The Man I Married

by Elena Wilkes

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll see you later… And don’t worry. You’ve got me on your side now.’

  And then she was gone.

  * * *

  Don’t worry? Jesus Christ. I was as scared as hell making the calls but I did as she said. A woman in the office said she was sorry but that Mr Webb was in a meeting and would be unavailable until at least three o’clock, but if I wanted to leave a message she would make sure he got it.

  I rang Moire back. We were on.

  I parked off the main road this time and slunk into the café although I knew there was no need: we were the only two people in there. She was waiting for me at the same table and had already bought the coffees. She looked self-assured and less nervous. Her hair was washed and tied back and her face was scrubbed into shiny paleness.

  I sat down. I was the nervous one this time.

  ‘I’m just going to tell you what Caitlin told me,’ she began. ‘Whether you believe what I’m going to tell you is up to you.’ She folded her hands around her cup, hesitating. ‘By the time she planned to leave him, she’d begun to hate him.’ Her voice was soft and she kept her eyes lowered. ‘She knew this last pregnancy would trap her there forever. She was exhausted by his continual demands for reassurance, the endless questioning over imaginary men he thought she was sleeping with. She couldn’t stand the way he micro-managed her every move. She hated what he’d become: an obsessive, controlling, insecure toddler in the body of a dangerous, manipulative, violent and aggressive man.’

  ‘So she never had an affair while they were together?’ I suddenly found my voice.

  ‘She never had an affair, full stop.’

  I listened as she told me how they had met and Paul’s immediate declarations of love: how her family – their mother – had counselled her to be cautious. Paul didn’t like the implied criticism. He made her keep choosing between her family and him; she was constantly torn, there were endless arguments. She was exhausted by it all, which played right into his hands. Each child made the situation more difficult; the control became more subtle, more difficult to argue, and therefore more insidious.

  ‘He came across as very reasonable,’ Moire said. ‘He kept telling her “We’re a little team now… our own special little unit. We’re your new family. We’re your priority”.’

  Roisin’s birth, she explained, doubled his insecurity; his attention moved to personal attack. He didn’t like Caitlin’s hair, her make-up, her clothes, the way she spoke, the way she ate, her untidiness, the way she cared for the kids. Caitlin became very depressed and needed her family, Moire in particular. So Paul began to manufacture disagreements: insisting that Moire had insulted him, criticised him and tried to cause trouble.

  ‘He would never have done any of this if my father had still been alive.’ Moire’s eyes glittered. ‘He thought, as women, we were all fair game.’

  I stayed silent the whole time she was talking, listening to the calm, quiet lilt of her voice, unemotional until the end when she described how things began to really unravel.

  ‘Caitlin thought she was going mad, I mean, really, seriously. Totally weird things were happening in the house. Paul was telling people that her depression was returning, that she couldn’t cope.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘He’d try to convince her that conversations happened that she said didn’t happen. He played these little mind-games with her: inconsequential stuff. He’d tell her he liked something and then claim he hated it; he’d say they should visit someplace and then argue he had never wanted to go there. One Christmas he picked out an expensive scarf he wanted as a present, but when he unwrapped it, he laughed and told her to keep it for herself as they clearly had very different tastes. It was all so bizarre.’

  ‘Was it a red scarf?’ I stared at the table.

  ‘Yes!’ she looked surprised. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He still carries it around. Go on.’

  ‘So it started like that, with just the odd thing, but became more and more frequent. Cait constantly questioned herself. When she told me about these instances, I thought it was peculiar and privately, I questioned it too, who wouldn’t?’ She made a helpless gesture.

  ‘It was anything and everything. She would never know where she was with him. It was unrelenting: day after day, like a dripping tap, sometimes nice, sometimes not, sometimes loving, sometimes cruel. Wearing her down bit by bit.’

  ‘So how did she finally decide to leave?’

  ‘She’d mentioned it to me loads of times, but I think it was after Roisin was born. He was obsessed that she wasn’t his. Cait said he would stand over Rosie’s cot staring down at her with a look of pure hatred on his face. He wouldn’t let Cait nurse her – said that she had to be bottle fed. He barred the door to the nursery when Rosie cried at night. Then, one day, he told her he’d ‘found out’ who Rosie’s real father was. Some guy in the village. He was obsessed that she was going to leave. What happened in the end was his last bid for absolute control. He’d told her that if he couldn’t have her, then he would make sure that no one else could.’

  She halted, the words clearly opening old wounds.

  She closed her eyes momentarily. The lashes fluttered gently and then her gaze rested on mine.

  ‘So he made it look as though she’d attacked him: he stabbed himself – here,’ she put her hand on her side, ‘but they found him just in time. Cait was naked. She was—’

  ‘Yes, you told me—’ I was aware of my breath sitting high in my chest. I saw the bath with the water running crimson. I saw her lifeless body, her hair floating out around her like Ophelia in her pool, the children folded like petals into her sides, and her face – white against the colour; the darkening lips, the mouth just paused and her lost eyes gazing past to somewhere very far away.

  I began to feel light-headed. I drank my coffee quickly. I thought about McAndrew, about Diane, about the weight of the system that Paul had at his fingertips.

  ‘That red scarf? That’s his guilt. You know he’s manipulated everything don’t you? From the very beginning.’ She picked up her own cup and paused. ‘I was watching his flat the day he smashed it up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He smashed his own flat and moved into yours.’

  An image of his jacket hanging on the chair and the little souvenir instantly came back.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I blurted suddenly.

  My heart was like an engine. I didn’t know who I was more afraid of: her, Paul, or what I was hearing.

  ‘I need a confession Lucy…’ She looked down for a second. ‘I need to hear it. It’s a huge thing to ask, I know. But I’m asking you to do it – For me, for you… And for Caitlin and the children.’

  ‘A confession?’

  ‘And when he tells you what he did, that’s your part done, you can walk away.’ She sat back in the chair.

  ‘I don’t understand – how will I walk away? I don’t get it.’ That didn’t make sense. ‘You’ll go to the police. I won’t be walking away. I’ll be the main witness. I won’t be safe. What you’re suggesting is madness!’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t want him arrested, Lucy. I want him dead.’

  I had stood up without realising.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m leaving.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ Her hands lay loosely linked on the table, still cradling her cup. ‘I don’t suppose I will ever see you again.’

  She said it so matter-of-factly that, in some strange way, I felt as though I had let her down and betrayed her somehow.

  ‘Goodbye, then,’ she looked up briefly and smiled. ‘Take very good care of yourself.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I said. ‘But you must realise—’

  But she held up a hand. ‘Don’t. The past isn’t your drama. I just hope it never is.’

  The barb hit hard. No more. I turned and walked to the door and went to yank it
open but then stopped in horror. Paul’s car was parked a way up the street. I stepped back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I heard her get up behind me.

  ‘It’s him,’ I stumbled away. ‘It’s Paul. That’s his car. He must’ve followed me.’

  ‘Oh Jesus.’ I caught the look on her face. She’d frozen. ‘He’s coming over.’

  He was attempting to cross the road, waiting for the traffic to pass.

  ‘This way!’ She hissed, beckoning. ‘Quickly!’

  I hurried after her to the rear of the café.

  ‘Down past the toilets is a door. It’s usually unlocked. I think it goes out into the yard,’ she whispered. ‘There’s a back entrance onto the street. I’ll keep the waitress talking. Make out you’re going to the loo.’

  I darted down the passageway and I heard Moire start up a conversation with the girl behind the counter. The passage descended into gloom. I could just make out a fridge and a mop and bucket. There was a thin plywood door to my right and on my left was a deeper blackness with a beading of white light. I quickly patted around to find the door handle, my fingers scrabbling but then suddenly I found it and wrenched it open. The gust of fresh air hit me and I stumbled blindly into the yard and ran to the gate, shunting the bolt back and slipping into the street where I spotted my car. I had never been so grateful to see it sitting there. It instantly sprang into life, my reflexes tuned and responsive. I had to get home before Paul, that’s all I kept thinking. I had to get out of there. I wouldn’t need much: a bag with a few things: papers, I.D. documents, debit and credit cards – I made a mental list of what I needed and where in the house it was all located.

  All the way I repeatedly checked my mirror, expecting to see Paul’s car bearing down on me. I took the obvious and fastest route, terrified that I was going to see him rounding some corner and that he would beat me to it. Bumping the car onto the drive, I ran to the front door. The house was silent as I flew up the stairs to the bedroom, pulled a bag from the top of the wardrobe and began shoving things into it – then went into the office and straight to the safe. Punching in the code, I turned the key and the door swung open. My passport was there alongside a file full of documents. Grabbing both of them, I began to quickly leaf through the pile, flicking in desperation from one bit of paper to another. Then the realisation dawned. These weren’t my documents, they were Caitlin’s: her passport, her birth certificate… her death—I stopped. Her death certificate. ‘Exsanguination,’ leapt off the paper. She bled to death. I saw the children’s names, but couldn’t bring myself to look – letting the papers fall to the floor, pulling out all of Paul’s stuff, hunting and rifling… but all the time knowing, knowing my documents weren’t there.

  The air rasped dryly at the back of my throat as I ran back down the stairs to my handbag, tugging it open and grappling for my purse. It felt weirdly light in my hands and I knew before I opened it – My bank cards were gone. There was a sudden gravelly scrape on the doorstep, a shadow bobbed for a moment and then the sound of a key in the door. I froze.

  ‘Oh hello!’ he said brightly. ‘What are you doing? Just coming in or just going out?’

  ‘You’ve taken my cards.’

  ‘Eh?’ he frowned. ‘What cards?’

  ‘My bank cards. You must’ve taken them. You’ve taken my passport and birth certificate. You’ve taken everything.’

  Paul reached out to touch me but I snatched my hand away. ‘Lucy,’ he said gently. ‘Lucy, Lucy. I haven’t taken anything. Come on. Calm down.’

  ‘They’re not here. Where are they?’ My voice shook with fear and fury.

  ‘Please Luce, stop this. There’s no need. They’re all there, I’m sure. Let me help you find them.’ He walked past me and up the stairs. I followed. He went into the office and knelt amongst the crackling papers on the floor, reaching into the safe and pulling out a folder I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Here.’ He half turned and held it out to me.

  I took it, disbelieving, and gingerly opened the flap. Inside was my passport and all my papers.

  ‘There,’ he said, getting up stiffly. ‘Happy now?’ He walked quickly out of the room and went down the stairs. I checked the folder in my hands. A tiny residue of something sticky adhered to the back. I looked up and went after him. ‘Where are you going?’

  He was standing in the hallway with my purse in his hands. ‘What are these then?’ He had a fan of credit cards in his fingers. I looked at his face and back at the cards. He shook his head, shoving them back and into my handbag.

  ‘Is it happening again, Lucy?’

  Of course I hadn’t opened my purse when I met Moire… Had I? I tried to think.

  My phone began to ring. I let it. It trilled on and on from the depths of my bag, then stopped, as Paul’s started.

  Without taking his eyes from me, he pulled it out.

  ‘Hello?’ He paused, still staring straight at me. ‘Yes, yes she is.’

  My heart contracted at the thought of Moire.

  ‘What time was the appointment?’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘It’s okay Diane. I’ll bring her now.’

  * * *

  This time he came in with me. Something passed between them as we walked in which made me think that he’d spoken to her very recently.

  I scanned her face for clues.

  ‘So how have you been feeling this last week?’ She tipped her head on one side like a baby bird.

  I tried to smile. ‘Good.’ I said. ‘Fine. I even met a friend for coffee.’ My gaze stayed pointedly with Diane. ‘I enjoyed chatting to her.’

  Paul shifted forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘This friend she’s referring to is the woman I’ve been telling you about.’ He bit his lip. ‘The one who’s been in prison.’

  Something inside me folded. I became aware that Diane was studying me.

  ‘Were you aware of this, Lucy?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t. Are you sure?’ I blurted. ‘You know she’s Caitlin’s sister, don’t you?’ I turned to Diane. ‘Caitlin is, was, Paul’s partner and the mother of his children. She didn’t leave him, like he told me. She died, she was—’

  ‘I know,’ said Diane. She looked at Paul. ‘You haven’t told her then?’

  Paul looked down at the floor, hanging his head. I saw him swallow. ‘No… No I haven’t. I… I didn’t tell her.’ He paused. ‘Lucy, the truth is…’ he began falteringly. His head snapped up suddenly and he looked straight at me. ‘The truth is, Caitlin killed herself.’

  I observed him, watching for some tic, some flinch. ‘Did she?’ I said coolly.

  He nodded and swallowed again. ‘She killed the children and then killed herself.’

  I could hear my own breath shaking as it left my body. ‘And why would she do such a thing?’ I could feel Diane’s eyes assessing my every movement.

  ‘It was Moire.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Cait had been seriously depressed after Rosie was born, agoraphobic, scared of everything, and she turned to her sister Moire.’ He glanced at Diane who nodded for him to go on. ‘Moire had always been jealous of Caitlin, ever since they were kids.’ His eyes looked hollow. ‘Moire wanted our kids and she wanted me. She wanted what Cait had…’ He turned his gaze to me and then to Diane.

  ‘You need to tell her the truth,’ she said.

  His eyes bored into mine. ‘She and I had an affair.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know…’ His voice shook as he fought back the emotion.

  ‘Moire saw Cait’s death as a new beginning… Christ!’ He turned his face away so no one could see the tears. ‘I was weak, I was young and I was incredibly stupid. It only happened once, but in her head it was something else… some kind of macabre romance I think. Letters, emails, phone calls. I was bombarded. You saw the rose she left—’

  I recoiled.

  ‘It became too bizarre for words. She was eventually convict
ed of stalking and harassment. I should’ve realised you would be a way to get to me. It hasn’t stopped, even now. I’m building another case against her. She’s repeatedly contravened the injunction. My life has not been my own.’ His breath shuddered as he exhaled and he pressed his fingertips into his eye sockets. The blue, worm-like veins on the backs of his hands stood out.

  ‘And you weren’t aware Moire had been in prison, Lucy?’ Diane turned to me.

  The seconds dragged. ‘No.’

  ‘So what has she told you?’ Paul peeped at me from between his fingers. All eyes were on me. What had she told me? What was the truth?

  ‘She believes you murdered Caitlin and the children and she wanted me to get you to confess.’

  Paul went very still. ‘And what did you say to her?’

  ‘I told her it was madness and I wouldn’t do it.’

  I saw his eyes narrow and widen as he weighed up whether to believe me.

  ‘I left her sitting alone in the café the first time I met her,’ I jabbered. ‘And the second time I told her I was breaking off all contact.’

  ‘So you’ve seen this woman on your own then?’ Diane interjected.

  I nodded.

  ‘So you’ve been presented with a range of truth and delusional thinking and you’ve worked through what you believe to be true and come through the other side. Is that right?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That actually sounds very positive to me, Lucy. You have done all that without the active support of therapists or counsellors or indeed your husband, and yet you’ve come to a positive conclusion yourself. I think you should be congratulated for that.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Paul putting his hand on my knee. ‘Thank you… Thank you for believing in me.’ He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. He left a trail of saliva.

  ‘But you’re still having problems trusting Paul?’ said Diane.