by Jill Childs
Four
It was nearly ten o’clock by the time we got Ralph into the back of the car and set off.
Helen sat straight, her back rigid, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The satnav had calculated her route, out to the coast. Thirty-eight minutes. For once, there was so little traffic that it might actually be right.
I twisted away from her and watched passing, empty pavements, trying not to think about the load in the back. The only voice was the mechanical female tone of the satnav, reeling off instructions.
‘In eight hundred yards, turn left.’
I thought, I’ve killed someone. Ralph. I’ve killed Ralph.
The satnav said, ‘Now turn left.’
Helen turned the wheel.
I thought, It was an accident.
The satnav didn’t care. ‘Now take the right-hand lane.’
What was I doing? My stomach heaved with a fresh surge of panic. This was madness. Why was I letting her take control like this, letting her bully me?
‘Prepare to take the second exit.’
I sat there, numb. It was too late. All too late.
I knew where we were heading. I recognised it from the satnav’s map. I’d been there before. With Ralph.
As we approached the coast, the line of shabby wooden boathouses came into view, running along the back of the shingle beach. My face glowed hot, remembering the last time I’d been here. Ralph and Helen had access to a friend’s sailing dinghy, stored in one of the boathouses. Months ago, before Christmas, Ralph had taken me out in it. He said he’d told Helen he’d promised to check over the sails and lay it up for winter. In fact, we took blankets and a bottle of champagne and he took me right out to sea, then furled the sails and we floated together, naked, drinking and making love and drinking some more until the wind turned and the chill across the water finally forced us to put our clothes on and head back to the shore.
Seeing it again, now, his death seemed impossible. I would wake up tomorrow and this would be nonsense, all of it.
Ralph would be there at school, an elusive, charismatic figure disappearing into a classroom to share his passion for Shakespeare or Keats or Milton and Anna would be out in the playground at lunchtime, chasing her friends or playing hopscotch, hair flying, not a care.
Helen turned into the shadowy, deserted car park and came to a stop at the far end, close to their friend’s boathouse. She climbed out and opened up the back.
I forced myself to follow her. Already, she was rummaging inside, dragging her dead husband towards the lip. The wind, rough with salt, whipped across my face as I helped her.
We worked in silence, carrying the bulky surfboard cover across the shingle to the edge of the water and dumping it there. Freezing water seeped into my shoes. She headed back at a run to the boathouse and unlocked the double doors, then together we pulled the dinghy across the stones to the edge of the water on its metal, wheeled frame.
She climbed inside and I handed her the mast, then watched, uselessly, as she set about attaching it and trimming the sails. Ralph lay on the beach beside me. Near enough for me to reach out with my toe and touch him. It wasn’t too late. I could still turn and run, call the police and tell them everything, beg for mercy.
I thought about what she’d said. Manslaughter. She was right. I’d killed him, however it had happened. They’d send me to prison for years. I shuddered, trying to imagine being locked up in a small cell, at the mercy of hardened criminals. I’d never survive.
Helen’s movements were quick and sure. She seemed an experienced sailor. I thought of the shock on her face when she’d stood, frozen, in the doorway, staring at me in horror. Then, the desperate pain of her weeping. Now, she was pouring every ounce of her strength into holding herself together, into coping. Into stopping herself thinking about the fact that her husband, the man whose bed she shared every night, the father of her child, lay cold in our makeshift body bag on the wet stones at our feet.
Once the sails were secured, she bent forward over the side of the dinghy and gestured impatiently to me to drag the surfboard bag closer over the loose stones, to lift one end – I imagined his head and shoulders, stiff now – and help her heave it on board. We managed it together, both sweating and grunting.
Finally, she drew the dinghy clear of the frame and together we slid it deeper into the water until it rocked and swayed on the waves. I took off my shoes and tights and splashed through the shallows, pushing the dinghy ahead of me as far as I could. My feet ached in the ice-cold water, my arches stabbed by stones sticking out of the sand.
As soon as the dinghy was properly afloat, she gestured to me to grab the rubber handle on the side and pull myself on board. I fell head first into the boat, then shuffled sideways to sit on a coil of rope, keeping as far away as I could from the surfboard bag, my wet feet stinging with cold, my hands thrust into my pockets, and watched her manoeuvre into the wind, catching the force of the night breeze and taking us steadily further out onto the black water. Please, God. What had I done?
The weak lights of the coast shrank to points. Darkness pressed down on us, broken only by the dim glow from the dinghy’s small, mounted lights. One, near the rim where I was sitting, spilled over onto the water, illuminating the black waves which were now whipped high by the wind. The dinghy bounced and splashed its way forward. Another light, fixed to the mast, glistened in Helen’s eyes. Her expression was intent. She was clearly concentrating hard, lost in her battle to keep us stable in the gathering swell.
Finally, she tied off the sail and clambered the length of the dinghy, gesturing to me to move forward and take my place at Ralph’s feet. My hands were numbed by the wind. My body shivered so hard with shock and cold that I stumbled and swayed as I crawled into position, keeping low.
I strained to see in the darkness. Helen unzipped the surfboard cover and peeled it from the top of his body, drawing out his head and shoulders, wrapped in the sheet. I blinked, trying to make out what she was doing as she bent low over him in the deep shadows. I had the sense that she was clasping him to her chest, lowering her face to his for one last kiss.
I turned my eyes away and peeled off the rest of the cover, drawing it from his body like a second skin, then lifted his feet and heaved them up, pushing his legs and raising his hips to the height of the dinghy’s rim. Helen straightened up, lifted his shoulders and chest and, panting, raised them too.
He lay there for some moments, balanced on the edge, a bulky line between the two women who’d loved him most in this life, until Helen signalled to me and we put our shoulders to him and pushed. He flopped over the top, falling with a sudden splash into the blackness beyond. The dinghy blew forward, the waves surged and we were left, the two of us, staring down into nothing but the vast, empty darkness of moving water.
Five
We stowed the dinghy back in the boathouse, then drove off with a crunch of gravel, the heater turned up to maximum. The houses above us, high on the bluff, proud of their views of the sea, were in blackness but I sensed eyes watching us from their windows. Knowing eyes. I thought, This is how it will be. This constant feeling of fear, of being watched, of guilt. This is how I’ll live, for the rest of my life, after what I’ve done tonight.
Beside me, Helen was shivering violently. Exertion, perhaps. Or delayed shock. The engine strained and the heater blew out dust as it struggled to generate warm air.
Neither of us spoke on the drive back. I rocked myself, arms wrapped round bent legs, my feet resting on the lip of the seat. Now and then, I glanced across at her. She seemed to have collapsed into herself, as if she’d borrowed energy to take control in the way she had, to do what she thought needed to be done, and was now in debt.
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning by the time she turned into their road, parked outside their home and switched off the engine. For a moment, neither of us moved. I thought of Anna, alone inside, and prayed she hadn’t woken.
/> There was a period of silence. Then she said, without turning to look at me, ‘I’ll never forgive you. Don’t get some idea we’re bound together by this. We’re not. I’ll curse you till the day I die.’
I didn’t answer. How could I? I clenched my jaw, eyes staring sightlessly at the bumper of the parked car ahead, trying to keep control of my senses.
She said in the same dead voice, ‘If you fall apart, if you breathe a word of any of this, I’ll take you down. You understand? I’ll say you forced me to help you. That you threatened Anna.’
I couldn’t speak.
She twisted to face me, her mouth hard. She loomed so close that I smelt her breath, stale now, saw the map of jagged red lines across the whites of her eyes.
‘He was my husband. We loved each other. And you destroyed him. Don’t ever forget that.’
Six
My own flat, poky compared with their home, was silent and thick with shadows as I let myself in. I stripped off my clothes and put everything in the washing machine, then started a hot cycle, not caring whether the young man downstairs could hear me. I ran a hot bath and poured bubbles in. All I wanted was to block out what had just happened. Then to sleep for as long as I could.
I rummaged in the bathroom cabinet for the tablets the doctor had prescribed after Ralph left me, took a couple, then dug out a bottle of malt whisky, left over from Christmas, and poured myself a large measure. It burned its way down the back of my throat. I lowered myself into the bath, shivering despite the scalding water, and tried to lie still, to relax, to let go.
When I closed my eyes, Ralph was there. His face, shocked, eyes wide, as he fell backwards through the open door. The stillness as he lay, his body twisted so awkwardly, at the bottom of the steps. Only hours ago, I’d kissed his lips, slid the tip of my tongue into his mouth. Now his body was drifting, lifeless, under the waves, starting to rot. Those were pearls that were his eyes. He used to quote that. One of his favourite lines.
I put my soapy hands to my face and started to cry, noisy, uncontrolled sobs. I pressed a fist against my mouth to stop myself from screaming. How would I survive this? How would I live without him, with no hope of ever seeing him again? And with the guilt, the horror of what we’d done? I thought about her. Her battle to force herself to set aside her grief and manoeuvre the dinghy out into the blackness, to cover up what her husband had been, for the sake of her daughter.
Her steeliness frightened me. I knew then that I’d do as she’d instructed, somehow, God only knew how. I’d get up the next morning, dress and go to work, as she’d told me I must. At school, I’d try to behave as if everything were normal. If anyone remarked on how pale I looked or saw the way my hands shook, I’d look rueful and say I had a sore throat, I must be coming down with something.
I’d lie and lie and lie, as if my life depended on it.
Seven
For several days, life staggered on. I went through the motions at school, teaching, marking, sitting through meetings in a daze. In the playground, I searched the wheeling clouds of children for Anna but never saw her. Every time I passed by the school library and spied the bent head of a parent volunteer I slowed to look more closely, but it was never Helen.
After school, once home, I locked the door behind me, ate as much as I could force myself to swallow down, then lay, shaking, in bed, wondering if Helen’s shock and grief were as violent as my own.
There were moments that I almost forgot what had happened. Seconds, when, as I first came to consciousness in the morning, I felt normal, free from fear, safe. Then the memories came crashing back.
Then, at school, the gossip started.
Lunchtime. I came in from playground duty and made myself a cup of coffee in the staff kitchen, added a splash of milk from the communal fridge, took out my Tupperware box and headed for the table at the far end of the room.
Elaine Abbott, the Lower School deputy head, Hilary Prior and Olivia Fry were already there.
Elaine, middle-aged and always well-mannered, looked up at me as I joined. ‘We’re just talking about Ralph Wilson,’ she said. ‘Have you heard?’
My stomach tightened. My cup slipped as I set it down and coffee slopped over the edge. I fumbled for a tissue to mop up the ring and wipe off the bottom, then slid into a seat. ‘Heard what?’
Elaine, looking hearty in a sports shirt and tracksuit top, leaned forward. ‘He’s disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ I fumbled the top off my Tupperware box and stuck a fork into my pasta salad. The flavour of red onion and pepper cloyed in my mouth.
She nodded. Her own lunchbox was empty, already pushed to one side. She nursed a mug of tea between her hands. The mug was her usual staffroom favourite, a present from a class, with a slogan in pink sparkly letters, Teachers are like angels, they make miracles happen.
‘He’s been off for days,’ she said. ‘Not answering his phone. Then the office finally got hold of Mrs Wilson and she’s frantic. He’s gone missing.’
Hilary Prior, an expert on all things marital since her own wedding the previous year, said in a low voice, ‘Makes you wonder about his home life.’ She gave a meaningful nod.
Olivia Fry, doe-eyed and slender, added, ‘He’s always been, you know, a bit of a charmer, hasn’t he?’
What was that supposed to mean? I kept my eyes on my food. The pasta in my mouth seemed as solid as wood. I chewed and chewed and struggled to swallow. My cheeks felt hot.
Elaine drank her tea. ‘The state of his marriage is his business. But it’s not like him to stay off work for no reason. Sarah’s furious.’ Sarah Baldini, the head of Upper School, ran a notoriously tight ship. Elaine scraped back her chair and gathered together her box and lid, fork and mug, her eyes glancing across to the clock.
Hilary said, ‘Sports club? On a Friday?’
Elaine shook her head. ‘Fifth year revue. Can you believe it’s come around again already?’
Hilary munched on a hummus salad roll and waited until Elaine had left before whispering, ‘They’ve got the police involved.’
Olivia choked. ‘The police? Why?’
‘It’s so out of character. You know, teacher, family man…’ Hilary sounded knowing. ‘He wouldn’t just take off.’
I finally stabbed another forkful of pasta and dared to look up at them both, trying to sound natural. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Jayne. I was in the office this morning, photocopying. She got it from Matty.’ She caught Olivia’s blank look. Olivia had only joined the Lower School in September and was still catching up, especially with Upper School staff. ‘Matilda Campbell in the Upper School office. Tall with long, dark hair? Very nice. Worth getting to know.’
Olivia, eyes wide, said, ‘So what’re the police saying? About where he is?’
Hilary pulled a face. ‘No one knows. Watch this space.’
I packed up my lunch and just made it to the staff toilets before I was sick.
Eight
That evening, I went online and started trawling for news. I couldn’t find anything about Ralph that I hadn’t read before. I tried not to linger over the articles I already knew so well. In those early weeks, when I’d first met him, I’d relished spending time at home in the evening, googling him, examining his face, his body, in private in the photographs posted there.
His picture on the school website, a black-and-white portrait of Ralph leaning one shoulder nonchalantly against a wall, his hands deep in his pockets, his hair flopping forward across his brow. Ralph the poet. The photograph of him on the community news website, standing on stage, surrounded by a glowing teenage cast. I loved that picture. He looked younger in it and desperately handsome. That was three years ago, before I’d really known him, when he’d directed a school production of Romeo and Juliet.
But about his disappearance, not a thing.
I didn’t bother trying to cook. I couldn’t eat. I sat, glassy-eyed, in front of the television for a while, taking in very little.
Ten o’clock. I should think about bed.
But I couldn’t. I was too restless. Too haunted. I was frightened of the stillness of my own bedroom, the bed where Ralph had once made love to me, but where I’d also shed so many tears, first when he left me, then again when I discovered what he’d done. When I tried to doze, all I could see were images of his body, twisted and broken at the bottom of the steps.
Even as I got in the car, I was pretending to myself that I was just going out for a drive, just to be out in the world, surrounded by the living, to calm my nerves. When I came to his road, I slowed to walking pace. Coloured light from wall-mounted TV sets flickered through the gaps between closed curtains. Cars were neatly parked. Gates closed.
His house looked no different from any other on the street. The downstairs curtains were drawn, a fringe of light brightening the gap between them. I strained through the darkness, trying to see movement. Nothing. He’d paced there, just three days earlier, agitated because I was with him, because I wanted him and he knew he wanted me too.
A horn made me jump out of my skin. A car had slid up behind me in the road and was impatient, hurrying me along. I gathered speed and kept driving, this time heading for the coast.
My senses heightened as I drew close to the sea. Everything seemed more intense, more vivid. The sharp tang of salt in the air. The depth of the shadows. The ghostly outline of shabby huts and a scattering of abandoned cottages, derelict now, set here and there along the marshes, on land which was steadily eroding as the sea surged and encroached.
I parked the car outside the small parade of shops, a short walk from the entrance to the car park and the boathouses. A security light clicked on as I walked away from the car and I ducked out of the beam into the shadows, then wondered if that just made me look even more suspicious and if there were security cameras recording everything I did.
