The Date

by Louise Jensen

  The instant I clamber to my feet and start to run towards the edge there are arms around my waist, and I fight against them – ‘he didn’t have the knife’ – but they hold me firm and strong. My knees buckle as PC Willis drives the police car to the edge of the cliff and switches the headlights on to full beam, while PC Hunter barks instructions into his walkie-talkie. Still I don’t fall and I know it is Matt who is holding me, and I try to prise his fingers apart, all the while calling Ben’s name, but eventually my energy is zapped and I lean back against Matt.

  And we wait.

  At the theme park all those years ago with Dad I’d felt detached from everything as I had spun around on the waltzer. Present but not. Unable to identify shapes. Sounds. Lights blurring. Seeing everything but absorbing nothing and that’s how I feel right now as an ambulance arrives and I am ushered into the back of it, where I sit, wrapped in an itchy grey blanket, dry-eyed.

  ‘Is there any news?’ I ask endlessly. Matt hasn’t moved from my side and has no idea what’s going on any more than I do. The sky is russet now. Dusk staking its claim. But the clifftop is awash with blue flashing lights. ‘There are ledges,’ I say again, wincing that the thought of Ben’s body lying broken and bloodied on rock is preferable to him being swept out into the choppy sea, where the lifeguard’s boat bobs orange and small. Overhead, the thrum of a helicopter. With all this they will find him. How could they not? And we’ll talk and everything will be okay. That’s what I tell myself anyway, but it’s a lie even I don’t believe.

  I’m a murderer.

  I rub my wrist, feeling my cold goosebumps, reassuring myself there are no steel cuffs on me.

  Yet.

  But it’s only a matter of time, I know.

  Coffee is produced, seemingly from thin air, and I wrap my hands around the styrofoam cup that crumples under my grip, splashing hot liquid onto my fingers.

  ‘We should take you to hospital soon,’ the paramedic says once more and, again, I shake my head. ‘There’s nothing you can do here, and don’t you want to see your aunt?’

  Iris is alive but unconscious I am told. A heart attack.

  ‘I thought Ben had killed her,’ I had said when PC Willis relayed the news in her calming voice.

  ‘She had made me a cup of tea and we were chatting. Ben burst in and before either of us really knew what was happening he hit me over the head,’ Matt tells me. His cheek is black and purple, his lip swollen. ‘By the time I came to I was tied up. Iris was crying and Ben… I’ve never quite seen him like that before, agitated, repeating the same thing over and over again. It was her fault your mum had died. She should never have left the house that night leaving all the medication that had been stockpiled in the drawer. Did your mum?…’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I say knowing it’s only a matter of time before the whole sordid truth is as open and exposed as I feel right now.

  ‘What did Iris say?’

  ‘She kept saying how sorry she was. She tried to calm him down; she did, but he was ready to break.’

  I am not surprised. Ben must have known with the police investigating Chrissy’s disappearance it wouldn’t take long before his part in it was revealed. Tick tock. Time was running out for us all.

  ‘Iris told him she knew it was all her fault.’

  My breath shudders. I’d often wondered whether Iris suspected I’d helped Mum that night. It seemed too coincidental that she passed away naturally after that conversation, but she had never questioned, and I had never told.

  Matt continues: ‘Iris tried to tell Ben your mum was really sick and would never have recovered. He started crying and asking her why she always told him Mum would get better. “I thought it kinder”, Iris had said, “you were so young”. “So was Ali, but you know what she did.” Ben had spat.’

  I thought I was numb, unable to feel, but Matt lifts my hands and rubs warmth into them and when he speaks it’s with love.

  ‘Iris collapsed, Ali. Ben didn’t touch her.’

  She had crumpled under the weight of the truth. I wonder if she had rewritten history over the years to make it bearable the way I had tried to, but it doesn’t work, does it, burying secrets? They always become unearthed: dark and dirty and ready to destroy. My eyes drift to the ruins of the cottage. I can see the ghost of our family picnicking. Mum stating if I ate my crusts my hair would curl; Iris promising Ben that Mum would recover. Those little white lies that bind a family together. The lies told to reassure. The lies we tell because the truth is just too ugly. Too cruel.

  There’s shouting now. Urgent crackling of walkie-talkies. The helicopter circling and circling. The speedboat slicing a frothy snail trail through the battleship grey waves.

  PC Willis glances over, her ponytail swinging jauntily, belying the severity of the situation somehow. Instead of approaching me she turns away.

  ‘No news is good news.’ Mum used to say, and I hang on to that, trying not to remember that she stopped saying it after Dad’s arrest during the interminable time he spent on remand.

  I take a sip of my drink, tasting sea salt on my lips. Above, the moon a sliver in the sky. They’ll stop looking soon. It will be too dark.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ I say dully to Matt.

  ‘What?’

  ‘All of it. I couldn’t understand… I don’t understand why you didn’t want me anymore. Since that night we argued about Craig and Jules you seemed to put your business before our marriage. Everything seemed more important than me. I thought you were having an affair with Chrissy. I found a photo of her and… I suppose it was Ben, but he told me it was you. A note she’d written to him, I thought it was to you. Jules overheard Chrissy on the phone to Ben and assumed it was you on the other end.’

  ‘There’s never been anyone for me but you.’ Matt draws my hand to his lips and kisses my freezing fingertips. I haven’t the energy to pull away. ‘How could you think that?’

  ‘Matt, someone was trying to hurt me and you took out life insurance after we separated. Packed up the house. I thought you were planning on killing me.’ I state this matter-of-factly in the same way you might state ‘I thought you were planning on having tea’ if someone made a coffee. I’m really past caring about it all. Past caring about everything except Ben.

  ‘Christ.’ Is all he says for the longest time as we watch another police car arrive. Another ambulance.

  ‘I fucked up,’ he says eventually and it’s hard to hear his quiet tones over the crashing waves, the flurry of activity, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the place Ben disappeared to look at him. ‘I’d put all my eggs in one basket with Craig. Taken a huge risk. The business was struggling anyway, debts had been mounting up for months.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  For better or for worse.

  ‘Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought it was my job as your husband to protect you. You never asked for anything materially. All you wanted was a family. Love. A roof over your head. I haven’t been able to pay the mortgage for months. Your half of the payments are swallowed up by my overdraft the second you transfer it to my account. I’ve hidden all the letters from you. I thought it was better, you moving out. I tried to source more freelance contracts, even signed up with agencies for a full-time job, but everyone’s feeling the pinch and cutting their marketing budgets. I got a second job stacking shelves in Tesco, in the evenings, hoping it would help, but it’s a drop in the ocean compared to what I need to clear my debts.’

  ‘So you were leaving? Running away?’

  ‘I was…’ He clears his throat. ‘Putting my affairs in order, I suppose you’d call it.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It all got too much for me, and I wanted you to be financially protected.’

  ‘Too much?’ This time, I do look at him. He can’t meet my eye.

  ‘I had it all planned. I’d take out the policy and wait a few months before… You know. I was going to make it look like a
n accident. I was packing everything up so you didn’t have to go through my things. I’d even changed the locks so you wouldn’t be the one to find me. I knew Mr Henderson would pop in if he hadn’t seen me for a few days. It seemed the right thing to do. For you. I love you, Ali. I haven’t even been able to bear sleeping in our bed since you left. I’ve been in the spare room on an airbed.’

  I should feel sympathy. I should feel pity. But all I feel is a burning, burning hate as I wrench my hand away from his.

  ‘You selfish fucking bastard. You don’t know anything about love.’

  But what is love? Is it forgiving a father who made a horrible, stupid mistake trying to provide for his family? Is it shielding a brother from the brutal truth when he had every right to expect honesty? Is it holding a glass of water to the lips of a dying mother as she swallows down the tablets you’ve placed onto her tongue? What is love? I’m damned if I know.

  I stand. Something is drawing me forward and, as I walk, I feel Matt’s eyes burning into my back and I feel his regret. His sorrow. His guilt. But I can’t be responsible for them. I’ve enough of my own.

  ‘Ali.’ PC Willis steps towards me and we approach each other slowly, warily. ‘They’ve recovered a body. I’m so, so sorry.’

  And that’s when the tears finally come.

  Epilogue

  It’s been six months since we buried Chrissy. It was her body that was recovered that night on the clifftop. Four months since we held a memorial service for Ben and it felt as though my heart was being ripped out as I stood, black heels sinking into the rain-damp grass, the paper in my hand shaking so hard the words hopped into each other. It didn’t feel right saying the things I had written, that would echo empty and meaningless around an almost deserted churchyard. Instead, I had screwed up my notes and recited the Edward Lear poem he loved so much. It seemed apt. It had proved impossible to correlate the Ben who tormented me with the brother I’ve always been so close to, and eventually I stopped trying, fearing I was driving myself mad. In the end, a lifetime of memories warmed the ice-cold betrayal that was running through my veins; Ben curled up on my lap, rubbing sleep from his eyes, begging for ‘just one more page’; Ben driving, both of us singing along to ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’, and the lyrics have never seemed more poignant than they do now, because despite everything I don’t blame him. He had dropped the knife in the last few seconds of his life and I know he wasn’t going to hurt me. I think if I had had the chance to explain everything properly he might even have understood, but Ben’s sensitivity had always fuelled my burning desire to protect him. It’s little wonder his fragile mind couldn’t cope with years of deceit. It must have felt as though everyone was keeping secrets from him, and I know, as I look at the bare skin my wedding band once circled, just how heartbreaking that can be.

  We never did recover Ben’s body, but I’m told that’s not unusual, the tides being as wild and unpredictable as the human mind. He’ll likely turn up somewhere, some time, the marine police say. I hate to think of him out there, alone, in the dark and freezing sea, but I think of the Owl and the Pussy-cat and picture him snug in their little wooden boat, with their honey and plenty of money, and although it sounds silly, it’s a comfort somehow. I said my final goodbyes. Choking back ceaseless sobs as I carefully set his battered Ollie the Owl, with its frayed green ribbon, and threadbare fur, in the place where Ben’s body should lie. Dropping a handful of earth into the open grave I raised my eyes to the forget-me-not sky and imagined Ben reunited with Mum; and now, when I picture her, it’s always the way she was before MND ravaged her body: smiling, at peace.

  Sometimes, as I slipped into the warm waters of sleep that I knew would become dark and choppy, as they always did once the nightmares took hold, I imagined it was easier for them than it was for me. The one who was left behind. But time rolled on, as it always does.

  It seemed impossible that the snow dusting the rooftops would melt, daffodils would poke their yellow heads from their darkened slumber. But they did. The world is still turning even if mine has shattered. Life has continued.

  Matt and I talk regularly now. There’s an understanding between us that wasn’t there before. Compassion. We’re not together but we dance in symbiosis. Every now and then after he’s visited I find a Terry’s Chocolate Orange and it always makes me smile. He’s having counselling for his depression and I’m still coming to terms with the fact my facial recognition will never come back. Two fragile minds don’t equal one strong one. Neither of us has filed for divorce and, despite everything, I don’t want to. One day perhaps we’ll be more than just friends but, for now, I’m content with my own company, my Sunday lunches with Mr Henderson, meeting PC Willis for the odd coffee: Steph as I now call her. She’s been a fabulous support. The truth about Mum’s death came tumbling out, as the truth often does, and as I confessed I felt a weight being lifted from my shoulders, and I knew that if I went to prison I would still be freer than I have been for years. The wait was interminable but after long deliberations and discussions I wasn’t a party to, it was declared that due to my tender age at the time and the number of years that had passed, no charges would be brought. A ‘victim of circumstances’ I was called, and I shook my head when Steph relayed this. I still hate the word victim, even after everything I’ve been through. Especially because of everything I’ve been through.

  I no longer work at the care home. Unable to tell the residents apart, I was in danger of handing out the wrong medication and letting me go was absolutely the right thing to do. It didn’t make it hurt any less. I still visit regularly though, taking Branwell in, letting the residents fuss him, including Iris who lives there now. She’s often quiet. Reflective. She always sits silently by the window, watching, as the visitors traipse up the winding path, and I wonder if she’s waiting for her sister. For Ben. She’ll be reunited with them sooner than I will, and in a way I envy that.

  I despaired of finding a new job. My condition clouding everything I tried, but then I was offered a role working for the charity that had been my lifeline, supporting others with prosopagnosia – there’s more of us than you think. I work long hours, often manning the phone lines during evenings and weekends too and, in the time in-between, I take Branwell for long walks along the seafront, through the parks, but not along the clifftops. Never along the clifftops.

  The home Matt and I owned was repossessed. It had been so long since he’d paid the mortgage and I didn’t want to stay in the house I shared with Chrissy. I moved to the outskirts of town, desperate to move away but equally desperate to stay in this place that ties me to Ben.

  James and Jules email often and I’m replying more and more. It turns out neither of them burned Prism down in a bid to keep James out of the whole sorry mess. Carl did. The bar wasn’t making the money it used to; no wonder he was so eager for cash to pay his suppliers with. He thought an insurance claim was the easy way out. Until he was arrested. But who am I to judge? I think we’ve all been guilty of carrying out acts we think are a good idea, until we’re caught. Haven’t we?

  I’ve told James and Jules if they pass me in the street not to tell me who they are. I’m not ready to talk to them face to face yet, but I am working towards it. Sometimes I still think of the jolt of electricity I felt as James’s hand brushed mine in the bar, the way he made me laugh. Forgiveness sets you free, Chrissy had told me, but I’m taking that one step at a time, starting with Dad. We’ve been writing, proper letters that you pop into postboxes, and today we’re meeting for the first time since his release.

  ‘How will I recognise you?’ he had written, and I had almost laughed, I’m probably the last person you should ask that question of, but then I remembered my coping techniques. The little markers I use to make my life easier, and they do.

  ‘I’ll be the one with the black and white dog with the over enthusiastic tail.’

  Facial blindness is both a blessing and a curse. I’d never have chosen it, of course, who would
, but the truth is it keeps me present. Engaged with my surroundings. I observe the little things others don’t. Automatically assessing body language, mood. Noticing colours more vibrantly so I can identify them later. Show me a blue top and I’ll tell you if I’ve seen it before, and if you think that sounds simple, there are seventy-three shades of blue and hundreds of variations in-between. It’s the small things I remember, always.

  Dad will be here any minute. I bend to stroke Branwell. His ears are pricked, muscles tense. Not straining against the lead, longing to race around the park as he usually does. He knows we’re waiting for something. For someone.

  Dad. I turn the word over in my mind. It’s been so long. Fleetingly I wonder whether this is a bad idea. Whether I should go home now before he comes but a sixth sense whispers it’s too late. He’s here.

  Looking up, my heart skips with a knowing hidden deep inside my consciousness. Dad. He’s still familiar as he hovers by the duck pond, studying me intently, uncertain and afraid. I smile. A throng of picnickers tramp in front of my eyeline, old-fashioned wicker baskets crammed with food, kids carrying cricket bats, footballs. A family. The one thing I don’t have, except now perhaps I do.

  He’s still there. Unmoving. And even from here I can sense his trepidation and I wonder what he’s expecting. Anger? Frustration? Tears? But love? Is he expecting love?

  To my left is jeering. The men playing football catcalling a teammate, but I don’t turn and look. Everyone’s a stranger. Everyone except him.

  There are only a few metres between us but there are miles and miles and years and years, and I know he is picturing being back in that house too. I wonder whether he is tucking me into bed, twirling Mum around the kitchen as ‘Sweet Talking Woman’ plays, the smell of gingerbread men floating from the oven, or if he’s thrashing against the handcuffs snapping onto his wrists as the horrified faces of his children are scorched into his mind.