“Do you think it’s all over?” David asks from the driver seat.
“I hope so. Why shouldn’t it be?” Paul leans forward and lowers his voice.
“It’s just they haven’t arrested anyone else. Will they still be looking?”
“John doesn’t think so. I think they’re satisfied to make assumptions. Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Paul is exhausted. This gives way to anxiety as they approach the final few turnings towards home. The neighbourhood is evening-quiet and in darkness. They pass by the village church where he and Michelle were married; the hut where Emily attends Brownies, Emily’s school, then, all too soon, they turn up Bracken Bank.
“Do you want me to come in?” David pulls up outside the house.
“No. I’ll be fine.” He unclips his seatbelt then Emily’s. “I think we need to do this on our own. Paul leans forwards in the back seat, surveying the exterior of the innocent looking, semi-detached house - the home he and Michelle had longed for. The memory of how they had literally skipped down the street from the estate agents after their offer had been accepted, slides into his mind.
Even that recollection is tarnished by the subsequent ruination of their celebratory night out. He tries to shake his memories away, unable to endure them. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
Paul plods up the garden path. Emily trails behind him. He notices the medley of weeds, wild flowers and overgrown plants then is compelled to turn around, in response to Mrs Fawcett’s eyes burning into his back. A mischievous urge materialises, making him wave at her.
Turning back to his house, he notices all the windows are curtained; keeping prying eyes out but holding painful memories steadfast within. They come at him like a high-speed train as he unlocks the door.
“You alright sweetheart?” he says to Emily. “Do you want to turn the TV on in the lounge – the little one from upstairs should still be in there. I will get you a drink. It might have to be water though. We will need to go shopping.”
He walks to the lounge door. Carla stays firmly attached to Paul’s side.
Gathering the pile of post, he sinks into the thick green carpet at the foot of the stairs, inhaling the scent that lingers of his former life.
He flinches at the holes that shatter the hallway plasterwork and the yawning spaces on the walls where happy pictures once hung. His gaze falls upon the pile of post. Mrs Michelle Jackson. A pay slip. Mr and Mrs Jackson. A bank statement. Then a card, addressed only to him. With deepest sympathy.
With wobbly hands, he grips the card, tears blurring his vision. He squeezes his eyelids shut, quelling them before Emily sees. He will deal with the post later.
Amidst the mustiness, he can pick out a whiff of wine, leather and a plug-in air freshener. As he rises higher on the stairs, he senses Michelle’s perfume. It is overwhelmingly home; unbearably so. He wanders in and out of rooms. All is peculiar, yet familiar. Their bed with the checked duvet cover, clothes that litter the carpet from when Michelle was packing to go on holiday, hair tangled in Michelle’s hairbrush.
A trace of soap scum lingers in the bath tub. Michelle was the last person to have a bath in here on the morning before they went away. Her mug is next to the bath. ‘I Love My Mum!’ it declares. Remains of coffee are congealed and mould covers its base. He used to constantly go on at her but leaving cups upstairs and not rinsing the bath out.
You self-centred pillock! Always thinking about yourself! What about me? Terrified, he looks around, imagining he has heard her voice. Then the sound of her crying.
“Emily. Carla. Come on. Let’s go out for a bit.”
They appear and dutifully follow as he snatches up his keys and strides out of the house, locking the door after them. Thankfully, David has driven his car back from the holiday park so there is no need to confront that place again. Miraculously, the Ford Focus starts first click so he turns up the heater. The car too, smells unused and unlived in. It emits a hint of Michelle’s perfume. She is everywhere, in each nook and cranny of his being. He grabs his phone from his pocket.
“David. Do you mind if we crash at yours tonight after all? I can’t face being in the house.”
He turns the car around in their cul-de-sac. We’re going to stay with Uncle David. Just for tonight.”
Emily stares out of the window.
“We’ve no shopping in Emily. We will go back tomorrow. Promise.” He’s starting to feel frustrated that his daughter won’t reply. He’s desperate to speak with her. “We’ve loads of catching up to do. Lots of things to talk about.” He smiles at her through his rear-view mirror, hoping for a reaction.
This is seriously weird. From being a complete chatterbox, she really isn’t saying a single word.
“Grandma says you don’t talk anymore. Is that because you’re sad about Mummy?”
“Of course, you are.” Paul responds into the space his words leave. “I promise it’ll soon be easier.” They pull up outside his brother’s house. “I’m back now and you can talk to me about anything you want.”
When you do, Paul thinks to himself, who knows what is going to come out. What have they done to her?
Chapter Fifty One
Alana tuts as Lee tosses the evening newspaper at her before retreating to his armchair.
“Page one,” he announces. “He’s front page news. And so are you, though not in a way I care to see.” He looks at her in a way that makes her uncomfortable.
Alana ignores him and looks at the smiling picture of herself clutching Paul’s arm. It’s nearly dark outside, mirroring the misery that has descended over her since this afternoon. She had hoped she would see more of Paul than she has and is wrestling with jealousy towards Emily. Paul had only wanted to return to her. Alana might as well be invisible. She used to feel close to him when they worked together, things seem to have changed.
The nights are drawing in. As are her feelings of estrangement from her husband. What lurks beneath his bad-tempered exterior, she no longer knows. It depresses her immensely. Paul is free, but she is not. Her marriage is on borrowed time, and so, if she stays with Lee, is she.
They have been a couple since they were fourteen, having defied the odds to keep their relationship going for this long. They were warned they would become different people. That their marriage would not weather the years. If she’d never met Paul, the odds were still stacked against her and Lee. They had both emerged from problem backgrounds; both sets of parents had not warmed to either of them whilst they were dating. All sorts of things had gone wrong with the wedding. From things not fitting to important people not being there, all topped off with the DJ not turning up in the evening.
Then there was the biggie, the ‘baby thing.’ She shakes the newspaper out across her lap.
HUSBAND CLEARED OF STAB MURDER CHARGE
A man accused of stabbing his wife to death after an argument, has been found not guilty of her murder.
Paul Alan Jackson held his head in his hands and appeared to weep as the jury cleared him after nearly four hours of deliberations.
The thirty-seven year old legal executive has spent three months on remand after being accused of killing his thirty-six year old wife, Michelle Marie Jackson, following a row which occurred in their holiday cottage at Summerfield Holiday Park, Filey.
Walking free from York Crown Court, via his solicitor, Mr Jackson told reporters he felt ‘great,’ and his priority now, was to bring his seven-year-old daughter home and rebuild their lives. He has asked that the media give him space to grieve for his wife. Speculation has arisen that she may have taken her own life, whilst in the throes of depression. Her history of self-harming was disclosed during the trial.
Mr Jackson’s solicitor, John Gibbs, branded his three-month incarceration as ‘dreadful,’ stating his client had been pushed to the ‘limits of all endurance’ within his marriage.
He added that Mr Jackson had been failed by a system that mainly recognises women as being at risk from domestic viol
ence. He conveyed his hope that Mr Jackson’s case would set a precedent for other male sufferers of domestic abuse.
“Good morning, Gibbs, Brown and Jackson?”
“John, it’s Alana,” she announces the next morning.
“Alana, what’s up? Are you ill? You don’t sound your normal chirpy self this morning.”
“I can’t go into it, but I need a couple of weeks off. I’ll take it as annual leave.”
“Oh. Right. Are you sure you’re OK? You sound dreadful. Anything I can help with?”
“I’ll fill you in later, I promise. I must go.” Placing her mobile phone on the bedside table, she sinks back against the headboard. Her eyes wander to the walk-in wardrobe, where Lee has left the doors open after emptying his half of the rail. Looking up to the high shelf, she can see he has used all their holiday cases. Drawers are ajar and emptied. His bathroom shelf is bare. The paperwork she has moaned about him littering the house with. All traces of him; bagged or boxed.
He will be back later for anything that remains. She is to pack it up for him. He will return at a time she is not there. He does not want to see her again.
It is a surprise to Alana that she feels this low. Her muddled mind tries to analyse it. She stares at his side of the bed, the sheets creased from where he slept on them two nights ago. At least whilst he was with her, she had a certain amount of control over him.
If Paul wasn’t so focused on bloody Emily, Alana wouldn’t be this depressed. Finally she moves, swings her legs over the side of the mattress and begins tugging the sheets from it. Then, with a surge of energy, she spends the morning hurtling around the house, bagging things up for the charity shop, slinging things into the bin, cleaning, eradicating, distancing. Then she lays, exhausted, on the kitchen floor, like an abandoned dog, wondering what the hell she is going to do next.
Chapter Fifty Two
For a moment when Paul wakes up, he thinks he is in his cell. Sitting upright, he peers around. Sunshine seeps around the edges of the curtains like an eclipsed moon, making him want to rejoice. For a moment he enjoys the hum of birds singing.
Then the familiar jerk of guilt, which is there whenever he permits himself any happiness. Michelle is lying in the ground.
Pulling on his trousers, he stretches, before padding into David’s kitchen to make coffee. As he breathes its welcome smell, he tries to replace his heaviness with optimism. To drink a proper cup of coffee is like a new experience and he knows he will never take anything for granted again.
He tiptoes upstairs and puts his head around the door of the guest room, smiling at the Emily-shaped huddle under the duvet. He’s sure that he can get her back to normal before long. Carla opens her eyes and pricks her ears up when she notices him but doesn’t move. Then he taps on his brother’s door. “David. I’m going to nip out for an hour. Emily’s still sleeping. Is that alright?”
“Hmm. Yep. See you in a bit.”
He parks up outside the barber’s shop in readiness for the eight thirty opening. Paul flicks through the newspaper as he waits. His vindication has made page four of one of the nationals. His thin face stares back at him, making him realise he needs to straighten himself out. His first step will be to put the house on the market. He and Emily need a new start to have any hope of eventually putting things behind them. But first – a haircut.
Paul nods in gratitude as the barber holds the mirror behind his head. Save for a few grey hairs, he looks more like his former self. He strides out into the September air, hungrily gulping it down, like his freedom. He buys another newspaper and heads towards a café. He wants to scour every bit of printed information about his case. He worries they’ll decide they made a mistake and call a retrial.
“You want to sit outside?” asks the waitress in the café, as he orders himself a latte and a bacon roll. “Rather you than me. It’s chilly this morning!”
Paul warms his hands around his cup, then takes his suddenly vibrating phone from his pocket.
“Morning Susan. How are you?”
“The house is empty without Emily, but I’ll adjust. I wanted to check up on her. It must feel strange. Being back at home, I mean.”
It is oddly comforting hearing his mother-in-law’s voice over the phone. “She’s sleeping. Or at least she was an hour ago. We ended up going to our David’s last night, so I’ve nipped out for a haircut.” A passing bus drowns him out for a moment. He sticks a finger in his ear. “I can’t believe how she is. It’s like having a different girl.”
“I know. Hopefully her being back with you might change that.”
“Well I’ll keep you posted and obviously I’ll keep sending her to the specialist appointments.”
“Thanks. She’s possibly the only person who can shed any light over what happened to her mother. I know the court is making out like Michelle killed herself, but I’ll never accept that Paul. Never.”
Paul sighs as he pushes the froth on his coffee around with a spoon. Not this again. He’s been acquitted. They’ve returned an inconclusive verdict. Insinuated suicide. “Susan. I think if Emily had heard or seen anything that might help the inquiry, she’d have talked by now.
“Well I won’t rest till I know the truth. She obviously has some sort of post-traumatic stress thing.”
“I’ll give you a ring over the next day or two and fix up a time to visit.” As he puts the phone onto the table, he notices a florist at the other side of the road, reminding him of what he needs to do next.
Michelle Marie Jackson. Daughter. Mother. Friend. There is no mention of wife. At peace now. He traces his finger over the lettering and steps back to take in her grave. The two perspex vases are filled with red carnations.
There is a large bouquet, in the same wrapping as his, with a card which says ‘sorry.’ He snatches it up to inspect it. Sorry? Who is sorry? A myriad of possibilities cascade through his mind. Everyone is sorry she’s dead. Is it someone sorry about the verdict? A so-called campaigner? Or something deeper? He studies the card for a moment, then rips it up.
He notices a solar lamp has been speared into the ground. Susan is probably the only person apart from him that knows Michelle was afraid of the dark. They always had to keep the landing light on overnight with the door ajar.
“Michelle, it’s me, Paul.” He waits as though expecting a response. “They let me go. I should never have been there. And you shouldn’t be here.” He wonders if there’s anyone around, listening. The only sound is the rustle of autumnal leaves and the occasional squawk of birds. “I’ve picked Emily up. She’s not herself but I’ll get her right.” The face of his wife bursts into his mind. It is a happy face. It reminds him of what should have been.
“Why?” He whispers. His cheeks sting as cool air chills the tears leaking from his eyes. “We could have made you better. You shouldn’t be here.” A sob catches in his throat as he sinks in front of her gravestone. He drops the bouquet of roses to the ground.
Emily twirls her pig tail around in her fingers whilst spooning cereal into her mouth with her other hand.
Paul smiles at her across the table. “I went to have a haircut. Do I look a bit tidier Emily?”
His brother stacks the dishwasher. “You look older than me now. What are you both up to today?”
“My plans involve a park, an ice-cream, a dog and an Emily.” He leans over and ruffles her hair.
“Come here Emily. Let me roll up your sleeves whilst you’re eating that.” He gestures for her to sit with him at the picnic table with her newly acquired ice-cream.
“We need to talk about Mummy.” He studies her face.
Sadness creeps into her eyes but he decides to carry on.
“She wouldn’t want you to be sad for long Emily. She would want you to be your chattery, noisy self again. She’ll be watching you grow up from heaven.”
Still nothing. This one-way conversation feels impossible. There’s little reaction from her. Paul is consumed with guilt. She’s a shadow of the little
girl she was.
Chapter Fifty Three
Emily is glued to the portable TV as the doorbell rings. “That must be Grandma, she said she might call around.” He still needs to replace the TV Michelle smashed. “You can turn that off now.” He folds the newspaper up. He has been looking at houses to rent.
Emily glances out of the bay window.
Paul is stopped short by the panic in her face. “What’s the matter Emily?”
She stands in front of the lounge door, obstructing him. Who is it? What’s got into her? He peers through the window. “It’s OK Emily. It’s only Alana, who did you think it was?” Moving her out of the way, he heads towards the front door.
Emily hides behind Paul’s legs as he opens it.
“What’s up?” Alana glances back down the drive and steps forward. She looks worried.
“I’m not sure to be honest. Anyway. What can I do for you?” He opens the door ajar to invite her in.
“Shut the door, quick. Lee and I have split up. But he’s just been back for some things. We’ve had another row and he might have followed me here.”
“I’d rather not be involved…” Paul is taken aback as Alana shuts the door with a bang and slides the chain across. Emily is retreating towards the kitchen with an expression he has never seen. What on earth… “Why don’t you sit down Alana. I’m going to have to sort this daughter of mine out.”
The Man Behind Closed Doors Page 27
