by Karen Cole
I shake my head. Theo doesn’t finish work until an hour later and he often has meetings and after-school clubs. ‘He can’t pick him up. He has to work,’ I say. Besides, I fought hard to retain the right to have more access to Dylan. If I start giving Theo more time with him, it’ll be the thin edge of the wedge.
‘Is there anybody else?’ she asks.
My mother, I think. I feel incredibly weary, but I really don’t want to ask her. She would do it, of course, but I’d never hear the end of it. ‘Maybe I could come earlier to pick him up before everyone else arrives,’ I suggest.
Ms Hamlyn smiles, ‘That’s a good idea. I’m so sorry about all this. I’m sure it’ll all blow over soon.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, hoping that she’s right. I’m suddenly aware that Dylan is staring up at us open-mouthed, listening to our conversation. I wonder how much he’s heard. How much he’s understood.
‘Come on Dylan, let’s go,’ I say brightly, and I clasp his hand in mine. Inside, I’m fuming with anger and humiliation. Some people are so narrow-minded, I think. So quick to judge and condemn. They don’t even know me. How dare they? Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?
I hesitate when I see Georgia standing at the school gate, talking to another woman with short blonde hair. I want to slide out of here unnoticed but they’re blocking my path and there’s no other way. I decide to brazen it out and I stride up to them with a confident smile plastered on my face. They’re talking quite intently but break off abruptly when they see me.
‘Hi,’ I say breezily. ‘How are you?’
‘Hi,’ says Georgia looking embarrassed and unsure. ‘Cat, this is Marsha. Marsha this is Catherine. Marsha’s daughter, Willow, is in Butterflies class with Harry and Dylan.’
‘Nice to meet you, I’m Cat,’ I say holding out my hand.
The other woman gives me a sharp look and pointedly ignores my hand. I let it fall awkwardly by my side and feel myself shrinking inwardly. But I plough on regardless, smiling so brightly that my cheeks hurt.
‘Do either of you know what this could be? I got it in Dylan’s book bag yesterday.’ I take out the photo and hand it to Georgia.
She gives it a cursory glance. ‘No, I’ve no idea, do you, Marsha?’ Georgia says and Marsha shakes her head slightly, her eyes as cold as stones.
‘Why?’ Georgia asks.
‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ And I slink past them feeling about two inches tall.
When I get home, all I want to do is go to bed and curl up under the duvet. I want to forget about Marsha and Georgia, about Luke’s lie and the fact that I’m going to have to talk to the police tomorrow. But I can’t, because Dylan is here, tugging my hand, demanding that I play with him.
‘Don’t you want to watch TV?’ I say, but he shakes his head firmly. Typical. Normally I can’t drag him away from his cartoons, but today, just when I could do with some space, he seems particularly clingy and he’s got it into his head that he wants us to do a jigsaw puzzle together. He drags one out from the cupboard and tips out the pieces on to the floor.
‘I need you to help me,’ he says, rummaging through them.
‘Don’t forget to start with the corner pieces,’ I advise him absent-mindedly. I’m scrolling through the messages and posts on my phone. There’s nothing much. An invitation from my cousin to the christening of her son and some posts from Gaby about dogs that need rehoming. Theo has been tagged in a post from Harper – a picture of them posing at an exhibition of Harper’s paintings. God, that’s just what I don’t need right now – a reminder of their perfect life. I haven’t bothered to unfriend Theo because he never posts anything, but now I think that was an oversight and I’m just clicking on his profile, working out how to delete him when my phone pings, and a message pops up. There’s a bubble on my screen, a picture of a man in a baseball cap with a moustache. George Wilkinson again. I click on it angrily. What does he want this time? Why can’t he just leave me alone?
‘Mummy, help me,’ Dylan says plaintively. ‘Where does this one go?’
‘Hold on a minute, sweetheart.’ The message fills the screen and I grip the phone tightly, trying to remain calm and convince myself, yet again, that it’s a coincidence.
‘Remember this?’ he’s written, and underneath there’s a photo of a pub sign, the Royal Oak. It’s a pub in the town centre near the church. I haven’t been there for years, but we used to go there all the time in the sixth form. And we went there that night, after the park – before Nessa’s party.
I saw her the other day from the car window. We were driving home from the hospital, and we had stopped at the traffic lights near the marketplace. She was standing on the kerb waiting to cross the road. And she was so close I could’ve almost reached out and touched her.
I couldn’t quite believe she was there. I thought I must have conjured her up from some dark recess of my mind. But it wasn’t my imagination, it was her. I watched, in helpless rage, as she smiled and waved at someone on the other side of the road. She actually smiled, and my heart clenched like a fist.
Why haven’t they locked her away? What right has she got to liberty after all that she’s done? It made my blood boil, seeing her there, sauntering along the street, free as a bird, without a care in the world. I wanted to get out of the car and run after her – to confront her. I wanted to smash her face until that peachy-smooth skin was bruised and battered to a pulp. But of course, I didn’t. I let her cross the road, stop and pause to look in a shop window. One day I’ll make her pay for the things she’s done but not yet. For now, I need to be patient. Good things come to those who wait.
Eleven
I haven’t slept well in days. I drop off in Dylan’s bed reading him a bedtime story and wake up two hours later with a crick in my neck and drool running down my chin. Forcing myself up, I stumble across the landing and crawl into my own bed. Then I spend another night tossing and turning before I finally fall asleep again, just as it’s getting light.
The sound of a leaf blower outside my window drills into my head and I wake, bright sunlight streaming in through my window. A quick glance at my phone confirms that it’s already nine o’clock. Shit! I leap out of bed, pull on the pair of shorts and t-shirt lying on the floor next to my bed and find Dylan downstairs watching cartoons in his pyjamas.
‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ I groan in frustration.
‘What?’ He looks confused.
‘We’re late for school. Oh, never mind. Put these on.’ I throw him his school uniform.
‘No!’ he yells, as I turn off the telly and drag him upstairs to brush his teeth. ‘It’s not finished!’
‘That’s too bad,’ I say grimly, buttoning his shirt. Then I shove his shoes on his feet and bundle him, whining and wailing into the car. Outside, Eileen’s husband, Bob, is collecting up the leaves in a refuse bag. He stops and stares with sharp, critical eyes. Anyone would think I was abusing my son, I think, bitterly. ‘Stop crying,’ I hiss at Dylan. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’
‘We’re late for school,’ I explain cheerily to Bob over the sound of Dylan’s screams and Bob nods slightly but doesn’t smile.
When I get to the school, it’s already first break, and all the children are outside in the playground, running and shrieking. Ms Hamlyn is on duty, standing by the wooden pergola in the centre of the playground, a whistle around her neck. She’s deep in conversation with another teacher, a woman with dark, curly hair, but breaks off when she sees us.
‘Oh, hi Dylan,’ she coos sweetly, crouching down to his level. ‘We missed you in phonics. Where have you been?’
‘Sorry,’ I say breathlessly. ‘We overslept.’
She straightens up, the sweet smile vanishing. She doesn’t tell me it’s okay this time. I’ve been late already twice for pick-up in just the first week and now this. It looks like even Ms H
amlyn’s good nature is not inexhaustible. Three strikes and you’re out with her, I suppose.
‘Did you inform Nicky in the office?’ she says coolly. ‘She’ll need to add Dylan to the register.’
‘Not yet, but I will.’
‘Where’s his lunch? I’ll put it in the fridge,’ she adds, as Dylan runs off to play with Harry and a couple of other children who are kicking a ball around on the small football pitch.
Crap! I forgot. ‘It was just on the side,’ I lie, feeling mortified. ‘I’ll go home and fetch it.’ I haven’t even given him a water bottle.
‘No need. Don’t bother. He can have a school dinner. There are always a few extra and I can give him one just this once. Are you okay?’ she says with sudden sympathy as I turn to leave. ‘You look a bit peaky.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, scurrying away before I start bawling in front of Ms Hamlyn and the other teacher. ‘Thank you.’
At home, I just have time to feed Delilah and shower and change before I have to head to the police station to give a statement. As I’m leaving the house, I glance in the mirror and examine myself critically. My hair is still sleekly blonde, but it’s starting to get greasy and clump a little. I haven’t washed it since the haircut yet. I’ll never be able to blow dry it the same way. But I’ve dressed smartly in a new summer dress with purple butterflies. I look respectable and honest, I think, tucking my hair behind my ear. I give myself a friendly, trustworthy smile. They have to believe me over Luke, surely.
The police station is near the centre of town, just behind Boots on the high street. I’ve only ever been inside once before, years ago when I found a stray dog with Charlie. Knowing that our parents wouldn’t be willing to keep it, we took it to the police station. I can’t remember much about what happened, except that we left the dog with a friendly policeman and that he gave us badges.
There’s no badge this time, and the policeman who greets me is not so friendly. A stocky, young officer, he fills in a form with grave formality and then shows me through without ceremony to a bare, grey office where DI Littlewood and Sergeant Fisher are waiting.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Littlewood smiles coolly – as if I had any choice in the matter. She takes a sip of water from a plastic cup. ‘We’ll try to take up as little of your time as possible. Please take a seat.’
‘Would you like a drink, Catherine?’ asks Fisher, all friendly bumbling as if I’m a guest in his house.
I smile at him gratefully and shake my head. If I accept a drink, I won’t be able to hide the fact that my hands are trembling, and it will be obvious how nervous I am.
‘If you don’t mind, we’d like to run through your account of Friday night again, just to make sure we’ve got everything straight,’ says Littlewood smoothly as I perch on the edge of the chair.
‘Sure, no problem,’ I say with false bravado.
Littlewood switches on a tape recorder, announces the date and lists the names of the people present in the room.
‘So, Catherine Bayntun,’ she says, ‘for the recording, please tell us in your own words what happened on the night of Friday the thirtieth of August.’
Cautiously, I run through the events of that night again. But I’ve been through it so many times now in my head it sounds false – like a rehearsed speech – and I try to ignore the sceptical expressions on their faces as I recount what happened: dropping Dylan off, Weight Watchers, the pub and then the drive home.
‘I invited Luke into my house, and he accepted,’ I finish firmly. ‘He stayed the whole night.’ I repeat that several times, so that there can be no doubt.
‘Do you have any evidence that he was at your house?’ asks Fisher.
‘Like what?’
He shrugs, ‘Something he left behind maybe, or some proof that you and he were intimate.’
‘He has a birthmark on his thigh,’ I say, with a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘How would I know that if I hadn’t slept with him?’
‘A birthmark?’ Littlewood looks interested. ‘Can you describe it?’
I picture his smooth, muscular leg. The bedroom was dimly lit, so I only had a vague impression. I tell them, ‘It was brown, I think,’ suddenly doubting myself. ‘Sort of long, like a cigar.’
Littlewood nods and smiles, as if I’m a child who needs encouragement.
‘Anything else you can remember?’
‘Not really.’ I shake my head.
‘Well, that’s it for now,’ Littlewood switches off the recorder and says ‘Thank you very much, Catherine. That was helpful.’
‘Oh, one more thing,’ she adds casually, as I stand up to leave.
‘Yes?’
‘We’d like to take a DNA sample. You don’t mind, do you? It’s a simple process. It’ll only take a minute. Purely routine.’
I hesitate. I don’t like the idea of having my DNA on a police database, but it would look suspicious if I refused, and it could only be to my advantage, right? They won’t find any of my DNA at Charlie’s flat. I’m certain of that.
‘Sure, no problem,’ I say smiling. I am nothing if not co-operative. Co-operative and trustworthy.
Littlewood wasn’t lying. The DNA sample didn’t take much more than a few minutes – a simple swab of my mouth – and before I know it, I’m back outside the police station inhaling fresh air, blinking in the sunlight, feeling like a prisoner who’s been released after years in jail.
Did the police believe me? I wonder as I walk home. It’s impossible to tell. Fisher maybe did, but Littlewood gives nothing away and she’s the one who counts. Will they even bother to check up on the birthmark? My mind is working overtime, analysing the interview, wondering what impression I made and trying to figure out what my next step should be. But I can feel a migraine coming on – that familiar nagging pain just above my right eye – and when I get home all I can do is take a couple of painkillers and crawl into bed.
I’m woken after what seems like only a few minutes by my phone ringing persistently on the bedside table.
‘Cat, where are you?’
It’s Gaby and she sounds annoyed. I can hear the clatter of crockery in the background, the murmur of voices and the hiss of an espresso machine.
‘We were supposed to meet today for a coffee,’ she says testily. ‘I’m waiting for you here in the bookshop café. Have you forgotten?’
I rub my eyes, sitting up. At least my headache has gone.
‘Shit, sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll come now,’ I say. The way things are going I need all the friends I can get and the last thing I want to do is piss Gaby off. ‘I’ll be about ten, fifteen minutes.’
My mouth feels stale, so I brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair and then dash out into town.
I enter the bookstore through the back entrance in the car park and find Gaby sitting in a corner of the café, sipping a latte and scrolling through her phone, a pensive expression on her face.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I blurt, kissing her cheek. ‘I completely forgot. It’s no excuse, but I’ve had the worst few days.’
She runs a hand through her hair, which looks even wilder than usual, and frowns. ‘Yes, I heard about the news story and the photofit. The police called me to talk about Friday night. It sounds like you’re having a bit of a nightmare. Are you okay?’
‘I’ve been better,’ I try to laugh.
Gaby’s big, brown eyes meet mine and they are steady and sympathetic. There’s no judgement or suspicion in them. Just empathy and curiosity.
‘Poor you,’ she says, and I feel the tension in my shoulders relaxing slightly. She pats me on the knee and grins. ‘I know what’ll cheer you up,’ she says, and she bustles off to the counter and returns a few minutes later with two coffees and two cinnamon buns. ‘I won’t tell Sara if you won’t.’
I bite into the sweet, sticky bun, letting the delicious b
lend of cinnamon and sugar swirl around my mouth. Gaby’s right. It does make me feel better. It’s not called comfort food for no reason.
‘I had to go into the police station this morning,’ I tell her. ‘They wanted me to go through what happened on Friday night. They seriously think I might have murdered that woman.’
Gaby looks at me directly. ‘But you didn’t,’ she says. It’s a statement of fact not a question.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well then. Sooner or later the police will find out who did, and you’ll be in the clear.’
‘Yes, but I’m worried that even afterwards, after this is all sorted, this will stick to me like a bad smell. I’ll always be the woman who was suspected of murder.’ Murder. It’s such a frightening and dramatic word. A word that’s used on true crime programmes and in thrillers. It shouldn’t have anything to do with me. It doesn’t belong in my life.
She shakes her head, takes a bite of her bun, chews slowly and swallows. ‘People will forget, Cat, you’ll see. They’ve got short memories. Anyway, whatever happens your friends will stick by you.’
I feel tears of gratitude welling up in my eyes. Gaby is a true friend – one of the few people I believe is really on my side. She was so good to me after Theo left. She brought me flowers and cajoled and badgered me to get out and get on with my life. I‘m not sure what I would have done without her. I’m not sure I deserve a friend like her.
After coffee with Gaby, I pick up Dylan from school, a little early, as agreed, before all the other parents have arrived.
‘Do you want to go to the park, Dylan?’ I ask as we scurry out of the gate.
‘Yeah!’ he exclaims, swiping an imaginary sword through the air. And so we head to the Abbey Grounds. I sit on the bench for a while and watch Dylan play. He looks lonely there, his little face a mask of dogged, solitary determination as he scales the climbing frame, and I find myself wishing Theo and I had got around to having another child. But I found Dylan so exhausting as a two- and three-year-old, I couldn’t even contemplate another, and by the time he was nearly five and becoming much easier, Theo had already met Harper.
