Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  “He still uses it a bit, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, yeah,” she agreed. “Not for climbing though, just mucking about like they are now.”

  He smiled. “Doesn’t that count?”

  She shook her head, but without any annoyance. “You know what I mean. He’s too big for it really. I was thinking we could put a kitchen garden bed in there, you know, herbs and things.”

  Martin noticed the ‘we’, but knew not to make too much of it. Sometimes he thought she used ‘we’ when it was something she wanted from him. That was OK. If dismantling a climbing frame and digging in a herb bed would make her think of them as ‘we’, then he would happily do it.

  “Do you think she’s going to call again?”

  Martin stared at the concrete floor. “I think she will.”

  Beth sighed. “We just have to have this hanging over us, then? It all has to be on her terms?”

  “Would you rather that I called her?”

  “No, of course not. I just...” She sighed as she looked through the open garage door. “When do you think she’ll call? Did she give any indication?”

  “Not really. I’d just be guessing. What she said was: I’ll be in touch.”

  “And you didn’t ask her when?” He could see her thinking that she, Beth, would have asked when. She wouldn’t have been so useless as to leave it hanging in the air. She was probably right.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have asked. It was all just a bit... weird, you know.”

  He knocked back the last of his tea and put the mug on top of a box. “I need to get down to the shops before they close. I’ll come back and finish these last few.”

  She shrugged as though it made no difference.

  “Thanks for the tea.”

  She picked up the mugs and went back into the house. Martin closed his eyes, trying to pick up his train of thought. Why was Gallagher calling him? Had she told him?

  He got into his car and headed off round the corner, pulling up at the side of the road. He found her number and called. It went to answerphone and he abruptly cut the call. He needed to speak to her. He waited a minute and called again. He was prepared for the answerphone but this time she answered.

  “Hello, Martin,” she said. Her voice was soft, almost seductive. His stomach clenched, and he took a quick breath, trying to tamp down his anger.

  “Gallagher called me,” he said.

  There was silence for long seconds before she spoke. “Gallagher called you?” All the seduction was gone from her voice now. He could hear the fear in her voice, the same trembling fury he’d heard in her voice before.

  “Why is he calling me? What have you told him?”

  “I’ve told him nothing,” she snapped.

  “Then why is he calling me? It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? Ten years on, you turn up claiming he raped you, and the next week the man himself is on the phone to me. What have you been doing?”

  “I haven’t told him,” she shrieked. “I told him nothing about you.”

  “But you have been speaking to him?”

  “Yes, I have,” she shouted. “He owes me.”

  “Uh huh,” Martin said, trying hard to control the anger threatening to block his throat. “And what exactly have you said to him about Ben?”

  “I said nothing about Ben. He doesn’t even know there was a kid.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “No!”

  “You’ve said nothing about a child?”

  “No!”

  “So why is he calling me?”

  “How the fuck would I know, Martin? How many times do I have to say it?”

  “I want to get this straight,” Martin said. “Gallagher never knew there was a child?”

  “No!” she shrieked. “Fucking no, alright?”

  “Oh come on, Marilyn. You don’t think it’s a bit weird that he called me?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird. But I’ve told him nothing about Ben. I don’t know how he got onto you. How could he know?”

  Martin drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “It has to be from you. You must have said something. You must have given something away. Why are you even talking to him? What do you think you’re going to get out of it?”

  She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke her voice was so quiet that Martin wasn’t even sure he’d heard her right. “He offered me a job,” she said.

  “He what? He offered you a job?”

  “Yeah.”

  Martin laughed. “Why would he do that?” He thought for a moment. “Jesus, Marilyn, are you blackmailing him?”

  She was silent.

  “You said he was dangerous.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice small.

  “How could you go back to him?” His voice could barely contain his incredulity. “Marilyn, you said this man raped you. Why on earth would you go back and work with him?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “No, I really don’t. Tell me about it.”

  “My life is nothing. I am nothing. I have nothing. You have my kid. I have no money.”

  “You’d do it for the money?”

  He heard her strange, sobbing laughter. “Oh it’s easy for you. You have no idea what it’s like.”

  Martin closed his eyes, remembering her skinny body, her shabby clothes, the feral look in her eye. “No, you’re right. I have no idea.”

  She was quiet then, and he waited for her to speak. “He’s offering good money, and I could.... I could have a life again.”

  “You just go back to normal, like this never happened?”

  She laughed bitterly. “I’m never going to be normal again.”

  “So how is this going to work? Marilyn, this just sounds...”

  “What?”

  “Dangerous. It sounds dangerous. Are you sure you’ve said nothing to him about Ben?”

  “I told you, I’ve said nothing.”

  “So why is he calling me? He’s onto something. Marilyn, you have to back off.”

  “No way, Martin. This is my chance. I have to do it, don’t you see? I have to get back my life.”

  “Well, get back your life but don’t involve us, don’t involve Ben.”

  He could hear her breathing. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or if it was a kind of sobbing.

  “You have no right,” she said at last.

  “I have every right,” he said. “You gave up all your rights when you handed him over.”

  He heard her suck in a breath. “I want to see him,” she said.

  Martin lowered his head onto the steering wheel. “This can’t go on, Marilyn,” he said. “You’re not his mother. Beth’s his mother.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Her voice was ragged. “I know that you got it all and I got nothing.”

  “It was your choice,” Martin said. “You can’t come in here now and turn it upside down. Ben is our son. He knows nothing else. If you had any feelings for him at all, then you wouldn’t do this.”

  “I just want to see him. He looks like me.” He could hear her voice break.

  Martin let out a long breath, and said nothing.

  “When I see him, and know that I made him, I feel like.... I feel like...I don’t know, like I exist.”

  He knew what she meant. Sometimes, raising Ben felt like the only worthwhile thing he’d ever done in his life. Being Ben’s dad was the best he’d ever been.

  “OK,” he agreed at last. “I’ll bring him to the park one more time. But Marilyn... this has to end.”

  “I know.”

  “And you have to promise me, you’ll say nothing to Gallagher.”

  “Alright, Martin,” she said heavily. “I get the point.”

  “OK. Just one more time, and you have to make your peace with it,” Martin said. “But it can’t be tomorrow. He has football practice.”

  “I’m busy tomorrow anyway.”

  “What about Tuesday? Five o’clock?”


  “Tuesday,” she said. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

  Martin ended the call and sighed heavily as he tipped his head back on the headrest. Was it too much to hope? Maybe, just maybe, he could make this whole thing go away.

  Sixteen

  Marilyn held the dress up against herself and looked in the mirror. It was only a small mirror, but she’d already tried the dress in the charity shop. She was too skinny for the low back, but the gathered folds at the front seemed to give her more shape. It was darkest blue, with perhaps just a hint of purple. It reminded her of a darkening sky with the heat of a sunset behind it. The colour was good against her pale skin and red hair.

  She touched the fabric to her cheek then laid the dress back down on the bed and went into her bathroom. She turned off the taps and swished her hand in the water, stirring up some foam. She had been to the pound shop that morning and bought bubble bath, a razor, some styling cream for her hair, and some bits of make up. They were spread out on the bathroom chair: an eyeshadow and eyeliner set, along with mascara, some foundation, a blusher with brush, and a nail varnish.

  She climbed into the bath and slid down low. She closed her eyes, letting her arms float in the hot water. She remembered this process of getting ready for a night out, but it seemed like something she’d watched in a film. But she knew that person she saw in the film was her. She had cared once about the sleek fit of her clothes, about the matching shoes. She had spent time exfoliating her legs and arms and applying body moisturiser and tan. Many hours had been invested in styling her hair. She had been so businesslike about it, as if this was part of her job description, to always be impeccably shiny. It seemed tiring now, but she remembered that she had been good at it. She felt a stirring of interest, a desire to have a go again, as if she’d been reminded that she used to be a champion cartwheeler and perhaps she hadn’t lost the knack. She washed and conditioned her long hair and clipped it on top of her head while she carefully shaved her legs and armpits.

  When she climbed out of the bath and dried herself, she saw that her skin was dry. She looked in her meagre bathroom cupboard and came up with an old bottle of suncream. She rubbed it into her legs and arms and then rubbed herself down with the towel again because she was sticky. She brushed out her hair. She had some pins, and when it was nearly dry she would curl it around and pin it to make ringlets.

  She made a cup of tea and took the mirror off the bathroom wall. She propped it up on the window ledge next to her bed and she stared at her face. It had been a long time since she had looked at herself like this. She had a feeling that she’d never looked at herself quite like this. She remembered how she’d inspected parts of herself: she’d pluck her eyebrows and check for emerging wrinkles, she’d make sure her teeth were sparkling white and she’d set about the business of painting up her face into a high gloss version. But she didn’t remember ever just looking at her naked face, looking at the contours and hollows, the jut of her jawline, the complex pattern of her irises. She didn’t look so bad: a bit pale, a bit too thin, but her skin was smooth. She parted her lips and poked her tongue through the gap where the missing tooth should have been. A shame about that. But perhaps, if she had money, she could get a crown. She could fix that.

  She looked into her own eyes. Was she really thinking that? Was she thinking she could step back into that world and work with him, the monster who’d crowded out all the dark corners of her mind? It didn’t seem possible. She’d hated him so much and for so long, and yet here she was, getting ready to go and meet him. It was as if some silent, animal part of her had made a decision and was propelling her along. She could feel the pull to go back to that life, to wipe out the last ten years, to be living again as if it had never happened. But next to him? Each time she tried to think of it, her mind just seemed to stop.

  It was like when she was thirteen and she’d told her father about the priest, the things he did that weren’t right. Her father had slammed the door on that kind of talk. He would hear nothing bad about Father Bernard. She’d tried a few times and she’d cried as he shouted at her for telling such terrible stories. Finally he’d hit her to shut her up. He’d hit her hard, knocking her head against the wall so that she felt dizzy and sick. For a moment, she’d seen a shamed look on his face, but it was too late. A steel door had slammed shut in her heart.

  She thought no more about her father. She didn’t think about Father Bernard. The next time they’d met, he must have seen something in her face. He never called her aside again for a special private talk. Looking at her face now, she saw what it was. She’d gone to live deep inside herself. She’d built a barricade around herself and she’d tended it with moisturisers and high heels and hair gloss, and she’d kept everyone at bay. From somewhere deep within, she’d looked out and calculated the odds, weighed up the players, made her moves.

  She looked away from the mirror, her shoulders sagging. It had been such a frenzy of hard work to drag herself up and keep it going. She had been like a spinning top, always working, exercising, making contacts, improving herself. No one knew her. She didn’t even know herself. They must have thought she was so busy, so popular. Even Jon. It seemed impossible now. They’d talked of getting married and yet he didn’t even know her. It would have been a Barbie executive doll marrying a pretty Ken.

  She sighed heavily, letting it all roll away from her, the burden of hatred and resentment. She could understand now why he couldn’t cope, when she was beaten and raped, when she’d needed his help. That wasn’t what they were to each other and he didn’t know how to play that role. She could picture his frightened face when she’d named Gallagher. He just wanted her to stop talking. He wanted this to go away.

  She ran her fingers through her still damp hair. Still too wet for pinning. A part of her marvelled at the side of her that was mechanically working away, thinking about her hair, wondering if she’d be alright without a coat.

  She raised one foot and shook the bottle of plum nail varnish. It was cheap and thin, but her movements were quick and skilled. Her toes were straight, the skin of her feet soft. Ten years in trainers had done her some good. She spread her toes wide and smiled as she admired them.

  Time for a drink! She’d bought a half bottle of wine from the supermarket. She knew she would need something before she could face this evening. She poured a tumbler full and went back into the bedroom. She dabbed foundation onto her face and smoothed it in with her fingers. She looked so pale and featureless. She licked the pale foundation from her lips and then smoothed them with Vaseline. She picked up the eye liner and leaned forwards, her fingers automatically knowing what to do, how to outline and flatter the eye.

  She paused with one eye painted, one eye naked. She looked weird, like some kind of sci fi creature. She took a long sip of wine, tilted her head to the side and looked at herself. What was she doing? Was she building the same fragile shell that had left her so undefended last time? She didn’t know what she was doing and she had no one to ask. Like always, she’d always been alone.

  She thought of the boy, running around that field so full of energy. She thought of his solid little limbs, his shouting voice. She had made all that. His hair, the same colour as her own. There was a sharp stabbing pain in her ribs and she realised she was breathing too fast. She closed her eyes, breathed out deliberately slowly through pursed lips. There was a more solid life she could have had; she had a vague sense of houses and pushchairs and toddler groups. But she could never have done that.

  She hadn’t been fit to raise a child. She was hollow, a complete nobody. Wasn’t that what he’d proved to her when he smacked her and punched her and fucked her? She was just a shell. She had a style that made men look but she had nothing to back it up and she had no one on her side. She was worthless, she was bad, just like Father Bernard had said. But that was crap. She knew it now. She wasn’t worthless, she wasn’t bad, she never had been. But she had been hollow. She couldn’t have raised a child. It was the righ
t thing for Martin and Beth to raise him.

  But what about me? It was a voice from deep inside, a thirteen year old voice that could never be allowed to speak.

  She looked at herself in the mirror and started outlining the other eye. You pick yourself up, she said, and you carry on. Her hand was trembling now. The momentary, unfamiliar fun of getting ready was gone. It was back to business now, and this was a big one, the game play of her life.

  Seventeen

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Meet me in the lobby?”

  Gallagher’s eyebrows lifted as he pressed the phone to his ear. She sounded different. Her voice was deeper, stronger maybe.

  “I’m just waiting for room service to arrive, Marilyn. Best you come up to my room. It’s 517.”

  “Your room?”

  Oh, but there it was, that trembling note of fear he liked so much. “Yeah. Well, not so much a room. More of a suite really. You’ll like it. It’s got a great view.”

  “A suite?”

  “Yeah, you know what a suite is Marilyn: sofas, coffee tables, writing desks. No need to be so wide eyed. Oh, here they are now with my steak. OK, 517. You got it?”

  “OK.”

  Gallagher opened the door, a jerk of his head indicating for the boy to wheel in the trolley. He loved room service. He liked restaurants. He liked taking over the best table, checking out the champagne list, making a rowdy noise if he wanted. He liked the way his money talked. But there was something special about room service that he just never got used to. The way it came to him on a trolley, the way they brought up the crisp linen and set a table just for him. But best of all was the shiny domed lids that the waiter would whip off as if he was pulling a rabbit out of the hat. He knew there was something childish and simple about it, but he just couldn’t help loving it every time.

  The waiter showed him the wine and opened the bottle with a theatrical flourish. He watched as the boy poured a little into a large glass. He swirled it in the glass and shoved his nose in to suck up the aroma, just as if he knew what he was doing. Finally he tasted it, and nodded. It was good. Of course it should be, at that price. The waiter filled the glass and left the room.