On My Life

by Angela Clarke

  It is a crime to bring onto prison grounds alcohol, tobacco, drugs, weapons, explosives, tear gas . . .

  Suspect it? Report it. Alive or dead? The squeaks of my steps echo like small cries of pain up into the high ceiling. We turn into another corridor. More doors stretch away from us. Alive or dead? Hurry. I can’t remember when we last saw a window. I feel like we’ve turned back on ourselves multiple times, as if we’ve been walking in a circle, tighter and tighter, and yet never reaching the centre.

  The guard pauses to unlock a dark-brown wooden door with one of her many keys. ‘Be quick.’

  Robert could be waiting for me. ‘I will.’ Alive or dead? My bladder, sensing release, contracts.

  I know very little about prison, but I know about prison toilets and showers. They’re the thing of nightmarish jokes. Mercifully, I have the single cubicle to myself. The strong smell of bleach is not masking the stench of urine. I pull down my trousers, my knickers, and squat. Relief floods through me.

  There’s a cracked sink, with a bottle of antibacterial soap. I catch sight of my reflection in the warped mirror. The padding over my nose obscures much of my face. My eyes are red-rimmed, the bruising underneath already blooming into a deep claret purple. Robert could be waiting for me. I don’t want him to see me like this. I whip off my T-shirt and wash my hands, my arms, under my arms, my face with the water. The hot tap doesn’t give, so I have to make do with cold. The soap has a clinical smell, but least it’s clean.

  A bald towel hangs stiffly on the back of the door. It doesn’t look like it’s been washed in a long time. I opt instead for quickly blotting myself dry with wads of toilet roll. As I throw the tissue into the loo, my eyes seek out the small window high up the wall. It would have got dark around five thirty. Though the sky is now veiled by dappled frosted glass, I can still sense the glint of the moon. The winking stars. I know they’re there. A primeval sense inside calls for uninterrupted sky.

  The door opens behind me. I clutch my hand to my chest, as though caught in the act.

  ‘Hurry up.’ The guard signals with a jerk of her head. ‘This is the staff loo.’ She looks over her shoulder as if checking no one else has seen.

  ‘Thank you.’ Thank you.

  By the time we reach reception we’re virtually running. My desperation has infected her, powered us on.

  In the foyer stands DI Langton, her black suit jacket folded over her arm, and DS Salinsky in the same navy suit he was wearing when they arrested me two nights ago. This is it. Alive or dead?

  Then

  I straighten my dress one more time. I opted for something floral. I usually wear this to work with a jacket. But the jacket would be too much. Or maybe not. I look up and Robert is watching me. His blue eyes are flashing in the sunlight that streams into his bedroom.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me.’ I feel silly for being caught studying my reflection. I wasn’t enjoying my appearance, more like critiquing it.

  ‘I’m not laughing.’ He comes over and sweeps my hair off my shoulder to kiss the base of my neck. Tiny pleasurable shocks pirouette across my skin, but we haven’t got time. We have to leave in fifteen minutes.

  ‘Try not to look so scared. It’s only my parents,’ he says.

  I brush his hands away. Head downstairs. I will not be late. ‘This is a big deal for me.’

  Robert follows behind me, pausing only at Emily’s door. ‘Almost ready, darling,’ he calls.

  The geometric tiled hallway gapes expectantly at me. I need to keep busy. I’ll clear up from lunch. The kitchen is my favourite room in Robert’s house. The off-white walls and scrubbed wooden surfaces, made from richly dark-grained slices of an oak tree that fell on their land, give it a kind of high-end tree-house feel. Something magical, like a full-size Hobbit house, carved from the land around. It’s a far cry from the dank, cramped sticky seventies kitchen in the flat where I grew up.

  I wipe up the crumbs of cheese and bread from Emily’s sandwich, and enjoy the way the surface undulates under my hand. Things were fine while Robert’s parents were away. I could pretend they weren’t really real. The people who live in the huge mansion, who were on a nine-month round-the-world cruise were an abstract. I mean they don’t sound real, do they? The poshest person I’ve ever known is Sally, and even she has only been on a two-week cruise round the Caribbean. But Robert’s parents are now a very pressing reality. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger. That I’ve tricked him in some way.

  A Robert-shaped shadow appears, twisted slightly by the glass in the door to the lounge.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ he says, as I pick up the knife we used to slice cheese.

  I open the dishwasher. ‘You have told them that I’m younger than you, haven’t you?’ There’s ten years between me and Robert, and he’s already been married once. And he has Emily. He’s a single father. A widower. A proper adult, and I feel like I’ve been pretending. That I’ve wandered into someone else’s story.

  ‘My mother is a good fifteen years younger than my father, younger still if you believe the age she says she is.’ He winks at me.

  My mother was fifteen when she had Ness. I swallow.

  ‘Try not to worry, darling.’ He takes the knife back out of the dishwasher, and starts running the tap.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I stare at him.

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘These are Japanese – machine-washing damages the blade.’

  There are so many rules to Robert’s world that I don’t understand. All these little things that another woman – a more suitable one – would get. ‘I’m sure you put them in there the first night you cooked for me.’ I remember watching his strong beautiful hands as he tidied up.

  He gives me a cheeky grin, wiping the knife on a tea towel and returning it to the block next to the range. ‘Don’t tell the chef at Milcombe Hotel I mistreat them when I’ve had a drink, he made me invest several hundred in them.’

  Several hundred pounds? On things you use to chop carrots! Yet another thing I have to get my head round. I cover my shock with a laugh.

  Robert hangs the tea towel on the enamel hook and comes over, wrapping his arms around me. I relax into him.

  ‘I thought you might be feeling a bit nervous,’ he says, quietly.

  Understatement.

  ‘So I got you something.’ He smiles.

  ‘You didn’t have to get me anything,’ I say. Though I’m excited anyway. Last week he brought me the prettiest succulent for my desk at work. Emily and I christened him Harry, after Harry Styles, the singer she has a crush on.

  ‘I know.’ He reaches for his back pocket and pulls out a key.

  ‘What is it?’ I say.

  ‘It’s a key for here. This house.’ His voice is suddenly serious. Anxious.

  I try to say something.

  ‘We’re already spending most nights together, and I’ve discussed it with Emily.’ He pauses, coughs. I touch his arm. He coughs again, louder. Is he getting sick? ‘I said, I’ve already discussed it with Emily.’

  Nothing happens.

  ‘Hang on,’ he says.

  He opens the door and yells, ‘I said, I’ve already discussed it with Emily!’

  I stifle a giggle as Emily slopes into the kitchen, her headphones round her neck. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with this?’ I say.

  ‘Will you still take me shopping?’ she says.

  ‘Emily!’ Robert says.

  ‘Any time.’ I grin at her.

  Emily rolls her eyes at her dad. ‘You and granny always want me to dress like some little girlie girl.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Well, how could you turn down such a fine proposal?’ Robert grins.

  It’s only been six months since we met, but it already feels like forever. It feels perfect. I was worried Emily would reject me, but she never really knew her mother, and Robert hasn’t dated anyone else. We like the same Netflix shows, and I get the feeling the rest of the family still babies her. I don’t have to
think about it. ‘I’d love to move in,’ I say. ‘But only if your dad promises not to leave his dirty pants on the floor.’

  ‘Urgh, disgusting, Dad!’ she shrieks.

  ‘Hey! I never do that!’ He puts up his hands in mock surrender.

  Emily grabs the key from him and hands it to me. ‘The sooner you’re in, the better.’

  I finger the black fob that it hangs from. ‘What’s this?’

  Robert’s lips thin. ‘It’s a panic alarm.’

  A what?

  ‘It’s so stupid,’ Emily says. ‘Granny makes us all have them.’

  ‘She’s very security conscious.’ Robert shrugs, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. ‘They’re linked straight to the police: press the button and they come straight away.’

  I take my finger away from the button.

  ‘Like, overreaction or what?’ Emily gesticulates with her hands. And suddenly I can see her as an adult sitting round a table waving a glass of wine, entertaining her friends with shrewd observations and take-offs of people she knows.

  ‘Everyone in the family has one,’ Robert says. ‘And you’re one of the family now.’ He pulls both Emily and me into him. ‘Come here, my favourite girls.’

  ‘Urgh, Dad!’ Emily says into his jumper, but doesn’t pull away.

  Family. I feel myself soften. ‘What will your parents say?’ I whisper. They’re going to return from their holiday to find a stranger has moved in with their son and their granddaughter. I’m not sure how that’s going to look.

  ‘They’re going to love you as much as we do,’ Robert says.

  Emily shrugs us both off and rolls her eyes again, before looking in the mirror to smooth her parting.

  And I want so very much to believe him.

  Now

  DI Langton is frowning at the bandage on my face.

  DS Salinsky’s patent brogues creak as he carries a plastic cup of tea to Langton, and places one in front of me with precision. Ex-military, I’d guess. This is it. Alive or dead? I grip the cup, using the burn on my fingers to stop me from screaming.

  ‘Have you found Robert?’ They’ve driven up to talk to me. It can only be one thing.

  Salinsky scratches at his crewcut. ‘Cut the crap and tell us where the body is, Jenna.’

  They haven’t found him. They don’t know where he is. They’re talking about a body. A body? Alive or dead. Dead. ‘Why aren’t you looking for him?’ Tea shakes out of the cup and scalds my fingers. ‘You should be out there.’ This is a nightmare. There was blood, they told me. Whoever did this hurt him too.

  ‘Jenna.’ Langton smiles. Not friendly. The circles under her eyes look darker than when I saw her last. She’s not sleeping. Good. She shouldn’t rest till Robert’s found. ‘We’ve been over this. Your fingerprints are on the murder weapon.’

  Not this again. ‘It was our knife, I told you.’ I feel sick at the thought of it being grabbed from the block.

  ‘Only your fingerprints, Jenna,’ she says.

  ‘The thief must have been wearing gloves.’ Yes, that makes sense. ‘It was a robbery. We have money and nice things, and Emily must have disturbed them.’

  ‘We’ve taken exclusion prints. There’s no unexplained DNA in the house . . .’ Langton says.

  Why was Emily home? I hadn’t thought of it at all until now. ‘She should have been at swim practice. Did somebody pick her up – take her?’ It was a kidnap attempt that went wrong. And now they have Robert.

  ‘Jenna,’ Langton sighs, cutting me off. I want to shake her. It’s like I’m speaking a different language. ‘We found the photos on your computer.’

  Salinsky is trying his best to hold his face neutral, but it keeps twisting into something ugly.

  A cavity opens inside me. I can feel myself teetering on its edge. ‘What photos?’

  ‘Images of child abuse.’ Salinsky spits the words.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Numerous unsavoury images,’ Langton says.

  There must be a mistake. ‘Emily is a keen swimmer. I have photos of her at meets. In her costume . . .’

  ‘These are not family snaps.’ Salinsky’s face is twisting again. ‘They are hard-core.’

  Sick floods into the cavity. They’ve made a mistake. ‘Of Emily?’ Did someone hurt her?

  Langton shakes her head.

  Oh thank god. I can’t bear the idea that someone would touch her.

  ‘Jenna, here’s what I think happened,’ Langton is saying. ‘You were looking at your images on the laptop in the kitchen . . .’

  ‘They weren’t my images,’ I say.

  ‘And Emily came home unexpectedly early – we spoke to a Mrs Diane Monkford.’ Langton looks at her notes.

  Isabel’s mother?

  ‘She confirms she brought Emily home early because her period started and she didn’t want to go to swim club,’ she says. ‘She dropped her off just before five p.m.’

  Oh Emily. You shouldn’t have been there. You poor girl.

  ‘I think Emily found you looking at those photos,’ Langton says. ‘I think she caught you.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. That isn’t what happened.

  ‘Perhaps you decided to try something on with her?’ Langton is talking as if we’re discussing the weather.

  They are accusing me of . . . ‘Of course I didn’t!’ I clasp my hand over my mouth. Push the chair back. I’m shaking. ‘She was fourteen!’ I push the heels of my palms into my bruised eyes. Want to push them all the way through.

  ‘But she wouldn’t play along would she, and that made you angry.’ Langton’s words worm between my fingers, burrow into my head. ‘I think she said no, I think she fought back – there are defence wounds on the body.’

  ‘I didn’t hurt her!’ The words rip out of me.

  Langton keeps going, the words raining down. ‘And then I think Robert came home. He saw what you’d done, so you stabbed him too. You killed him and hid the body.’

  They think he’s dead? Robert’s dead? ‘No – you’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘His phone has been switched off since Wednesday – the night of the murder,’ Salinsky says. ‘That’s two whole days ago. None of his credit cards have been used since.’

  Does that mean they’re right? No. I won’t believe it. Can’t believe it.

  ‘You hid his body, didn’t you, Jenna?’ Langton’s voice hardens.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ All the hours of questioning yesterday, the court this morning, bringing me here. They’ve been wasting valuable time. ‘You have to keep looking for him.’

  ‘You hid his body and when you came back you realised Emily wasn’t dead. She’d pressed her alarm. The police were on their way and you panicked. You stuffed your jumper in the washing machine. Tried to clean up. Make it look like an accident, that you’d just found her.’

  ‘I did find her! I found her like that!’ I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. This is a nightmare I can’t wake from. Why won’t they listen to me? ‘I love Emily . . . loved Emily!’ Tears burn over my split face. Emily with her little dimple. Her laughter. She and her dad eating blueberry pancakes on the weekend.

  ‘You’re not helping yourself,’ Langton says calmly.

  ‘You’re not helping us!’ I scream.

  She sighs audibly. Snot bubbles out of my bloodied nose. My darling Emily. My poor Robert.

  Langton leans back. ‘We’ve searched the house. There’s blood, evidence he was dragged.’ No. ‘If you tell us where Robert’s body is—’

  ‘He’s still alive!’ I scream. He has to be. ‘Don’t stop looking – please!’ They can’t stop. Desperation claws through me.

  Langton pushes on, each word another brick in the wall. ‘If you tell us where the body is it will show willingness to cooperate.’

  I don’t know. I didn’t do this.

  ‘Think on it overnight. Next week you’ll be taken to a police station, and we will charge you with possession of indecent images of children. Y
our solicitor will be present.’

  I didn’t. I couldn’t. I retch, but my stomach is empty. Salinsky moves away, physically repulsed. I have to make them understand. Make them listen. I reach for Langton, grab hold of her hand.

  ‘Let go of the officer, prisoner,’ Salinsky barks.

  Langton waves him off. Stares at me. I will her to believe me, to hear. ‘Promise you won’t stop looking for him, please?’

  Her face pales but she doesn’t move. For a moment we are locked like this, each staring into the eyes of the enemy. Then she pulls her hand away.

  ‘Please.’ I have to keep trying.

  Langton nods at him to go, but as the guard holds the door for them she turns back. Just for a second.

  Please believe me. Please help Robert.

  They leave.

  I didn’t do this. There’s been an awful mistake. I didn’t download those photos . . . those disgusting things onto my computer. The words snag in my brain.

  I didn’t . . . but someone did. Someone put those images on my laptop. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. This wasn’t a failed kidnap attempt. Someone deliberately put those images on my computer. They deliberately incriminated me. Someone framed me.

  Then

  ‘Hey, boo! I made it – Locke’s sheep were out again. I thought I wasn’t going to get here in time.’ I’d had to reverse and come in via the back lane rather than past the hotel. There’s no sign of Phoebe’s mum yet. I balance the cake on my two arms, dropping the key and my mobile on the hallway table, and push the door closed with my hip. I can still get it set up before she arrives. ‘Ready to surprise our fourteen-year-old!’ Emily’s already grown and changed so much from the kid I met eleven months ago. And I think I’ve finally got to grips with her mood swings. Christ, if you’d told me a year ago I’d be acting-mum to a teenager I’d have laughed you out the building. There’s no reply from the house. Robert’s probably upstairs. ‘Hello! Darling?’

  Silence.

  There should be music on. Robert always listens to BBC 6 when he cooks. There’s no bubbling pans, no extractor fan. My skin prickles. Something’s wrong. A sense, a smell: something familiar that I can’t quite catch. The air’s disturbed.