Across the Water

by Ingrid Alexandra

  When Jamison speaks again, her tone is that of someone cajoling a child.

  ‘Mrs Dawson. We appreciate your interest in the case and your efforts to help with the investigation. But I’m afraid I have to inform you that Mrs Haddad has reported you for harassment.’

  ‘What?’ My mouth opens in shock. I look at Adam, but he looks away.

  ‘And Mr Haddad was in his full rights to ask you to leave his property as you were in fact trespassing.’

  They’re sounding just like Adam, I think with dismay.

  ‘Okay.’ I say, my voice weak.

  ‘Mrs Dawson,’ Jamison’s tone is gentle. ‘We know what happened in London, with your client and her child.’

  I inhale sharply.

  ‘We’ve spoken to your husband, and out of concern for your well-being and that of everyone involved, we strongly advise you against involving yourself any further in this case.’

  My mind spins. I feel off-balance, sick.

  ‘You may as well know, as it will be all over the media tomorrow, that the post mortem on Mrs Waters has come back and there’s no evidence of foul play. It’s been confirmed as an accidental death by drowning.’

  I let the shock sink in.

  Death by drowning. It was an accident. Just an accident.

  I was wrong, after all.

  Again.

  Chapter 34

  Liz

  November 2016

  Wednesday, 12:04pm

  I just want to save my little girl. Please.

  I shove the note into my pocket and thrust open the office door, bracing myself against the icy wind. My heels click along the pavement like a metronome, the sound keeping time with my pounding heart.

  Please don’t be too late.

  The moment I heard her voice on the phone, I knew I’d been wrong. It’s hard to fake that kind of fear. But if that hadn’t convinced me, what I heard next would have. A man’s voice, snarling the most horrific things, and a baby’s cries. Cries of pain that I knew would haunt me for all of my days.

  I can’t believe it’s come to this, that I could have missed the signs. She didn’t qualify for a women’s refuge as she wasn’t in a domestic violence situation. Except that she was. And I failed to realise that.

  Please don’t be too late.

  My hand hovers over the doorknob. The speed that catapulted me here has vanished; time now moves in a drunken stagger. I’m too late. My body knows it, telling me with the frenetic beat of my heart and the moisture in my palms. I smell it in the quiet of a house that has never before known silence.

  My muscles twitch to run, but as in a dream, a nightmare, I’m pushing open the door, quaking as I follow the crimson trail that mars the shabby carpet. Thinking, wildly, that perhaps it’s only paint. Hadn’t she been talking of renovations? Sprucing up the old sunroom? It’s a groundless hope, confirmed when I find them, with abrupt finality, not in any of the bedrooms, but curled together on the kitchen floor.

  The brutal beauty of the scene winds me. They could be sleeping, were it not for the dark liquid pooled around them, reflecting a flickering, fluorescent halo. She, on her side, matted hair copper-streaked, body curled around the infant. Both are deathly still. Both are as white as the frost spidering across the window pane above them. Mother and child, locked in an eternal embrace.

  I don’t feel my knees hit the floor. ‘Oh my God,’ I whisper as the world fades around the edges. ‘Oh God, what have I done?’

  Chapter 35

  Liz

  June, 2017

  Saturday, 9:49pm

  Their names were Christy and Bella Hill, and I’m the reason they died.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I throw back a pill with a slug of wine, withdraw the slip of paper from between the pages of the abandoned thriller and stare at it, fingers trembling.

  I just want to save my little girl. Please.

  I release a deep, shuddery breath. The words are faded, the paper aged and worn, though it’s been little more than half a year. The last words Christy Hill would ever write. And I ignored them.

  I push the scrap of paper deep into my pocket and swear I can feel the heat of it against my leg. I’m supposed to have burned this, along with the print outs of the emails she wrote me, the tangible reminders of my failure. That was my therapist Tanya’s advice. She said I’d worked through the guilt and there was no sense continuing to relive it. But I haven’t worked through it yet – not even close.

  Because it turns out I’m one of those women, after all. Or I was, at least. The first to blame the victim – thinking she’s exaggerating, making things up for attention, for money – when, all along, the real culprit was staring me in the face.

  Christy Hill was a twenty-two-year-old former drug-addict and she had a seven-month-old baby named Bella. She’d named her after the heroine in the Twilight novels. She’d escaped a domestic violence situation, or so she said, but there was never any evidence of abuse. She was trying to claim benefits as well as the single-parent allowance. She’d applied for government housing. The husband claimed he was innocent, and that Christy was framing him. He claimed she’d cheated – whether she had or not was never proven – and was trying to pin a wife-beating label on him to get him out of her life so she could move on with her new lover.

  You only had to look at the girl – troubled background, young, uneducated, former drug addict, history of attention-seeking behaviour, too pretty for her own good. And him – wealthy background, expensive education, well mannered, well spoken. General consensus was Christy had planned it all, to get what she could out of the situation. She was deceitful, conniving. Vindictive. A bitch.

  I had been in charge of Christy’s case. We’re required to take any allegation of domestic violence seriously, so we went through the usual procedures and Christy was instructed to contact me if she was in any trouble. Which she did. After the last time police were dispatched to her home and her husband, who was supposedly threatening her, was nowhere to be found, I got fed up. Our case-loads are sky-high and we are under-staffed and under-funded. I was heavily involved in another case and it was eating up all my time and energy. It’s no excuse. But that’s what happened.

  Christy’s last plea for help – a note slipped under my office door – went unanswered. A neighbour had heard the commotion and phoned the police, but they were too late.

  They found me at the scene. I don’t remember any of it, but I’m told I was found kneeling by the bodies, appearing to be in some sort of trance-like state. To this day, I have no idea what came over me. I was arrested, and released later once they’d ascertained who the real – and sole – perpetrator was. The baby’s father and Christy’s ex, Jared Owen, was found in the back shed, trying to gas himself in the car. He didn’t succeed and, after a full confession, was locked away for life for double murder. I was charged for not having immediately reported the crime. One of the most shameful experiences of my life.

  It was revealed in court that Jared had killed the baby first to punish Christy. The baby first. What kind of a monster is capable of that? I’ve never stopped imagining what that poor woman witnessed. I don’t know the feeling first hand, but biology is a powerful thing. And we’re programmed to be bound to our young, to protect them. It was evident in their final embrace.

  Jared was distraught, screaming over and over that he didn’t mean to do it. That’s why, watching Rob break down on the shore when Dee’s body was found, I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t guilt that was the cause of his grief. If he didn’t have an airtight alibi, I wouldn’t be sure.

  Jared’s confession meant I didn’t have to provide much evidence, but my time spent in interview rooms detailing Christy’s case file was the most shameful of my life. To have to admit she’d come to me the day she was murdered, and I’d done nothing … I wanted to disappear. I wanted to die. Because of me, a woman and an innocent child were dead.

  All right, I didn’t take a knife and stab them to death. That’s what my thera
pist loves to remind me. It wasn’t my fault, it’s solely the fault of the perpetrator who decided to take that action. And I knew that – should have known that; it was my job to know that – and there was something I could have done about it. And I didn’t. I didn’t.

  I take a long, deep swallow of wine and let the tears fall, let the ache unfurl and spread. I haven’t let myself do this in a long time, but now I let the grief crash over me like a tidal wave. I don’t even hear Adam come in.

  ***

  11pm

  I listen to the thump, thump of Adam’s heart as I rest against his chest. His fingers stroke my hair and I succumb to the gentle rhythm of both. You always hear a heartbeat described as soothing, but I’ve never felt that way – at least not until this moment with Adam’s gentle fingers in my hair and the calming effects of Valium doing their work. Listening to someone’s heartbeat has always made me think of our mortality – of blood, and organs, and how suddenly they can malfunction and life can be turned off, like a switch.

  It’s had to come to this, and I accept it now. Adam and the police are right. There’s no other explanation. I’ve been projecting all along, imagining things that weren’t there. The bump in the night. Maybe even the entire evening with Dee, although I doubt I imagined that.

  Even the sinister-looking campsite and Zac’s warning. There was no danger there, after all. On his way home, Adam had run in to the guy who’d been camping there; he said he’d been sleeping rough as he didn’t have the funds to camp at a proper site. He seemed harmless, Adam said. He asked whether it was him I saw in the boat that night and he said he was night fishing for bream as it’s the best time to catch them. Nothing sinister about that at all.

  I suppose part of me knew I was grasping at straws, but after what happened I’ve been so desperate to make amends that I suppose, unconsciously, I was looking for ways to do that.

  Dee and Ruby reminded me of two people I could have saved. I think they did from the moment I first saw them together, although I didn’t realise it then. That scene, mother and child in a pool of blood, lives in my mind so clearly that I feel like it still exists, so real that I could open a door and step back into the memory. And I suppose until I can find a way to accept what happened, and forgive myself, it will always be with me.

  Dee is dead and any moment now they will probably find Ruby’s body. There’s nothing anyone can do to change that.

  Chapter 36

  Erica

  June, 2017

  Monday, 5:16pm

  I sit on the couch with my head in my hands, shaking all over. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me, and if she doesn’t I’ll never see Ruby again. The thought fills me with a fear as intense as physical pain.

  It was those messages that started it. After I smelled her perfume on Samir, I did the sort of thing my mother taught me never to do. She said it was in a man’s nature to stray and, as wives, it was our job to turn a blind eye and make sure they were dependant on us so that they would always come home. They would keep paying our bills and putting food in our children’s mouths. Condoning infidelity isn’t particularly Christian, if you ask me, but people rarely ask for my opinion.

  So I looked through his phone and, sure enough, there were a stream of messages between Dee and Samir, dating back weeks. My blood ran cold and I felt physically sick. Suspecting what I might find was nothing compared to the terrible reality of actually finding it.

  I’m not an angry person by nature. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to stay calm in stressful situations. That’s what made me so good at my job. Dealing with women in the throes of labour and juggling newborns day in, day out takes a lot out of a person, and those with short fuses generally don’t last long. You can understand it’s not everyone’s cup of tea being overworked and undervalued – not to mention underpaid – and yet you’re expected to do it all with a smile. Always giving while others take and take.

  Apparently, I am a giver. That’s what we talked about in my session today. Doctor Jones said it’s only natural I’d reached a point where I could give no more. He knows about how Dee depends on me – I’ve told him that much – and he knows what happened at work from the reports. I touched on my history of infertility, just to see if that was what it would take to get him off my back, and he said it was understandable that in my line of work and with Dee’s dependence on me for help with Ruby, that I would feel resentful. He thinks that it goes a long way to explain the Incident at work. I didn’t tell him the whole truth. Some things are private, and I couldn’t bring myself to share it with a stranger when I hadn’t even told Samir.

  The final straw was the news I’d received the morning of the Incident. I’d been to the doctor about some women’s issues and was told that I was suffering from primary ovarian insufficiency. In other words, I was going through early menopause.

  I’d known for a long time that I wouldn’t – or couldn’t, more like – have children. We could have tried IVF, but it seemed pointless because the problem wasn’t that I couldn’t get pregnant, but that I didn’t seem to be able to carry a baby to term. Not alive, anyway. Doctors couldn’t tell me why and said there was still a chance I could carry a healthy baby to term, but I didn’t have it in me to face losing another child. Five times is enough. And I’ll always have You, my sweet, darling Sean. No one can take your memory from me.

  Being sure I couldn’t have children but hoping there still might be a possibility is very different from knowing once and for all that it is impossible. All that loss and feeling that I’d failed as a woman came flooding back; I felt like I was drowning. And after talking to Doctor Jones, the weight of what I’d left unsaid was crushing.

  I waited until I got home to cry. I’m a private person and don’t like showing my feelings to others, particularly strangers. But I didn’t survive over a decade of grieving You to just keel over and give in to my grief. I owe You more than that.

  Doctor Jones suggested it might make me feel better to express my feelings, and he gave me some phrases to use that were ‘assertive’ yet respectful, rather than passive.

  So I did what he said. I decided to take control, to stand up for myself. Samir was out and not answering his phone, so I decided I’d deal with him later.

  I didn’t mean to shout at Dee. It was meant to be a calm, civilised discussion in which I let her know in no uncertain terms what she’d done with my husband was wrong and that it had hurt me very deeply. I would give her a chance to apologise; I wasn’t sure I could forgive her, but I’d at least hear her side of things.

  That’s not how it went at all. The things I said! All the names you could ever call a woman; some I’d never uttered aloud before. It was like a dam broke, and then out it all came. All the years of suppressing the pain, the loneliness, the sense of failure and loss – I heaped it all on Dee. Poor Ruby was in so much shock she didn’t even cry at first. To think she saw me like that! It’s unforgiveable.

  Dee told me I’d got the wrong end of the stick and that I’d better speak to my husband. I don’t know what I expected. For her to confess. Apologise. But I hadn’t anticipated she’d deny it. And that just made me angrier.

  When Samir came home, I shouted some more. But then he explained. He told me the truth about why he’s been going over there, and the relief of it was so exquisite I burst into tears. I ran into his arms, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, we just held each other.

  But now I keep reliving the things I said to Dee, and I’m frightened by the intensity of my own rage. I don’t recognise the person who could have said those things; it’s as if someone else took over my body. Poor Dee looked so defeated. I’m a terrible person to do what I’ve done. Maybe they were right to send me to Doctor Jones.

  I have to put things right. So, I pick up the phone and dial Dee’s number.

  Chapter 37

  Dee

  June, 2017

  Sunday, 5:49pm

&n
bsp; ‘So what have you been doing all month?’ I try to keep my tone casual, but I can hear the rise in inflection on the word ‘doing.’

  There’s an elephant in the room. The reason he’s left remains unsaid, although we both know what it is.

  ‘Can we get to the point?’ Rob says, dodging the question. ‘It’s been a long day and I could really use some shut-eye.’

  ‘You know you can always stay here,’ I try, gesturing in the direction of our bedroom.

  Rob’s lips harden into a thin line and I regret my words. I’m coming off desperate, already.

  ‘You don’t want to be here,’ I say flatly.

  A muscle twitches in his jaw. ‘Not particularly, if I’m honest.’

  Though I can hardly expect any different, the rejection still lands like a punch. I turn away and take a long swallow of wine.

  Rob runs a hand over his three-day growth and sighs. He’s perched awkwardly on the barstool in our kitchen as though he doesn’t belong there, in a place he’s sat every morning for almost three years.

  He looks like shit. His hair is unwashed and his skin has a greyish pallor. He looks like a grieving man and, suddenly, his pain hits me like it’s my own, so sharp it splits me in two.

  ‘How is Ruby?’ he asks. He avoids eye contact, his gaze focussed on his tatty fingernails.

  ‘She’s fine. She’s, uh … she’s actually sleeping most of the night now.’

  Rob’s eyes widen and I grin. He gives a weak smile in echo and I realise there will never be anyone like him for me. There is no other person who feels about Ruby the way I do. No other person who thinks of her as the most precious being in the universe.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ he’s beaming for a moment before his smile turns sad. ‘We thought that day would never come. God, those early days when she screamed all bloody night …’