Clear My Name

by Paula Daly

  ‘But this is your wife we’re talking about. You really never once thought to question that Carrie might be innocent? You didn’t question it, not even for the sake of your daughter?’

  At this Pete sighs wearily. He drops his arms down and seems to drop weaponry at the same time. ‘That’s the one thing I would change in all of this if I could.’

  ‘Mia?’ asks Tess.

  He nods.

  ‘I’m told you’re not in touch with her.’

  ‘She won’t speak to me,’ he says. ‘I keep trying to be in her life but …’ He makes a helpless gesture. ‘She’s completely shut me out.’

  ‘That must be very hard.’

  ‘She’s my only child and it’s not like I’m going to have any more. Obviously, it’s all down to Carrie,’ he says resignedly. ‘If she wasn’t so intent on poisoning Mia against me, I might have a chance. As it stands, Mia won’t have anything to do with me. I’ll keep trying, because that’s what you do, isn’t it, when you’re a parent? You never give up.’

  Pete looks out of the window, his brow furrowed, before pulling down the lower lid of his right eye and making as though he’s removing a lash caught next to the jelly of the eye. Is this a show? Tess wonders fleetingly. A demonstration of his heartache?

  Not having the measure of the man yet, she can’t tell.

  She decides to move things along. ‘When we spoke to Carrie recently she seemed quite adamant that she had no problem at all with your relationship with Ella.’

  ‘She would say that.’

  ‘Would she?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you say that, if you were in her position?’

  ‘Are you saying she absolutely did have a problem with Ella? Because Carrie states that she was used to you seeing other women. She states Ella was no different.’

  ‘Well, she went round there, didn’t she?’

  ‘To ask Ella to be more discreet. She felt the two of you were being too open with your relationship.’

  Pete doesn’t answer straight away. He just looks at Tess as if to say she’s being a bit of an idiot by believing all of Carrie’s lies. When he does finally speak he says this: ‘Carrie had two issues with Ella. One, she thought Ella was too lower class, a bit rough. Not that I cared, but Ella was brought up in a council house, and for some reason – you’ll have to ask her why – it irked Carrie that I was running around with a girl like that. Her other issue was that she couldn’t stand to see me happy. So Carrie went around to Ella’s house and she threatened her. She told her if she didn’t stay away from me, she’d kill her. You don’t believe me? Go and ask Carrie.’

  As they drive away, Avril is shaking her head. ‘Bloody hell,’ she says, ‘it’s as if he’s making out like those women were fighting over him.’

  ‘That’s the way he sees it.’

  ‘He seems like a bit of a dick,’ says Avril.

  ‘He is a bit of a dick,’ replies Tess. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’s lying.’

  Avril thinks about this. After a moment, she says, ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s something personal.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You don’t have to answer, not if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Well, how about you give me the question?’

  ‘OK,’ Avril says, ‘why is it that you don’t have a proper relationship with Clive?’

  This throws Tess for a second. ‘I don’t have a proper relationship with Clive, as you put it, because Clive is married.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that, but how come you’re OK with that? I mean, most women would want more. I think Ella probably wanted more, don’t you? She didn’t want to be the other woman for ever.’

  Tess nods, seeing her point.

  ‘I’d say most women would want what I’ve got,’ continues Avril. ‘They want to wake up with a partner. They want to feel supported. They want to share their lives with the person they love. Why don’t you want that?’

  ‘Is that your question?’

  ‘Yes. If it’s not too personal a thing for you to talk about. Because you seem like a really nice person. And you seem like you have your head screwed on, and your life together. And, you know, you’re great at your job and stuff, and you’re clever. And I actually think you’re still really pretty, so I don’t get it.’

  ‘It’s just not my thing.’

  ‘Really?’ asks Avril.

  Tess shrugs.

  ‘You really don’t want to be loved?’

  And Tess laughs. ‘Maybe I don’t deserve to be loved.’

  At this, Avril looks at Tess as though she may have lost her head entirely. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Avril says dismissively. ‘Everyone deserves to be loved.’

  ‘Do they?’

  Now

  TESS IS ASLEEP.

  She’s dreaming. It’s the same dream she has every night. Always the same – whereby she relives a pivotal moment of her life over and over.

  She’s learning to drive and the day is hot. Tess can feel the heat pressing down on her, feel the humidity in the air making it hard to breathe. Tess’s mother is in the passenger seat and she is beautiful. Still only in her thirty-eighth year, Angela is wearing cut-offs, a clingy vest top without a bra, and thong sandals with leather ankle straps that make her legs look long and lean. Tess’s mother’s hair is streaked blonde from the sun and she has pretty laughter lines around her eyes. She has her feet up on the dashboard and a cigarette in her hand and Tess knows, knows without a doubt, that she’ll never be as beautiful as her mother.

  Tess drives along the promenade. She has her eyes fixed front and her hands glued to the wheel. If she were to take her eyes away from the road for just one second, if she were to glance north-west, Tess would see that the Lake District fells are looking particularly splendid this afternoon, appearing pink in the midday sun. But Tess does not do this. She does not glance northwestwards. Instead, Tess grips the wheel even more tightly as she checks her rear-view mirror, where she sees a long line of cars is beginning to form behind her.

  Tess is already a nervous driver and this makes things worse. She doesn’t want to hold the drivers up but she is frightened to increase her speed. Really, she should have the courage to let go, she should press on the accelerator and allow the people behind to get on with their day. She’s been learning to drive for three weeks already and this resistance to speed is getting embarrassing.

  So, she goes for it. She makes herself do it. She presses on the gas a little, a little more even, and just as she’s starting to pull away, astonishingly, she hears the clunk-click of her mother’s seatbelt, and, seemingly out of nowhere, her mother is clambering between the seats, trying to reach something in the back of the car.

  ‘What are you doing? What the hell’s wrong with you?’ yells Tess.

  Angela is laughing. ‘I need a mint. Do you want one?’

  ‘No, I don’t want one. Of course I don’t want one. Can’t you see I can’t drive and eat at the same time?’

  Tess is rattled by her mother’s brazen disregard for basic safety as Angela continues to laugh and so she focuses more intently on the road. And it’s a good job really because up ahead a toddler has broken free from his mother’s grasp and is running. He is running and running. His chubby legs carry him across the promenade towards the Winter Gardens and his expression is set. He’s a determined little fucker, Tess is thinking, as his arms pump hard, and his legs carry him faster, faster, towards the road, and Tess realizes that if she hadn’t seen him he would most likely be pulled beneath her wheels, and she would be destroyed by this incident and would never drive again.

  But she does see him. And whatever it is, instinct, or some deeply buried aptitude that makes Tess a preserver of life, forces her right foot across on to the brake, whilst fractions of a second later she depresses the clutch, and the car stops dead. Without her seatbelt on though, her mother is thrown hard against the dashboard, but is, astonishingly, left unharmed.


  In the split seconds afterwards, Tess and Angela share a look of stupefied relief. The child is OK. They’re OK. Tess did it. She stopped the car. How the hell did that happen? Her mother even gives out another small laugh. ‘My girl,’ she says, and goes to squeeze Tess’s arm. ‘You are a bloody great driver!’ she declares, just as they are slammed from behind.

  This time Angela will not bounce back from the dashboard and smile at her daughter. She will not say, ‘My girl.’ Instead, she will stare at Tess, no life at all behind her eyes. And Tess will hear, not her mother’s voice, but a high-pitched keening sound. A sound that will remain even when they pull her mother’s body from the car. Even when, a week later, they lay her in the ground.

  Tess wakes from the dream and shoots upright in bed. She’s aware she’s been dreaming. The same dream. Unusually for her though, this time she wakes and she is covered in sweat. Her bedclothes are soaked right the way through and her heart is pounding as if it might break free from her chest. Tess tries to calm herself. She inhales deeply and as she does her mother’s lovely face fills her vision. ‘My girl,’ she says to Tess. ‘I love you. I miss you.’

  This is not what happens.

  This is not what happens when Tess wakes. Ordinarily, when the dream is over, her mother’s face disappears and Tess will not be able to conjure it without looking at a photograph. Ordinarily she only sees her mother in her dreams.

  Tess scrambles from the bed. She flicks on the light and immediately she’s blinded and has to feel her way around the room until her eyes adjust. She’s filled with an urgency. An urgency to find her handbag. She needs it; she must have it.

  Tess squints, allowing a small amount of light to enter between her eyelids, while at the same time using the toe of her right foot to poke and prod the floor, exploring as she goes.

  She discovers the bag wedged partially between the bedside table and a potted plant and she empties the entire contents on the floor. There’s a year’s worth of crap inside. Squatting down, she opens her eyes just as much as she can bear while scavenging through the rubbish until she finds the letter.

  The letter.

  Why must she read the letter now? She isn’t entirely sure, and yet, after many years, after many letters, she is compelled to do so. Could it have been Avril’s words, spoken to Tess today:You really don’t want to be loved? Could Avril’s words have triggered something?

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Tess holds the letter with both hands. She cradles it. It seems too beautiful to open. But she does open it. And she begins to read:

  I wish I knew your name.

  Whenever I write to you, I toy with the idea of writing ‘Dear Mum’. But I wonder if that might scare you off for ever?

  Tess winces. Forces herself to read on:

  Do you read these letters? I don’t think you do. I expect you’ve never read one. Sometimes I fantasize about putting in a code word, and I’ll be – I don’t know – standing at the checkout, in the queue at the bank, and you’ll whisper it from behind. And I won’t even turn around, but I’ll know you’re there and that you’ve been looking out for me. That you love me.

  Stupid, I know. Stupid, because I know you don’t read what I write or you’d have made contact already, and it’s clear to me you don’t want to do that. And stupid, because you’ve no idea what I look like.

  I’ve enclosed a picture of myself this time. Just in case you feel differently. But I know I’m wasting my time. You don’t want me. Can you imagine what that feels like? Can you?

  Anyway, the picture – do I look like you? I’ve always wondered …

  Tess picks up the envelope and takes out the photograph. The girl is fresh-faced with clear skin and bright, bright eyes. Her hair is fashioned into a distinctive Heidi braid: two plaits pinned across the top of her head, and she looks a lot like Tess. Her own daughter looks a lot like her and for some reason this comes as a complete surprise.

  I need to tell you something. It’s sad. I’m still very sad.

  My beautiful mother, Marianne, who I know you never met, lost her battle with cancer in September and

  Tess folds the letter in half abruptly.

  This must have been what Bill Menzies meant when he told her there had been some developments. Things had changed. Why the hell didn’t he tell Tess her daughter’s adoptive mother had died?

  Tess slides the letter back inside the envelope along with the picture. She cannot read on.

  She turns off the light and crawls back between the sheets.

  They’re damp and cold and feel like punishment.

  Now

  APART FROM THE caravan park, it is perhaps Morecambe’s most depressed residential area. Windows are boarded up. Cars are on bricks. Children too young to be unaccompanied play alone in the street. Tess spots a lone toddler waddling along the pavement, wearing a nappy that’s long needed changing. It’s hanging low between his knees, the weight of the urine pulling it down.

  As they drive, Tess is checking house numbers, but they don’t seem to follow any logical order. Most, in fact, don’t display a number at all, so she’s making slow progress.

  ‘And then William finally tells me that he prefers it if I don’t shave my legs in the bath,’ Avril says. ‘And I’m like, how long have you been keeping that piece of information to yourself?’ If Avril is aware Tess is trying to concentrate, she’s not showing it. She’s prattling on, relentless as always. She’s supposed to be taking more of a lead. That’s what they’ve discussed. Avril is here to learn how to do the job, so she needs to start doing the job.

  Tess decides she’s going the wrong way so she executes not a particularly good three-point turn in the road. She touches the kerb twice. Is that an automatic fail? she ponders. She’d never pass her driving test today.

  ‘But I do think sometimes we’re just too compatible,’ Avril continues on, unabated. ‘Does that make sense? Like it’s one thing finishing each other’s sentences, but I wonder if when you know what the other person’s thinking most of the time, I wonder, is that actually a good thing?’

  Tess has no idea if she’s even on the right road now and she wishes Avril would just shut up or else talk about someone other than William as she tries to figure out where she is. Eventually, she loses her temper and snaps, ‘Does it always have to be about William? Don’t you have an y friends?’

  And Avril glares back at her. ‘Don’t you?’

  Another ten minutes of toing and froing and Tess eventually finds number 35 Coronation Drive. She finds a parking space a little further along where a man is working beneath the bonnet of his car. As they climb out, he raises his can of Tennent’s Extra at Avril and eyes her legs. ‘I like fat girls,’ he tells Avril appreciatively, and Tess tells him to fuck off.

  ‘You’re sure you’re still OK to take the lead?’ she asks Avril as they approach the pathway to the house. The front garden is mostly weeds with some white plastic furniture, blackened with mildew, upended and scattered about.

  ‘I’m sure,’ replies Avril brightly.

  But Tess can hear the quaver in her voice. ‘Do you want me to run through the introduction one more time?’

  ‘No, I’ve got it.’ Then Avril swallows and smooths down her skirt in readiness.

  Tess knocks on the door and steps back a little behind Avril so they don’t look like a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses. The door is opened by a stringy-looking guy in his late twenties. He doesn’t say hello, just eyes them suspiciously from beneath his baseball cap. Avril clears her throat. ‘Good afternoon. Is Mrs Muir at home?’

  The man turns; he yells, ‘Mam!’ over his shoulder, before disappearing inside. A dog barks from within. A small toy thing, Tess supposes, from the pitch of its yaps. Avril smooths down her skirt again and Tess has the urge to step forward and take over, before reminding herself that Avril is more than capable of doing this. And she has to start some time.

  A fierce, pit bull-like woman in her fifties appears. She’s around four feet ten
inches, and is almost as round as she is tall. She wears a cleaning overall and is lighting a king-size cigarette. This is Ella Muir’s mother: Tess recognizes her from the TV footage of Carrie’s trial. Ella must have got her looks from her father.

  ‘Mrs Muir?’ Avril asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mrs Muir, I’m Avril Hughes. We’re from the charity Innocence UK, and we’re looking into an alleged miscarriage of justice that involves your daughter’s case.’

  This seems to pique Ella’s mum’s interest. Her name is Sandra. Tess knows this from the case files. ‘Our Ella?’ she asks.

  ‘That’s right,’ replies Avril.

  Sandra frowns. She takes a drag on her cigarette and waves it around in a gesture of go on.

  ‘Well,’ says Avril, gaining in confidence, ‘it’s possible that evidence presented by the prosecution in court against Carrie Kamara—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Carrie Kamara.’

  ‘Hang on. You’re working for the woman who killed Ella?’

  Avril hesitates. ‘Yes,’ she says quietly. ‘But I’d really like to explain wh—’

  Sandra switches her cigarette to her left hand before drawing back her right arm. Her face is without emotion as she throws a hard punch. A punch straight at Avril’s face.

  Avril is knocked to the ground.

  And Tess rushes to her side.

  The front door is slammed shut.

  The Royal Lancaster Infirmary is four miles from Morecambe. Morecambe itself is too small to warrant an A & E department so Tess drives, with Avril whimpering quietly, holding against her nose a wad of tissues which Tess keeps in the car specifically for hay fever season. Tess does her best to avoid potholes and drives carefully, as someone might with a newborn in the car.

  ‘You get checked in and I’ll find somewhere to park,’ she tells Avril when they arrive. Tess should’ve talked to Ella’s mother herself. She has a sixth sense for impending violence and she knows when to duck. Stupid of her to allow Avril to make the introduction. What had she been thinking? But Avril had insisted she wanted to take the lead, had persuaded Tess when Tess had aired doubts, and so now here they are.