by Amanda James
Jowan grabs my arm. ‘Hey, hey, where are you going?’
‘I don’t know! Just away. I can’t stand any more of it!’ I shake his hand off but don’t stand up. My trembling legs won’t allow it, so I hug myself tight and give in to silent tears.
Jowan reaches round and closes the door and pulls me backwards, places my head onto his shoulder. The soft black hoodie top he’s wearing smells of Cornwall and spicy cologne, his chest is hard and toned under it and his heart beats steady and sure against my ear. Unbidden come memories of us on lazy afternoons after a morning’s surfing, naked in his bed, entwined in his sheets, my head on his chest like it is now. This is so wrong, but I need him right now. Then, unexpectedly, my tears give way to laughter. Laughter that’s a bit hysterical if I’m honest.
‘Hang on, are you…?’ He lifts my chin and looks into my face. ‘You’re not crying, you’re laughing?’
‘Apparently.’ I pull away and dab at my eyes. ‘I don’t seem to be in control of my faculties at the moment.’ That makes me sound like a Victorian schoolmarm and sets me off again. Jowan’s looking bemused but he has a smile waiting. ‘It’s just that this whole thing feels so surreal. Something out of a TV drama. Like I’m dreaming it all… And it’s not funny, not funny at all, but I suppose laughing is better than crying.’
‘That’s a common coping mechanism.’ He traces a finger down my cheek and I don’t stop him. ‘When a situation gets too much to bear, or too desperately sad, people often laugh, even though they don’t feel like it – it’s a safety valve. I’ve seen people laugh at funerals.’
His eyes are too beautiful, too full of caring. I look away but let the words come.
‘For weeks after I thought Ruan was dead – cremated, gone for ever – the pain of his loss felt like an internal gouging. It was as if a tiger was inside my heart, ripping it to shreds with powerful claws. When I realised Simon was having an affair, I wanted to be that tiger, to rip him to shreds, but I couldn’t of course. No. I had to be normal. Play the good wife. I guess getting a bit hysterical is a reaction to the act I’ve had to put on – hysteria is normal.’
‘Yes. Absolutely. And if you need any help ripping that bastard to shreds at some point, I’m your man.’ Jowan’s voice catches and I daren’t look at him.
Something tells me I must get control of my ‘faculties’ before I let my emotions run away with me. ‘Right, let’s get to this park before Neville comes out and sees me. Because that would be the bloody end of it.’
*
To the untrained eye, the meeting seems to be going well. I am watching Jowan and Neville from my car outside the park railings. They are sitting on a bench in front of the bandstand and Neville keeps nodding and now he’s just smiled. Jowan’s body is twisted towards Neville, his left foot resting on his right knee. He looks relaxed. I know he isn’t though, because he keeps twisting his hair into a little ponytail and letting it fall. He doesn’t realise he’s doing it; it’s a habit. He does it when he’s nervous – unsure.
Neville’s stance tells me he’s in fight or flight mode. Though he might be nodding and smiling, he’s perched on the edge of the bench as if he’s a captive bird of prey waiting for his chance to break free of his jesses and take to the sky like a bullet. Either that, or sink his talons into Jowan and peck his eyes out.
I check my phone again to make sure it’s not on silent and the volume is up high. If Jowan calls me I can’t afford to miss it. Then I look back to the bench. Oh God, no! Neville’s up and running but Jowan’s too quick. He’s grabbed him, bent Neville’s arm up his back, and then I hear a yell. Luckily the park is pretty empty apart from a few toddlers and their mums on the baby swings a good way off. They don’t appear to have seen or heard anything. When I look back, I’m just in time to see Jowan dragging Neville behind a tree.
Nausea rolls in my belly and I tuck my hands under my armpits to stop my hands from shaking. Then my phone rings. I can hardly keep it still while I slide my finger across the surface.
‘Come to the trees now. Bring my rucksack.’ Jowan’s voice is cold, menacing, and I hear a grunt and a thump. The line goes dead. Shit. This is not what I wanted. Not what I wanted at all. Before he left the car, Jowan said that if he phoned me I must do exactly as he said. But why does he need the rucksack? Perhaps I should look inside? No. I’ll do as Jowan says; I have to trust him. I grab the rucksack, jump out of the car, and hurry through the gates and across the park.
As I approach the trees I can see that Neville is face down on the ground and Jowan is sitting on his back; Neville’s arm is still bent up behind him at an angle that must be excruciatingly painful for him. He’s panting and swearing and Jowan twists his arm each time he struggles. Jowan turns to me. ‘Okay, open the bag and hand me the cord. The army knife too.’
My horrified expression makes Jowan give a quick shake of his head and mouth ‘don’t worry’ at me. I take a breath, think of Ruan and nod my assent. Neville can’t see me from his position and he tries to turn his head. Jowan orders him to keep still and he does. His breath is shallow, quiet. There’s a length of cord wound around a bit of driftwood at the bottom of the rucksack, which answers my question as to why it’s there. It’s a leash cord used to secure a surfboard. The army knife is in the side pocket. I hand both to Jowan.
‘Right, I’m going to tie your hands and sit you up with your back against this tree. You are going to tell us everything you know about who wrote that letter and how we can talk to her.’
‘I told you I don’t know anything.’
Jowan ties his hands and drags him to the tree. Neville looks at me and realisation dawns. ‘Ah, it all makes sense now.’ He glances at Jowan. ‘There was no way your story about working for Mr West rang true. Why would he pay me for information he already has?’
‘He doesn’t know about the letter,’ I say and receive a black look from Jowan.’
‘Holly, let me handle this…’
‘Just tell us the name of the nurse and where she lives,’ I say, angling my head away from Jowan so I don’t have to see his face. My gut is telling me to take over this interrogation and I’m listening to it.
‘I told you the other week, Mrs West. I don’t know the name of the nurse or where she lives. I have no idea what was in the letter – just that it was about a secret and it was pretty bad to say the least.’
Neville sounds as if he’s telling the whole truth but I know otherwise. The nausea and trembling have left me and from somewhere strength and confidence are taking over. ‘I don’t believe you, Neville. Oh yes, most of it is true, but I know there’s more.’
Jowan leans against the tree and flicks open a nasty-looking blade on the army knife. Neville looks up at it and the colour leaves his face. ‘I don’t want to use this, Neville, as I’m not a violent man. But I will, trust me.’
I want to tell Jowan to be quiet but the terror behind Neville’s eyes indicates that we might get somewhere soon. Ruan is my priority here. ‘Tell us,’ I say, and the ice in my voice surprises me.
Neville closes his eyes and runs his tongue over dry lips. Then he opens them and shakes his head. ‘Do your worst. I don’t know any…’ A punch to the side of the head from Jowan silences him, and as I watch a trickle of blood run down the side of his face from his split eyebrow, I know I can’t be a party to this.
‘That’s enough!’ I hold my hand up to Jowan. I don’t like the look in his eyes; it’s as if he’s somebody else. Somebody the army created. They made a fighting machine of the gentle boy who left me four years ago; they also made him into someone who cries out at night in anguish from a troubled sleep.
Jowan sighs but steps away. Neville’s expression visibly relaxes and he knows he’s won. But there is one last hope that he’ll tell me what he knows. If he has a better nature, I’ll appeal to it. Reason must be better than brutality, surely? I kneel beside him on the ground and gently wipe blood from his face with a tissue. He eyes me with
suspicion but says nothing.
‘Neville. I don’t know why you delivered that letter to me from the nurse; perhaps she paid you, perhaps she’s your friend, or more than that to you? But I’m begging you; please tell me how I can find her, because she’s the only lead I have to the whereabouts of my baby son.’
His mouth drops open. ‘What the hell? Now I know you’re lying, because everyone knows your son died,’ Neville says, a look of contempt darkening his features.
‘No, he didn’t…’ I hesitate and look to Jowan for assent.
He raises his eyebrows and raises his palms to the sky. ‘It’s your call.’
‘Look, you obviously don’t know what was in the letter so I’ll tell you. Yes, it’s true, we were told that one of our twins, my boy, was dead. Only he wasn’t. For some reason, somebody unknown gave him away to other parents. The person that wrote the letter – the nurse you know presumably – said she was paid for her silence, but had her own very important reason for doing it. She promised to keep it all a secret, but couldn’t live with herself, so she told me.’
Neville frowns, and under his breath mutters, ‘She wouldn’t do that…’ To me he says, ‘But that makes no sense? It’s mad. Why would anyone do such a thing? And why the hell haven’t you told your husband, gone to the police?’
‘As you say, it’s mad! And because I worry my husband would think I was crazy!’ I slap my hand against the tree. ‘Look, the thing is, Neville, I’ve had a few problems with depression and other stuff in the past. There’s no way people would believe my story and, in the meantime, whoever has my boy would make sure he was never traced.’ My face is hot and I realise I’m crying. I dash the tears away and make my voice strong. ‘Whoever it is must have influence, have money. I’m guessing your nurse friend definitely wouldn’t be safe either if he knew she’d gone back on her word and told me all about it.’
Before my eyes, Neville seems to deflate – all the anger and cocksureness drain away until there’s just a broken man slumped against the tree. There’s a tear running down his cheek and he looks at me, bewilderment in his eyes. ‘How could she do such a thing? She told me your husband was having an affair and she found out. She blackmailed him because she needed the money for… for…’
His dark eyes slide away from mine and to the tops of the trees. After a few moments he says to the sky, ‘But then she felt sorry for you and had to let you know in the letter. I felt sorry your husband had cheated on you too, especially since you’d lost a child, but then I changed my mind when I met you. I thought you were the same kind of person as him, up yourself, marching into my workplace all high and mighty, demanding… That’s why I took your money.’ He looks at me and then at Jowan. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Inside my head there’s a little figure of triumph doing a crazy dance. Looks like Neville has a better nature after all, thank God! I won’t give room to the idea that she is the spurned lover, the one who wants revenge. My boy is alive. No question. We aren’t home and dry yet though. I put my hand on his arm and say, ‘Don’t worry about that now. Just tell us who…’
‘Her name is Yvonne Marshall. She was a nurse at the clinic, worked there two years and left just after you had your twins. The only one who talked to me as if I was an equal instead of a minion in that snooty place. Yvonne was a friend, and I miss her. I wanted more, but she has no place in her life for me, for anyone but… You’ll find out why when you talk to her. It’s so hard to believe she could have done such a terrible thing and not told me, despite her circumstances. Anyway, I’m saying no more on it. Though you can have her address. Untie me and I’ll write it down.’
Jowan unties him while I rummage in my bag for a pen and paper, but I can’t focus. My pulse is racing and I’m giddy with relief. I can hardly believe we have a name at last! Once Jowan has helped Neville to his feet, he apologises and asks if his arm is okay.
‘A bit sore, but it will be all right. My head feels worse.’ Neville touches his fingertips to the cut on his eyebrow and winces. Jowan goes to apologise again but Neville waves it away. ‘In the circumstances I would have done the same.’ While he writes the address down, Jowan and I share a little smile, but there’s a touch of shame in his. I know he regrets hurting Neville, perhaps realises I saw his unnecessary zeal, but it’s done now. We must focus on Yvonne Marshall.
At the park gates Neville touches my arm. ‘Wishing you luck in finding your little boy, Mrs West.’
Tears prickle behind my eyes and I say, ‘Thanks, Neville. I’m sure your friend Yvonne will be able to tell us something to help, even though she doesn’t know who has him.’
His face darkens in anger. ‘She’s no friend of mine. Not after this. And that evil bastard who took your son s needs locking up!’
‘Oh, they need more than that,’ Jowan says evenly. ‘But you aren’t going to breathe a word of this to the police because, if you do, Yvonne will pay, Holly might never see her son again, and you will also be implicated. Are we clear?’
Neville nodded. ‘Don’t you worry, mate. I want nothing else to do with this whole bloody mess, I can tell you.’
We watch him walk down the street and Jowan slips his arm around me. ‘You okay?’
‘I will be when we’ve talked to Yvonne Marshall. I wonder what the circumstances are that Neville mentioned?’ Jowan shrugs and walks me to my car. ‘It’s all beyond belief, but my God, I never thought we’d have come this far so quickly.’
‘Yeah. It’s bloody fantastic. I’ll get to her house as quickly as possible while you pick up Iona. Meet you there.’
‘Why can’t we go together after I get Iona?’
Jowan looks at me as if I’m a bit dense. ‘Because as much as Neville says he’s washed his hands of his friend, he might be on the phone in a few minutes, tipping her off that we’re on our way, and she’ll make a run for it.’
‘Blimey, I would never have thought of that. I’m so glad you’re here, Jowan,’ I say and, without knowing I am about to, place a kiss on his cheek.
His face turns pink and he hails a cab. ‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, Hols.’
Chapter Thirteen
The tree-lined street with its modest row of Victorian terraced houses in Walthamstow seems too ordinary a setting. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the evil witch of a woman who helps deprive a mother of her newborn baby for money ought to live in a dark castle on top of a mountain, complete with lightning bolts at the very least. Jowan looks completely out of place here, his back against the street sign, hood up, hands in pockets. I’m reminded of one of those sticker books for kids, the ones with the various background scenes and a choice of stickers to make a picture. Jowan is a sticker that belongs on one that has sand, sunshine and ocean. Someone’s stuck him on the wrong page.
I park just up the road from Jowan and he hurries over to help me with Iona. ‘Have you seen any movement?’ I ask, as I scan the doors for number 82.
‘Nope. All quiet – she might be out of course.’
That had occurred to me, but if that turns out to be the case, we’ll just have to wait as long as it takes. Iona is content and we have everything she needs in the car. Number 82 has a red door and an uninspiring withered pot plant in the bay window. With Iona in a sling in front of me I follow Jowan up the steps to the front door. He suggests I wait to the side, out of sight, to avoid recognition; if she was indeed the attending nurse at my C-section, she might just slam the door in our faces.
Jowan pushes on the bell and I hear the door open just as a phone starts ringing in the hallway. A woman’s voice asks Jowan to hold on a minute while she answers it and I sneak a look, just in time to see the door closing again. Jowan takes me by the elbow, leans on the door and pulls me through, much to the astonishment of the woman.
‘What the hell…’
‘Yvonne Marshall?’
‘Yes…’ She looks at me, falters, then says tremulously into the phone, ‘Neville, there ar
e people in my house and…’ She listens for a while, shakes her head and leans her back against the wall, her face drained of colour. ‘Neville, please, I…’
It’s obvious Neville has hung up and she puts the phone on the side table and a trembling hand to her mouth. She doesn’t look like a wicked witch or a monster, just ordinary, like the street. Late thirties, brown hair scraped back into a ponytail, without a trace of make-up to enhance the red-rimmed but intelligent hazel eyes – the only attractive bit of her plain features. I remember her eyes. She is the nurse who was there rushing around on that terrible day. She’s not Simon’s type… couldn’t be. Besides, my son is alive. He is alive.
‘He took his time ringing you,’ Jowan says to her. ‘If he’d have done it straight away you could have legged it by now.’
At first I think she’s about to cry. Her eyes are moist, her mouth turns down and she makes a gravelly noise in her throat. But then I realise she’s laughing. Laughing hysterically. She sounds a lot like I did earlier. Iona shifts her position and gives a little wail. Yvonne stops laughing and notices my daughter perhaps for the first time. She looks up into my eyes and suddenly she’s deadly serious. ‘I’m so very, very sorry, Mrs West. I wasn’t laughing in humour… nothing about this is remotely funny.’
‘No, it certainly isn’t, Ms Marshall,’ I reply, eyeing her with contempt.
‘It’s just if you knew why I couldn’t have just “legged it”… why I did that vile, despicable thing…’ Heaving a sigh, she pushes herself away from the wall, she looks resigned. Beaten. ‘Follow me. Then you’ll perhaps begin to understand.’
Jowan and I exchange a look and follow her down the hall and into a kitchen. Yvonne opens a door a little way and looks round it into a dimly lit room. She turns back to us. ‘Please don’t make a noise; my daughter, Verity, is sleeping,’ she whispers and beckons us over.
