by Kate Bradley
We are both so settled in our lovely terraced house in Brighton, it feels possible that he could leave me and be fine. I trust Nick better now and he trusts me.
A few months ago Anya asked me why I never told Nick the real reason I left him. She wondered if it caused resentment to sacrifice my adult relationship with my husband in order to protect him from our son. She’s asked if it’s possible that any bitterness was passed on to Jack. I argued no to start with. But of course, yes. As a parent to a young child, who wants to give up the family unit? Who wants to shut their eyes at night, never feeling safe even in their own bed, knowing there’s no one looking out for them? The end of our marriage was because I was watching out for him, but that meant that no one was watching out for me. A bit of me can understand why I had to knock myself out at night, just to sleep.
But I didn’t want to tell Nick because it felt like a betrayal of our son, almost as if – for want of a better word – I was grassing him up. My mum had stayed silent for me and I wanted to do that for Jack, but Anya helped me interrogate the power of how conspiracies trap people: I didn’t choose to be complicit in our son’s conspiracy and yet I have been all these years. So, I decided that since Nick is alive and Jack is not, I should trust him with my truth. I’ve always understood that it must’ve been terribly hard on Nick when we left suddenly. I never lost sight of how it must’ve felt when we abruptly went and then cut off most of our contact with him. So in the end, three months ago, I decided to tell him.
Nick and his family then came down at my request, and credit to Anne-Marie (who is actually a very nice person) she and the girls took Jack to the pier for the afternoon, without even knowing what I wanted to see Nick about, and I told him about Jack nearly killing him in his sleep and about how I didn’t know what else to do but take Jack away from him. I told him that since Jack was prepared to look me in the eye and lie about Winston – and believe it – if he was going to pick up a knife too, then I didn’t feel anyone was safe.
I told him it was the only reason I left him. Not because I wanted to, but because I felt I had no choice. I told him it was the biggest single sacrifice I’ve ever had to make in my life and I still encounter its scar tissue every day.
We both cried and now it is done.
I watch Jack lob the ball across the beach to Lennie. It feels good not to have any secrets.
The sea breeze smarts my eyes as I decide that cleaning up your past is like cleaning out your wardrobe: it becomes compulsive and impossible to stop. Once I started ridding myself of the burden of my secrets, I decided to get rid of all of them, so I told Anya what Jack’s dying words were to me: You killed your dad. It took many sessions to be able to rephrase it to: I saved my mum. Although she went to prison for a very long time, there’s enough memories in me to accept that I probably did save her life. Probably, maybe, hopefully.
I guess I was dizzy with relief because I then went even further. I saw a solicitor and together we wrote a letter to the police explaining that I believe it was me who killed my father, when defending my mother. I’ve been interviewed and I’m not sure it’s in ‘the public interest’ for the CPS to take it further, and of course, at eight years old, I was way below the age of criminal liability. Social services have been notified because of my caring for Jack, but Nick has gone on record for me that I’m a good parent, and that seems to have settled it a little. They keep a distant check on Jack, but Nick, sticking up for me, told them that Jack is with me or Jack goes into care. Nick would do the right thing, I know, but thankfully, it seems that’s not needed. The fact I’m solvent, sober, and supported goes far. The fact Jack is happy and thriving goes even further.
Nick also went on record too, for Erica, as did I. Of course, there was a thorough investigation and then a trial. Ballistics and other scene of crime forensics backed up our testimony. She won’t be allowed another shotgun license, but she didn’t have to serve any time. I think Nick’s vehement testimony was a real game-changer for Erica. My mother said she was sorry I married ‘a flatfoot’. I’d love to tell her that it has its benefits.
I smile to think of her saying that. My solicitors are hoping that my statement might lead to my mother’s name being formally exonerated. Although it feels risky, I can’t be sober without cleaning out my most dusty and overfilled top shelves.
I feel like I’ve done that now. I feel brave and new.
I watch Jack and Lennie playing on the beach and think of what my mother would say about me trying to clear her name. She’d be a little cross, I expect, but I like to think she’s looking down at me from heaven and is maybe a little pleased, too.
I watch the fast sprint of Lennie going for the ball and it feels amazing to be back in Brighton. It’s been sixteen months since I bought my house. Jack’s settled so well into school and has made some lovely friends – we have both made lovely friends. I’ve made new ones, not looked up any from the past. I don’t want to be back there – instead here, in the present, is a wonderful thing for us, and it’s just where we need to stay.
But I do often look back to remember my mum – her things are all over our house: the sofa throws, some of the nicer knick-knacks, her photos everywhere; everything boxed up and saved by Nick and mum’s neighbour and friend, April Dawes, I have since found out. I think mum was everywhere that awful night too – I think it was her presence I felt in the field, that sense of someone there, pushing me on when I needed to go on and couldn’t. I just know it. She never let me give up on anything, and she didn’t then either. If she hadn’t been there, goading me on, perhaps I wouldn’t have made it – perhaps Jack wouldn’t either. But she was, and we did. I haven’t felt her since, but then I haven’t needed her. But it gives me a sense of comfort to know that she hasn’t left me; that she is all right and is still looking out for me. Really, that’s all she’s ever done. She remains my hero.
It’s not just my mum who has a presence in our house, but my son, too. We have Jack’s photo on the wall above our fireplace. We’ve brought him in and although he’s gone, he’s a real part of our family. We both love him.
We always will.
I breathe in the sea-salt smell and drink my coffee and contentment wraps my shoulders.
Seeing my paper bag, Jack runs towards me: ‘Croissants!’ Lennie runs barking at his feet. Nick tracked the puppy down – Jack had given it to his neighbour, but when Nick explained about little Jack losing his dad, they let us have him again. He’s our dog now.
We find somewhere to sit on the beach. Jack hugs me. He’s so generous with his love and affection. I kiss him back – I never kiss him just for him, but also for his dad. I hope that somehow the kisses get through to Jack wherever he is. I want him to feel my love, still.
I think also of Selena – I often do. I hope she’s pleased with the job I’m doing – in many ways, I’m also doing my best for her as well. We have her photo up too – and Jack has met his maternal grandma. We are making progress in all sorts of ways.
Jack eats his croissant and feeds some to Lennie. He tells me about the different things they found on the beach and shows me the crab claw in his pocket.
When I’ve finished eating, I hold the claw and open and close it. It’s an exciting find, I agree. I think about the hard shell on the outside and the soft inside, hidden from sight. Such a different creature from us – well, from some of us, perhaps.
‘Can we go exploring again, Granny? You’ll come with us this time?’
I take his outstretched hand and stand tall. I remember then, what I thought when my son died, as I feel my grandson’s hand in my own and I feel it again. But now it’s less of a question or a hope – now it’s a certainty.
Love is enough.
Acknowledgements
Firstly, dear reader, thank you for the read; I hope you enjoyed it, not least because I loved writing it. I intended to express something around ideas of love and forgiveness; not an original message, but I think, the best one.
T
he creation of this book – obviously – isn’t just me tap-tapping away, but the product of many people. The first who deserves a particular ra-rah! is my editor, Katherine Armstrong. I am in a long queue of people who recognise her considerable talents and I’m not surprised by her continued success. Thank you, Katherine, for not being put off by a ragged dishcloth of a first draft and making it into something so much better. Along with Katherine, my thanks goes to Stephanie Glencross, who has shaped many books that perhaps, dear reader, line your bookshelves. Writing is a mostly solitary (tea, back against the Aga, mind elsewhere) task, but it was fun and fruitful to work with Stephanie and Katherine as a three, solving the tangles together. Stephanie works with the fabulous Jane Gregory, who, as an agent, I trust implicitly. Thank you, Jane, for your support and my thanks is extended to Camille and Mary.
Special thanks to the wonderful people at Bonnier Zaffre for publishing this novel; you are a brilliant team and always so helpful and creative. A particular toast to Ciara Corrigan for her patience.
The world of writing is a very friendly and supportive place – happily and surprisingly so. I’d like to thank those writers and reviewers I’ve encountered, for their warm welcome and the reads and reviews.
Cara Henwood, thank you for your midwifery knowledge – at short notice. Any mistakes are mine.
Thanks to my parents, John and Jenny, who are unfailingly optimistic and enthusiastic about my writing and always give their love heaped high and unqualified. My sister, Juliet Hunter, is always my first reader and her influence on this book is palpable: thanks for the walks and the talks. My other walking buddy is Dorrie Dowling; an anchor, always. Finally, Cooper and Casper, I dedicated this book to you because you keep me going when the incline gets a little steep. But know this: I’d climb Everest for you both – in my socks. If I have to do that, then I hope you, Brad, are still trudging with me. There’s no one I’d rather walk with. And – as always – you’re definitely in charge of the compass and map.
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Prologue
I hang my legs over the cliff edge and look over so I can imagine your broken body lying on the beach below. I never tire of sitting here. I come even in winter, when the storms seethe, forcing me to grip the scant grass, because I feel that I could die here too. I like that. I watch the crashing waves below, beating against the bluff, pushing and pulling the flotsam and jetsam, relentless, relentless, relentless.
Then I do my own falling. I uncork a bottle and for a while feel the raw pain of my loss.
Walkers have approached me in the past; they see my solo picnic of wine and the inches between me and certain death, and they think I’m going to jump. The police have been here too. Twice they’ve arrested me under section 136 of the Mental Health Act, determined to get me assessed, but my last psychiatrist intervened. He said that I push all of my grief and guilt onto the clifftop, as a coping mechanism. He’s wrong.
As I sober up at home, I spend the night staring at my bedroom ceiling while the world sleeps. I think about my choices, questions writhing like worms in my mind. I replay everything: everything I did and didn’t do. What it caused; about the people who got hurt. Who died. I remember blue eyes locked on mine, eyes filled with the pain and the nearness of death. Then the peace, after.
I know I am guilty.
And then when I tire of my self-hatred, I wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t come together like a planet spun from its orbit into the path of the other. How different my life would’ve been. And that’s what I can’t get over – that’s why I cannot know peace.
I turn over what happened to us in my mind, the memories getting no less worn through the constant re-examination. Relentless, relentless, relentless.
I don’t need this clifftop to remember you or what happened that Friday afternoon in May, three years ago, when everything that I’d ever loved, would be gone before the sun rose on Saturday.
I think and I think and I think; thoughts of what I’m going to do next beating relentlessly into the shallows of my mind.
About the Author
Kate Bradley worked for many years managing services for people who are marginalised by society; her work has taken her into prisons, mental health hospitals and alongside the homeless. She currently works in education. She holds a first-class degree in English Literature, in addition to qualifications in creative writing and teaching. Kate lives in a small coastal town just outside of Brighton with her husband and sons.
Also by Kate Bradley
To Keep You Safe
First published in the UK in 2021 by Zaffre
This ebook edition published in 2020 by
ZAFFRE
An imprint of Bonnier Books UK
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Owned by Bonnier Books
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Copyright © Kate Bradley, 2021
Cover design by Micaela Alcalno
Cover photographs © Rebecca Nelson/Arcangel Images (Window)
© Shutterstock.com (horse, racked glass)
The moral right of Kate Bradley to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-83877-332-8
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-83877-331-1
This ebook was produced by IDSUK (Data Connection) Ltd
Zaffre is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk