by Jo Jakeman
I couldn’t stop thinking about Phillip having cancer. When my dad had died, it had come as a shock. But with Phillip we knew the end was coming, and I wondered how it could be managed to cause as little hurt to Alistair as possible.
“Do you do this just to hurt me, Imogen?”
“No, Mother.” I sighed. “There are other reasons too.”
Since my run-in with Phillip, it was as if I couldn’t stop speaking my mind, but I decided to let the subject of my father’s death drop. Mother never liked to talk about him, and seeing as I couldn’t explain to her why I was asking, I thought it safer to move on.
Whether I kept Phillip locked up or let him go, there was no denying that this time next year there would be little trace of Phillip Rochester. How would I recall him when I talked to Alistair about him? Would I give Phillip the same treatment as most of the deceased got? A eulogy fit for a saint? Or an honest account of a man who destroyed anyone who was stupid enough to love him?
“I’ve put your milk and eggs in the fridge. You’ve got a couple of those M&S meals in there too. Are you going to be all right on your own? I need to dash to get Alistair.”
“The eggs don’t need to be in the fridge.”
“Still, that’s where they are, in case you were wondering.”
Mother shifted in her seat to look at me. She was no longer wearing her sling.
“I am not an invalid, Imogen. It’s been nearly a week since I had a fall. They said I only had to rest for a few days.”
Older people always had a fall, they never fell. I wondered at what age falling became something that happened to you rather than something you did.
“Still, best not to rush things, eh?” I said.
“That’s become your motto in life, hasn’t it?”
Mother was adept at the verbal slap. And I was skillful in turning the other cheek. Until today.
“Yep, getting it tattooed on my arse. Anyway, have you thought any more about going to Aunt Margaret’s?”
Aunt Margaret was the younger, prettier sister and the apparent reason that I was spared any siblings. They had never seen eye to eye. Ever since she’d retired to Spain and picked lemons off her own tree for her presupper G and T, she was to be actively despised. They bickered constantly yet seemed to enjoy the sport.
“I suppose it might be nice to get away a while. Maybe next week.”
“Let me know and I’ll make sure I’m around to take you to the airport.”
“It’s okay. Bill will take me.”
“Bill? I didn’t realize you were close.”
She looked at me, affronted. “He’s the handyman.”
“Yes, but how handy is he?” I aimed a theatrical wink in her direction and she batted it away with a look that said I was deluded.
I kissed the top of her head, but she sat rigid. I breathed her in.
She smelled of Dove soap and washing day. All things clean and scrubbed. I associated Mother with cleanliness. Never a speck of dirt under her fingernails, never a hair out of place, and never a stray emotion muddying the waters. If what they say is true—that cleanliness is next to godliness—then Mother was a shoo-in for heaven.
“I won’t be able to pop round tomorrow. I’ve got this . . . this thing. Well, lots of things. I’m really busy. I’ll bring you over your lunch on Sunday, though. Yeah? Is that okay? And you’ll call if you need anything?” I was already halfway to the door with car keys in my hand. She didn’t reply.
I drove to the school scrolling through radio stations for something to occupy my mind but ended up switching the radio off and letting my thoughts roam. By the time I’d parked the car, an informal group stood by the gates waiting for them to be unlocked. I hung back, not wanting to be pulled into conversations about homework and holiday plans.
Tristan was in front of me. His suit jacket was crumpled at the back, suggesting a long car journey or hours stuck in meetings. I imagined his tie rolled into a ball in his pocket and the top button of his blue-striped shirt open. His neck was tanned except for half an inch below the hairline, which suggested a recent haircut. He was tall and slender, built like a cyclist but with pianist’s hands.
He was good-looking with the right amount of stubble on his chin and enough flecks of gray at his temples to make him seem human. His glasses made him look intelligent and vulnerable at the same time. He had a gentle smile and kind eyes, but it was his broad shoulders that caught my eye a split second before he caught me staring.
I blushed like I had been caught doing something wrong.
“Hi,” he said, and stepped back a couple of paces so we were level.
“Hi.”
I smoothed my hair and combed it a little with my fingers at the same time.
“Busy day?” he asked.
“Yeah. Family stuff, errands, and you know . . . I’ve been off today, so . . .”
“All right for some,” he said.
“Yep. Life of Riley.”
He tilted his head on one side but didn’t say anything. His hazel eyes were shining behind his thin-rimmed glasses. I wondered who Riley was, bemused that I had chosen this precise moment to use the phrase for the first time in my life.
Tristan had the PTA hearts aflutter since he’d become chief carer for his two children. It was only rumor, but there were whispers on the playground grapevine that Sally had left Tristan for her female gym instructor. Tristan didn’t court the sympathy bestowed on him. He challenged the stereotype that children should stay with their mothers after a breakup and won countless hearts in the process. He was the opposite of Phillip in looks and temperament, but still, the fact that he had sole custody of his children had made me fearful that Phillip’s threats of taking Alistair away from me could be realized. Was it wrong to be thankful that Phillip was dying and would never get his hands on my son?
“Anything planned this weekend?” Tristan asked.
“Me? I’ve got . . . people staying.”
“Sounds nice.”
“In that case, I’ve oversold it. You?”
“What’s that?”
“Anything planned?”
“Oh. No. Sally’s turn to have Ethan and Freya, so I’m home alone. I’ll probably catch up on some reading, maybe paint the kitchen, watch a bit of telly.”
I nodded. I knew the emptiness of a child-free weekend. There’d been days I would have given anything for some alone time, yet when Alistair was at his dad’s, I couldn’t remember how I used to fill my hours. Without him, I lost my purpose. I tried taking up hobbies, but the half-finished watercolors ended up in the bin, the knitted scarf never reached longer than four inches, and the new trainers I’d purchased for early-morning runs in the park still hadn’t made it out of the box. My mind elsewhere, it took me a moment to realize that Tristan was saying something.
“Sorry?” I said. “Didn’t catch that.”
“I said, I can’t remember what I did before the kids came along.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
The gates clanged open and we filed across the hopscotch and the painted snakes.
“Well, if you’re ever at a loose end one weekend, if your ex has the kids at the same time as Sally, then we’ll have to grab a coffee or something.”
“Phillip doesn’t really have Alistair much. Well, not anymore.”
“Okay. Never mind, then.”
“Sorry.”
“Not a problem. Have a good weekend.”
“You too.”
We filed round to our different doors to await our children and I cursed myself for passing up the opportunity to spend time with an attractive single dad. Rachel would have known what to do.
When Alistair noticed me, he pulled on the sleeve of Miss Hambly. She looked up and searched the crowd until she caught my eyes and nodded. Alistair ran to me with
his shirt untucked and his tie at an angle.
“Hey, buddy!”
I picked up his schoolbag, sports bag, lunch box, and artwork.
“So, guess who wants to take you to the movies tomorrow?” I asked.
“Daddy?” His eyes shone with excitement. Even though—or perhaps because—Phillip treated him with indifference, Alistair craved his dad’s attention. I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t that long since I’d been the same.
“No, not Daddy. Rachel has invited you for a sleepover and she’s going to take you to see a film. How cool is that?”
He nodded. He loved Rachel. She was the closest thing he had to an aunty and the closest thing I had to a sister, but, try as she might, she was no substitute for a father’s love.
CHAPTER 13
10 days before the funeral
Saturday rumbled in on the back of whip-crack lightning that split the sky in two and illuminated the room as if setting the scene for a film noir.
My bedroom door sprang open and Alistair tumbled on top of me as reverberations of thunder shook the house. We lay in bed counting the seconds that kept the flashes and the rumbles apart like a referee at a boxing match. Alistair’s heart hammered beneath my hand and he shrank into the crook of my arm. He still believed in that special kind of magic—a parent’s touch that could keep fear at bay, kisses that could heal a scraped knee, hugs that would mend a broken heart.
I’d let Alistair watch telly in bed with a tray of treats in order to keep him as far away from Phillip as possible. Once he was asleep, Naomi and I checked on Phillip from time to time, but otherwise we sat staring into space, drinking vodka, and waiting for Phillip to wake up. By eleven, we gave up waiting and went to bed. I agreed to stop giving him any more sleeping tablets.
Another flash lit up the corners of my room but disappeared before I could identify the shadows and dark shapes that had been illuminated. The cracks were beginning to show, but the storm was yet to break.
Naomi was sleeping, or at least lying, in the spare room with its rosebud curtains and matching bedspread. I’d decorated it with Mother in mind, thinking she’d be the only one to sleep there. Each Sunday after swimming she would retire to the rosebud room so she could help with the Monday morning school run while I dashed to the early-morning team meeting.
Phillip hadn’t encouraged visitors and we hadn’t any friends who would visit from afar or come around for a dinner party and stay the night after one too many. We weren’t those kind of people.
Like everyone who had secrets to hide, we kept ourselves to ourselves. Barriers up. Distances kept. Mr. and Mrs. Rochester, friendly folk who always asked after your ailing father and remembered your birthday but had to dash off the moment the conversation turned to them.
I wasn’t comfortable with Naomi sleeping under my roof, and less so with Phillip under my floor. I didn’t sleep. Sleeping tablets wouldn’t help, because I didn’t want to lengthen the distance between me and consciousness. With Phillip in my house, home was no longer a place of safety. His presence made me desperate to stay alert. It was the beginning of an earthquake. He was the tremor beneath me that unsettled my foundations and promised more disruption to come. There was a tsunami coming and it was only made possible by my rashness. I had put us all in danger by taking on someone I couldn’t beat. He was only a man, but he was the only man who knew how to destroy me. One smirk, one look, one comment. That was all it took. He might be dying, but he was showing no signs of weakness.
As long as Phillip was locked up, then I was in control. I got to say when he ate, what he ate, if he ate at all. I might be deluding myself, but for once it felt good to have the upper hand.
Alistair flopped into sleep and I moved my arm, flexing my fingers against pins and needles. A house alarm was whining down the road. I knew it would be number 27. Their alarm went off every time the wind blew. I looked at the clock to note, with indignation, the time that my peaceless night of nonslumber had been interrupted, but the radio alarm was in complete darkness. I glanced at the door where the orange glow of the bathroom acted as a night-light for Alistair, but there was only the solid immovable certainty of darkness. Phillip.
I snatched my arm from underneath Alistair’s neck, and he murmured and turned over. The fuse box was in the cellar, but Phillip’s chain shouldn’t be long enough for him to reach it. Unless he’d ripped the radiator off the wall. Unless he’d picked the lock. Unless someone had freed him.
I slid out of bed and picked up the bedside lamp, holding it like a baseball bat. The door was still open from when Alistair had flung it open. A flash of lightning bleached the landing and I saw an empty staircase. I struggled to hear any sound above my own beating heart.
Thunder boomed overhead and I ducked, pulling the lamp with me and yanking the plug from the wall. I stayed crouched on the floor, less of a target to hit. I mentally scrolled through our escape routes. We could lock ourselves in the master bathroom and wait for help to come. Which was fine, as long as Phillip hadn’t already slipped past me and was waiting for me there.
A floorboard creaked on the landing. I could picture stealthy footsteps edging toward my door. Even if we could get past him on the stairs and get to the front door, the chain, the bolt, and the lock would delay our escape. I stayed crouched but slid toward the door, waiting for the next flash and rumble so I could dart out and surprise him. I got to one knee and held the lamp firmly in both hands. The flash came quicker this time and flickered for two, maybe three seconds. I sprang up and rounded the door. The landing was empty. I let the lamp fall by my side and gripped the doorframe.
I glanced to the bedroom window, which was little more than a faint gray shape on an already gray wall. The bay window of the living room was beneath us. Where it jutted out, there was a small sloping roof, a parapet, but the drop was still a long one. Without taking my eyes off the door, I edged around the bed to the window to see for myself whether this was our best escape option.
I looked cautiously around the curtain, measuring the drop to the driveway beneath. I almost didn’t notice what was wrong about the night. The colors were wrong. I couldn’t see the bottom of the driveway. The bushes and shrubs of my front yard were smudged.
I could see that some of my neighbors were at their windows too. A few had wrapped themselves in curtains; others had opened their windows and were leaning brazenly over the ledges in their pajamas. There was only the slimmest of moons and the whole street was without electricity. Starved of glowing orange streetlights, my once familiar road had become alien and frightening.
Darkness. The whole street was without power. After first wondering how Phillip could have caused such a thing, I realized that this power cut was nature flexing its muscles, not man. Phillip was still where I had left him and he was not coming for me. I laughed aloud, some of the tension leaving my body. I was shaking as I sat down on the end of the bed and knotted my fingers in the duvet cover.
Lack of sleep was to blame for my sudden jump to an extreme conclusion. Phillip was cruel, but he wasn’t superhuman. He was probably still groggy with sleeping tablets, if he was awake at all. His old handcuffs that served as his restraints had been used on stronger men than him. I didn’t need to worry.
If it hadn’t been for Alistair, I would have curled up under the duvet and waited for morning, but the dark scared him. Landing lights had to be left on, night-lights positioned in his room. More than once, Phillip had made him walk up the stairs in the blackness in order, he said, to prove that there was nothing to be afraid of. It didn’t work. Any mother could have told him that, but not me. I was too scared of him to disagree; Phillip was my darkness.
I didn’t believe Alistair would wake until the first shafts of sunlight hammered gold leaf over the room, but, just in case, I fumbled into my robe and brushed my way downstairs to get emergency lighting. I gripped the banister as a lifeline. I felt the stairs beneath
my toes, and when the carpet turned to tile I knew I was at the bottom. I groped my way into the kitchen, eyes wide, though there was no light to be had. Though the cellar door was locked and bolted, I pushed myself against the opposite wall as I went past, fearing that Phillip’s malevolence would hook me from beneath the door. The distress of thinking he was free in the house was yet to leave me. I was skittish and confused. I quickened my pace and knocked into a chair, which screeched my presence and caused me to swear.
I fumbled for tea lights, matches, and a flashlight under the sink in an old ice cream tub. I clicked on the flashlight and put everything else in my pocket. I had to take a moment to calm myself before I left the kitchen. I opened the vodka bottle, poured myself two inches of composure, and knocked it back. I left the glass on the table and stopped by the cellar door to listen.
Just as I knew he would, Phillip called my name.
I wondered about walking on by, ignoring him. I didn’t have to answer to him anymore. What was the worst he could do if I didn’t answer?
I opened the door.
“Yes?”
“What’s happened?” He sounded sleepy. His voice was soft and warm.
“Power cut. The whole street’s out.”
“I can’t see a bloody thing. Bring me a candle.” There was a moment’s pause, just long enough for it to be noticeable before he added, “Please.”
“You’ll have to wait a minute.”
I walked, without haste, back to my bedroom. The ceilings looked higher lit up by flashlight, and the corners sharper. The light didn’t go far enough to illuminate my path and only succeeded in making the darkness blacker. I lit a tea light on the top of the dresser and kissed Alistair’s downy head. I sat on the side of the bed watching him sleep, the firelight glow stroking his face each time a breeze pushed through the rotting window frames. I knew I wouldn’t be able to protect him from everything, but I would do my best.
I brushed my hair into a ponytail and pulled on some leggings. I listened outside Naomi’s room but there was no sound. Enough time had passed to make Phillip think he was way down on my list of priorities, so I made my way to the cellar. The flashlight’s orb bounced ahead of me down the stairs and cut across the cellar steps. When it alighted on Phillip, he blinked and sat up. He was wearing his jumper in bed and rubbed his hands together to bring warmth to his fingers.
