The Second Wife

by Fleet, Rebecca

  ‘I don’t …’ I begin, then stop. I don’t know who you were. She’s told me so little.

  My silence seems to distress her even more; she’s pressing her fists into her eyeballs, sobbing unevenly now. ‘She’s doing it again,’ I make out. ‘She’s ruining it without even being here.’

  ‘Who?’ I ask, confused.

  She shakes her head violently, as if she’s driving unpleasant thoughts away. ‘Sadie, of course. Fucking up my life once clearly isn’t enough.’

  Wrong-footed, I stroke her shoulder, trying to decide how to reply. ‘I don’t understand,’ I start eventually. ‘What makes you think this?’

  Natalie takes her fists away and wipes her eyes, then looks me full in the face, her eyes red and sore. ‘Because her own life’s been a disaster. She’ll want to ruin things for me. Whatever she’s doing, however she’s living, I can guarantee she’ll have made a total mess of it. She doesn’t know how to do anything else, and she’ll want to drag me down with her. This all has something to do with her. I know it.’

  ‘I see,’ I say slowly, although I don’t really, not at all. I’d assumed that in Natalie’s eyes, any threat to us might be from Kas, or at least his associates. But it doesn’t sound that way, not from what she’s saying. ‘But – why?’

  For an instant I think I see something flicker in Natalie’s eyes, but then it’s gone. ‘Because she’s jealous,’ she says simply. She sits up in bed, hugging her knees to her chest. ‘Look, I don’t expect you to understand. And it’s possible I’m wrong.’ It’s a meaningless little platitude, this last one, but her tone clearly signals a close to the conversation. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she says. ‘And then I might go to the bank, see if I can chase up my card and get some cash out. Do you need me to get anything while I’m out?’

  ‘I’m OK, thanks.’ I watch her get ready. I’m uncomfortably aware that I want her to leave. I want to be alone, to follow up on my idea about calling the prison.

  As soon as she goes, I get up and search for the visitors’ number of Belmarsh Prison. Repetitive hold music crackles in my ear until a bored-sounding woman answers, who simply asks me for the prisoner’s name who I wish to visit.

  ‘Kaspar Kashani,’ I say.

  ‘Prisoner number?’

  I hesitate. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you got a VO?’ the woman asks. When I don’t reply, she sighs and clarifies. ‘A visiting order.’

  ‘No,’ I say. I can sense she’s on the point of cutting off the call. ‘Look, I know this might be unusual, but is there any way that you or someone else can let him know that I want to see him?’

  I can almost hear her shrug down the phone. ‘We can pass on a message, yeah. But it’s up to him. If he wants to send you a VO, then we can be in touch and you can set something up. Give me your details.’

  I give her my name, number and email address. ‘Can you please also tell him that he used to know my wife, and that I want to talk to him about her?’ I say quickly. ‘My wife’s name is – well, he knew her as Rachel Castelle.’

  ‘All right.’ There is a scuffling sound which I hope indicates that the woman is writing this down. ‘Got it. Don’t hold your breath though, will you? I’m guessing that if he wanted to see you, he would have sorted it by now.’

  ‘No, he couldn’t really have done that,’ I attempt to explain, ‘because he doesn’t have my details and …’ I realize I’m talking to no one; the woman has hung up.

  I breathe out deeply, trying to collect my thoughts, and then I notice the new email icon winking on my phone. With a shock I see that there is a new email from SRUK. I always appreciated that little touch of discretion they employed at secretroom, but now it’s an embarrassment – a reminder that this kind of discretion is one I can do without.

  Cali has sent you a new message, it reads. To read it, click on the link below. She’s seen that I was online yesterday, just as I thought.

  I open up the message. So. You’re back?

  That’s all it says. Just a monosyllabic little communication from a woman I spent a few months exploring my fantasies with a while ago, idly looking to start things up again. I don’t even know why I bothered to open it. I’m on the point of closing down the window when the little green icon flashes at the base of the screen.

  Cali is online. There’s something about the speed of it that makes it feel too coincidental. I’m not sure if there’s a way to set up an alert on the site to let you know if another member is active, but that’s twice this has happened now, and actually, this was always how it was. Whenever I wanted her, she was there. At the time, I’m ashamed to realize, that felt completely normal.

  The chat box pops up, her words brief and inviting. Come to play?

  I hesitate, then type a reply. No. Just checking back in.

  Checking on me?

  Maybe … I type. I’m stalling, unsure of what I’m doing.

  You were gone for a long time. A pause, neither of us typing. Then a single question mark: ?

  Thinking fast, I type: I’m married. Did you know that?

  The little dots at the bottom of the screen roll for a long time, as if she’s typing a lengthier message, then freeze for a second, and in the end all that pops up is No.

  I love my wife, I reply. I decided I didn’t want to do this to her anymore.

  In the pause that follows, I try and project myself into her place, think about what a reasonable response might be if she had said something similar to me. I might simply log off – decide that this wasn’t worth the hassle, that there were clearly some emotional complications at work that didn’t warrant further trouble in a situation that was, after all, just about sex. Or at a push, if I was feeling horny and didn’t much care what she felt about it, I might ignore what she’d said completely. Write something dirty, something to entice her back in. Both scenarios sound plausible.

  But Cali doesn’t do either of these. After a few moments, another line flashes up. Tell me about her.

  I stare at the message, its directness and simplicity. Her motive doesn’t feel sexual. She hasn’t said, tell me about what you do to her, tell me about what you do in bed. Something about it feels off.

  She’s waiting for me to reply, and when I don’t, she doesn’t lose interest and drop it. Instead I see the little row of dots moving again, seeming slower this time, more deliberate, before another message appears on the screen.

  I want to know everything.

  My fingers move by instinct and I close the window, logging off. I don’t know why, but there’s something about those five words that unsettles me.

  I throw my phone aside on to the bed and go to the window, needing some air. The sea breeze blows into my face as I wrench it open and breathe in deeply, and I can taste the faint tang of salt on my lips. Leaning my elbows on the window ledge, I look out to the shut-down pier and count the black iron railings that flank it, my eyes leaping from one to the next. It’s an old trick, a way of calming myself and focusing on something bland and simple. But this time it doesn’t quite do the job.

  It feels like only minutes that I stand there, but when the phone starts ringing I notice it’s been close to an hour that I’ve been uselessly staring into space. I feel a quick flare of impatience with myself; giving myself the luxury of this kind of inactivity isn’t going to solve anything. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Alex Carmichael?’ a woman’s voice asks. ‘I’m calling from Belmarsh Prison. We spoke earlier? So, it’s your lucky day.’ Her tone is flatly edged with sarcasm. ‘We passed your message to Mr Kashani and he’s keen to have you visit. And he doesn’t have a lot of visitors, as it goes, so he hasn’t used up any of his slots this month. Do you want to set up a time?’

  ‘God. Right.’ With difficulty I try and focus. I’m vaguely conscious of a sickening, swooping sensation, not dissimilar to the point on a rollercoaster when you near the top and know that the downward plunge is not far away. ‘Yes. Yes, that would be good. The sooner the
better, I suppose.’

  ‘You could do this afternoon,’ she says. ‘At five.’

  Despite what I’ve just said, I feel a pathetic desire to turn away from the situation. But this isn’t the time for childish histrionics. ‘That works for me,’ I say firmly.

  ‘You can look up the guidelines on our website, if you want,’ the woman says. ‘Enjoy.’

  I hang up, and lie down on the bed, rubbing my hands across my face. It’s faster than I had expected, but the timing works; I could go to the hospital and spend the visiting hour with Jade, then travel straight up to London. I can feel a headache starting, aching in the depths of my temples. I have the sense that I’m straying too far into something I don’t understand, but the old adage flashes into my mind: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. That’s what I’m doing here – getting closer, trying to put myself in the way of anyone who might want to destroy what I’ve got left. I tell myself this, and try and ignore another peculiarly apt little phrase; that if you’re playing with fire, you run the risk of getting burned.

  That afternoon I take the train to Woolwich, then hail a taxi to Belmarsh. The prison stretches wide, a vast dark monolith. I glance up at the row of small windows running across the lower walls, but the glass is dark and blank, offering no clue as to what is inside. I linger for a few moments by the entrance, wishing I still smoked and had a reason to delay. As I do so, a thought strikes me and I take out my wallet, fishing out the small photograph of Natalie that I keep there. She’s looking straight down the lens and laughing, standing by the sea in her bikini with the sunlight sparkling on her face. Having scanned the visiting guidelines online, I know I won’t be allowed to take anything in with me, but I want to show Kaspar this. The sight of her is bound to provoke some kind of reaction, and it’ll be more instinctive, more real than words. It’ll help me to understand what his feelings towards her are. And maybe there’s another reason too; maybe I want to get a sense, if I can, of how much she’s changed.

  I oscillate between possibilities for a moment, then decide to slip the photograph inside the waistband of my trousers, where it lies flat. I check my phone and see that it’s almost five o’clock. Shoving the wallet back into my coat, I turn and make for the entrance.

  As soon as I push my way through the heavy doors, an impassive official asks to see my ID, takes my photograph and scans the prints of my index fingers into the system. ‘First time?’ he says. ‘You leave your personal possessions in a locker. You take in your VO and some money for refreshments if you want, that’s all.’

  I nod, beginning to turn out my pockets. The wallet stuffed with credit cards, a little pile of business cards, a pair of gold cufflinks. I find myself lingering over these items, wanting for some craven middle-class reason to show the official that I am a professional, but he completely ignores me and I feel like an idiot. ‘Pound for the locker,’ he mutters when I have finished, and I exchange my possessions for a smooth silver key that I drop into my top pocket.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. The roof of my mouth is sticky and dry.

  ‘No problem.’ The official scratches the skin above his eyebrow, his fingers moving dully back and forth. He looks very young, no more than twenty-two. For an instant I wonder if he’s an inmate brought out on remand, or performing some kind of rehabilitation duty. As if he has read my mind, he looks up sharply and shuffles up straight. ‘Go to the main gate and show your VO,’ he says. ‘They’ll scan you again and then show you to the waiting area.’ He looks down, dismissing me.

  I walk away from the visitors’ centre towards the tall wooden gate farther along the front wall, where I show the documentation and consent to the scan. There’s something relentless about the rhythms and rituals of this place that I can feel working on me. The door swings shut behind me, and I’m inside. It’s strangely silent and deserted, and my footsteps echo on concrete as I walk to the waiting hall. Two uniformed officials are standing at the entrance, staring straight ahead as I approach.

  ‘We need to search you, sir,’ one says as soon as I am close enough to hear. ‘Please stand straight and put your arms out to the sides.’

  I stand still and try to detach myself from their hands patting up and down my body, insistent and hard. I try not to think about the photograph tucked into my waistband, but they don’t seem interested in searching that thoroughly, just covering the basics. Beyond where we are standing I can see a handful of visitors, waiting in the corridor on red plastic chairs. One is a woman with a young toddler, who squirms and wriggles restlessly as he plays with a toy truck, running it up and down his mother’s arm. Her arms are clasped around him, fencing him in, but she’s looking only at the far door, her eyes fixed on it, waiting. A couple of chairs along, a man in his twenties sits hunched forward with his hands clasped, tapping his feet on the floor.

  ‘Straight ahead,’ one of the officials says, gesturing at the corridor. ‘Just sit down and wait until you’re called.’

  Slowly, I do as I’m told. The toddler squeals and points at me, eyes wide and dark in his face, but none of the others turn to look.

  I sit motionless, regulating my breathing. Now that I’m here, adrenaline is starting to thump through my veins. The place smells sharp, like spearmint disinfectant. Nausea throbs faintly in my head. I notice a vending machine and go across to it, fumbling in my pocket for the two pounds I kept. I feed the money into the machine and down a can of Coke, but it fights queasily for place in my stomach. I can’t seem to settle down. My heartbeat shifts into time with the quick repeated tapping of the young man’s feet on the floor, each tap thudding through me. I clench my fists, try to relax. There is a round plastic clock on the far wall, its face entirely bare and smooth but for two black hands bisecting the surface. On a little table in the corner, magazines and colouring books with crayons are stacked up in piles. A tall green plant in the corner winds its way towards the ceiling. I look at these objects one by one, grounding myself.

  ‘Alex Carmichael?’ When the call finally comes, it jolts me and I get quickly to my feet. A tall, stocky man in uniform is waiting for me, smiling tightly. ‘I’m going to take you to a private room,’ he says. ‘I’ll be waiting at the door, to keep an eye on things.’ His face is neutral; it’s impossible to tell if the statement is intended to warn or reassure.

  We walk along a corridor painted in lurid peppermint green, hallucinogenic in its brightness. When we come to the door, it is polished metal, brushed like aluminium, a small grille set into it. The official stops, throws me a look. ‘He’s inside. You have an hour max,’ he says. I think I catch pity and confusion in his glance, as if he’s wondering how on earth I have got myself here and what business I could possibly have with the man on the other side of the door. Then it slides open and I’m looking in at the low metal table standing alone in the emptiness, with the chairs on either side, and Kaspar sitting there waiting.

  He glances up when I come in, his expression expectant and watchful. Automatically, I register his looks: the refined mouldings of his face, the smooth olive skin pulled tight over his bones, the strange, dark, silver-tinged eyes glittering across at me. He’s wearing a sleeveless white vest top, the muscles of his arms bulging, shining under the lights like iron. It’s impossible not to notice his peculiar magnetism – it raises my hackles, and yet I can’t help but acknowledge it.

  I sit down opposite him. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ I say.

  Kaspar shrugs lazily. When he speaks, his voice is husky and accented. ‘Let us say that I was curious,’ he says. There’s a second-language quality to his English, giving his speech a stilted yet oddly elegant air.

  ‘I’ll get straight to it,’ I say. I refuse to let myself be intimidated by this man, although it would be surprisingly easy. ‘I think the officials here told you that I’m married to someone you used to know.’

  Kaspar inclines his head very slightly. ‘Rachel.’ His tone is contemplative and soft, giving nothing away.

  ‘That�
�s right,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how well you knew her, or how much you had to do with one another.’ I’m careful not to make it sound too much like a question; I don’t want to give the impression that I’m interrogating him, but in my experience people don’t like to let a silence stretch, so I simply wait, hoping that he’ll elaborate.

  The silence doesn’t seem to bother Kaspar; he stares at me through unblinking, slightly narrowed eyes, one corner of his mouth turned upwards in a faint smirk. On the table, his hands rest coolly in loose fists. It’s as if he’s letting me know how easy it would be for him to knock me out if he chose, but that he’s deciding to let me speak.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here,’ I say at last. Kaspar doesn’t deny it, but nor does he show any sign of confirming it; he just continues to regard me levelly. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘the truth is that I don’t know everything about my wife’s past. But I get the impression that relations between you were strained.’ It’s something of a leap in the dark, but from the way Natalie spoke about this man, I can’t imagine anything else.

  Kaspar tips his head back a little and contemplates me some more, as if turning these words over in his head. ‘It is unlikely that they would have been otherwise,’ he comments, ‘given the circumstances. But all her actions were what I would have expected from a woman like her.’

  ‘Meaning?’ I ask, a little sharply.

  He moves his mouth in a small gesture of contempt. ‘She was not someone who understood the true nature of things. She had little imagination. She was very different to her sister.’

  ‘Sadie,’ I say, just to show that I do have some knowledge. I’m tempted to argue, push back against the slights to my wife, but I tell myself to hold off.

  Kaspar nods. ‘For all her faults,’ he says, pausing briefly, giving the impression that he is running through their litany in his head, ‘she is loyal.’