on my office door. I’m knee-deep in paperwork. ‘There’s someone to see you.’
My heart does a little flip. I’ve never been able to stop wondering where my grandparents are or even if they are still alive. Soon after getting this job, I’d saved enough money to place some ‘Looking For’ personal ads in the local paper (Mum had finally revealed the name of the small Welsh village where she’d been brought up). But there’d been no response. Even so, I can’t help a burst of hope every time someone rings and asks for me.
‘Says her name is Vicki Goudman.’
Shit. How has she tracked me down?
‘Tell her I’m busy,’ I say sharply, looking down at my paperwork again.
‘Please. It won’t take a minute.’
It’s her! Standing at my door. There’s no getting out of it.
‘It’s taken me a long time to find you.’ She seems to be studying my face. ‘I thought you seemed familiar that time by the sea in Penzance. I could see your mother in you.’ She shakes her head, almost as if speaking to herself. ‘I knew something had upset me. I just couldn’t remember what.’
My heart sinks. ‘You’d better come in.’
Already I’m cursing my decision. But part of me can’t help being curious. ‘What do you want? How did you find me?’
She ignores the first question and goes for the second. ‘Online, actually. Your name came up under the hostel. Deputy warden, I believe.’
I can’t help the note of pride that creeps into my voice. ‘I was promoted recently.’
As I speak, there is a high-pitched cry. I’d been hoping she wouldn’t see. But now her eyes are riveted on the Moses basket on the floor by my desk. I pick up my daughter, holding her against my chest and patting her gently. Mum had been right. Even though I’d been terrified about how we’d manage, and despite the fact that I loathed her father, the loving bit just came naturally.
‘What have you called it?’ she asks with a note of wonder in her voice.
‘It’s a she,’ I correct her. ‘Her name is Hope.’ I give a short laugh. ‘It seemed fitting.’
Mum’s old enemy has tears in her eyes. ‘That was one of the names on our list.’ She appears to struggle for a moment, trying to compose herself. ‘You bring her with you to work?’
‘I want my daughter near me, and anyway I can’t afford child care.’
‘Actually, that’s why I want to talk to you.’ Her fingers are twisting themselves together in a cat’s cradle as though she’s nervous. ‘I’m aware that I was convinced your mother had attacked me, not just from the ball in her room but because of her earlier behaviour. That was wrong of me.’
I think back to last week’s prison visit. Hope and I see Mum every Sunday. I owe that much to her. ‘You’re right, so why the hell are you here?’
‘Has my ex-husband offered to help you out?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ I snap.
There’s a nod. ‘You’re right. The thing is, we’ve all done things we shouldn’t have. And that’s why I’d like to offer you a monthly allowance, or an annual one, if you’d prefer that.’
What? ‘You think you can buy me off to ease your own conscience?’ I stand up, facing Vicki head on. ‘I don’t want your money. I’m not going to pursue David for it either because I don’t want him in our lives. I’ve got a regular job with accommodation. We’ll manage, my daughter and I. We’re a team.’
For a minute I think of the photograph again and the ‘Looking For’ ads. It would have been nice to have found my grandparents. But maybe I have to accept that a resolution like that only happens in fairy tales. At least Hope is real.
‘I see.’ Vicki Goudman flushes. ‘Of course. I … I just thought I’d ask. I’m sorry I’ve offended you.’
To my relief, she turns to go. But at the doorway, she stops. ‘Good luck with your baby. Something tells me you’re going to be a great mother.�
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And then she finally goes, leaving just a faint scent of lavender in the room.
65
Vicki
24 January 2019
David is in Dartmoor prison. It’s spooky. You have to go for miles through the moor past wild ponies and stony tors. Then suddenly you come to this scary stone castle-like building with a sign on the arch that reads ‘Parcere Subjectis’. Apparently, it’s Latin for ‘Spare the vanquished’. In other words, be kind to prisoners. Does David really deserve that, I wonder.
I follow the officer down stone steps and feel my blood chill. You can sense the ghosts: men who’d been brought here over the years since Napoleonic times.
And now my ex-husband is one of them. It didn’t take the jury long to convict him of his role in my attempted murder. He might not have instructed Jackie to do it but he’d finally admitted to telling her that he wished I was dead.
The visitors’ room is surprisingly pleasant, with modern chairs and tables. To be honest, I was amazed that my ex agreed to see me. But now here he is, being brought in by an officer. He looks like his old charming self. Somehow he actually manages to suit the serge prison uniform.
‘Vicki,’ he says, stretching out a hand as if we are old friends. I am taken aback. There’s no sign of remorse. No guilt. We could almost be friends, meeting up at a cocktail party.
‘No touching,’ snaps a prison officer. Too late. The feel of my ex’s flesh makes my stomach contents curdle. Quickly, I step away.
‘Only trying to be civilized,’ says David. He looks around at the other men and for a minute I see the fear in his eyes. ‘I like to keep up my standards in a place like this.’
If he’s expecting polite conversation, he can forget it.
‘Do you know why I’m here?’
He spreads his hands in a you tell me way.
Tears fill my eyes. ‘I have to know how you could have caused the death of our child. You loved it. You wanted to be a father.’
I need to face him. See the man who took away my son. Our son.
He leans towards me over the table. His face is now deadly serious. ‘I did want to be a father, believe it or not.’
‘Because you thought it would add to your credibility?’
‘No. Not just that.’
A haunted expression comes into his eyes. ‘I thought it would be a chance to start again. Get it right this time. Be there at the beginning. I didn’t tell Jackie to attack you.’
‘Don’t.’ I feel my voice rising and have to fight to keep it down or else they might make me leave. ‘Jackie was wrong, but you said you wished I was dead.’
‘Look, Vicki.’ That charm has gone now. His eyes are hard. His voice tough. ‘It’s your fault for not being a loyal wife. If you’d helped me out of that sticky financial patch I was going through, none of this would have happened.’
‘You really mean that, don’t you?’ Tears are running down my face. ‘You’re a bastard, David. You’re not just evil. You’re selfish. Look what you’ve done to me.’
‘And look what you did to Zelda Darling! You were so convinced it was her who attacked you that you didn’t consider the possibility of it being anyone else.’
He was right. Innocent until proved guilty. Isn’t that what our justice system is all about? Yet I had based my own suspicions on circumstantial evidence.
There is no excuse.
Little Patrick will always stay alive in my heart, I tell myself as I sign out. But at least I am over David. I am finally free.
66
Vicki
Three years later
‘They’re here,’ says Patrick, putting his arm around me as we go out to greet them.
I can hardly believe it! We’ve been waiting so long for this day.
Everything is ready. The bedroom upstairs that I’ve decorated with such care. The desk so she can do her homework. The school uniform, which I hope will fit.
When Patrick had first suggested long-term fostering, I’d assumed I wouldn’t be suitable because of my epilepsy. But that new drug has worked better than anything else I’ve tried.
Patrick found me soon after that last time I saw David, and we got married the year after that. As he said, we’d wasted enough time. He fell in love with Penzance too, so we bought a cottage on the outskirts so that I could continue as an aromatherapist. He found a post as a psychologist at a hospital not far from here. But now we are about to change our lives all over again.
‘It will be all right,’ says Patrick, sensing my nervousness.
I lean into his shoulder and breathe him in. ‘What if I’m not good at this?’
‘You will be. All she needs is a loving home and some structure. We can do that.’
Together we walk towards the car. The social worker – whom we’ve met before – gets out of the driving seat. It looks as though the little girl with dark plaits wants to stay put. Poor kid. She must be terrified, after everything she’s been through.
‘Hello,’ I say, crouching down by her open window. ‘My name’s Vicki. You’re Rhiannon, aren’t you?’
She nods, her large brown eyes a pool of fear.
‘We’ve got chickens in the back,’ I say. ‘Would you like to help me feed them? We could collect some eggs for tea.’
And slowly, very slowly, she opens the door, gets out and places her small, warm hand in mine.
Postscript
There’s just one more thing. I need to let it out or I will burst. So I’m going to write it down instead. My very last diary entry. Then I’m going to burn it before anyone can read it. I’ve learned my lesson about putting pen to paper.
Lavender is absorbed through the skin and into the bloodstream. So are other essential oils. Once inside the body, they can’t be got out. My tutor told us this on more than one occasion.
I love aromatherapy. Its magic is both stimulating and calming at the same time. Yet if used in the wrong way, the effects can be catastrophic. My tutor was very clear about the safety aspects and contradictions. She taught us which oils can aggravate certain health conditions. And not just epilepsy. (It’s why I have to avoid sweet fennel, which, I’ve been told, can cause seizures.)
Before I went to visit Tanya on the day she died, I had massaged my hands well with oil. Always good for the nails and your skin. But that isn’t why I did it. David’s wife had a permanent tan, courtesy of the sunbed she’d installed in my old house. I knew that because she boasted about it on Facebook. But the special citrus oil which I’d blended myself and put on my hands just before seeing Tanya can cause allergic reactions to UV light. It can make skin blister and result in discolouration. It can also make you burn more easily. Especially if it’s undiluted.
I didn’t mean any harm. Well, not long-lasting. I just wanted to do something that might make Tanya feel uncomfortable and less attractive. I wasn’t even sure it would work because it normally only reacts in the sunlight or when you are actually on a sunbed. How lucky for me that this is exactly what she was doing when I visited! Even better, it was a warm sunny day – unseasonably so for that time of year. That’s why I’d grabbed both her arms when I arrived. It worked faster than I thought. Within minutes, they had turned blotchy. Maybe painful. Did it affect her so much that she couldn’t defend herself when Zelda attacked her?
The autopsy didn’t mention it. I suppose an allergic reaction doesn’t matter much when someone’s been strangled. But what if one day it somehow comes to light? I’ve tried to tell myself that this is just my guilty conscience talking. But the truth is that I really don’t know.
Meanwhile, I’ve kept quiet, convinced that the police will come knocking on my door, just as they did on that cold windy February night, to charge me with complicity in her murder.
But they haven’t.
Not yet.
Acknowledgements
Behind every writer, there is always a team of supporters. I am indebted to the following:
Kate Hordern, my amazing agent.
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Katy Loftus, my exceptionally talented editor at Penguin, who always ‘gets my characters’ and has a great eye for plot structure.
Her assistant Rosanna Forte, with her insightful input.
Everyone at Penguin who has helped to put The Dead Ex together.
Rose Poole and Hannah Ludbrook, for their tireless work on the campaign and the amazing energy and ideas they bring. Also Sarah Scarlett and her team, for her incredible worldwide deals, and my copy editor, Trevor Horwood.
The DeadGood team, for their belief in my books from the beginning.
The Pageturners team, for helping my books reach a whole new audience.
The amazing army of bloggers, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram friends. You have sent me some wonderful messages that have lit up my days. Forgive me if I press the wrong buttons sometimes. I’m still getting to grips with the nuances of social media!
The authors who have kindly given me quotes.
Gail Lowe, clinical aromatherapist and tutor at Devon Academy of Complementary Therapies www.devonacademy.co.uk. Her deft touch on the treatment couch gave me inspiration for the plot. Thank you for letting me talk to you about this fascinating subject. Any mistakes are (unintentionally) my own.
Several prison sources, whom I interviewed for research, including Sue Weedon and her partner Bob, as well as Greg.
Deborah Pullen, communications director of Epilepsy Research UK (020 8747 5024; www.epilepsyresearch.org.uk).
Several men and women who were kind enough to share their experiences of epilepsy.
Colin Grant, author of A Smell of Burning: A Memoir of Epilepsy, published by Vintage.
Richard Gibson, a retired judge who was so generous with his time when advising me on court procedure. There may be instances when liberties have been taken with certain legal and police procedures for the purposes of the plot.
