Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  Dom pulls his sleeve down. “Oh, nothing.”

  “Did Tom do that?”

  He sniffs and stares out of the window.

  “You can tell me if he did, because I’ll believe you. I love Tom, but there were times when he could be quite violent with me, too. When we were living in Clifton-on-Sea. We’ve both been through a lot and he has a lot of issues to work through.”

  “It’s okay. It’s… consensual.”

  “What does that mean? You can talk to me,” I ask as gently as I can. “I want to make sure you’re both okay.”

  He wraps both hands around his mug and holds tight. “It was just an experiment that went wrong. Can I… can we not talk about that bit?” He folds his arms, covering the bruise.

  “Sure,” I reply. “That’s completely fine. But you were crying. There has to be a reason why you’re upset.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose before he answers, getting his emotions in check. “I think Tom is going to dump me. He’s been distant and moody. He doesn’t seem to like having me around anymore. I still love him, and I love you and even Seb. If he does dump me, I have nothing. No job, no family. No friends.”

  “I’ve been there,” I say, patting him on the arm. “I haven’t always been there for Tom. There’ve been times when I was out of our awful childhood home, but Tom was still stuck there. I went to live with a boyfriend in a squat.” Dominic raises his eyebrows. “Yep, it was as awful as you might imagine. And then again in Clifton when Tom left. I had a friend, Mark, who managed to keep me sane - until Isabel arrived anyway - but apart from that, I had no one. Until I came back to Seb.” I smile at the thought. My anchor. My rock. “But my point is, you’re strong enough to keep going. I know this because you’re kind and thoughtful and those qualities attract people. And no matter what, I promise I’ll be here for you. If things don’t work out between you and Tom, and even if you decide to move out, I’m a phone call away.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Dom, I’m a woman in my mid thirties with a psychopathic stalker, a sort of mother-in-law who hates me, and one of the most recognisable faces in the country. Believe me when I tell you that I can’t afford to turn away friends.”

  Dominic laughs at that and I begin to relax. But then his laughter fades and he holds the mug tighter. “I think Tom is keeping secrets from me. I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s big. It’s one of those secrets that get between you and them. The kind that makes you feel like you don’t truly know the other person.”

  The expression on his face is so sincere and so yearning that it elicits a thud in my abdomen. A new anxiety that hits me beneath the skin. And for some reason, I feel like this sensation and my concerns about how Jess died are all connected. I bite my bottom lip, before noticing that I’m copying Cassie’s tic from the other day.

  “If Tom is being abusive, you need to tell me,” I say.

  Dominic shakes his head. “It’s nothing like that, I swear.” But his eyes don’t meet mine. “I need to get ready for that job interview. Thanks so much for this chat.” Again, his eyes don’t meet mine, and when he stands up, a cold sensation runs over my skin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Leah

  After Dominic leaves for his job interview, I hop in the shower and get ready for my doctor’s appointment. Dominic’s words keep playing through my mind on a loop. A mental image of his downcast, sincere expression remains clear in my mind. The bruises on his arm and whether he was telling the truth about where they came from. All of it links to Tom, his moods, his temper, his demeanour.

  Despite us all living in the same house for the past few months, I rarely sit down and chat with Tom. Our relationship has changed dramatically since before Isabel came into our lives. He also has an incredibly busy routine that keeps him out of the house most of the day. He’ll go to the gym around seven, then work with clients until the early evening. Often, he and Dom go out after dinner, to the pub or a club if they hit the next town over. Then they go to bed, wake up, and do it all over again.

  He’s young and that’s the kind of life he should be leading. It should be fun. But I can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s avoiding me. And then there are the AA meetings for his addiction, which we haven’t once sat down and talked through. I can’t stop thinking about Dominic’s bruises, and the secrets he’s apparently hiding. After what we’ve been through, it wouldn’t be a stretch for Tom to be lashing out. There’s no excuse for domestic abuse, but if I can let him know I’ll help him change… If Tom is hurting his boyfriend, I need to find a way to save them both and I don’t know how to do that, or even if Dominic truly is covering for Tom.

  I drive out to Hutton on autopilot, almost taking the turning up to Crowmont Hospital. Isabel’s escape is still a shadowy presence over the village, as much as it’s a shadowy presence over my own life. My thoughts of Tom and Isabel jumble up until I find myself picturing my nightmares. Tom and Isabel hand in hand. Now that he’s back in my life, I think I understand why. There’s darkness in Tom that I’ve been trying to ignore. But that link between the two of them in my dreams is probably my sub-conscious telling me my own latent suspicions. Dominic’s bruises may be the confirmation.

  What am I going to do about this darkness? I know it exists in in me, too. What I’ve been refusing to address for a while now is the fact that there’s a common thread between me, Isabel and Tom: we’re all capable of killing. Tom killed David Fielding to save my life. I may have killed Alison Finlay, though I’m not convinced I’ll ever know for sure. I’ve almost killed Isabel twice. And then there’s Jess…

  I pull into the GP’s carpark and squeeze into the last space. Coming out into the open always brings some paranoia. Even though my instincts tell me that Isabel isn’t even in the country, I can’t help it. Every part of me clenches up. I’m constantly checking behind me as I make my way in.

  The GP is running late so I settle down onto an uncomfortable chair with an old magazine, listening to the sound of children bashing toys together. And it’s in that moment that it hits me. The sickness. My heightened emotions. The exhaustion. And most damning of all, I haven’t had my period for several weeks. I’ve never been regular, and stress is almost always the culprit, but this time it’s coupled with the sickness. I feel a few beads of sweat break out on my forehead and my stomach lurches. One of the shiny-faced toddlers turns to look at me with unblinking eyes. I consider bolting out of the surgery. I can’t be, can I? I can’t be pregnant?

  ***

  If there is a more humiliating process than sitting and discussing menstrual cycles with a man, I don’t know it. The admission that, no, we weren’t trying for a baby, and yes, I did forget to take one of my pills, and that yes, I did assume that my lack of period was due to stress, not any inability to know my body. The process is completed by a blood test, which feels like someone is intentionally violating my body as the needle goes in. I’m forced to clamp my hand over my mouth to suppress the urge to scream. It hurts, and I feel like a failure because of it, because I’m not one of those people who can make jokes with the doctor and pat their dressing with a wink. Where’s the lolly?

  And then, the worst of all. The talk about my anti-psychotic medication.

  “This is your decision,” he says, as he gives me a leaflet to read. “But you do need to be made aware of the potential risks to the baby if you continue with your medication.” When he sees the look of horror on my face, he backtracks slightly. “One thing at a time. Shall we wait for the results first?”

  Rather than get in my car and go back to the cottage, I decide to walk around to the local sandwich shop and order the biggest bacon sandwich they make. If I am pregnant, the reason I’m feeling sick, the doctor told me, is because I’m hungrier than usual. It’s best to graze little and often now, so that the baby doesn’t protest. I remind myself that I don’t know for definite that there is a baby.

  If there’s a baby, I have to make a choice betw
een potentially hurting that baby, or hurting myself, because not taking my medication would hurt me. It would stop me being able to be myself. It’d allow my mind to unravel. Goosebumps spread up and down my arms. I rejected the last baby I had. I allowed someone else to raise him, and then I failed to be there for him when he needed me. I don’t have the right to bring another child into the world, to fuck up another human being.

  A stone-faced young woman of about nineteen creates my bacon sandwich, plopping on tomato sauce and spreading it around with a butter knife. I hand over a fiver and take a bite while waiting for change. Then I walk back to my car and eat the whole thing without taking a breath, leaning down in my seat so that no one can see me.

  As I’m huddled down like a squirrel over a nut, I see Tom walking along the street, dressed in his usual gym attire. It’s not quite lunchtime, so it seems odd that he’s not doing his personal training right now. Where is he going?

  I wipe sauce from my mouth, brush away crumbs and climb out of the car once he’s a safe distance away. From across the street, I see him disappear into the village hall. He must be attending a meeting. I’m about to turn away and go back to my car when curiosity gets the better of me. According to Dominic, Tom is hiding something. My heart races. More than anything, I want to be able to understand him. I jog across the street and slip into the main entrance.

  There’s a group entering a smaller room, all of them quietly exchanging pleasantries. Some are carrying takeaway coffees. Outside the door are a few chairs occupied by who I assume are family members of those in the meetings. Brothers, mothers, sisters, friends, all trying to keep their loved ones on the right track. I take a seat as close to the door of the smaller room as I can get. No one looks up from their phone.

  There are muffled voices coming from inside the meeting room. Though I can’t quite hear all the words, the rhythm matches that of a general welcome. Very gently, I prise the door open one more inch, and listen in, my heart beating hard.

  Emotional stories are passed around the group. Young mums who have lost their children to the system because they couldn’t take care of them. Older men who lost their wives and their jobs. Talent squandered. The ache of poverty and the itch of addiction. And then I hear a name that makes my heart skip a beat.

  “Tom, would you like to talk today?”

  There’s a moment of silence that stretches agonisingly as I hold my breath. Finally, I hear him say, “Okay.”

  “I know you aren’t the keenest to share, but I think it’s important for you.”

  I hear the sound of a chair creak and then Tom clears his throat. He’s nervous. I shouldn’t be listening to this, but at the same time, I can’t pry myself away.

  “I’ve been clean for two years now,” he says. “At least, I haven’t used for that long. My thoughts, though. No one could call those thoughts clean, they’re as dirty as they can get. I… I’m a bad person. I’m horrible to my boyfriend. I feel on edge all the time and it’s like people are an annoyance to me now. I can’t seem to love anymore. I can’t open my heart. All I want is that powerful feeling my addiction gives me.” I hear some murmuring around the room. Agreement. “I want to feel like a god. Though, to be honest, feeling anything would be nice. I’m so numb and empty now.”

  My breath catches in my throat and I brush away tears. This is my son admitting his depression.

  “There’s this big, gaping black hole inside me and there are times when I think only the addiction could possibly fill it. But that addiction makes me a terrible person. It makes me a… a…” He stops for a moment and I imagine him bent over his knees, close to tears. I want to go in there, to hug him and keep him in my arms. “I had a horrible childhood. My dad was this violent, abusive person. An actual murderer. And I know I’ve inherited all that darkness from him.”

  “You have the power to change all those things,” the leader says. She has a soft voice. The kind of motherly, soothing voice that I wish I had. There’s a stab of jealousy inside me, that this person gets to be the one who finds the right words and soothes my son when he’s hurt. “There’s light and strength inside you, too. What are you going to let win, Tom?”

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “You do,” she replies. “You know deep down that you can overcome this darkness. I believe in you. The rest of this group does too. You can do this.” There’s another murmur around the room and some even applaud. I imagine the shy smile spreading across his face.

  My hands are shaking with adrenaline and emotion. I get up and walk across to the entrance, leaning against the stone, half in, half out. Cold December air lifts the tiny hairs on the back of my neck, cooling my sweaty skin. If the doctor is right and I am pregnant, the baby is making me hot.

  The meeting goes on for another ten minutes and I stay away from the small room for the rest of it. Tom finally comes out, and when he sees me, he stops dead.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” I say. “I saw you go in and thought I’d wait around to give you a lift. Are you going back to the gym?”

  “Were you listening?” he asks.

  “No,” I lie. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  What a stupid lie. As someone utterly terrible at lying, it sits on my face and I know he can tell from his expression that I’ve betrayed his trust again. Perhaps it was worth the risk to finally understand what he’s been going through.

  “All right, I did hear some,” I admit as we cross the road towards the car. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

  He glowers at me, and I don’t blame him.

  “I wish you’d say those things to me. I wish you knew that I’m here for you. Always. No matter what you’ve done.”

  I unlock the car doors and we get in. Finally, I reach over and touch his forearm. “Tom, can I tell you something?”

  “I guess I can’t stop you.”

  “What you said about inheriting that violent side from Dad… I relate to that more than you understand. After you left the cave to get help, I stabbed Isabel in the neck and almost drowned her. I held her under the water until she passed out and it was DCI Murphy who stopped me from committing murder. She wasn’t a threat to me at that point. There was no need to kill her, but in that moment, I wanted to watch her die. As soon as she put you in ropes, I wanted her dead. Sometimes I even fantasise about it.”

  There’s a sharp intake of breath from Tom. He doesn’t look at me, he stares straight ahead.

  “I have Dad’s violence in me.”

  “You think you killed Alison Finlay, don’t you?”

  The blood on my hands, washing away into the sink. “Yes.”

  “You didn’t, Leah.”

  I turn to him. His eyes are dark.

  “How do you know? I don’t even know. My mind is so fucked up. I still sleepwalk and I don’t know what I’m capable of doing when I sleepwalk.”

  “It was Isabel.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “It was Isabel,” he repeats. “And even if you did hurt someone in your sleep, it wouldn’t be your fault. You aren’t consciously hurting someone. And fucking hell, Leah, who could blame you for trying to kill Isabel. Someone needs to kill her. She’s a menace. She’s incapable of serving time. If this was America she would’ve been put to the death penalty already. She’d be fried.”

  “That’s…” I shake my head. “That’s beside the point. I still had it in me to try and kill her. That’s part of me.”

  “You’re not a bad person, Leah,” he says. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headrest. “I’m sorry I left, because I think what I did messed with your head. Trust me, you’re not a bad person, and I know more about that than you think.”

  “Have you been hurting Dominic?”

  “Physically? Yes, sometimes I’m so angry I… I can’t help it.” He slumps over the glove box, head in his hands, and I rub his shoulders.

  “Perhaps you need some specialist anger management therapy. We could ask the
doctor what we can get on the NHS.”

  “Nothing is going to fix it.”

  “Tom, you heard those people in there. You have the strength inside you to be a better person. We can work on this together. We need help, Tom. I’m just as violent as you are.”

  “No, you’re not. It’s me who’s like Dad. I can’t change my genes, can I? I inherited this. I was doomed from the start.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  When I start to cry, he’s the one to comfort me.

  “I’m pregnant, Tom. If I keep this baby, I’m passing on our genes to another generation.” I shake my head. He stares at me with a frozen expression, completely still. Finally, he pulls me into his arms and I cry on his shoulder until I don’t have any tears left to spill.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Isabel

  The sound of the blaring television comes from what Uncle Lloyd calls the snug. From outside the room I picture him sitting on the sofa, arms and knees spread apart, his forehead gleaming with sweat, eyes transfixed on the screen. I can’t tell what he’s listening to because it’s in Thai, but it sounds authoritative. I try to tip-toe past, but his voice booms out.

  “Isabel, come here please.”

  As I head into the room, I let my fingernails dig deep into my flesh to stem the building frustration. He is sitting with his arm draping along the back of the sofa, exactly as I’d imagined. Even though he gestures for me to sit, I hover between the television and the door hoping that this – whatever it is – will be over soon.

  “Do you know anything about this?” he asks, gesturing to the television.

  “I don’t speak Thai, sir, so perhaps you could explain it to me.” I smile as sweetly as I can. There isn’t much to decipher. The picture on the screen is of a black plastic bag over a body. The alleyway where I murdered the homeless man is clearly shown.

  “There was a murder barely a mile from our villa,” he says. “In fact, the body was mutilated with a knife. Which is exactly what you were arrested for back in England.”