by Susan Lewis
‘From the moment I met her there was never any doubt in my mind that one day I would have to kill her. Perhaps it was a genuine vision of the future, though I recall no images, not even the vividness of the fire that was to consume so much. I felt only the overwhelming need to protect myself, and all that was mine.
Elizabeth Sorrill. She was blessed with the kind of beauty I had only ever dreamed about, bringing love and laughter to my brothers, while all the time she nursed the pain of a love she had lost – a love she would never give up.
And what right had she to that love? I am a woman, I have known love, I have known the pain of loss. Have I spent my life making others suffer for it?
But I know now that I have never experienced anything like the love that bound Elizabeth and Alexander. It was a love that not only bridged the gulf of class, but survived years of parting, the agony of rejection, and that most destructive of emotions, guilt. Do I envy her that love? No, I pity her. A love of that depth, that strength, exacts its own price. I was the one to call in the debt, and I have no regrets. Why should she have had it all? What was her suffering compared to mine? My brother gave her the world – but it was my world too, and I lied, cheated and murdered to get it back. Yet all the time my enemy – my invincible enemy – was not Elizabeth, not Alexander, but the love they shared.
Why was their love so indestructible?
I rest my head against the wall now. There is nothing to see here, only darkness, but my nostrils flare at the cloying stench of my surroundings. Among the few, almost indistinguishable sounds, I can hear myself laughing. Laughing and laughing. The bitter irony of it is, if anyone could answer me that last question, then here, at the end, they would hand me the key to life itself.
As it is, it is they who hold the key – Elizabeth and Alexander.’
As I finished reading there was no longer any doubt in my mind that it was Christine who had sent it. I could almost see her smile, the smile she had aimed at me across the courtroom. By giving me my freedom she had sentenced me to a prison from which there could be no escape – a prison of guilt. She had known what she was doing then, and this was a final reminder. Her way of letting me know that, with her death, the door was locked on me and the key taken away for ever.
As I continued to grieve for us both I withdrew further into myself, unable to speak to anyone about it and unable to pick up my life and start again.
Sometimes, from an upstairs window, I would watch Alexander as he left the house with Charlotte or Jonathan. He had left the bar and would be taking up a consultancy in the city at the beginning of the following year. He’d wanted it to be a new start for us both, but every time I saw him I was reminded of the people who had suffered because of us. If he saw me looking, I let the curtain fall back into place, unable to meet his eyes. I longed for him so much that sometimes I thought I might go mad. And the more I tried to stop loving him, the stronger my love became, so that I wanted to die rather than carry on without him. But my guilt was always there, ready to deny me even the luxury of a final release.
It was one Saturday afternoon towards the end of September when Jessica telephoned. I stared at Canary as she held out the receiver; just the mention of Jessica’s name was enough to make my conscience flare. Another victim, another accuser. She was asking if she could come to see me. I refused, but she was insistent.
She arrived around four o’clock in her silver Volkswagen. My heart lurched painfully as I saw the car pull up outside. It was the same car as Christine had driven, the same colour, even. I heard her talking to Canary in the hall, then the door opened and, bracing myself, I turned to face her.
Her blonde hair, silky and smooth, glinted in the afternoon sunlight. Her face was bronzed, and though I had seen her once before, she was much more beautiful than I remembered. Her eyes widened as she took in my neglected appearance. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose you always look such a mess, but I have to admit you’re not at all what I expected.’
I stared at her, but her eyes had begun an assessment of the room. ‘Would you like some tea?’ I offered.
‘I think Canary – that is her name, isn’t it? – is getting some.’
I gestured for her to sit down, and slipping her jacket from her shoulders she sat in Edward’s chair, folding one leg over the other, looking small and elegant and relaxed. She seemed in no hurry to start a conversation, and the frank way in which she studied my face unsettled me. Then she laughed. ‘You look like him,’ she said. ‘My God, you actually look like him.’
I stood up as Canary came into the room. She put the tea on the table between us, then left.
‘I don’t imagine you’ve come just to look at me,’ I said, as I handed Jessica a cup. ‘So why are you here?’ I hadn’t meant to sound so abrupt but I’d been on edge ever since she’d phoned.
‘I’m here to find out just what you are playing at.’
‘Playing at?’ I put my cup down, spilling tea in the saucer. ‘I don’t think you’ve got any right . . .’
Her voice was smooth as she interrupted. ‘Elizabeth, I have lived with your ghost for more years than I care to remember. That alone gives me the right.’
I looked at her, aware of the animosity between us growing. ‘OK, if you’ve got the right, then say what you’ve come to say. I’m listening.’
She fumbled in her bag and brought out a packet of cigarettes. ‘I hate the gutter press, do you know that? Week after week these hacks ridicule what Rosalind and I are doing at Greenham Common, just for the fun of it – they’ve no conscience, no morals, and no compassion. But it’s not the first time I’ve been one of their victims, is it? Because along with you and Alexander, Edward and Christine, I’ve been reaping the rewards of their mucky little exposé ever since they chose to blow your and Alexander’s life to smithereens at Foxton’s. They had nothing to gain by doing it, except momentarily to discredit Lord Belmayne. A few paragraphs of sensationalism with never a thought for the people whose lives they’re destroying, and before you can even say “repercussion” they’ve moved on to their next victim. The gutter press, that’s where it all began. So are you really going to sit up there in that bedroom of yours for the rest of your life, taking all the blame for everything that happened? It must be quite something to think you’ve got the same sort of power as God Almighty.’
She laughed. ‘I mean, three people are dead and no one else shares the blame. That is what you think, isn’t it? Tell you what, why not give me a bit of it? I mean, if I hadn’t married Alexander then you would never have married Edward, would you?’
I felt the blood drain from my face. For a fleeting moment I thought I saw Christine, smiling back at me.
Her voice was filled with derision. ‘You’re pathetic. You’re hurting Alexander, you’re hurting yourself, and you’re hurting your children – all because you can’t come to terms with the fact that a lying, cheating, murdering bitch was sentenced to death in a foreign country for crimes she alone committed. Do you hear what I’m saying? She alone! She didn’t need any help from you. You couldn’t have stopped her doing it, you didn’t even know what she was up to. So why are you making everyone suffer now?’
‘How can you sit there and say that? Did Alexander tell you what Christine said in court? Did he tell you how I had cheated on Edward and lied to him all those years, while Alexander was cheating on you? How we took what we wanted, not caring what we might do to other people? Did he tell . . .?’
‘Alexander’s told me everything. And yes, I knew he was cheating on me. He was cheating on me from the day we got married – before, even. He loved you then, and he loves you now. That’s why I’m here, though God only knows why I’m bothering. Look, for heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, you can’t have gone through all you have to throw it away now. Pull yourself together. You’re behaving . . .’
‘Edward and Christine are dead, Jessica! Nothing you say . . .’
‘Edward died because he was a thief and a forger who playe
d his hand too far and was double-crossed. That bloody mask was what brought on his stroke. You know it and Christine knew it too. So how the hell can you sit there letting Alexander, Charlotte and Jonathan pay for it? What’s past is past, Elizabeth. You’ve got to put it behind you, and carry on.’
I looked down as the button I had been twisting broke from my cardigan and rolled on to the floor. Jessica looked too, and laughed as she got up to help herself to more tea. ‘Well, now we’ve dispensed with Edward and Christine, let’s get back to you. I’m sure you won’t mind me saying so – and too bad if you do – but you’re spineless, Elizabeth. An out-and-out coward. Alexander’s out of his mind, letting you get away with what you’re doing to him.’
‘If you knew the truth, the real truth . . .’
‘Elizabeth, believe it or not I do understand how you feel. No one could have come through the ordeal you have suffered and not be scarred by it. But think about Alexander. He gave up on his marriage, he threw away his career and then risked his life – all for you. What more do you want from him? I’ll be honest, I don’t much care about you, but don’t hurt him any longer, please.’
It was several minutes before I could speak. I was too crushed by her sudden compassion even to look at her. ‘Does he know you’re here?’ I asked.
‘No.’ She downed her tea then picked up her jacket. ‘I came because I think you should know; Alexander and I were divorced yesterday.’
I watched her walk to the door. As she reached it she turned back, stared at me for a few seconds, then said, ‘I’m glad I came. I never knew Edward but I feel . . . Well, we had a lot in common, didn’t we? He with his obsession, me with my search for a meaning to life. The cross we shared was loving you two. We’ve all paid the price, Elizabeth, every one of us. Don’t let it be for nothing.’
Long after she’d gone I sat in the chair going over everything Jessica had said. The fact was, she had been more accurate than she could possibly have known when she called me a coward. I was a lot worse even than that. But now I knew that I had to do something I should have done from the start. I had to tell Alexander the truth, so he would know why there could never be any future for us. I had to tell him how, on that Saturday afternoon in September, I had set light to the Bridlington warehouse and killed Daniel Davison . . . .
I hadn’t intended to kill him, I had intended to kill Christine. From the moment I turned from the chaos and destruction in the store room and looked into Kamel’s eyes, all I knew was unadulterated terror. He laughed when he saw how frightened I was, and turned to Christine who was standing behind him.
It was her idea to set fire to all the evidence against us, hers and Dan’s. Kamel sent me to get the petrol can from my car. He was the one to pour the contents over the wreckage, but it was I who set light to it. Within seconds the whole room was ablaze. Kamel started to run and yelled to us to get back. But Christine stood at the door, staring into the flames. And suddenly I felt myself blind to reason, so that all I could see was that here was a way out of the blackmail, an end to the threats to my children. I lifted my hands and slammed them against Christine’s back. As she staggered forward, I pushed her again. She fell into the fire, but as I turned to run she wrenched herself from the flames and caught my foot, so that I crashed to the ground. We fought, trying to force each other into the blaze. My hair was burning and her dress was alight. She was on top of me and pain seared through my hands as I grabbed her. Then with all my strength I threw her off, and she screamed out as she landed on her back in the heart of the fire. Then I watched, unmoving, as she struggled to get up. She was screaming and I could see the terror in her eyes. But still I didn’t move.
Then I was knocked out of the way and Dan rushed in to drag her out. He called out for me to help, yelling that I was a murdering bitch, but all I could do was watch, paralysed by what I had done, unable to take my eyes from Christine. Before the dresser fell on Dan I saw him pull her free, but once it had fallen I could no longer see either of them. It was then that I ran away.
So I was a coward. I was a murderer and an arsonist too. And all the time he was defending me, while Michael Samuelson so nearly put together the pieces of what had really happened, Alexander’s belief in my innocence never wavered. He had put his life at risk, and Charlotte’s too, all to get me out of prison when I was guilty of the crime that had put me there. I had lied to him, and had gone on lying to him. And I knew it was that he would never be able to forgive.
– 32 –
By eleven the next morning my bag was packed and standing in the hall. I told Jeffrey he could take it out to the car, then turned back to the stairs.
I used the telephone in my bedroom. My heart-beat was steady now, but still my fingers shook as I dialled the number. After the seventh ring I started to replace the receiver, but as I did so I heard a voice answer.
Now the moment had arrived, my voice died in my throat.
I could hear him breathing. And then very quietly he said, ‘Elizabeth? Is that you?’
I swallowed hard, willing myself to go through with it. ‘Alexander, we have to talk,’ I said finally.
‘I’ll come over.’
‘No!’ I took a deep breath. ‘I want to tell you now. I don’t want to see you, and when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say you’ll understand that it’s for the best that we don’t meet.’
He listened in silence as I told him. Sometimes I paused, thinking that now he would speak, but he didn’t. So I went on, telling him everything, exactly the way it had happened, until I got to the end.
I waited, but still he didn’t speak.
‘Alexander, I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I know it’s too late now, and it won’t change anything, but I want you to know I love you with all my heart. There are no excuses, nothing I say can change what happened, but I just . . .’
‘Why didn’t you trust me, Elizabeth?’
The silence drew out until, unable to stand it any longer, I replaced the receiver and left the room.
I stayed in Sark for three days. It was cold and wintry, and not at all as it had been the last time I was there, with Alexander.
I visited all the places we had been together – the smugglers’ caves, Dixcart Bay, Venus Pool. I even stayed at the same hotel. I tried and tried to recapture what we had had, to remember how much in love we had been before I lied to him, before Christine had died, before I deceived Edward . . . but my memories were drowned by the sound of his voice asking me why I hadn’t trusted him.
It was late in the afternoon, the clouds were thickening overhead and the rain drizzled miserably from the sky, as I walked along the path to Jespillière House.
I had been afraid to come. Afraid because, of all the places on the island, it was Jespillière, the meadow and the cliffs around it, that held the most precious of my memories. The house was still there, dignified in its neglect, and I remembered how we had dreamed that one day it would be ours. I turned and walked on, out across the tiny meadow and down through the gorse, on to the cliff edge. My breath caught in my throat and threatened to choke me as the memories came flooding back. It was here, at the end of that week, when I thought the pain of leaving him would crush me, that he had come to find me. It was here, on this island, that Jonathan had been conceived, and where I first told Alexander he had a daughter. And now, looking back, I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if we had come here the first time he’d asked me, when he was still only seventeen and I was twenty-two. Things might have turned out very differently. Would our love, given time, have burned itself out? Had it been the separation and the desperate need for something we couldn’t have that had bound us to each other all these years? But no, it was more than that, it was something I couldn’t put into words.
The wind howled round the cliffs, biting my face and penetrating my clothes with its cold breath, and suddenly I knew I had been right to come. At last I was remembering him as he had been the first time we were here, when he held me in
his arms and promised me that one day we would return. He would never keep that promise now, but I would always remember how in love we had been.
I looked up to the sky, letting the rain wash away my tears. It was all over now. I would always love him, nothing would ever change that.
Pulling my coat tightly round me, I took one last look across the sunless seascape. My eyes followed the tide, moving ever and steadily inwards to the shoreline below. I stood for a long time, looking down into the bay, until the darkness gathered shadows – as if trying to draw together the fractured pieces of my heart. I buried my face in my hands, drowning in the bottomless gulf of grief.
And then, even before he spoke my name, I knew. Lifting my head, my eyes blinded by tears, I turned and walked slowly into his arms.
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Just One More Day: A Memoir
Susan Lewis
In 1960s Bristol a family is overshadowed by tragedy . . .
While Susan, a feisty seven-year-old, is busy being brave, her mother, Eddress, is struggling for courage. Though bound by an indestructible love, their journey through a world that is darkening with tragedy is fraught with misunderstandings.
As a mother’s greatest fear becomes reality, Eddress tries to deny the truth. And, faced with a wall of adult secrets, Susan creates a world that will never allow her mother to leave.
Set in a world where a fridge is a luxury, cars have starting handles, and where bingo and coupons bring in the little extras, Just One More Day is a deeply moving true-life account of how the spectre of death moved into Susan’s family, and how hard they all tried to pretend it wasn’t there.
