by cass green
After showering and getting dressed, I eat breakfast in front of the telly. But I don’t really take in what’s on the screen. I’m staring at the female news anchor, with her sharply cut hair and professional smile.
Then the content of what she is saying begins to filter through my consciousness. It’s a story about a woman being murdered by her ex-boyfriend as she walked home from work one night. Her fresh, pretty smile shines out from the screen and I feel a chill at the thought that she never managed to be free of this man.
I start thinking about all the things that Angel told me about her childhood. If it’s true that Quinn is an abuser like this, then it is unlikely it was only that once. What does that mean for Zach?
The spoonful of cereal slows on its journey to my mouth and my heart beats a little harder. I have to know, you see. I have to. I think of that tiny boy, who will never remember his mother, and the sadness inside me, which I think I’ve been carrying ever since Ian left, feels different. Like the soft bruises are finally hardening. Scar tissue is forming and I’m angry now, determined.
I try ringing the number I find online for Channel 4 first.
After being kept on hold for a while and then transferred twice, I’m told that Marina Goldman has just gone on maternity leave.
The disappointment cuts deep.
I sit back on the sofa and sigh. What now?
Then I get thinking. I bet someone like her keeps an eye on her work emails.
It’s surprisingly easy to work out her email address. I find out online that ITN controls Channel 4 News and that the email addresses are first [email protected].
I write:
Dear Marina,
You don’t know me but I am the woman who was held hostage with Nick Quinn’s baby. You might have seen it on the news.
I know this is out of the blue and a strange request, but I wondered if I could talk to you.
You can reply here or call me on 07700 900789.
I really hope you will be able to reply.
All very best,
Nina Bailey
I feel a surge of adrenaline that isn’t unpleasant once I’ve hit send. Then I sit back, wondering what to do next.
Again, I ask myself what I am hoping to achieve.
When my mobile rings with an unknown number about five minutes later, I stare at it as though it has just caught fire, heart hammering in my chest. It can’t possibly be her. It’s probably someone claiming I’ve had a car accident in the last few weeks or offering to sort out my PPI.
I answer and a clipped, well-spoken female voice says, ‘My name is Marina Goldman. You sent me an email just now.’
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Gosh, yes, I did.’
There is a brief pause and then, very coolly, she says, ‘And how is it that I can help you?’
I feel as though she is a grown-up and I am a silly teenager, even though I think I’m probably a decade older than her. I don’t know where to start, so I decide to get to the point.
‘Look, Ms Goldman,’ I say tentatively, ‘I’m very sorry to contact you out of the blue like this, but as I said in my message, I’m the person who got caught up in that whole thing that happened with Nick Quinn recently … the, um, murder of his wife, and the kidnap of his son, Zach.’
Silence.
‘Did …’ I falter, ‘did you see that?’
There’s another pause then, ‘Naturally. I work in the news.’ Then she adds, in a stilted tone, ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that, but I’m still not sure why you are contacting me?’
I take a deep breath. I’ve got this far; I may as well see it through.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘the thing is, Ms Goldman, er, Marina, I believe you used to be together with Nick Quinn. At one time, I mean.’
I never knew silence could have such an Arctic chill. After what seems like a very long time she says, ‘Look, that really was a long time ago. I don’t see what it has to do with anything.’
‘But it might,’ I say quickly. ‘Because that night, Angel … Did you know about Angel?’
‘No,’ she says crisply, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Not until I read about her and the man, her brother. Ni— he never talked about that time in his life.’
‘The thing is,’ I say, desperate to get this out before she – quite understandably – hangs up on me. ‘Angel told me things about Quinn. About terrible cruelty from him when she lived with him. Said he effectively killed their mother. Drove her to suicide by breaking her down and bullying her.’
I hear a sucking-in of breath on the other end of the phone and she says, ‘I really don’t think I can …’ but I rush onwards; suddenly terrified she will hang up on me.
‘Please, Ms Goldman,’ I say. ‘Please listen. Angel thinks it was Quinn who murdered Alice,’ I say, ‘and her brother was only trying to get the baby away, through, I don’t know, some kind of saviour complex.’ This all comes out in one long breath.
There’s another pause before she speaks. Her voice sounds thick now and I wonder whether she might actually be holding back tears.
‘And did you tell the police this?’
‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘I tried to. But I’m not sure how much they took that on board. I mean, oh God,’ I sigh, ‘I don’t even know if I believe it myself!’
This time the pause drags on even longer and I’m about to say, ‘Marina? Are you there?’ when she speaks again.
‘Look,’ she says, her voice almost inaudible. ‘Nina. I am having a baby in three weeks. I have a loving partner, a beautiful home, a career … I’m a very lucky woman. I don’t want to re-visit the past.’
‘No, no,’ I say hurriedly, ‘I completely get that. Of course. But I’m frightened that a huge injustice may be about to happen or something. Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really know why I contacted you. I’m sorry.’
I run out of steam and, as the adrenaline leaves my body, a tired lethargy comes in its wake.
I sit down at the table, feeling old.
There is a silence on the other end and then Marina Goldman speaks again.
‘When I saw that story on the news,’ she says, ‘I …’ she pauses, ‘I wondered whether there was something more to it. It took me back to a very dark time in my life. Nick Quinn is two things above all else. He is a very, very bad person, but he is also one of the cleverest men I have ever met. He can manipulate the people around him until they start to doubt their own sanity.’
‘Right,’ I say, heart beginning to beat harder again. I don’t really know what to say to this.
‘But I managed to escape him once,’ she continues. ‘And I cannot be sucked into his orbit in any way again. Do you understand? There’s nothing I can do for you here.’
‘Oh,’ I say, shocked. ‘I don’t think I’m asking you to do anything. I mean, all I want to know is … well, do you think it’s possible Angel was telling me the truth?’
I can hear her fast breathing now down the line and for a second I imagine that I am sending her into labour with this. I’d never forgive myself.
‘Marina?’ I say a little too sharply. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes,’ she says in a barely audible voice. ‘I mean, yes – I can believe that might be the truth.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘God …’
‘But I don’t want you to contact me again, alright?’ she adds in a rush. ‘I’m not getting involved in any way. Please. I just can’t …’
‘Marina?’ I say. But the line is dead.
I sit there for several moments when I come off the phone, trying to absorb what I have just heard.
So many emotions are fighting for dominance inside me, I feel almost dizzy with them. There’s a strange exhilaration – a triumph, almost – that my amateur detective work online actually helped me to find out valuable information. But pitched against that is another, more complex worry.
Now I have this information, what exactly should I do about it?
I sit there for a few moments, stari
ng down at the phone in my hand.
Marina Goldman seems quite clear that Angel may not be lying. But her refusal to go on the record feels absolute and just because Quinn is a domestic abuser, it doesn’t mean he is a murderer, does it?
Am I really any further forward?
I groan and drop the phone onto the table. It immediately buzzes with a message and I jump, before snatching it up, suddenly sure, illogically, that it is Marina Goldman.
It’s a WhatsApp from Ian.
I sigh.
You home?
I hesitate, then reply, Yes. Why?
Coming over. Be there in fifteen.
My hastily tapped reply, What mean??? Surely in France? doesn’t show the blue ticks that signify he has read it.
I don’t want to see Ian but the thought of seeing my boy makes my heart swell in my chest. Sam’s home!
Joy suffuses me as I race round trying to tidy up the kitchen, shoving newspapers that have been piling up into the recycling bin, and dumping the cups and plates into the dishwasher. Sam won’t care, but I don’t want Ian judging me … thinking I’ve fallen to pieces because I’ve been on my own.
I hope she isn’t coming too – Laura. I look awful …
I’m hurriedly slicking on mascara and fluffing out my hair, clean, thank goodness, when the doorbell goes.
I do a quick teeth-check in the mirror and try to stop myself from shaking by breathing deeply as I head for the front door.
Opening it quickly, the anticipation of seeing Sam almost makes my knees weak.
But there is only Ian.
Ian, without Sam.
His face is grave.
‘Where is he?’ I say, momentarily convinced he is about to tell me something awful; something I won’t be able to bear hearing. ‘What’s happened to him?!’
‘Nothing, nothing!’ he says, hands up in placation. ‘He’s in France still. Having a lovely time.’
My whole body turns icy cold now.
‘In France?’ I say, a little hysterically. ‘Why is he in France? When you’re here?’
‘Look, don’t freak out,’ he says, enraging me further. ‘But I’ve been worrying about you ever since I heard about what happened. I needed to see that you were alright. Carmen told me you didn’t go away to Sally’s like you said you would.’
‘Oh, did she now,’ I say flatly. My face is tight; my jaw almost locked.
He looks at me until I sigh and say, ‘Come in then.’
When we go inside he wanders over to a cupboard and starts rooting about.
‘What are you doing?’
Evidently surprised at my tone, he turns with wide eyes.
‘Didn’t we have a bottle of whisky in here somewhere? I feel like one.’
‘Oh, do you now?’ I say tightly. ‘Sit down.’
He obeys, a bit meekly. I go to where I keep the whisky now.
There is one glass and one plastic cup on the drainer. I slosh some into each and then bang the beaker down in front of him, keeping the glass for myself. It’s so childish, but it feels good as I meet his gaze defiantly.
‘There you are,’ I say, ‘a drink.’
I’m so angry I’m struggling not to smash mine down on the top of his head, so instead, I make myself take a swig, which seems to scald my throat on the way down.
He starts to speak, ‘Look, Nina, I—’
‘I can’t believe you came back and left Sam there,’ I interrupt. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
‘What was I thinking?’ says Ian, wide-eyed with outrage. ‘You get held hostage at gunpoint by some kind of … I don’t know, Bonnie and Clyde couple, and I’m not meant to be worried?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ I snap. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’
‘Nina!’ he cries, forcing me to look at his stupid face. ‘You’re the mother of my child! We were married for eighteen years, for Christ’s sake! You’re my … you were my best friend.’
His voice breaks a little at this and I frown, noticing the brightness in his eyes. All the bitter sentences inside me begin to gather and whirl together, an internal tornado. Like, if I was so great, why have you run off with someone else? But I make myself remain silent. This is ground we have been over so many times. I don’t have the stomach for it.
‘Anyway, of course I have a right to care,’ he trails off.
I sip my nasty drink again before replying.
‘But to leave Sam there on his own with Laura,’ I say. ‘I literally cannot comprehend why you thought that was a good plan.’
My own eyes burn now and I look down and blink furiously. Buggered if the bastard is going to see me cry ever again.
‘Look,’ he says, voice gentler now, ‘Sam’s having a really brilliant time. His swimming has come on loads and he has completely fallen for the dog there. I know you want him to be happy more than anything, and I didn’t want to drag him away early from an enjoyable holiday and scare him half to death. He thinks I’m here for a work meeting.’
He fills up our empty glasses. I can’t be bothered to protest.
‘He sends his love,’ he says softly. ‘And says he’s dying to drive you insane about getting a dog.’
I’m too furious and upset to laugh. When I feel his hand softly covering mine, my brain wants to tell me to snatch my own away. He’s lost all right to touch me, after all. But my skin responds on its own, traitorously. I almost involuntarily turn mine and we clasp hands across the table. It feels good, the familiar shape of it in mine. Something tight inside me slackens.
‘Are you alright?’ he says. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
I pull my hand back again and force down another mouthful of the whisky. Gathering myself, with difficulty, I go through the whole thing again.
This time, having learned my lesson with Carmen, I give the barest details about what Angel told me. I merely say she is convinced her brother is innocent and that Quinn was abusive as their step-father, but I don’t offer any opinions.
But to my surprise, when I finish, Ian sits back and puffs out his cheeks before saying, ‘God, you’d never think that about him when you see him on the telly, would you?’
A strange rush of relief washes over me that he hasn’t dismissed all this like Carmen. I find myself smiling at him. He may have cheated on me, but the fact remains we were always friends. He gets me like no one else. It’s like putting on a comfortable hoodie after a long day in tight clothes.
There’s a silence during which we both contemplate all this.
I don’t want to talk about it any more. Not now.
‘Please,’ I say, ‘please let’s talk about Sam. Tell me what he’s been doing.’
I find a bottle of red and pour us glasses. Ian protests about drinking, but I find myself almost forcing it on him and he mumbles that maybe he can get a cab.
He tells me about Sam’s love affair with Bisou the dog and shows me pictures that make my whole chest fill up with love. Sam looks so happy. Tanned and grinning in a variety of different places; but mainly by the swimming pool, or with one arm slung about Bisou’s neck.
‘Why didn’t you send these to me?’ I ask, after a while.
It’s dusk now. I haven’t put the lights on inside so the deep blue twilight is soft against the windows.
Ian is sitting next to me now, the phone between us in his hand. His arm, in the rolled-up blue shirt, is tanned and covered with fine, dark hairs. I always liked his arms. I can almost feel the heat of him, seeping into my own skin.
Something I shouldn’t be feeling fires up low down inside me.
‘I don’t know,’ he says, softly, bringing me back to myself. ‘I kept wanting to, then I panicked about it making you feel shit to see them. I spent quite a lot of time debating this in my mind rather than enjoying the moment.’
He gives a small chuckle and I look at him. Our eyes lock together and I hold my breath. He’s feeling this too.
We’ve never been the ‘angry sex’ so
rt of couple. Too comfortable with each other. But now I suddenly want to pull his hair, bite his lip until it bleeds, rake my fingers down his spine.
People say, ‘I don’t know who started it,’ about illicit sex, don’t they? But it’s me. I’m starting it. I want this.
I lean in to kiss him, hard, and after what feels like two seconds of hesitation, he responds, his mouth pressing against mine, his taste so familiar.
Then we are stumbling over to the sofa like one person. There’s a flurry of unfastening and pulling down of clothes and in no time, he is inside, pushing into me and murmuring, ‘Nina,’ into my hair. It’s something that has happened a million times before, yet it is so very different.
It’s so strange and fast that I’m not even sure I’m enjoying it.
When it’s over we both rush to put on our clothes, eyes averted. I can feel the pressure of his guilt like the headache before a thunderstorm.
‘Nina …’
I shush him so harshly he visibly flinches.
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘Don’t say it. I know exactly what you want to say and I don’t want to hear it. I know this was a mistake. I’m not going to be getting any hopes up. I won’t tell Laura. I’m not a complete bitch.’
He looks down and says, ‘Thank you.’ There’s a long silence and he says, ‘Well, I’ll just …’ gesturing to the door. I nod. Our eyes don’t meet once.
While he’s upstairs I tidy up my hair and take the dirty glasses over to the sink. Putting on the lights brings a harsh reality into play. This happened in a dreamlike state and now it is over.
I call him a taxi from the card we keep on the fridge. Or, I should say now, I keep there. Ian doesn’t live here any more. He won’t ever live here again. I know this now, more than ever.
I’m told it will be fifteen minutes.
When he comes back into the kitchen he’s frowning and holding a bundle of sheets of paper. I get a sinking feeling as I recognize what they are.
‘Um, what’s all this?’ he says. ‘I wanted to pick up something from the study and saw it there.’
I clench my jaw.
‘You can’t just wander about in this house,’ I say tightly after a moment. ‘You don’t live here any more. Remember?’
