by Claire Allan
‘These men are here to speak to you about Rose,’ I told him, at which Bradley shook his head.
‘Mr Scott, actually we’re here to speak to you in connection with the Kevin McDaid inquiry? If we could have a moment.’
‘Of course,’ Owen said, but I could see he looked thrown. ‘Although I’m not sure what help I can be. I didn’t know him. But come through to my office and we can talk. I’ll do whatever I can.’
He left the room, the two police officers following him – Bradley stopping just momentarily to nod a goodbye in my direction. I only realised when he left that I hadn’t properly exhaled the entire time he had been there.
*
DS Bradley and his sombre-faced colleague nodded in my direction again as they left the surgery half an hour later. Tori and I looked towards Owen’s office, expecting him to perhaps walk out and tell us what was going on. But the door remained closed for a few minutes and when it did open, Owen walked straight into his surgery – before buzzing through to tell us to send in his first client and to apologise to anyone waiting for having been delayed. He told us to offer to reschedule for anyone who couldn’t wait to be seen. Before saying anymore he hung up, leaving Tori and me staring at each other, more than a little confused. But the increasingly busy waiting room jolted us into action and we sent our first client, an emergency root canal, through to Owen only for our phone to buzz again and Owen to inquire where Donna was.
I had assumed she was waiting for him in the surgery, but as that clearly wasn’t true, I went to look for her in the staff room where she was sitting staring at the picture of Rose and sipping from the same cup of tea – now stone cold – that she had made when she arrived.
‘Owen’s looking for you,’ I said.
‘The police gone?’ she asked.
‘Yes, about five minutes ago. Owen just went straight into the surgery, wants to get through the list.’
‘He didn’t say what it was all about?’
I shook my head. ‘But I’m sure he will. If it’s anything major. But I think you better go through.’
‘Yes,’ she said, standing up slowly. ‘I suppose I should. Never a dull day,’ she said, the smile on her face again not quite reaching her eyes.
‘If you need to talk …’ I said to her back as she left the room, but she didn’t answer – just waved her hand in my direction.
By the time lunchtime had hit, we were almost back on schedule. Owen didn’t join us in the staff room; in fact he kept himself to himself as the day went on. When I did get a chance to speak to Donna, to ask her if he had told her anything about the police visit, she shook her head.
‘Sure we’ve been knee-deep in clients all day – we haven’t had a chance to talk, and from his mood I don’t think he’s likely to tell me anything anyway. He’s like a bear with a sore head.’
She rubbed her temples.
‘Headache?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘I’m not sleeping the best, with everything. I’d scurry off for the afternoon but we are so busy, I don’t think it would be fair on anyone.’
‘We’re almost caught up, you know. I can help Owen in surgery, there’s nothing too complicated this afternoon. You have to look after yourself. I know things have been tough, and I know you would normally have spoken to Rose about all this stuff, but I’m here if you need me. Any time, you know. You can talk to me.’
She bowed her head for a moment and when she lifted it again I noticed she was blinking back tears. I reached over and squeezed her hand, congratulating myself on being a good friend.
‘I think I will go home,’ she said softly. ‘Maybe get some sleep while the boys are at school. Shift this headache.’
‘I have some paracetamol in my bag?’ I offered.
‘That would be great,’ she said, through a watery smile, and I left to go and retrieve my handbag.
When Donna had taken her tablets, packed up her things and left for home, I told Tori to man reception and I took myself into Owen’s surgery, wondering if he would tell me anything about what exactly the police wanted.
‘Where’s Donna?’
‘She’s not well again, so I said I would help out, if that’s okay?’
He sighed, deeply, as if the thought of me working alongside him was almost unbearable. ‘Well I suppose it will have to be,’ he snapped and I felt myself pulled upright by the harshness of his tone.
‘I’m sorry … but she really did seem unwell. Stress at home and headaches and she’s not been sleeping.’
‘None of us have though, have we?’ he said, before catching my eyes and muttering that he was sorry and could we just get on with things.
‘If you need to talk at all,’ I said as I opened the file for the next patient and refilled the cup of mouthwash by the chair, ‘I’m here. But equally, I can just work in silence too.’ I forced myself to sound nonchalant, as if I didn’t give two hoots if he ever spoke to me again.
‘The police – they think there is more to McDaid’s death,’ he said, sitting down on his stool. ‘And they think that means there could be more to Rose’s death too.’
‘More to Rose’s death?’ I tried to keep my voice steady but already I could feel my heart rate increasing. A thin film of sweat breaking on my forehead.
‘They weren’t saying too much – just asking questions about Rose, her friends, her family, Cian. Did she know McDaid, have much to do with him when he was a patient here? That kind of thing.’
‘God,’ was all I could mutter as I tried to keep my heart from pounding.
‘I told them I couldn’t think of a single person who would want to hurt Rose, and that’s true.’
But there was someone who wanted to hurt me.
‘But what happened to Rose was an accident?’ I said, flashes of the look of resignation on her face jumping into my head.
‘From what I could gather – and please, Emily, tell no one because this is all just me trying to make sense of it – they think it might not have been that much of an accident after all … even though, God, that makes no sense at all. None.’
*
Not much of an accident after all.
Not much of an accident after all.
Not much of an accident after all.
Maybe. They think. Perhaps. Several lines of inquiry. He didn’t know anymore. He was trying to make sense of it all himself. But information had emerged to suggest Kevin McDaid driving into Rose was not just a case of a joyride gone wrong.
I wondered what Liz McDaid would think of that? If she pushed for answers and got the wrong ones; ones that made her hate her beloved, now deceased, baby boy?
I wondered what Cian would think. Jesus, how would he react? That there was even the slight hint of a possibility that Rose Grahame was killed on purpose.
I knew what I thought. I knew I had been right all along. There was nothing accidental about what happened except that it had happened to the wrong person.
What if it really should have been me?
I felt my legs turn to jelly, heard someone, somewhere in the distance call my name as everything went black.
*
Back then – when everything was falling apart – I didn’t understand how Ben could be angry. I didn’t understand why he thought he had a right to be angry. He had been in control, always. He had pulled the strings and I had danced. He had cut the strings and I had fallen – just as he must have known I would. But still and all, he was angry.
Angry that I had feelings that didn’t just vanish into a puff of smoke.
I wasn’t mean to him. I wasn’t cruel. I didn’t hurt him – not the way he hurt me. I didn’t raise my hand to him. I didn’t smash in his car windows, or break into his house and cut one leg off each pair of trousers or put frozen prawns down the back of his radiators. I didn’t take to social media to tell anyone what a cheating bastard he was. I didn’t share compromising pictures of him. I didn’t go to the police and tell them how he had hit me. How he had abused me. How
he had forced himself on me. Or had he; was it a fantasy – a consensual thing that got him going every time I said no? Even when I meant no. How could he have known when the lines had been blurred? Because everything inside was a little mangled. Stockholm syndrome? Isn’t that what they call it? When a kidnapped person falls for their captor? Not that he had kidnapped me – I had gone of my own accord, freely and in the belief that he loved me and I loved him. And that no one else could ever love me the way he did. No one else would ever love me. That’s what he told me anyway.
I put up with it because it wasn’t always bad. There were times when it was good and I felt like the most cherished woman on the planet and I convinced myself that this was real and this was what life was like. No one was perfect. No relationship was perfect.
So when he took it all away – I didn’t know how to react.
I was convinced Ben had made a mistake. So I messaged him. And I called him. I walked around to his house and I stood on his doorstep and rang his doorbell, shouted in his letter box. Begged him to talk to me, until he threatened to call the police.
On one occasion, I walked round to his house, stood on his doorstep and rang his doorbell and shouted in his letter box until he did call the police. He didn’t even come to talk to me. He told the police I was mad. Mad? I raged so much when they told me that I’m sure I did look mad. I tried to explain everything, but they weren’t relationship counsellors. This was a matter between the two of us, they told me, and one we should discuss without disturbing the peace.
They didn’t seem to get that Ben wouldn’t talk to me. When he had left, outraged that I’d uncovered his infidelity, he had made a clean, brutal cut. He had no interest in discussing anything. No matter what time I called at – morning, noon, night or 3am – he wouldn’t answer my calls. Then his line went dead and I knew he had changed his number. So I went to his work, where I sat, bleary faced, still vaguely smelling of alcohol, trying to calm my birds’ nest of a hair do into something respectable, rubbing at my eyes, which were red from crying. My hands were shaking, clammy; I realised I’d forgotten to repair the chips on my nail polish. So I sat, nibbling, scratching, pulling at the sleeves of my cardigan to cover my hands. And I waited for him. Waited until I saw him walk in with one of his female colleagues. Before I knew it, before I knew what I was doing or saying I was beside him, tugging on his suit jacket. I was begging him to talk to me. Pleading with him. Telling him in front of everyone – so he knew I meant it – that I forgave everything he had done. All the hurt. All the lies. All the times he lost his temper. All the times he had slept with someone else. Even those pictures. I had sobbed, scraping the rough wool of my cardigan sleeve across my face, make-up from the day before, or the week before, smearing with tears and snot and spit and God knows what.
I knew there were eyes on me – people looking at me – but I was sure if I could make him understand it would be okay. But all I could see was the look of anger on his face. I waited for it to pass, to ease, his muscles to relax into a look of concern. A look of love even, if I’m honest. When I felt his hand on my arm, I momentarily sagged with relief. He was touching me. He was connecting with me. He pulled me into a side room, where I tried my very best to kiss him.
Only he pushed me away. He pushed me away and then wiped his mouth, a look of disgust replacing the earlier anger.
‘Emily, for fuck’s sake. Get a grip. You can’t be here. You can’t do this. It’s fucking over. Accept it and leave me the fuck alone.’
I wailed and threw myself at him, begging. Pleading loudly. Sobbing while he whispered sour nothings in my ear.
Not if you were the last woman.
Did you really think I would marry you?
I’m glad I left when I did. Look at the state of you.
You disgust me.
You’re mad. You mad, ugly bitch.
I sobbed as if each word were a physical punch. Sobbed until I couldn’t any more. Sobbed until the police took me away, in front of all his work colleagues. Sobbed as they bundled me into the back of a police car and took me to the station to sober up. Sobbed as my mother told me she was ashamed to know me.
Then I sobbed as he sent me a text message telling me he would never forgive me for humiliating him like that. And one day he would get his own back.
*
‘I thought we’d been over this,’ Maud said. I could tell she was trying to hide the irritation from her voice. ‘Think about it, rationally. Why on earth? Why now?’
It was just after 2pm New York time and I had her assistant pull her from a meeting to talk to me about my emergency. She had come on the phone, breathless, concerned, only to inhale deeply, loudly, when I told her I was sure, sure as I could be, that Kevin McDaid had meant to kill me. That I had been right about Ben all along.
‘Because he can now. It’s long enough ago that no one would think it was him …’
‘Because he has moved on. We’ve all moved on. What happened then was horrible, but it is in the past,’ she said.
‘But Owen said the police think it might not have been an accident after all,’ I said, taking another pill and waiting for the wave of calmness to hit me. I rapped my fingers on the worktop, wondering why Maud couldn’t understand my concerns. ‘And there is no one in the world that would want to hurt Rose. People love her, everyone. I’ve not heard a single bad word—’
‘You don’t know that,’ Maud said. ‘You know a couple of people from her life and you went to her funeral. It doesn’t mean you know everyone loved her, or that she had no enemies. Or that her husband had no enemies. Or that, maybe, the police have it wrong.’
I felt myself tense up. She just wasn’t getting it. ‘But don’t you understand, Maud? I’ve always known something like this would happen at some stage. I’ve been watching my back since we split and he threatened me. You don’t know what he is capable of. To him I’m nothing more than a liability. A ball fit for kicking. It makes more sense this way, don’t you see it?’
‘Look, sweetheart,’ Maud said, exasperated, ‘I know he was a bastard. He is a bastard. But I don’t think he would be that bad. That’s a whole other level of bastard,’ she paused.
I felt the pressure in my head increase. I had told Maud all about him. The way he destroyed me – stripped away every ounce of my confidence not to mention my sanity. How could she not know that coming back into my life just to hurt me was something he was more than capable of? I’d been expecting it. If I was honest, in the earlier days I kind of craved it, craved him coming back and seeking vengeance. I would be near him again. That was back when I didn’t fully accept what he had done, what he had made me become. Then I feared it. I tried to run from it. Went through counselling. Support groups.
No one tells you what to do when it comes flooding back unexpectedly though.
‘Have you been taking your tablets?’ she asked, cutting through my thoughts. ‘When was the last time you saw your doctor? Your counsellor? Are you still with the mental health team?’
I rubbed my temples. Just because I had been not strictly sane in the past, that didn’t mean this was any kind of madness. ‘I’m fine, Maud,’ I replied tersely. ‘Yes, I’m taking my pills and being a good girl. Doing everything I’m supposed to do …’
‘If you are concerned about your safety, you could contact the police,’ she offered, half-heartedly, but that was the last thing I would do. They would take one look at my file and they too, like Maud, would sigh deeply and tell me it was all in my head.
And maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t. All I knew is that I was scared. Scared and vulnerable and tired of being scared and vulnerable. I just wanted someone who understood. Someone who knew what it was like to lose someone and to be changed forever by it. Someone who was like me.
Someone like Cian.
Chapter Nineteen
Rose
2011
Rose Grahame: Glad rags on – tonight I help my amazing husband celebrate the launch of his incred
ible book, Unseen. Darling Cian, you have excelled yourself this time and I am so proud of you. Love you always, you are my light x #proudwife #buythebook!
Nails (a classic French manicure) done.
Spray tan (subtle) done.
Hair (elegant up-do) done.
I rolled the silky stockings up my legs before dressing in a beautifully tailored knee-length black dress, with a cowl neck that showed off just a hint of cleavage. I slipped my feet into three-inch court shoes. Looking in the mirror, I clipped my pearl earrings on, and a single strand of pearls around my neck. I looked, well, good. I felt elegant. I felt like a proper grown-up – stylish, well turned out.
I felt like someone who would make Cian proud – that he would be delighted to have me on his arm. That I would look like just the kind of wife who belonged beside him in literary circles – not just ‘Rose who worked in the dentists’. Not that I was ashamed of working in the dentists – far from it. Cian had said I could leave if I wanted – his significant six figure deal for Unseen gave us a financial freedom we hadn’t known before – but I was happy to stay working. After some convincing – making him believe I didn’t want to stay because I lacked faith in him, but because I actually enjoyed working and spending time with my work colleagues – he had backed off. However, he had warned me I mightn’t have much in common with what he called his ‘book crowd’.
So I’d spent the last fortnight reading The Bookseller and trying to get myself up to speed with who was who and what was hot in the book trade. I’d prepared for questions about what it was like to live with Cian (told myself not to mention how unbearably touchy he got when in edits) and, of course, I read his book from cover to cover to make sure I was able to talk about it with a degree of authority.
I’d spent a lot of time trying to calm Cian down. To assure him the book would be a success, that his publishers and his agent wouldn’t have got behind him in such a big way if they didn’t believe in him 100%. In his better moods, he had hugged me and told me he loved me for being so completely behind him. In his worse days, he had railed a bit, told me I didn’t understand, could never understand. That how could someone who’s ambitions only ever extended to helping clean teeth ever understand the pressure he was under? How hard it was?
