We All Fall Down

by Cynthia Clark

  The screen right in front of him was switched off. The policeman had turned it off and Ronnie had not dared ask for it to be turned back on. He’d learned in the last few weeks that the less he talked, the better it was.

  The news that he was well enough to go to court had come eight days before. The cardiac team had walked into his room, checked him out, then left. They didn’t say a word to him, didn’t even ask how he was feeling. It was fine, he had become used to feeling invisible. Just hours later two policemen appeared by his bed. ‘Let’s go,’ one of them said. That was it. They didn’t say where they were going, although Ronnie could guess.

  That evening he was back in his cell, a different one from before. ‘Does my wife know I’ve been discharged?’ he asked. But nobody would tell him anything or allow him to call her. He could only imagine Tanya’s panic when she went to the hospital and found his bed empty, but there was nothing he could do.

  He didn’t get to see her, or even talk to her, until his court hearing two days later. She was sitting at the edge of the hard bench when he was escorted in, her head turned, staring at the door. He felt as if his chest were being squeezed as he saw the heartbreak etched in her face. He knew that he had caused it, and the guilt ate at him, as it did when he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about his boys, how their whole opinion of him would have changed, and heartbroken that he couldn’t even talk to them himself.

  The proceedings went quickly. The judge read the submissions by the British authorities and, despite his lawyer’s feeble arguments, the decision came swiftly. He would be flown back to England as soon as possible.

  Tanya tried to bring the boys to prison, but they wouldn’t let her. Something to do with security, the lawyer said. Ronnie didn’t know how to feel. He was desperate to see the boys but didn’t want them to see him behind bars. ‘I’ll bring them to the airport,’ Tanya said. ‘Hopefully you’ll get to say goodbye.’

  He wasn’t supposed to leave until next week. He’d thought he’d get to see Tanya again. But hours earlier two guards had come to get him and he was escorted to a room where two policemen were waiting. ‘We’re flying to England today,’ one of them said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ronnie wasn’t sure he had heard right, whether this was some cruel joke.

  ‘Need your ears cleaned?’ the other policeman said, looking at his colleague, the two bursting into laughter. ‘We’re leaving today.’

  ‘But we weren’t supposed to leave until next week.’ He knew his voice sounded desperate and he hated appearing vulnerable.

  ‘Well, things change quickly round here. The guards are going to take you to have a shower. We don’t want you stinking up the plane.’

  And now here he was. He wasn’t even allowed to call Tanya. She was supposed to come to visit him tomorrow and now it would be a wasted trip. He could imagine her face crumpling in disappointment when she found out that he was gone, taken away without as much as a goodbye. Who knew if he’d ever see her and the boys again? They certainly couldn’t afford to fly to London to be at the trial.

  Ronnie shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts before they became too much, before he burst into tears as he had been threatening to since he got on the plane. There was nothing to do. He just had to keep going, hope that his legal representative was any good, that there was a way to be acquitted for what he had done, allow him to go back home, continue living life with his family. He knew it was too much to hope for, but it was the only thing he could do, the only thing that would keep him sane as he waited for his fate to be sealed.

  50

  The smell of toast greeted Bea the moment she stepped out of the bathroom. It was that homey aroma of slightly burned bread slathered in sizzling butter. She knew exactly what it would taste like, how the tiny crumbs would leave an ashen hue on the plate. Martin would cut it in triangles, just as he always did. Toast was his speciality. He wasn’t a great cook, but had mastered that one item, making it whenever he was the one in charge of breakfast.

  Holding tight onto the bannister, she went downstairs, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. She headed right into the kitchen and stopped at the door. Gemma and Martin were sitting at the small table in front of the window, their heads semi-silhouetted against the early morning light. Newspapers were scattered across the table, coffee mugs jostling for space among the happy mess. She found herself holding her breath, wanting to enjoy this picture of normality, two people beginning the morning together, just as they’d done for several decades.

  The whistling of the kettle almost made her jump. Gemma pushed her chair back and turned to face her. ‘Morning, love, did you get a good night’s sleep?’ She walked towards her and hugged her tight, as the kettle’s whistling became more and more high-pitched. ‘Coffee?’ Gemma asked as she let Bea go, taking a few steps to the stove to take the offending kettle off the burner.

  Bea looked over at the clock hanging on the far side of the kitchen. She had some time before she had to leave to get to work. Nodding, she walked to the table and kissed Martin on the cheek before sitting down next to him. ‘Lifestyle or news section?’ he asked.

  ‘News, please,’ she responded, taking the paper from him.

  They sat in silence until Gemma came back, putting Bea’s mug in front of her. ‘Have some toast; Martin made way too much,’ she said, pushing a plate in front of Bea and placing two slices of toast on it.

  Bea took a bite of toast, relishing the buttery goodness. ‘Is Sophia still asleep?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘They stayed at their house last night.’

  Bea’s eyes opened wide as a pang of guilt struck her. ‘Oh, is it because of me? I really didn’t want to drive her away.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about it.’ Gemma stood behind Bea, putting her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders. ‘She’s been wanting to go back. Frankly, she might have used you as an excuse.’

  For some time they sat in silence, broken only by the crunching of toast and the swishing of newspaper pages being turned. And for the first time in what seemed like forever, Bea felt the stress seep away. Despite everything, she found herself enjoying the here and now. Martin’s orchids filling the conservatory with splashes of colour. The weak sun coming in through the window. The taste of strongly brewed coffee.

  The sound of Martin clearing his throat forced her to snap back into reality. She turned her head towards him and saw that he was looking at his wife. ‘Uhm…’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Gemma told me what you spoke about yesterday.’

  A flush of heat rose through Bea’s body until her cheeks felt as if they were burning. She lowered her eyes, unable to look Martin in the face. She was mortified. Of course, she knew that Gemma would tell him about their conversation, her admission. She had just hoped that she’d be able to sneak out before either of them brought it up.

  ‘Bea, can you look at me?’

  With difficulty she tore her eyes away from her mug and turned her head towards Martin. She didn’t know what she was expecting. She was terrified that he would be disgusted at what she’d done, but instead his expression was soft, a mixture of love and concern.

  ‘This is a bit of a pickle that you’re all in. Do you really think that the police are going to find out?’

  Bea shrugged and shook her head. She pressed her lips tightly together, the ends edging downwards. ‘I… I just don’t know. The police are certainly suspicious that there was something going on in the house. They seem to think that we’d been abused. They seem to have got it backwards, thinking that we were being poisoned. But if they start really prying… I think one of us is going to break under the pressure and confess.’

  She paused and looked from Martin to Gemma. Neither said anything, Martin simply nodded his head, urging her to continue.

  ‘So yes, I think we’re in a tricky situation. If they confirm that she used to beat us, treat us like rubbish, it would give them a motive for us trying to harm her.’

 
; ‘But you had no other choice.’ Gemma leaned across the table and grasped Bea’s hand, squeezing it tight. ‘Surely they’ll understand that.’

  ‘But we did. We had choices. We could have spoken up, told someone about the beatings, the psychological abuse. We were covered in bruises. How could she ever explain that? We didn’t play sport – she often wrote us notes so we could skip PE. Someone would have believed us. We had that option. We decided not to speak up because we didn’t want to be separated.’

  ‘Do you think the police really care about what happened?’ Martin asked. ‘Or are they only asking because of the case?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. But I’m leaning towards the latter. They want to make sure they have all the information and not risk any surprises in court. Miriam is already sick, bed-bound. She’s serving her life sentence. What are they going to do to her? Her life can’t get much worse.’

  ‘But yours can.’ Gemma’s mouth was pressed in a thin line.

  ‘Yes, our lives could be impacted. Even if they never manage to confirm that we tried to poison her, it’s naive to think that the information won’t be made public. It would be embarrassing at the very least, but also cause us to lose trust, maybe lose jobs, make it difficult for us to advance our careers. And on a personal level, it could be devastating to our relationships.’

  Martin leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands together, each finger touching its opposite counterpart. ‘Bea, how important is it for you to see the driver prosecuted?’

  Bea’s eyes opened wide. She wasn’t expecting that question. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. It’s not like I have a say in the matter.’

  ‘Well, what if you did? What if you could decide whether he got prosecuted or not? If it was up to you to determine whether he gets to pay for what he did to you? He killed your brother, caused you your dreams—’

  ‘But he saved you from that woman,’ Gemma interjected. ‘That accident, as horrible as it was, brought you to us. And I hope we gave you a better life than you had with her.’

  ‘Of course, there’s no doubt in my mind.’ Bea turned towards Martin. ‘I don’t know. I’ve thought about this. I hate him for Sebastian, for the pain. But on the other hand, I know it wasn’t entirely his fault. And he gave us a way out from the horrible life we were living. We had a future because of him. We might be criminals if it wasn’t for that accident.’

  ‘I’ve read about him in the newspapers.’ Gemma twisted her coffee mug on the table in front of her. ‘He seemed to have changed his life, got a job, had a family. Perhaps if you, and the others, decide not to testify, he can go back to his life.’

  The gasp escaped Bea before she would control herself. ‘You mean let him go free?’

  Gemma moved her chair closer to Bea’s. ‘Honey, I know this is hard. Martin and I talked about it for hours. But perhaps it’s the only way to get the police off your back, to stop them digging in your past, potentially finding out what you tried to do.’

  ‘But even if the others agreed, there’s still Miriam. She’d never be on board with…’ Bea gesticulated towards the space in the middle of the table. ‘With this.’

  ‘She’s a sick woman,’ Martin said. ‘She’s just regained her memory. She’s had a setback. Perhaps she’s not enough.’

  Gemma grasped Bea’s hand with both of hers. ‘You need to focus on the positive. To move on.’

  51

  Sandra’s hand trembled as she reached out for her phone. It seemed that she was constantly shaking, always on edge, waiting for something bad to happen. Whenever her phone beeped, indicating the arrival of a text message or an email, she’d feel her legs turn to jelly, her whole body transformed into a quivering mess.

  ‘Give me a minute, sweetie,’ she told Julia, who had woken up with a fever and had to stay home. The toddler glanced up for a second before continuing to build a pink and yellow Lego tower.

  The message was from Bea.

  Can we meet tonight?

  For a moment Sandra closed her eyes and allowed her mind to empty, like waves receding from the shore. She needed that moment of quiet, of void. But just like that it was over. It felt as if she’d clicked her fingers and an overwhelming jumble of thoughts cascaded back into her head, all jostling for attention, wanting to be addressed first. What did Bea have to say now? Would she be able to get a sitter in time? What if Julia’s fever returned? Could she really leave? And what was Louis going to say? He didn’t seem enthralled by her last-minute plans. Would she even be able to get everything ready in time while entertaining Julia?

  Another message came in.

  I’m free.

  It was Helen. This was followed by John.

  Fine by me. Happy to host. 7 p.m.?

  Quickly she texted Rachel. Her heart was beating fast as she waited for the sitter to reply. In the meantime she went through a mental checklist: laundry to fold, the week’s grocery list to check and finalise, dinner to be prepared. She could ask Louis to pick up a pizza or burgers. Or she could put something together quickly.

  I can do tonight. Will be there at 6.

  Sandra exhaled sharply, her body relaxing slightly. At least she had a sitter. Now she needed to get everything else ready.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she told Julia before heading to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, she scanned the neat shelves, opened the vegetable drawer and rummaged through the colourful produce. She moved to the cupboards and took inventory of the ingredients, before starting to take out a few items. Canned tomatoes, pasta shells, olive oil, onions, garlic, cheese. She filled a pot with water and put it on the biggest burner. She put a pan on the cooker and poured a good helping of olive oil. Working quickly, she started peeling onions and garlic, throwing them in the now sizzling pan, stirring and stirring for a couple of minutes. She poked her head round the door to check on Julia and continued working. Pasta went into the boiling water. She emptied the can of tomatoes into the pan, stirring and tasting before adding seasoning. By the time the pasta was cooked, the sauce was ready too. She drained the pasta and put it back into the pot, emptying the sauce on top and sprinkling a generous helping of shredded cheese, mixing everything together and transferring it into a large dish. Louis could put that in the oven when he got home and they’d have a home-cooked dinner.

  *

  Sandra was the last one to arrive at John’s flat. Julia had been especially clingy. She’d put her arms around her mother’s neck, clamped her legs around her waist, and wouldn’t let go. By the time Rachel had arrived promptly at six, Sandra’s arms had throbbed and her back had ached from carrying the toddler for hours. Alistair and Amanda had offered to help, but Sandra knew they had homework. She’d handed Julia to the sitter and run upstairs. There had been no time for a shower. She’d quickly washed her face and applied some make-up, brushed her hair into a high ponytail and taken a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater out of the wardrobe. The jeans felt big. She suspected she’d lost weight. The stress of the last weeks had killed her appetite and she often skipped meals.

  She’d made it to Chelsea with moments to spare and then spent what felt like forever looking for a parking spot. ‘I should have taken an Uber,’ she muttered over and over.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ She felt frazzled. Her sweater had caught on her handbag’s zip, pulling a thread. There was a scuff on her shoe that she hadn’t had time to buff, and her hair was feeling the effects of the humidity.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ John handed her a glass of wine and, although she was driving, she took a long sip. ‘Bea, all yours.’

  Sandra sat down next to Helen. ‘What’s happening?’

  Bea put her glass on the end table and leaned forward, turning slightly to better face the others. ‘I was called in again by DCI Hawkins. Another meeting with Dr Burns.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘They’re scaring me.’

  ‘I didn’t go last time he called me,’ John said. ‘I told him I was busy and if he wanted
to talk, we could set up a phone call at a later date.’

  Bea cleared her throat. ‘They definitely know that something went on in the house, that Miriam was in some way abusive towards us.’

  ‘So?’ Sandra was starting to feel irate. Was this really why Bea had called this urgent last-minute meeting?

  ‘I think this is getting really dangerous,’ Bea continued. ‘The more they dig into our past, the more likely that they will discover what we tried to do.’

  ‘How are they going to do that if we all keep our mouths shut? And get rid of the evidence?’ Sandra turned towards John. ‘In fact, what’s happening with the landscaping of the garden?’

  ‘I’m getting some quotes, but it’s going to take a while. This is highly unorthodox. That would normally be the last step. At this point I don’t even know what I’m doing with the house, let alone the garden.’

  ‘Well, you need to figure it out.’ The outburst was not like her and Sandra felt her cheeks turn crimson. ‘We need to make sure there is no trace of that poison.’

  ‘Please, let me finish,’ Bea interjected. Three sets of eyes turned to look at her. ‘Until they tracked down Ronnie Moss, our lives were fine. Good. But now it feels like the past is coming back to threaten us. We’re at risk that what we did will come out, be made public. We could be investigated, prosecuted, potentially even end up in jail. All we need is one word from Miriam, or one of us slips up.’

  Sandra rolled her eyes. ‘We’re not going to slip up. There’s too much at stake. We all know that. The problem is Miriam. And even so, soon there will be no proof.’

  Bea cleared her throat. ‘Don’t you get it?’ She looked round the room at the other three, making eye contact with each one of them, wanting them to take her seriously, to know that what she was saying was not some far-fetched fantasy. ‘The police are working on the theory that we were abused. I don’t know what that has to do with the accident, but somehow I don’t think they’re going to stop digging, trying to find out what was really happening in that house. They’re worried that if the defence finds out what happened, they will use it in court. DCI Hawkins said he doesn’t want any surprises. They’re not going to stop looking as long as they have suspicions. And they will keep asking us questions until one of us bows under the pressure.