The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

  CHAPTER 41

  On Saturday Jenny resolved to make headway on her grief project while Simon went to Ruislip to collect some clothes from his flat. He had smiled approvingly when she showed him her progress. “Looks like you have a mission.”

  She glanced at her final chapter: Conclusion. That was the wrong message. Grief didn’t end; it metamorphosed.

  While Jenny was in Kent, Colin’s mother had spoken frequently about her husband, Cam, and what she had learned from his death. “There are things you can’t see if you look too hard,” she said. “You have to look past them. Cam taught me to look beyond pain to love and trust.”

  “What about Colin?” Jenny had asked. “Did his father teach him something, too?”

  “Colin died childless, as you know, but when his father was dying, there was a time when Colin was the parent to us all. That experience connected us in a new way.”

  “But Colin’s death was so sudden,” Jenny said. “He had no time to teach me anything.”

  “Look at his life then,” Joanne had recommended.

  The events of the past few days had caused Jenny to look back, to remember how she’d met Colin and how their relationship had progressed. He had told her he loved her long before he had any expectation that she would respond. Love triumphs. That was his faith and the way he had lived his life. His last act, before his death, had been one of love, purchasing emerald earrings for her when there was no occasion on the calendar. Love was his legacy, and she was not honoring it. Life was too short to withhold love from those around you. If she hadn’t learned anything else from Colin, she should have learned that. Not telling Simon she loved him because she wanted to hear it from him first was selfish and silly. “Sorrows are our best educators,” Lord Byron had written. “A man can see further through a tear than a telescope.”

  She crossed out the title, Conclusion, and wrote in, Legacies. A legacy could be emotional – a relationship healed, a family brought closer, a misunderstanding clarified – or spiritual – the inspiration of a loved one’s faith – as well as tangible. A dying person could leave multiple legacies, as Colin had. And legacies survived the person who had bequeathed them and therefore embodied hope. She spent over an hour rewriting the final chapter, but still something was missing. She began a postscript.

  Grief is like a newborn baby whose needs require around the clock care, and you carry your grief close to you because babies can’t walk. Then the child grows into a terrible two-year-old, whose tantrums you can’t control. Gradually the child’s increasing independence allows you brief respites. Adolescence comes, and with it, times when you are separate from your grief. Finally adulthood arrives, and although you will always have a connection with your child, your grief demands very little of you, just the occasional recognition of its presence and meaning.

  She smiled ruefully. She, who had never conceived, had borne a child after all, just not the one she had wanted.

  Grief never goes completely, she continued, because love doesn’t end. The hold that grief has over you lessens but never disappears. A wise friend told me once that there’s a glow on the horizon that you can’t see when your grief is most powerful. When your grief begins to ebb, even just a little, the glow is visible, but only if you look for it. Each time you see it, the glow will be larger. Remember to look.

  Then she realized that she needed to address the issue of faith and its relationship to grief recovery. Some days she still felt her faith was as frail as a butterfly’s wings, but Father Goodwyn had assured her that doubts were a normal part of everyone’s faith journey. “God is faithful,” he had told her once and then demonstrated that trait by visiting her regularly. He believed that God was a part of healing, no matter what kind of hurt had caused it, and now that she had some perspective, she believed it, too. This chapter – should it be near the beginning or near the end of the book? – would have to be phrased just right in order to communicate to those whose faith was delicate as well as those whose faith was more confident. She wrote, crossed out, rewrote, considered, and finally prayed that she had achieved the right tone.

  Her work completed, she checked the mail. An official-looking letter had been delivered, notifying her that Colin had been awarded the George Medal posthumously, for valour above and beyond the call of duty. An awards ceremony would be scheduled at a later date, but a description of the medal was included: a silver disc with the words, The George Medal, on the top edge. St. George on horseback slaying the dragon appeared on one side and a picture of Queen Elizabeth on the other. The medal was suspended on a red ribbon with five narrow blue stripes. She felt both proud and sad: proud because Colin’s action had indeed been brave and sad because that same action had taken him from her.

  She set the letter aside and made herself a cup of tea to soothe the pangs of grief it had engendered and to calm the butterflies in her stomach while she waited for Simon. When the tea didn’t help her nervousness, she wondered if she’d have the courage to tell him what she wanted to tell him in spite of the upset of the past few days.

  He came in with a smile. “I bought some croissants at the bakery,” he said.

  “The bakery?” she asked. “Where the devil woman worked?”

  He laughed. “She never did the baking.”

  “Simon, thank you.” She let herself be distracted by his thoughtfulness and didn’t verbalize her feelings. Later, when they stood side by side in the kitchen boiling fresh pasta and warming the spaghetti sauce, she again postponed her declaration, focusing instead on how safe she felt when he was around. When he changed the dressings on her arm, she watched his hands and wished he were touching her in other places, but still she didn’t speak. If she told him, would he make love to her right away? Was that what she wanted? She wanted to be free of bandages, but if she waited that long, his leave would be over and her opportunity lost.

  She prolonged her good-night hug with him and went to bed berating herself for her cowardice. God, help me to be braver tomorrow, she prayed. And please take the nightmares away.

  On Sunday he helped with chores around the flat, and she thought about what her life would look like if he weren’t a part of it. Bleak. Desolate. By mid-afternoon, she was so frustrated with herself that she was on the verge of tears. She was sure Father Goodwyn noticed it when he came by to hear about the capture of the stalker, because instead of praying for healing, he prayed for her to have peace.

  “Fear is tenacious,” he said. “Sometimes it clings to us even when the threat is gone.”

  “No kidding! She’s in custody, but I’ve still been a basket case since the attack.”

  “It will lessen.”

  “He should have prayed for me to have courage,” she confessed to Simon after Father Goodwyn left.

  “Why, Jenny?”

  “If you’ll pour me a glass of wine, I’ll try to tell you.”

  After she had taken several long swallows, he gently took the glass away from her. “Tell me,” he said firmly. “You’ve been jumpy all day.”

  She reached out and took his hand instead.

  “Now, Jenny. Out with it, whatever it is.”

  She hadn’t heard his saying-no-is-not-an-option voice in a long time, but it calmed her, because it came from a man who always knew what to do. “I have something to ask you first,” she said. “Why do you put up with this arrangement? Me upstairs and you on the sofa down here?”

  “You know why,” he said, wondering why she was asking. “When I drank too much and went too far with you, I abused your trust. The only way I know to get it back is to let you call the shots. For as long as it takes.”

  She started to speak then stopped and took a deep breath. “I think it’s been long enough.”

  Her round-about way of communicating confused him. “What exactly are you telling me, Jenny?”

  “I wish you would talk about your feelings. You don’t do that much, I understand that, but – but – don’t you see? Words matter. To me. I hope the
y do to you, because I’ve decided that even if you don’t speak up, I will.”

  Feelings. Words. Speak up. Was she – did she – ” Did I hear you right?”

  She raised his hand to her face and rested her cheek against it. “Simon, I – I need you, and I want you, and – and – I love you! And I’m all mixed up, and if you don’t love me back – ” Her voice caught in her throat and tears welled up. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  His heart skipped a beat, and he crushed her in a tight embrace, unable to say anything.

  “Simon, breathe! And say something!”

  He was still silent.

  Her tears spilled over. “If you love me, now would be a good time to say so!”

  She was the first woman who had told him she loved him and cried at the same time. “Jenny, Jenny, don’t you know?” he whispered. “Don’t you know me?”

  “I need to hear it. If you do. Please.”

  “Jenny – ” His voice broke, and he tried to steady himself. “Love. Yes,” he managed to say.

  He felt her hand on his cheek and her lips at the bottom of his chin. He relaxed his embrace slightly and bent down to meet her. They were the most passionate kisses she had given him, and in a flash he understood. For Jenny, love was the key. He should have known. “Love,” he repeated. “More than.”

  She smiled up at him, feeling joy and relief in equal measure. “Did I surprise you?”

  “Yes, very.” He kissed her once, twice, three times, stopping in between to smile back. “What do you want to do about it?”

  “I want a do-over. I want us to be together, but I’m not feeling very sexy, and I’m afraid the attack has ruined things. Maybe a fresh start will help.”

  He thought for a moment. “Tomorrow, then, after the detectives are done with you, we’ll go away together. Replace a bad memory with a good one.” He kissed her again, long, slow kisses on her lips and then her neck. He ran his hand slowly across her chest. “Are you sure you want to wait? Because for me, the where doesn’t signify. Only the who.”

  She leaned against him, wanting him to continue but wanting even more for him to understand. “Simon, I need to tell you something. I know why you did what you did when you were drunk. Because – because the other night – I wanted you to make love to me, just to take the fear away.”

  “Jenny, you could have come to me.”

  “I almost did. I wish I had. Unfortunately,” she smiled, “I was too sober.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m still sober!” she laughed. “But I’d love to go away with you. Somewhere I’ve never been. Away from Hampstead. Away from this flat.”

  He released her. “We’ll sort the rest later then. I have some calls to make. Where do you board Bear?”

  “I never have.”

  “The vet’s then.”

  “I’ll pack. Anything special you want me to take?”

  “Surprise me.”

  All evening he was unusually affectionate, spontaneously embracing her and even wrapping the dish towel around her waist to pull her within range of his kisses when they washed up. “Jenny, why did you wait to tell me?”

  “I wanted you to tell me first. Yesterday, while you were gone, I realized it didn’t matter who went first. Why hadn’t you told me?”

  “It’s difficult. I haven’t said it much.”

  Something in the way he said it made her wonder if he ever had, but that didn’t matter now. His arms were around her.

  “But I do,” he whispered. “More than you know.”

  “I wish I didn’t have stitches. I wish I could make love to you without a handicap.”

  He kissed her injured hand. “We’ll make do,” he said.

  CHAPTER 42

  “Wakey, wakey, Jenny,” Simon called. “The suits from West Hamp are calling by.”

  She opened her eyes to see him standing by the bedroom door, fully dressed. “So early?”

  “I rang them,” he said with a smile. “Said you were leaving town today. I’ve already taken Bear to the vet’s. And it’s not early.”

  She had slept longer than she intended, probably because the danger was past and because she and Simon loved each other. So many issues resolved. “Where are we going?” she asked, sitting up.

  “Lovely place in Kent. Far enough from London that I’ll not be called in. No more info until we’re on our way.”

  She showered and dressed as quickly as she could and went downstairs for her cuppa. In anticipation of the visit from the detectives, Simon had made a full pot. The Telegraph was on the table, the date listed under the masthead: Monday, 15 September 2003. “You’re good for me,” she said. “Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of my attack, and I was so focused on telling you I loved you that I forgot.”

  “And now?”

  For a long time fear had clung to her like barnacles on a ship’s hull. “I remember the dark, cold room, the anger of my attacker, and the fear. But for the first time I’m free of the feelings that went with the events. I think I’ve finally moved on.”

  “Well done,” he said and bent down to kiss her.

  “Mmm,” she whispered. “So much nicer to think about what’s happening now.” She had barely finished her tea when the doorbell rang.

  “Thank you for making time for us,” DS Wyrick said when they arrived.

  “No tape recorder?” she asked DC Mackeson.

  “The purpose of our visit is to take a second series of photographs of your injuries,” he answered, holding up a camera. “And get your signature on your statement.”

  She sat on the sofa to read the typed document. DS Wyrick remained standing in the dining room. “It’s all correct,” she said after a few minutes, “but I’m right-handed, so I can’t sign it. Aren’t there some police phrases you can use? ‘Because of the nature of her injuries, Mrs. Sinclair could not affix her signature to this document. She gave her verbal assent to its accuracy,’ or something like that?”

  Mackeson smiled. “That’ll do,” he said, adding the sentences in longhand and leaving space for his and Wyrick’s signatures as witnesses. “If you’ll remove your dressings, please.”

  Simon stepped forward to loosen the tape that held the bandages in place. “You’re healing nicely,” he said.

  “I don’t think a palm reader would agree with you,” she smiled. “Look: The knife severed my life line.”

  “Perhaps it’s a new life line,” he countered. “I’ll cleanse and rebandage these before we leave.”

  While Mackeson took the shots he needed, she thought about the wounds the camera could not capture. Wyrick seemed to be inspecting the pages of her grief workbook which were spread out on the table. “We’re ready,” Mackeson told him.

  “Please help yourselves to tea,” she said. “I’m not very good at pouring with my left hand.”

  Both men seated themselves and filled their cups. Wyrick sipped his and then began. “We have a very complete statement from Sean MacKenna. You were wise to enlist his assistance. And we’ve spoken with the baker who employed Mrs. Michalopolous. She was a bit moody, but he had no reason to distrust her. She didn’t seem to mind coming in very early, so we believe that the incidents occurred in the early morning hours. She also had a night job as a waitress at a Greek café. Her employer there reported that she was becoming irrational and unpredictable. The café, however, is in another part of the city, much closer to her flat.”

  “Her flat,” Mackeson echoed, rolling his eyes.

  “Yes, we’ve had a look at it,” Wyrick continued. “We found a number of disturbing items there, including newspaper clippings of your husband’s death and memorial service and dozens of photographs of you, many defaced. She possessed additional knives, both smaller and larger than the one she used to attack you. An upholstered chair with your snap attached to it was cut to pieces. We found rat poison, which we believe she would have used against your dog if the broken glass had not been effective.”

  Jenny felt
suddenly weak. She set her teacup down quickly and shook her head, as if to rid her mind of the information she had heard. “She practiced attacking me?”

  “She didn’t use a moving target, and she didn’t expect you to defend yourself,” Simon said. “You were more than a match for her.”

  Wyrick nodded. “In short, we believe that she became fixated on you after her husband’s conviction and incarceration.” He leant forward. “We’ll gather the best evidence we can, but a psychological evaluation will determine if she’s fit to stand trial. Significant evidence does exist of rational planning, and I’m certain that will be taken into account. I’d like to see her charged with psychological harm as well. There’s legislation that addresses that issue. Unfortunately, her defence counsel will oppose any sort of trial. I can’t guarantee that you’ll see justice done. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not,” Jenny said. “I’ve been there and done that. All I want to know is whether I’ll be in danger from her again.”

  “Very unlikely,” Wyrick assured her. “We’ll be informed of her status, but she’ll not be released.”

  “Was it my ring?” Jenny asked. “The pearl one I saw her wearing?”

  “Yes, exactly as you described it,” Wyrick answered. “I’m afraid we’ll not be able to return it to you for some time, however.”

  “I don’t want it back,” she said. “I just thought it was a piece of evidence that shouldn’t be overlooked.”

  Wyrick consulted his notes. “With regard to the coroner, David Millar. We made contact with the Surrey detective who investigated the disappearance of his wife. Not a shred of evidence existed against Millar. According to him, they had just returned from a very enjoyable holiday visiting inns and antique shoppes between London and Wales. He went to work and assumed that she was home with post-trip chores. Nothing was disturbed in the home. A load of laundry was found in the washing machine. Millar was completely cooperative with the officers. Although Mrs. Millar’s friends suggested that she was not as happy in the marriage as he claimed, no motive for his doing away with her was ever uncovered. Millar’s lack of distress was suspicious, but he maintained that his belief that she was still alive mitigated excessive emotion.