by K. L. Slater
Our family home, purchased a couple of years before Zachary’s birth, was a comfortable Victorian villa in Wollaton, a leafy suburb of Nottingham. Four bedrooms, a good-sized lounge with a deep bay window, and we’d had the kitchen extended three years before.
We had a reasonable garden at the back that Owen had loved to tend, and now he was living in a rabbit hutch with small windows and no balcony.
It didn’t take a genius to work out he had to be finding it very tough. It was obvious he was missing being at home but I tried not to think about it.
My breathing felt shallow and inadequate. I couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling our lives were changing by the minute; that I was losing my grasp on the security a normal routine offered. I no longer knew what was going to happen next. This whole nightmare felt like a spider’s web twining thicker and stronger around me with every minute that passed. Soon, I’d have no way of escaping and everything I’d tried to do to build a future for Zachary would crumble away before my eyes.
I sat on a tall stool at the breakfast bar and tried to force myself to take deeper, slower breaths. After a few moments, I picked up my phone and tried the ICU number again but there was still no answer. If only I could see Michelle. I tried to remind myself no matter how bruised and beaten she was, she was still here. She was in the best place.
But what kind of monster would do that to her?
‘Mum?’
I jumped up in my seat. ‘Zachary! What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t want to go to school tomorrow if Aunt Miche isn’t back home.’
Oh no… not this again. Please.
‘No worrying about school today.’ I pulled him closer and slid my arm around him, thinking about the looming prison visit in the morning I couldn’t get out of. He gave a long, deep sigh of pure misery. ‘What’s wrong, sweetie?’
He shrugged. ‘I keep thinking about Aunt Miche being in hospital and Dad living at the flat. Why is everybody leaving us?’
I kissed the top of his head, a weight settling on my chest.
‘People’s circumstances change, Zachary. Our family – you, me, Dad and Aunt Miche – we’re still all here for you, even if things are a little different to how they used to be.’
‘But I liked how things used to be. I didn’t want everything to change.’
I rubbed at my temple. I was getting the mother of all headaches. ‘I understand. Change doesn’t always go our way, but the important thing is that your family love you and we are all here for you. That’s something that will never change, OK?’
He gave me a forlorn nod but didn’t say anything. I gave him a squeeze.
‘Come on, Dad will be here soon and you’ve still got your pyjama bottoms on!’
‘Can I stay off tomorrow, Mum? My tummy already hurts.’
My heart sank, the memories of those dreaded words fresh in my mind again. Today it was a battle I didn’t feel up to fighting.
‘We’ll see how you are in the morning,’ I said non-commitally, busying myself getting eggs out of the fridge.
After the accident he’d suffered from night terrors, waking up exhausted night after night after night. I’d found lots of advice online back then and I tried all the recommended tips: mood lighting, letting him read in bed, talking about how he was feeling. But things got worse when Zachary began to wet the bed regularly, and then started refusing to go to school altogether.
My whole body grew rigid when I thought it all might begin again, provoked by his worrying about Michelle. When he found out someone had hurt her, it might send him back to that dark place. It would be so difficult for me to cope this time without Owen’s support during the night.
I heard Owen’s key in the front door and I rushed into the hall. Zachary got there first, grabbing his father in a tight bear hug.
‘Hey, champ, what’s happening?’
‘Aunt Miche is in hospital,’ he said. ‘We don’t know when she’s coming home.’
‘What?’ Owen looked at me as he held our son close and I nodded to confirm it. He recovered quickly. ‘I’m sure she’ll be OK though, Zach, try not to worry.’ He held our son close. ‘You on the next level of your game yet or do you need the master’s help again?’
I left the two of them bantering and walked back into the kitchen to butter the toast. Owen walked in a few minutes later.
‘He seems a bit hyper,’ he said, picking up half a slice of toast and taking a large bite.
‘Owen, that’s Zachary’s breakfast.’ I moved the plate away from him. ‘He’s had a rough night with his hip. I thought I was going to have to bring him into my bed but he dropped off eventually.’
Owen’s mouth twisted into a strange shape. ‘Sounds so odd, that.’
‘What does?’
‘You saying about Zachary in your bed.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose I still think of it as our bed.’
I looked at him. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’
Owen took Zachary his toast and scrambled eggs and when he came back in we sat on the sofa opposite the French doors with our drinks. There were a few moments of silence and I could feel the weight of what had happened settle squarely between us.
I told him the story of how Zachary and I had slept a bit later and woken to the sound of hammering on the door downstairs.
‘It really unsettled him, Owen,’ I said, biting my lip. ‘After you moving out and now Michelle… I worry he’s going to slide back into his dark place again.’
‘It is a real worry,’ Owen agreed. ‘What’s happened with Michelle?’
‘She was dumped in the woods. Left for dead.’ A small noise came out of my mouth and I covered it with my hand. ‘I can’t think about it. I can’t bear it. Do you think it’s something to do with that man Zachary saw her with?’
Owen closed the gap between us on the sofa and slid his arm around my shoulders. I bristled slightly at his close proximity but I hadn’t the energy to complain about it.
‘Don’t. Don’t torture yourself, Esme, not when you don’t know the facts yet.’ His hand balled into a fist. ‘I can’t believe they told you half a story and then just buggered off again.’
‘They gave me the hospital number, I suppose.’
Owen shook his head. ‘It’s not good enough, just leaving you to it like that. It really isn’t.’
‘I’ve called a few times now but there’s no answer. I know they’re bound to be busy but I feel like driving over there and hammering on the ward door so they have to let me see her,’ I said, even though I knew it was illogical.
‘The only thing that would achieve is getting thrown out by security,’ Owen said, showing me his phone screen. ‘Looks like they don’t open for visits until 1.30 p.m. at the weekend.’
‘I’d just be grateful for an update this morning.’ I chewed at the inside of my cheek too hard and tasted the metal tang of blood. ‘I feel so hopeless. Thinking about Michelle lying in that place without anyone there for her. It’s horrible.’
‘Well, at least we know she’ll be getting the best care where she is,’ Owen said, sipping his coffee. ‘Nothing I say can make you feel better, and I’m sorry for that. I hate to see you suffering like this.’ He looked out of the window at two pigeons squabbling on the grass.
‘Thanks for coming over,’ I said softly. ‘I feel better already talking to you about it.’
‘Anytime. You know that.’ He looked at me over his mug. ‘How much does Zachary know about what’s happened?’
‘Obviously, he was unnerved by the detectives turning up but I managed to persuade him to stay in his bedroom while I spoke to them. When they’d gone I didn’t want to lie, so I told him that his Aunt Miche was in hospital but that she was safe.’
‘And he accepted that?’
‘Sort of. He wanted to know if she’d had an operation and I said they would be doing some tests to find out more.’
‘I suppose it brought back memories for him about the accident.’
I nodded. �
�He wondered if her leg had been crushed by a car, bless him. And then… oh, it doesn’t matter.’
‘And then what?’
‘He asked me why everyone always leaves us. You and Michelle, he meant.’
Owen’s face sagged. ‘That kills me.’
‘I know. I hate that he feels like the people he loves are somehow leaving him. I don’t want him to feel insecure.’
Owen straightened up a bit in his seat. ‘Esme, I wondered if… look, just hear me out, OK?’ I shrugged and watched as he finished his drink and put his mug on the coffee table. I couldn’t be sure what was coming but suddenly my skin felt itchy. ‘What if I stay here for a few days… or at least until Michelle is back home? You’re going to need some help with Zach and I don’t like to think of you coping alone. What do you say?’
‘I… Owen, I don’t know. I don’t want it confusing Zachary about where we stand. It would make it so much harder for him when you have to go back to the flat again.’
‘I’ll make the bed up in the box room so it’s clear I’m not back in our bedroom. No pressure, it’s up to you. But you’re going to need someone to take Zach to school and pick him up at the very least for a few days. You’ll want to be at the hospital quite a bit with Michelle, I’m sure, and if she has got a lot of injuries then it could be a while until she’s home.’
‘Zachary’s already saying he doesn’t want to go to school tomorrow. I thought those days were behind us.’
‘Well, there you go, then. I can persuade him to go tomorrow, I’m sure of it. And if not… well, I’ll stay with him while you visit your friendly murderer.’
He just couldn’t help it! Having a dig in the middle of a crisis. He’d made his feelings about Simone clear from the beginning and he definitely wasn’t on the supporters’ side.
But I thought about how I was going to manage Zachary’s care without Michelle around. It didn’t feel right Owen moving back in but as he said, it might only be for a couple of nights. I’d know more tomorrow when I could get to the hospital. I had the journey to Middlesex to worry about, too. It was really important I did everything I could to minimise the impact on our son, and that realisation decided it. I swallowed down my irritation.
‘Thanks. I think it might be for the best, if you’re sure you’re OK with it.’
His face brightened immediately. ‘Of course I’m good with it! I wouldn’t have offered if not.’ He stood up and clapped his hands together. ‘That’s sorted then. I’ll just get my stuff out of the car.’
‘What stuff?’
He turned back in the doorway. ‘I brought an overnight bag with me. You know, just in case you wanted me to stay.’
I heard the front door open quietly and close again. I walked into the living room to see how Zachary was getting on with his breakfast.
When I glanced out of the window, Owen had parked in Michelle’s spot. As he turned to open the boot, I could swear there was a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Later, I listened to episode three of The Fischer Files again. It was the last of the finished episodes we had produced to date and so I had zero wriggle room in getting the second half of the series recorded.
My planned interviews with Simone had to take place no matter what, or the whole project would fail and my business would collapse.
Twenty-Three
THE FISCHER FILES
EPISODE THREE: LIVING WITH THE ENEMY
I’m speaking to you from outside HMP Bronzefield women’s prison.
It seems that over the years, everyone has formed an opinion on what happened behind closed doors at 331 Marigold Avenue, a smart, detached red-brick house that fits in perfectly with the rest of the street.
But what happened that night eleven years ago sets that family home apart forever from every other house on the avenue.
You can find numerous online articles about the Fischer marriage. Speculation, hearsay and fake sources are rife. If you want the truth, then keep listening, because for the very first time since her conviction, Simone Fischer has exclusively agreed to tell The Speaking Fox the truth about her marriage to Grant Austin Fischer.
This is a Speaking Fox podcast and I… am Esme Fox.
I’m walking towards the prison building and I’m thinking about how I’ve personally read dozens of accounts of the Fischers’ marriage online from various sources, ranging from complimentary work colleagues of Grant Fischer’s to an interview with the Fischers’ cleaner who reported Simone to be constantly ‘annoyingly nervous’.
Today, I’m hoping to speak in detail to Simone herself about the insider’s take on the marriage that split the country. If Grant controlled Simone, then what exactly did he do? Why didn’t she leave him? There must have been a better way than killing him, right? Then there are Simone’s supporters who say that people – often women – can be unaware they’re being manipulated; that coercive control is now a form of abuse and Simone must have felt she had no way out. But Simone must prove that’s what happened and The Fischer Files podcast is a major step in that process.
I’m heading for security.
I’m outside the meeting room now, feeling a little tense.
I used to consider myself a fairly hardened journalist, before my son had his accident. Then something seemed to tip inside me. I speak to people about all sorts of things but somehow, today, I feel like I’m about to invade Simone’s privacy by asking her about her marriage.
You see, she’s never spoken about her marriage in great detail, even in court. Never commented on the numerous opinions and reports out there. I wonder, will she fall back on avoidance tactics when I begin with my questions? Will she decide enough is enough and change her mind about co-operating with the podcast? It’ll be understandable if she does.
She’s smiling at me through the glass door. She looks comfortable, relaxed.
I’m going in there, now. I’m going to find out what it felt like to be Simone Fischer eleven years ago.
Esme: Could you tell me a bit about what Grant was like as a husband, Simone? How other people regarded him, how they saw him interact with you?
Simone: That’s easy. He was a model husband outside the house, the perfect gentleman. He was always one to help out if the neighbours needed a hand. In fact, he’d help anyone, at home or at work. He was even voted Colleague of the Year once by his fellow salesmen, who said about him, and I quote, ‘He’s completely selfless and always willing to share tips and give advice to help others.’
Esme: So, an all-round nice guy, on the face of things at least… what about closer to home, your near neighbours. What did they see of your marriage?
Simone: He’d often chat to our next-door neighbours when he got home from work. Neville was in his seventies and nearly always out in the front garden if the weather was fine. His wife, Cathy, was always pottering around in the greenhouse in all seasons. Grant would come into the house still smiling from their interactions. But as soon as he closed the front door, the smile would literally slide off his face. Like most things in his life, it was all a big act.
Esme: And when you saw that – the smile slide off his face, I mean – you must’ve felt pretty nervous. How did you react when that happened?
Simone: By this stage, I behaved like a kicked dog around Grant and it always seemed to anger him even more. I tried really hard to have everything ready as he liked it when he got home from work, but there was always something that didn’t suit. Always some small detail that would seal my fate for the rest of the evening.
Esme: Seal your fate? That’s quite a strong phrase. What would come of his bad moods?
Simone: It sounds pathetic but you get into routines when you’re married. Our routines though were slightly different to most healthy relationships.
Esme: In what way?
Simone: Gosh, I can feel my face colouring up. It’s… it’s embarrassing.
Esme: I don’t want to force you into talking about anything that makes you really u
ncomfortable, Simone. And we can always edit out if you change your mind about certain details airing. But bear in mind, our listeners want to understand about your case. I think you’ll find most of them have a high level of empathy when they hear the truth and will respect a candid approach.
Simone: That’s what I want… to get it all out in the open. I want people to know what kind of man he really was under the mask. It’s just… embarrassing. With hindsight, I’m mortified I allowed this to happen to me.
Esme: I understand, although there’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, Simone. It’s not easy revisiting this stuff and I know our listeners will appreciate that.
Simone: OK, well, one of our routines was that when Grant got home from work, he’d sit down on the bottom stair and I’d unlace his shoes, and take his jacket and briefcase. Mostly he wouldn’t speak to me at all at this stage. He’d walk into the living room and greet our son, ask him about his day, ruffle his hair or kiss the top of his head. Andrew was so addicted to his computer games anyway, he’d barely notice, always in his own little world.
I’d make Grant a cup of tea and wait in the kitchen until he was ready to come in. Each morning before he left the house he’d tell me what he wanted me to cook from scratch for dinner that evening, but Grant was fond of changing his mind. Say we’d agreed pizza and he announced he fancied lasagne, I had to be ready to rush to the supermarket to get whatever ingredients I’d need.
Esme: And this was every night?
Simone: There wasn’t always a problem with dinner, often it was some other issue. But generally, there was always some kind of problem. Occasionally he’d inspect the kitchen cupboards, wipe his finger over the top edges for dust. Other times, he’d head straight upstairs to make sure I’d made our bed correctly. When he was in the mood, he’d find something – anything – that wasn’t up to scratch and then I’d be punished.
