Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘What does that mean?’ David’s voice cracks, like a teenage boy’s. ‘Are we breaking up?’

  ‘No, just a break. Tonight. I want time to think and I can’t be here.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  I move into the bedroom and grab a bag from the bottom of the wardrobe. There’s nothing methodical about my packing as I pull a handful of clothes from my drawers and stuff them inside. When I turn, I expect David to be in the doorway. I’m surprised that it’s empty as I fumble with my mobile and then call Jane. We’ve barely spoken since the wedding and yet she answers so quickly, and says my name with such conviction, that it’s as if she’s expected this all along.

  ‘Are you safe?’ she asks.

  The question stops me momentarily.

  ‘Can I come to yours?’ I reply.

  ‘I’m away in Nottingham for a hen do this weekend. I’m not drinking, but…’ The thought ebbs away and then she adds: ‘I’ll send Ben.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘He’s not hurt you, has he…?’

  It takes me a second to realise that she means David. I’ve never felt in danger around him, but then I’ve missed so many things – some of them wilfully.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  Something rustles in the background and then it’s Jane’s voice again: ‘I’m going to hang up and call Ben now,’ she says. ‘You can have the spare room. Stay as long as you want. I’ll be back in the morning and we can talk then.’

  She’s efficient and in control, which at least makes one of us. It’s hard to admit that other people were right all along about getting married so soon. Perhaps even specifically about David.

  I hang up and sit on the bed, bag at my feet, waiting. The wind is still raging outside, rattling the windows as if it’s trying to get in. I think back to being on the stairs of Jane and Ben’s house, wondering if I would have ended up with anyone who sat next to me and said nice things. I was looking for anyone who’d encourage and offer comfort, assuming love would come. I’m not sure it ever has. There was a big part of me that wanted to win, as well. To be married first. To prove I was happy.

  The bedside clock changes time agonisingly slowly. Minutes pass and then David’s shadow appears in the doorway, blocking most of the light as he leans into the frame.

  ‘Please stay,’ he says.

  ‘I need a night to think.’

  ‘We can keep trying for a baby if you stay.’

  This is how it’s been with David and me. I think I’ve made up my mind to do one thing and then, from nowhere, I find myself doing another. I made a decision on the bridge that day, the same way that I made a choice in the service station. David might have suggested it, but I went along. I decided that having a baby was what I wanted.

  Except that it isn’t happening.

  I didn’t want it – and now that I do, I can’t have it.

  It’s been three months, which I know isn’t long enough to know for certain – except that, somehow, I do know. I can feel my body rejecting our attempts at making a baby. It’s telling me something that, perhaps, I knew all along.

  ‘I love you,’ David says.

  ‘I know.’

  He crosses to the bed and sits at my side, stroking my hair. ‘I’d never let anyone hurt you.’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘I’d kill for you. Do you know that?’

  It’s a strange, mixed-up, almost clichéd thing to say. It’s supposed to convey a degree of romanticism, as if anyone would want that. But who would? It’s an incomprehensibly manic idea to love a person so much that killing someone else is somehow acceptable.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ I ask.

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  For perhaps the first time in our relationship, I genuinely believe him.

  The doorbell sounds three times in rapid succession and I jump to my feet, spurred on by the urgency.

  ‘Don’t go,’ David says.

  He trails me all the way to the door and, when I open it, Ben is standing there.

  ‘How’s it going, Morgs?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s been worse.’

  He glances past me towards David and then pushes the door wider. ‘Shall we go?’

  I take a breath and then step outside, where the rain continues to lash: ‘Yes.’

  Thirty

  THE NOW

  Toddlers are much like brides-to-be on a hen do at the end of the night. They stagger around in circles, babble nonsense, crave attention, and then fall over and burst into tears. They also sometimes vomit on themselves.

  Jane’s daughter, Norah, is at the stage where she can generally walk around by herself, although she’s like a mini human bumper car. She bumbles around my living room bouncing off the sofa arms and coffee table, before setting herself right again.

  Jane is on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea.

  ‘You saw David?’ I say.

  ‘Norah likes walking,’ she points to her daughter, who is seemingly trying to prove the point as she does a wobbly lap of the living room. ‘Well, sometimes. Other times, I’ll strap her into her buggy and she’ll refuse to get out for hours. She won’t sit on a chair, she’ll have to be wheeled into the living room in her buggy. Anyway, we were at Elizabeth Park and there was a bloke sitting at the edge of the pond by himself. I’d glanced away for one second – and then Norah was bumbling towards the pond.’

  She gives the what can you do? sigh that only mothers can manage. I think there’s an acceptance that deep water is for jumping into; fire is for touching; anything with a danger sign can be ignored. Kids are like lemmings and it’s only parental reflexes that prevent the inevitable.

  ‘I had to rush to catch her and, when I got there, I looked up and the man on the bench was watching us.’ She gulps and then ends: ‘I could have sworn it was David.’

  A week ago, I’d have known she was imagining it. Now, I’m not so certain.

  ‘How close were you?’

  ‘One side of the pond to the other. Not far. I started to go around there, but Norah was wriggling and, by the time I got halfway there, he’d gone.’

  It’s hard to know what to say. On its own, I’d say it was probably someone else who looked like David. Combined with the hotel photo, the possible break-in and my missing car key, it doesn’t sound so crazy.

  ‘Have you heard from him…?’ Jane asks.

  Sometimes I forget that everyone else thinks David is missing. When people say things like ‘Have you heard from him?’, I have to remind myself that it’s not a ridiculous question. Of course I haven’t heard from a person who’s dead. After the last few days, it definitely doesn’t feel like a ridiculous question.

  ‘No,’ I reply.

  Jane chews her bottom lip and, for a few seconds, all we do is watch Norah toddle around the table. She bumps into the corner and then plops onto her backside. It could go either way – laugh or cry – but she breaks into a grin and starts giggling to herself.

  ‘I’m not saying it was him,’ Jane says, ‘just that it looked like him. I thought you should know.’

  My phone is almost always on vibrate, because otherwise there would be a constant ding-ding-ding as I walk around. Like a dog with a bell. If spam emails were actually printed on paper, there’d be no trees left on the planet. Perhaps it’s because of that, I jump when my phone actually rings. There’s a part of me that expects to see David’s name on the screen – but it reads Veronica instead.

  I tell Jane I have to take the call and skirt off to my bedroom and close the door before pressing to answer.

  I think I’ve been bracing myself for this type of call ever since Mum moved into the bungalows. A message to say that she’s had a fall and not got up, or that she hasn’t been answering her door. I think everyone does when their parents get to a certain time of their lives. There must be a crossover point from where parents dread the middle-of-the-night call about their children to where the children fear the unexpe
cted call for their parents.

  ‘This is Morgan,’ I say.

  I can tell from Veronica’s first intonation that my mother is fine. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to say that I talked to the security company about the camera footage from the gates.’

  In all that’s gone on, I’d almost forgotten about the autograph that appeared next to Mum’s TV.

  ‘What did they say?’ I ask.

  ‘That they can only release the footage if there’s some sort of criminal investigation. Something to do with their contract and data protection. To be honest, I think it’s because they don’t want to. They want the police to contact them, so what should I do?’

  ‘Leave it,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing anyway. I’m really sorry for wasting your time.’

  There’s little else I can do considering the last thing I want is go to the police with possible sightings of the husband I killed.

  Veronica sounds unsure, like she knows it’s more than I’m letting on. ‘I can keep onto them if you want. If it’s something important…?’

  ‘No…’

  There’s a gap and then: ‘If you’re sure.’

  I tell her that I am and then hang up. It takes me a short while to feel ready to face Jane again. There was a moment when my phone rang that I felt certain it would be to say that the worst had happened. Anticipating something and being ready for it are two different things.

  Back in the living room, Jane looks up expectantly. There’s a rudeness about asking who was on the phone, even though we all want to know.

  ‘Nothing important,’ I say.

  I can feel her watching me as I sit, as if she’s trying to read my mind.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes… just busy.’

  ‘You can tell me anything…’

  This is the moment where I can either let it out, or I’m going to have to hold onto it. Even with that, there is truth within truth. If I tell her that I think David was in the back of her photo from the hotel, then do I leave it at that? Do I say that David’s dead? That I killed him? It’s the problem with lying. It’s like chocolate digestives with a cup of tea: one is never enough.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I say.

  Jane continues to watch me and there’s a moment in which we both know it’s a lie. She’s asking if I want help and I’m telling her no, even though the answer is yes.

  ‘I have to get going,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t meaning to stir things up, or anything like that. I just thought you should know what I saw.’

  She calls for Norah, who spins at the sound of her name and fumbles her way around the living room. Jane straps her into a buggy and then I hold the front door.

  ‘Are you and Andy still all right for later?’ she asks.

  I want to say ‘no’, but it feels too late.

  ‘Sure,’ I reply.

  ‘Fab. I’ll see you tonight.’

  She’s reached the pavement when she stops and turns, offering me a final chance to tell her what’s wrong. I don’t take it and she offers a knowing, slim smile before she turns and disappears out of sight.

  I close the door and know I should start packing. It’s only a few more days and I’ll be moving out to put this chapter of my life behind me. My keys are on the otherwise bare kitchen counter and I wonder if the Tigger pot will show up while I’m packing. If I could find it, it would almost make everything else that’s happened seem explainable.

  Andy sorted me out with a pile of packed-down boxes, that are now in the corner of the bedroom. I fold the first one out and place it on the bed. I am about to start filling it with summer clothes that I definitely won’t need this week, when the doorbell sounds. My first thought is that Jane has forgotten something and returned to retrieve it. That is instantly forgotten as I get into the living room and spot the police car through the window. I consider finding somewhere to hide and pretending I’m not in. There is no good that can come from answering the door, although I know I have no choice.

  It’s the same two officers as from the other day: one a head shorter than the other. I can see in the eyes of the taller one that he recognises me, but I suppose he has to say it anyway.

  ‘Mrs Persephone…?’

  ‘You got my name right that time,’ I reply.

  He doesn’t smile and instead angles himself towards the police car. He doesn’t need to say it because I know.

  Something bad has happened.

  Thirty-One

  THE WHY

  Two years, one month ago

  Keeping a secret is like being constipated. It’s a pain in the arse and then, sooner or later, it all comes out anyway.

  I’ve somehow lost two hours through watching mindless television, skimming around the internet, browsing videos of cute dogs, scrolling through Facebook and finding out what type of cheese I am via a Buzzfeed test. I am a cheddar because, apparently, people know where they stand with me. I can only imagine that being a stilton involves crumbling at the first sign of resistance and stinking like old socks.

  David yawns his way into the living room at a few minutes past six in the evening and heads to the kitchen. ‘I needed that nap,’ he says, partly to himself. He rests on the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil as he fiddles with his phone. ‘I thought you had classes?’

  ‘I had to cancel them.’

  ‘You’re still not feeling well…?’

  ‘Not really.’

  He takes a couple of slices of bread and starts to smear margarine across the surface. ‘Do you think you need to go to the doctor? You might have the flu. I think it’s going around.’

  ‘It’s not the flu,’ I say.

  He drops the mucky knife into the sink and returns the margarine tub to the fridge, before removing a block of cheese. He picks up a sharp chopping blade from the block and stands poised.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  It’s what we talked about; what we wanted – and yet, now it’s here, everything is wrong. There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach that isn’t down to the pregnancy. It feels like I’ve woken up on an airbed with a leak and that I’m being swallowed into the centre.

  The cheese hits the floor as David stares open-mouthed across the room, knife still in his hand.

  ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But we haven’t…’

  ‘That night before you went away a month ago.’

  He nods, but he’s dazed, like he’s staring into the sun. It’s not like he could have forgotten that night.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  ‘About when it happened?’

  ‘About whether you’re pregnant.’

  I wasn’t sure how David would respond – but this is probably the one question I didn’t expect.

  ‘There are pregnancy test kits in the bin under the sink if you want to check. I’ve peed on them, though.’

  He takes a breath, steps backwards, steps forward, scratches his arm, then pulls up his trousers. All the while, he never stops staring – and he doesn’t put down the knife.

  I get to my feet and cross to the counter. It’s all that separates us.

  ‘I thought this was what you wanted,’ I say.

  David shakes his head slowly and it’s now that I notice the tears that ring his eyes: ‘It’s not mine, is it?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  His tone is firm and unerringly knowing. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Whose it is?’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  The knife wavers in his hand, but then he grips it tighter. I can see the veins bulging in his arm as he squeezes the handle.

  ‘I had a vasectomy,’ he says, looking up to catch my eye and hang onto it.

  ‘What?’ I say, stumbling. ‘When?’

  ‘Before the engagement party.’

  I remember him limping around the room at the rugby club because o
f what he said was a running injury. It didn’t sound right at the time – but so much of what David says doesn’t sound right. I figured it was another white lie to disguise something unimportant – now it couldn’t be more important.

  ‘I’ve never wanted children,’ he adds flatly. His stare is stone cold, a different person from the man who gazed longingly at me along the wedding aisle.

  ‘It was your idea to try for a child!’ I say. ‘When we were on the bridge, you brought it up.’

  It’s as if a switch has been flicked as, suddenly, I get it. It’s like minor politicians promising policies they’ll never have to implement because they have zero chance of winning an election. It was easy for David to suggest us having a baby because he knew it wouldn’t work. As long as we were trying, we would be together. It gave a foundation to our marriage. Without that, perhaps there was no purpose for us as a couple. He knew I had doubts all along and this was his way of keeping me.

  I’ve finally seen the truth – and he knows it.

  ‘How much of this is a lie?’ I ask.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Me? This whole have-a-baby-thing was a trick to keep me with you. Like everything. The fake trips, the fact you and Ben were never good uni friends. I’m asking you how much of the last two years have been a lie?’

  David doesn’t flinch and it feels like any warmth I ever saw in him was a mirage. Perhaps I did that to him?

  ‘You first,’ he says, with steady and terrifying calmness.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re pregnant, but it can’t be mine – so who were you with?’

  It feels like the truth doesn’t matter any longer. Things are broken anyway.

  ‘You,’ I say. ‘Only you.’

  ‘Whose is it?’

  He repeats the line three times, with each time sounding more and more like a growl. I simply stare at him, not sure what to stay. I can see his forearms starting to tremble as his upper body tenses. I’ve never seen him like this before. This is a different person and, perhaps for the first time since we met, I realise how helpless I could be up against him.