‘It’s the thing she regrets most, you know,’ Megan tells him as the car slows. She checks for some reaction. ‘The note,’ she continues. ‘She doesn’t say so in the letters but it’s what she told me. Last time. I know she meant it.’
Leo looks at the letters in his lap. He picks up the topmost envelope. He puts it back and flips the pile the other way up.
‘She was angry, Leo. Scared above all. Especially when she saw what that man wrote.’ ‘I don’t blame her,’ Leo says. ‘I told you.’ He takes a letter – the first one, this time
– from its envelope. He lifts it closer to his face as though he were short-sighted. For everything else that has deteriorated about him . . .
No. Not deteriorated.
For everything else that has altered about him, Megan knows there is nothing wrong with her husband’s eyes.
He is smelling it.
She turns to conceal her smile. He seems to notice and coughs his embarrassment. He angles his head to show he is reading.
If he asked her to, she could read the letter to him. Mum , it starts. I don’t really know where to begin . She has committed to memory all twenty-seven lines, as well as all fifty-six from the second letter, each and every one of the third, fourth, fifth. And sixth. There are six letters in total. The first arrived with the photograph last autumn, for no reason that her daughter has been willing so far to reveal. Because she is happy, is Megan’s guess. Because her happiness has given her strength. The other letters came one at a time every four or five weeks. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Especially as they say so little: gossip, mainly, about Ellie’s friends. But that she has friends is in itself wondrous. Her friends and also her smile. Plus, now, they have met. Three times; roughly once in each of the past few months. At Ellie’s suggestion. Only ever at Ellie’s suggestion. Which is fine, not fine, all Megan can ask for. It is building. Re-building. It is killing her but it is making her whole.
Mum. I don’t really know where to begin.
She looks at Leo. She watches him read. She turns back to face the road and recites the lines in her mind along with him.
‘Here. Or a bit further in. This is the nice part. The expensive part. Acton’s cheaper. Closer to Ellie, too. Although I’m not even sure I can afford Acton.’
Leo, she can tell, is exaggerating his interest. He is impatient. He would rather not have taken the detour.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’ll turn around. Head back to the ring road.’ ‘No. Honestly. It’s fine. I’d like to see.’
She narrows her eyes at him. ‘Now you’re stalling.’ ‘I’m not. What kind of place are you looking for?’ ‘You are. Just a flat. Three bedrooms, if I can.’
‘I’m nervous. That’s all. Three bedrooms sounds okay.’ She smiles. She is not beyond feeling nervous herself. ‘Two,’ she says. ‘It will probably
be two. I’d like a garden for Rupert but it seems like a frivolous expense.’ ‘Rupert?’ Leo turns. ‘Rupert’s still alive? But she must be . . .’ ‘. . on her last legs. That’s what I mean. I have my doubts, actually, that she’ll make it
to moving day. That’s why I’ve never mentioned her to Ellie.’ ‘You should,’ Leo says. ‘She’d be pleased.’ He shakes his head again at the never-ending
wonderment.
‘Either way,’ says Megan, thinking once more about the flat. ‘There’ll be a spare bed-room. In case you ever . . . I mean, if anyone ever . . .’
She flushes. She turns away. She does not even pause to see whether Leo has reddened Her husband, after a moment, clears his throat. ‘I’m up here a lot, as it happens. You
know. For work.’
Work. It is how he has been referring to it since she asked about it. He is, in Megan’s opinion, belittling himself with the term.
‘How’s that going?’ she asks.
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘you know.’ He does not think she genuinely wants to hear. ‘Tell me. Please.’ They reach a roundabout and Megan swings the car the way they have
come.
‘Slowly,’ Leo says. ‘The campaigning part, I mean. But we’ve made a nuisance of ourselves, got some backbench support. Lib Dems, mainly.’ He shrugs. ‘But still.’
But still indeed. She thinks of Leo’s father. She wonders if Leo realises how proud Mat-thew would be.
‘And Karen? She’s working with you?’
Leo nods. ‘Karen’s involved. She’s a big part of it, actually, especially after her experi-ences with . . . I mean . . . Given her experience.’
‘With Daniel.’ Megan says the name and, for the first time she can remember, she does not shudder.
Leo looks at her. ‘That’s right. Also,’ he adds, ‘a barrister I used to work with. He was involved with Daniel’s case too. And there are others. Other lawyers, other therapists, a judge. It helps that it’s people who work with the law who are arguing that the law is an ass.’
‘And the pro bono stuff?’
Leo’s face shines. ‘It’s good. I mean, Howard’s been great. He’s retired now but he was the one who helped me get it all set up.’
‘You work with kids, you said? Just kids?’
‘Exclusively. Which means I travel a fair bit. Around the south-west mainly. Also, here.’ He gestures at the North Circular. ‘Believe me, there’s plenty of work. Hardly anyone spe-cialises in it, you see. No one’s qualified to. Which is frustrating enough in itself.’ He fin-ishes with a shrug.
‘You do look tired, Leo. Are you eating properly?’ Leo purses his lips, as though to snip off a smile. ‘When I can,’ he says. He seems to
consider for a moment. His expression hardens. ‘It sounds heartless, probably,’ he says. ‘But Daniel: what happened to him. It will help. In the long run. I won’t let it not.’ There is a hint of a challenge in his tone. Megan does not rise to it.
‘Not heartless, Leo.’ She indicates, turns, glances. ‘Never that.’ They have been parked, by Megan’s estimation, for thirteen minutes. If they leave it any longer, they will be late.
‘Leo. We should go.’
Her husband stares at the shopfront, as though the coffeeshop signage were something outlandish.
‘Leo. It will be fine. I promise.’ Will it? Does she? Leo turns to her. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
‘What?’
‘I shouldn’t have come. It’s not fair. She should have warning.’ The thought has occurred to Megan too. More than that: it has nagged at her, like a child
growing fitful in the back seat. What if I ruin it? she keeps thinking, the very thought that stopped her telling Leo from the start.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. She opens the car door before she can stop herself. ‘Megan. Wait.’
She shuts it again.
‘What should I say to her?’
‘What?’
‘When I see her. What should I say to her?’
She would dismiss it as a foolish question. But she knows, having been there, that it is not.
‘She’s studying, you know: catching up,’ Megan says. ‘She wants to be a lawyer.’ She slightly overplays her disdain. ‘So you could tell her, for starters, to get a proper job.’
Leo, clearly, does not get the joke. He is staring again; working himself, she can tell, into a state.
Megan checks the clock again. She sighs. She says, ‘Leo,’ and taps her watch and then gestures through the windscreen towards . . .
Her daughter. Their daughter. Standing in the coffee-shop doorway. And it is clear, now, why Leo is staring so. She has been here, too. On the brink. Toes to the edge. Dazzled by the thing before them and praying – not quite believing – it is really real.
Their daughter. His daughter. Searching now, stepping now – and finally spotting them. Both.
‘Go.’
He does not move.
‘Go. Leo!’
She leans. She opens his door. ‘Go,’ she says again. ‘Go ahead.’ Because she was right that this was right. She can see, with her own eyes: her
daughter
with her hand across her mouth; her husband, standing, trying to, hauling himself up by the door frame of the car. He takes a step. She does. And Megan watches as her family comes together.
Also by Simon Lelic
RUPTURE
THE FACILITY
Acknowledgements
Love and thanks, as ever, to my unfailingly supportive family and friends. For their help and insight during the research and writing of this book, I owe a debt in particular to Sandra Higgison, Darryl Hobden, Andy Hood, Hanne Stevens and Amanda Thornton. Without their collective generosity, in terms of time and expertise, I would still be staring at a blink-ing cursor. Thank you, equally, to all at Macmillan, Penguin, the Zoe Pagnamenta Agency, Andrew Nurnberg Associates and Felicity Bryan Associates. Emma Bravo, Kathryn Court, Sophie Orme, Zoe Pagnamenta, Maria Rejt, Tara Singh and Caroline Wood all deserve an extra special mention.
I would like, as well, to detail here the books that have most informed and guided my re-search for The Child Who : Blake Morrison’s heartbreaking, exceptional As If ; Gitta Sereny’s The Case of Mary Bell , as well as her astonishing series of articles about the James Bulger case published in the wake of the resultant trial in the Independent on Sunday Review (and available now as appendix to the aforementioned book); Alex McBride’s fascinating and en-tertaining Defending the Guilty ; and, finally, Infant Losses, Adult Searches by Glyn Hudson Allez, a devastatingly insightful analysis.
Last, and above all, I would like to say thank you to Sarah, my wife, and to my two sons, Barnaby and Joseph: for being there, and for being who they are.
First published 2012 by Mantle
This electronic edition published 2012 by Mantle
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
ISBN 978-1-4472-0665-1 EPUB
Copyright © Simon Lelic, 2012
The right of Simon Lelic to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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