by Jack Jordan
He stared at her, his eyes sheening over. She sighed inwardly and followed him out of the kitchen.
The living room was just as dire. An array of junk was hidden beneath blankets of dust: old TVs set aside instead of thrown away, mould growing on the pages of books jutting from the mess. Takeaway containers littered the floor with food trodden into the odd flash of carpet. There was a rotten stench in the air; perhaps forgotten food or worse, the body of a rodent hidden amongst the mess.
Tony busied himself picking at the rubbish, collecting takeaway containers in his arms to clear a path.
‘How long have you been living like this?’
He didn’t reply, and she knew it was a stupid question to ask. They both knew the answer. He had been living this way since she cut him out after the death of her mother.
‘You make yourself comfortable,’ he said, somehow breathless, and passed her with his arms full of mess.
She stood on the spot, taking in the room she had been in thousands of times yet no longer recognised. All these years she had been focused on her own pain, her own guilt; she hadn’t thought of her father’s for a minute.
She heard the patter of plastic containers joining the mess in the kitchen as he chucked them aside, the clap of his hands as he dusted them off.
‘Do you still have sugar with your tea?’ he asked from the doorway.
She couldn’t bear to sit amongst the mess, surrounded by his misery and her neglect. Her head was pounding from breathing in the dust and filth.
‘I. . . I think I just need to sleep.’
‘We could chat for a little while, maybe. It’s been a long time.’
‘Yes, and there’s a reason why.’
‘Then we should talk about it.’
Fury rose through her like heat. He had the audacity to try and weasel into her life now, after all this time? She clenched her hands at her sides, begging herself not to give in to the anger. The words came out all on their own. She spun to face him.
‘Okay, what would you like to talk about? About how you bullied your own son, and raised him to believe he wasn’t a real man or a real son because of who he was?’
He looked away.
‘Stop it, Rose.’
‘Oh, I know. How about we talk about how you used to pretend he didn’t exist, that he hadn’t shut himself away in his room as depression ate away at his mind until he had no other choice but to kill himself!’
‘Rosie, please.’
He began to shake, but she couldn’t stop. He needed to know about all the pain he had caused. Tears stung at her eyes. She wouldn’t let him forget.
‘Or how you were embarrassed of him, and made excuses not to bring him to the country club when all your other misogynistic golfing buddies brought their families along. You wouldn’t be seen with him anywhere, would you?’
‘Rose. . .’
‘He was the nicest, kindest person I have ever met and you treated him like he was vermin!’
Hot tears slipped down her face. She gasped for breath as the sobs came, but she couldn’t fill her lungs quick enough, each breath shuddering.
‘All he ever wanted was for you to love him, and you shut him out. He needed you. He needed you and you pushed him away, and then he—’
‘Enough!’ he bellowed. He shook on the spot with tears spilling down his cheeks, the skin on his jaw rippled from gritted teeth.
They stood amongst the mess, breathing heavily and sniffing back tears. She watched his strong resolve break: his jaw relaxed, his shoulders lowered, his face returned to a normal pink.
‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘You don’t think I regret my actions every living day? That I don’t miss my son? All these years I’ve. . . punished myself like this. I hate myself for it.’
Not as much as I do.
She shouldn’t be here, dragging up the past when it would do no good. It wouldn’t bring them back.
‘I should go,’ she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘This was a mistake.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’ll stay in your room.’ He made his way around the mess for the stairs. ‘Bottles of water in the fridge. Turn the light off on your way up.’
The stairs creaked under his weight, a sad whine, as though the house was as miserable as he was. A door closed above her, and silence fell upon the house, the house she had grown up in but didn’t know at all.
She should never have come. Old wounds had been ripped open, memories clawed up from the depths. She could no longer push the thought of her father from her mind, not now that she knew the life he was living.
She forced her way through the mess and took to the stairs. The landing was small with four doors off it, leading to the family bathroom and the three bedrooms in the house. All the doors were closed. Light glowed from beneath her father’s, and when she stopped at the top of the stairs, she could hear the sound of muffled sobs.
The dent in the bottom-right corner of her door was still there, years after she had kicked it open during her first teenage tantrum and slammed it shut behind her. She turned the handle, listening to its familiar creak, and turned on the light.
Her bedroom was spotless.
SEVENTEEN
Rose had been dreaming of Violet again. All night she had been back on the bridge, locked inside her past as the event replayed in an endless loop. Each time, she tried to save her in a different way: unclasping the seat belt seconds sooner, grabbing on to her wrist and refusing to let go, pinning her and Lily to her body just before the windscreen broke away. But however hard she tried, she always lost her. The seat belt jammed, or the current ripped them apart. Holding the two of them was too difficult, and Violet was always the one to slip away. On nights like this, when she lost her again and again, she woke with the guilt of wishing it were Violet in her arms rather than Lily, and told herself that she would have thought the same thing had Violet survived and Lily perished. But there was always a small lack of conviction to the claim, cementing her guilt.
She had only managed three hours of broken sleep, waking each time from the dream only to return to it when she closed her eyes again.
She sat up and rested her back against the wall, and it was only then that she remembered: she was in her childhood bedroom.
It hadn’t changed at all since her teenage years: pastel-blue walls, carpet stained with make-up and a long brown burn from the curling iron she had used to death. The cheap perfume she used to wear lingered faintly in the air. Photos plastered all over the walls of her with friends she hadn’t seen in years and no longer knew. She wondered what had become of them, and if they ever thought of her, if they’d heard of what she did. Amongst the old faces, she spotted a photo of her and Jay. She looked at her long, auburn hair, the protective arm draped over his shoulders. Jay had blonde hair like their mother, and green eyes like their father. His smile was beautiful yet timid, forced for the camera, his pain evident in his eyes. Even then, he was struggling. How could she not have known?
A muffled clatter sounded from downstairs. Her father was up; perhaps he hadn’t slept at all. He had always had trouble sleeping, and over the years she wondered if she had inherited her insomnia from him somehow. She wanted to believe they were nothing alike, but when she looked at their lives, at their equal misery, she couldn’t escape the similarities.
She couldn’t stay here another minute, but to leave, she had to go downstairs and face him in the light of day. Could she go back to her life without him, knowing that he was self-destructing like this? That she was partly to blame?
She had to get out of there, before she got in any deeper.
She stole out of bed and opened the curtains, squinting at the daylight. Her clothes were crumpled on the floor next to the journal, still in its plastic bag.
She hadn’t decided what she was going to do. The police weren’t intending to do anything. She pulled the scrap of paper from her trouser pocket and read the name and number – it hadn’t been a dream.
Even if she did meet with the ex-cop and find out about errors within the investigation, what could she do about it? She had just wanted to do the right thing, but now, the whole responsibility had been dropped on her back.
She picked her clothes up from the floor and got dressed, purposely ignoring her reflection in the mirror. She had looked into that glass so many times, imagining a future so different to the one she’d been dealt. So many hopes and ambitions. So blissfully naive.
Once dressed, she looked around her room one last time, and impulsively took the photo of her and Jay from the wall and slipped it within the cover of the journal to keep it safe.
She pulled the door open as quietly she could and flinched as it screeched on its hinges, trying to remember which boards creaked, and descended the stairs.
Tony was picking at the rubbish in the kitchen and shoving it into bags. The back door was open, letting in a cold, moist breeze. She stopped briefly and watched him take some bags out the back.
He was trying. She could help him. She could be a better daughter and work through their problems with him.
She opened the front door and closed it quietly behind her.
‘Where the hell were you?’ Christian said from the doorway.
Rose stopped abruptly at the doorstep, shivering from the chill.
‘I lost my bag. I couldn’t get in. You and Lily were out.’
‘You should have got in touch somehow,’ he said, standing aside. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’
‘How could I get in touch if I didn’t have a phone? I don’t even know where you spend all your time.’
She stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
Christian sighed. ‘Do you remember where you left it? The bag?’
‘No. Probably on the bus.’
She stood before him as the silence settled, rain dripping from the hem of her coat and onto the doormat beneath her feet. Even with his infidelity, the coldness of his tone and the chill in his eyes, she longed to reach out and touch him, feel the beat of his heart and the warmth of his chest.
‘You’re late for work,’ she said, desperate to say anything to break the silence.
‘Yes, I was. . . I wanted to know when you came home. I’ll head into the office now.’
You wanted me home, and now I’m here, you can’t wait to leave.
‘Right.’
She watched as he slipped into his coat and picked up his briefcase, ready and waiting by the door. She smelt his aftershave with his movements, and longed to bury her face in his neck.
He stood awkwardly before the door, waiting for her to pass.
‘Bye,’ she said and walked along the hall, refusing to look back. She heard the door close as she reached her study and shut herself in.
The room stank of stale cigarette smoke, each breath like a fresh hit of nicotine. She dropped her coat to the floor, kicked off her shoes and sank into the chair, which had morphed to her shape and lost its firmness; she could almost feel the wooden frame of it beneath the padding. But she would never get rid of it; she had lost too much already.
She picked up her iPad and checked Lily’s social media, each timeline filled with nothing but her. There was a series of photos of her and her friends in the school toilets that morning, one girl applying gloss in her reflection, Lily and another girl pouting in the mirror for the camera. Perhaps one of the girls was Samantha. She scrolled and scrolled, looking at the funny videos Lily had shared, the comments she had left on other people’s posts, until a single status stopped her in her tracks.
What sort of mum stays out all night without
telling anyone? #DirtyStopOut #IHateMyMum
Tears scratched at her eyes. She took a deep breath and clicked on her profile to check who she was friends with, who would know that her daughter hated her. She typed in names of people she used to know, and found that Lily was friends with all of the mums Rose had seen each week at the football games, each afternoon at the school gates. Heather’s name screamed out from the screen.
Rose locked the iPad and placed it beside the chair and out of sight. How could she do that? Humiliate her in front of everyone she knew?
On the other side of the window, the morning fog almost smothered the metal spine of the bridge. Rose wondered if Lily would ever forgive her, or if she would ever be able to forgive herself.
She pulled out the crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and stared at the phone number, reading the name scribbled above: Shane Hughes. There had to be something she could do. She had to distract herself from the pain, lose herself in something that would dull the agony of having a daughter who hated her, a husband who couldn’t bear to be in the same room. She left the study with the piece of paper in hand and picked up the home phone.
He picked up the call after three rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is this Shane Hughes?’
‘Speaking.’
What should she say? What had the policewoman said to her? She had been so tired, the words had failed to sink in. She couldn’t even remember the woman’s name.
‘Hello?’ he said again.
‘My name is Rose Shaw. . . Your ex-colleague told me to call you, about what happened to you when you worked for the police in Rearwood. I’m looking into a missing person, and –’ the name came to her suddenly – ‘Anna told me you could give me some information about the police force, perhaps a reason why the case wasn’t looked into appropriately.’
He was quiet for a long time, breathing down the line. He was thinking, most likely considering ending the call. Just as she was about to speak again, apologise for wasting his time, he spoke.
‘Can you meet me tonight?’
‘Where?’
‘High Gate Park. By the gates.’
‘Won’t the park be locked?’
‘Not a problem for us. Eight p.m.?’
‘Yes. I’ll meet you then.’
A beat sat between them, both stumped at what to say, strangers pulled together with an ominous cause at the heart.
The second he ended the call, her stomach dropped. What the hell was she getting herself into?
EIGHTEEN
Rose arrived outside High Gate Park and lingered before the locked iron gates, pulling up the collar of her coat to protect herself from the night breeze. Her pulse was beating in each of her fingertips where she had bitten her nails to the quick on the journey; dry blood framed the nail on her thumb.
She had agreed to meet a stranger at the dead of night, in a secluded location, with no idea what he looked like, and without telling anyone where she was going. If anything happened to her, no one would know what she had done with her last hours.
A police officer gave me the contact, she told herself. Nothing will happen to me.
But then she remembered how quickly the events had turned when she bumped into the man with the journal.
The night was dark and silent, with the moon hidden behind a thick knit of clouds. The only sounds were those of the occasional icy breeze whistling through the iron details of the gate, and the reluctant sway of the trees within the park.
She had no phone, no way of calling for help except for her own scream; and High Gate Park was vast. If the man attacked her deep within the grounds, she had very little chance of being heard. This was reckless and irresponsible – she was asking for trouble – but she had to know. Someone had to do something. Another truth flickered like a persistent flame, one she was too ashamed to admit, even to herself: she had to have something to do with her lonesome nights. She had to have a reason to keep going.
Her head shot up at the crack of a twig. Slowly, footsteps began to echo from the other side of the gate, growing louder as they approached. She peered through the gate and into the darkness and took an instinctive step back.
A silhouette breached the shadows: toweringly tall, the beam of a torch at his feet. The man appeared before the gate, his hand with the torch resting on the handle. The beam shot
upwards, revealing his face.
He was an attractive man, she guessed in his early thirties, with pale skin lit yellow from the glow of the torch, and dark hair lost amongst the shadows. He didn’t look dangerous; he looked as weary as she was.
‘Rose Shaw?’
The torchlight whipped to her face. Blotches burst in her vision, blinding her. She squinted and covered her eyes.
‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘Shane Hughes?’
‘Yes.’
The light fell to the ground beneath his feet, revealing black boots with mud dried on the tips. She heard the jangle of keys and the scrape of metal against metal as he turned the key in the lock. The gate screeched on its hinges.
The light from the torch had been emblazoned in her eyes, and followed her everywhere she looked. They stood on either side of the threshold, each waiting for the other to be the first to speak.
‘I haven’t got long,’ he said.
She nodded and walked towards him, scraping her shoulder against the gate as she passed. He smelt of cigarette smoke and something sweet. She listened as he locked the gate behind her.
‘You’re locking it?’
‘Can’t have anyone sneaking in,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘How did you get a key to this place?’
‘I’m the groundskeeper,’ he said and placed the keys back in his pocket. ‘I live in the cottage down by the lake. After leaving the force, I wanted a quieter life. Shall we?’
He walked ahead, and she followed obediently, listening to his heavy footsteps crunching on the stone path. They walked in silence, following the track as it curved around the hills of the park. They were two complete strangers, thrown together and thrust into the dead of night. By the sound of his fast breaths, she knew he was as nervous as her, but it didn’t ease her anxiety. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, and awkwardly held them together in front of her, then behind her, before finally burying them in her pockets.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked finally. ‘Or more importantly, why?’
Rose realised she had no idea what she wanted from him – she knew nothing about him or his past, or how he might be able to help; all she knew was that the policewoman had given her his number. She stole a look at his profile, admired the straightness of his nose, the unconscious pucker of his lips, and took a deep breath.
