Forgive Me

by Susan Lewis

  He wants me to write one more letter after this one before he starts what he calls the next stage of the process, whatever that is, but I’ve decided not to. He doesn’t understand why, so I tell him that I need to know what you think of my other letters before I start trying with all the sorry stuff. OK, I get that it doesn’t work like that, it’s not my place to call shots in this, but truth is, I’m scared. Big admission for me, that. It’s true though. I’m scared that there’s nothing I can do or say that’ll make a difference for you and that’ll be like hurting you all over again.

  I know he’s going to tell me that the best way I can help you is to name the PC who ordered the hit. The trouble is, that’s like asking me to choose between you and my ma.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Are you OK? Not too tired?” Claudia asked, opening the front door for her mother to go in ahead of her.

  “Not tired at all,” Marcy replied softly, and after unbuttoning her coat she hung it on the stand while Claudia made a point of not watching her; she knew that it bothered her mother to have her single-handed efforts to help herself monitored as if she were a child. Actually, she was doing quite well on that front, and it wasn’t as if her left hand didn’t function at all, it just hadn’t regained much of the dexterity it had enjoyed before.

  After hanging her own coat, Claudia went to put on the kettle while Marcy stood at the middle arched window, staring down their short drive toward the road. The gates were operational now, opening and closing with a remote control, and a large drystone wall had been constructed on either side to seal the boundary. Clearing the front and back gardens was an ongoing project, and to Claudia’s relief it was something her mother was taking an interest in.

  Right now she was waiting for Henry to arrive, which he would in the next few minutes since he’d already called to say he was on his way. He’d be eager to know how they’d got on at the burns clinic today, in fact he’d have taken Marcy himself if Claudia hadn’t made it clear a while ago that she needed to be there for these appointments. If she wasn’t she was afraid her mother might not tell her everything, and it wouldn’t be possible for her to stay on top of things if she didn’t have all the information.

  “Is that him?” she asked, hearing the crunch of tires approaching the house. Henry had his own remote control for the gates.

  “Yes,” came Marcy’s reply, and she turned from the window to help with the tea, unhooking one mug at a time while keeping her left hand in the pocket of her dress. Her hair had grown almost to chin level by now and had been styled with a right-side parting to create a full sweep of her bob down over the injured side of her face. Unlike the pretty scarves she wore around her scarred neck it didn’t mask very much, but at least it covered what remained of her ear—and the color, since being highlighted, suited her well. She was still beautiful if caught in the right profile and in the right light, but the damaged side of her face was a constant and brutal reminder of what she’d been through.

  Henry let himself in through the front door, banging his gloved hands together and stomping his feet on the doormat as if he’d just arrived from the Arctic. It was cold out, but not that cold. “I’ve brought cake,” he told them. He grinned, “And I’ve left it in the car. I’ll be right back,” and he disappeared outside again.

  “I’m guessing lemon tart,” Claudia said, pouring hot water into the teapot.

  Marcy said, “Definitely something with lemon.”

  It turned out to be a drizzle cake, one of Marcy’s favorites, and after enjoying a slice with them while updating Henry on her mother’s progress, Claudia left them to the Times crossword—something they did together most days—and disappeared into her craft room.

  With the door closed and the radio on she sat down at the table and buried her head in her hands. She couldn’t say why today was feeling so much harder than any other, she only knew that right at this moment she was so pent up with frustration and guilt and anger that she wanted to scream and rant and bang her fists to her head as if to break her skull. She had brought this on her mother, almost as if she’d set fire to the place herself, and though Marcy had never uttered a single word of recrimination that was only because she hardly spoke at all.

  Ignoring her phone as it rang, in spite of it being Andee, she clasped her hands to her face and sobbed. It was during episodes like this that she had no idea what to do with herself, where to turn or how to bring herself back from the brink. She was so caught up in self-loathing, and the fear that Marcus would strike again to punish her for handing over the attaché case, that she felt physically sick with it. She needed him to be named as the person behind the arson attack, to be imprisoned for it, to be publicly shamed. No punishment was too great for him; were she able she’d order a hit on him herself to make sure he never came near them again.

  There were times when things got so bad that she had to drive out to the moor to find a lonely spot where she could cry and shout and beg for answers from a God who clearly wasn’t listening. Or maybe He was, for it was one terrible Monday afternoon a couple of months ago that Dan had found her in a remote layby slumped over the steering wheel of her car, so tormented by grief and fear that she didn’t even hear him come to a stop beside her. She only knew he was there when he pulled her gently from the driver’s seat into his arms and held her in a way that had, as the minutes ticked by, seemed to give her as much of his strength as she needed to get past the almost uncontrollable upsurge of despair.

  Later, when he’d driven her to a pub so they could continue to talk, he’d explained that he’d called the house to update them on the insurance company’s latest payout and had found her mother worrying about where she might have gone. So he’d driven around looking for her until he’d finally spotted her car, which, given the size of Exmoor, was nothing short of a miracle—aka divine guidance.

  “You can’t cope with this on your own,” he told her, coming straight to the point in a tone that brooked no dissent. “Nor can you carry on blaming yourself for something you didn’t do. The responsibility for what happened to your mother lies squarely with those behind the fire.”

  “But if I hadn’t brought her here . . .”

  “The responsibility is not yours,” he said emphatically, “but your mental health is, so what you must do for yourself, and your mother and Jasmine, is talk to someone who knows how to help you.”

  Because she’d known he was right, she’d booked an appointment with her GP the next day, but when she finally got to see him she discovered that the wait list for an NHS psychotherapist was months. So instead of going that route she contacted a recommended private therapist instead.

  It was his voice that she could hear inside her head now as she sat in her craft room with everything crowding in on her. It somehow broke through the chaos, a whisper in a storm at first, but calm and comforting, telling her to cry and rage all she needed to until she was ready to begin one of the exercises he’d given her. She always chose the same one, for it was simple and worked every time. All she had to do was picture herself in a place that felt restful and nurturing, somewhere she’d been before or maybe somewhere she’d like to go. She could be alone, or with someone she trusted, a friend or relative who brought no negativity at all into her world. At first it was always Joel or her father she turned to, but lately she’d found herself thinking of Dan and the way he’d held her that day on the moor. Even in memory it felt like a safe haven, and holding it close in her mind could be almost as soothing as the times he’d held her since.

  They weren’t dating, or calling each other every day, or making promises they might not be able to keep, but over the past couple of months he’d often joined them for picnics on the moor, or hikes along the coastal path, or a trip to the cinema. It was always somewhere Marcy wouldn’t have to cope with too many people looking at her. Henry usually organized the excursions and more often than not it was just the four of them, although Jasmine occasionally came too, or Andee, or Leanne. At t
he end of the day, or evening, Dan would sometimes hold Claudia just a little bit longer than a friend might before going on his way, as though reassuring her that he was there if she needed him. It helped so much, and she wondered if he had any idea of that.

  Maybe she should tell him, but if she did he might feel pressured to do it more often and she didn’t feel able to cope with that. She needed everything to be sorted out before she could get on with her life, and arresting the thug who’d carried out the attack—may he rot in his prison cell—might be a step in the right direction, but it was a long way from being enough.

  Vaguely registering Richie’s arrival—Henry or her mother must have let him in—she stayed where she was, in no mood to see anyone if she didn’t have to. He’d become a regular visitor to the house since Marcy had come home, although he’d ended the newspaper blog a while ago—Marcy had asked him not to post updates on her progress. She just wanted to fade away from public recognition. However, before giving it up, he’d persuaded her to authorize a short thank-you message to everyone who’d lightened the darkest of her days with their kind words.

  He came now simply because he knew Marcy wasn’t going out much, so he brought chitchat and the kind of books and magazines he thought might interest her, in spite of knowing she could get most things online. It was where she did all her shopping these days, clothes and cosmetics, a garden swing seat for Claudia’s birthday, and an Il Cessol Stradivarius copy for Jasmine to replace the one lost in the fire. It was very similar to the one Joel had given her, and in its way just as precious.

  Jasmine often played for her, and when she did Marcy would sit quietly enjoying the beautiful sounds her granddaughter brought to life in the music, the sigh of wind in trees, footsteps in the snow, laughter, birdsong, rain.

  In a physical sense Marcy’s recovery continued to be as good as her medical team had hoped for, only two further grafts since her discharge, and though she still wore splints on her neck and hand at night to stretch the skin, she wasn’t using them as much during the daytime.

  The problem that remained was her mental state, her morale, or whatever it was that had stopped functioning the day of the fire. Although she still saw the psychologist once a fortnight Claudia had no idea what she was telling him, although he’d admitted to sharing Claudia’s concerns that the post-trauma symptoms hadn’t gone away. But he didn’t feel they were getting worse, so all they could do was continue monitoring the situation, and Claudia must feel free to contact him if anything happened to worry her.

  That was half the trouble: nothing ever seemed to happen, it was as if her mother had become stuck somewhere out of the reach of normal life. Perhaps she was feeling stifled or submerged by the fear of anything like it happening again—or the horror of seeing herself in the mirror each day. She never talked about it, she didn’t complain or seem to fret or feel sorry for herself either. She just went through the motions of each day doing whatever she thought was expected of her, and no more.

  “It’s driving me mad,” Claudia wailed into the phone when Andee rang again. “I know that’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. Sometimes I even want to shake her, or slap her to try and bring some life back to her, but of course I’d never forgive myself if I did. I’m never going to forgive myself anyway. It’s all so horrible, we’re going out of our minds in our different ways, and now Jasmine’s telling me she’s not going to college next year if we’re still like this.”

  With a sympathetic murmur, Andee said, “You sound tired as well as strung out . . .”

  “Actually, I’m better now than I was a few minutes ago,” Claudia quickly assured her. “I’ve done my mental exercises so I’m just sounding off, no danger of an explosion or rush for the pill jar.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “It never gets that bad,” Claudia babbled on. “I was just making a joke, but obviously not a funny one.” It did get that bad, but thankfully her exercises and conscience always managed to settle her down again. What on earth would her mother and Jasmine do if she wasn’t there to take care of them?

  “Where is she now?” Andee asked.

  “Richie’s just left, so I guess she’s back to doing the crossword with Henry. I don’t know how we’d cope without him. He’s so patient and it never seems to upset him that she doesn’t engage much, he just chats away as if everything’s normal, thinking up things to do that don’t run a risk of her being stared at. I swear if it weren’t for him I’d probably have lost it completely by now. Anyway,” she continued with a laugh, “I’m sure you didn’t ring up to listen to me ranting on like a lunatic, but if it’s about the bedspread for Angela Cairns—”

  “It’s not about that,” Andee interrupted, “and anyway there’s no rush for it, she’s going to be in the States until after Christmas so you can reprioritize the workload. No, I’m ringing to ask if you’d like to come here for supper tomorrow evening? Graeme’s away so I’m afraid I’ll be doing the cooking, although Dan has gamely offered to help out.”

  Claudia immediately felt better, even something close to lighthearted. “That sounds wonderful,” she replied. “Do you mean all three of us?”

  “Of course, all three of you. And as Henry’s there, perhaps you can invite him along too.”

  AT SIX THE following evening Andee sat down with Dan in the home office she shared with Graeme to go over everything they needed to have straight in their minds before Marcy, Claudia, and the others arrived.

  “OK, the floor is yours, SuperDan,” she encouraged. “Speak what’s in your mind so we can go through it.”

  With an ironic smile, he said, “Obviously this is all about Marcy. She is, and will remain, our priority, but as Archie’s RJ practitioner, I also have a responsibility to him, so I’ll talk about him first. I’ll come on to the letters he’s written, but for now Helen, the lawyer you recommended, isn’t optimistic about getting the attempted murder charge reduced to severe assault. She’s still talking to the Crown Prosecution Service, so hasn’t given up yet, and I’ve offered to speak to them too should it prove relevant further down the line.”

  “I take it Archie knows he’s going down anyway for the arson? He must do, he pleaded guilty. Does he understand that the chances of reducing the attempted murder charge aren’t good?”

  “Probably, but we haven’t discussed it in any detail. That’s his lawyer’s job, and I don’t want him thinking that Restorative Justice is an easy way of manipulating the system to work in his favor. His remorse has to be genuine, actually I’m sure it is, but we’re not yet in a place where he’s presenting it well.”

  “But you believe he’ll get there?”

  “Absolutely. I wouldn’t have wasted all this time on him if I didn’t, nor would I have suggested a meeting with Marcy and Claudia. If it goes the way we’re hoping, it could have a profound effect on Archie—Marcy too, of course. In his head he’s got to know her while he’s been writing to her, he feels attached to her, so to hear that his letters have been read and not rejected could strengthen his remorse to a point where he finds it easier to express.”

  “If they get read, and it’s a big if. I guess you’re prepared for this to backfire horribly? The very fact that you’ve been engaging, in a sympathetic sense, with the boy who caused her injuries could turn her against you and him for good.”

  “It’s a risk I’m prepared to take, because I believe that beneath all the negative feelings she’s experiencing right now, her natural empathy is alive and well. And it’s that, more than anything, that’ll help her to start moving past the trauma. Would you agree with that?”

  “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t. So now, do you want to hear what I think of the letters?”

  He gestured for her to go ahead.

  Opening the file they’d been scanned to on her laptop, she said slowly, thoughtfully, “He writes more honestly than I expected him to, and probably better than he imagined he could, but is he winning my heart?”
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  Dan waited, keen for an honest answer.

  “Not entirely,” she confessed, “although I think my feelings about it don’t really matter, it’s Marcy and Claudia he has to reach and the way to do that is for him to confirm a connection to Huxley-Browne. If you or Helen had persuaded him to do that there would be a much better chance of these letters even getting into their hands.”

  With a sigh he said, “You’re right, and I’m still working on it, but if I push too hard it could make him clam up altogether.”

  “We know threats have been made against his mother to keep him quiet, so how to get around that?”

  “Good question,” Dan said. “He talks in his letters about the supply of chemsex drugs to PC clients and we know Huxley-Browne and his cronies were users. I’d say it’s very probably the middlemen, the suppliers, this BJ character and the gang bosses, who’ve made the threats either on Huxley-Browne’s behalf, or their own.”

  “Or both.” Andee returned to the letters. “Have you told Archie yet that you’re about to show these to Marcy?”

  “He knows it’s imminent, but I don’t plan to discuss it with him until we have a clearer idea of which way it’s going to go.”

  Andee glanced up at the sound of voices outside. “Looks like we’re about to take our first step in finding out,” she told him, and closing the files on her laptop, she went to open the front door.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Tell me you’re not serious,” Claudia cried, her eyes blazing with fury as she rounded on Dan. “Is that what this evening is about? You got us here on the pretense of a friendly dinner and all the time . . .” She clasped her hands to her head in raging disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d do this. Don’t you think we’ve been through enough? Look at her, that’s what that animal did to my mother and yet you seem to think it’s all right to talk to him about it, to get him to write her letters as if he’s some kind of . . . fucking pen pal . . .”