by Tania Carver
It was something she imagined she would be living with for years to come.
Suzanne had been referred to the psychologist, Marina Esposito, for counselling. She was proving a great help, but most of it, Suzanne knew, she would have to face alone.
‘You don’t have to,’ Marina had said to her. ‘You’re not the only one to go through something like this, you know.’
Suzanne had looked at her, wary. What did she mean?
Marina had looked down at her knees, crossed over, smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this. Because it isn’t professional in any way and, I should think, violates what we’re doing here. But I think it’ll help for you to hear it. Something similar happened to me last year. I was… kidnapped, taken prisoner by a brutal, unhinged madman. And I had to… fight my way out, shall we say.’
Suzanne hadn’t known what to say, how to respond. ‘And… you got out? Well of course you did. Stupid question. But you… you had nightmares? All those fears?’
Marina had nodded. ‘Oh yes. Loads.’
‘And… and what happened?’
‘They… went away. Eventually. Mostly. The body heals. The mind does too, with help. Would you like my help?’
Suzanne had nodded.
Then burst into tears.
She still had regular sessions with Marina. Looked forward to them, because she felt that whatever she was unloading, she was doing it with someone who wasn’t just sympathetic or empathic, but someone who genuinely, sincerely, understood what she was going through. Because she had been through it herself.
She looked out at the sea, the waves rolling into the beach, waves that look so huge and threatening from a distance becoming smaller and smaller the nearer they got to her, eventually fizzing out to nothing on the sand. Harmless.
She smiled.
Determined not to let the nightmares claim her.
Determined to make this a good day.
114
Phil sipped his pint of lager, looked out along the front of the river. Wivenhoe waterfront was crowded, the Rose and Crown overspill sitting on the picnic tables eating Sunday lunches, drinking beer, enjoying the sunshine.
Next to him, Marina was feeding Josephina. They were waiting for food and had both brought things to read. Marina had given up on Double Indemnity, gone back to Jane Austen. Phil was wrestling with the Sunday papers. As perfect a family scene, he thought, as could be imagined.
Enjoying one another’s company, he thought. Like it should be.
Six weeks after that night at the old Dock Transit building. Enough time for wounds to heal, things to change.
Or not change.
Ben Fenwick had pulled through. He was less his gall bladder and some other internal organs had been shredded and rebuilt but he was starting to mend. However, he was out of the police force. An internal investigation and inquiry found that he had made a number of fatally flawed decisions in what was his final case and his conduct had been found to be less than exemplary. It had been decided that, given the circumstances, early retirement with a full pension was the best thing all round.
Rose Martin had, of course, blamed Fenwick for everything. He had led her on, promised her promotion in exchange for sexual favours, asked her to do things in the course of the investigation that she knew were wrong or, at best, misguided. But in light of what she had been through – the kidnapping and the rape she was currently in counselling for – her version was believed. Ben Fenwick even went along with it which, Phil thought, was either an act of uncharacteristic self-sacrifice on his part, or guilt.
He knew which one he believed.
Mark Turner was being held awaiting trial. He was going to be charged with murder. He had been judged sane. Marina had seen to that.
Paula Harrison had also come forward, confessed her part then tried to commit suicide. Phil’s heart went out to her. And even more so to her granddaughter. He hoped that poor child wouldn’t have the kind of upbringing he had gone through.
Fiona Welch’s death had left a great deal of unanswered questions, mainly of the ‘How did she manage to slip through the net undetected for so long?’ variety. The ghouls had come out in force. Newspaper and magazine articles and profiles, anyone and everyone who had ever had contact with Fiona Welch were wheeled out and interviewed and there were books in preparation about her.
Maybe she was right, thought Phil. Maybe she was going to be famous.
Things were improving between Phil and Marina. But the time immediately following Tony’s death had been difficult. Phil remembered stepping out of the hospital, walking to the car park.
‘Are you OK?’ he had asked her.
‘No,’ she had said and then not spoken all the way home. But during the days that followed, things had improved. Marina began to get on with her life again, rediscover her joy at being Josephina’s mother, Phil’s partner.
Like the wounds on Phil’s face, healing had begun.
The sun was still high in the sky. Phil took another mouthful of beer, looked at Marina. The sun was shining round her profile, giving her a halo. He smiled. She looked so beautiful.
He took another sip of beer.
She drank her gin and tonic.
Josephina closed her eyes, went to sleep in Marina’s arms.
‘Marry me,’ he said.
She didn’t look at him, just kept her eyes straight ahead, looking at the water, her head haloed in the sun. She sat there silently for a few seconds.
‘Yes,’ she said.
A tear fell from her eye down her cheek.
Phil leaned across, wiped it away.
The sun, hot and bright in the sky.
Tania Carver
***
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