by Adele Parks
I’m proven right when Connie passes me a towel to dry off my hair and cuts to the chase, asking, ‘So, how did it go?’ I can’t believe she’s expecting me to offload when Lucy is here. Although I can, Connie seems oblivious to the fact that I still have an issue with Lucy. I suppose she reasons that as Rose doesn’t, I can’t possibly have. She thinks we’re all old friends. That scars have just thickened our skin.
‘Hard,’ I admit. ‘He’s changed.’ Connie and Lucy nod. ‘Where’s Luke?’ I ask, trying, but not expecting, to change the subject.
‘At some design exhibition. He did tell me which one, but I forget,’ replies Connie, dismissively. She immediately returns to what interests her. ‘So, what did you talk about? Where did you start?’
I sigh and decide to bite the bullet. ‘I asked him for a divorce.’
‘What?’ Connie nearly scalds herself as she was pouring the boiling water from the kettle into the mugs and is distracted by my declaration. ‘But why?’
‘Because he almost killed my daughter.’
‘But why now? You’ve known that for three years.’
‘Because he’s about to get out. We need to put things in order. It can’t be a total shock to you.’ This conversation is between Connie and I. Lucy says nothing, although she doesn’t take her eyes off me. She’s taking it all in. ‘You are the one that’s been telling me to move things along,’ I add huffily.
‘Well, to sort things out.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m doing.’
‘But I thought there would be some discussion. A time to see if you could work things out. Give it a go.’
I stare at her, dumbfounded. ‘Isn’t this what you wanted? You set me up with Daryll at your dinner party.’
‘That’s what you think? I’ve had you over for dinner with a number of spare men over the past three years,’ points out Connie. ‘I was just evening up the table plan.’
I search her face. She looks entirely honest. It occurs to me that what she’s saying is correct. She’s introduced me to a dentist, a landscape gardener, a banker and a lesbian trade unionist. I have never left the dinner party with any of them, and there has never been a sense of expectation that I should, or disappointment when I didn’t. Why did I think things were different when I discovered Daryll in her kitchen? Did I project? Did I read more into the situation because of my past with him? I try to remember why I was so sure she was setting me up, that she wanted Daryll and I to be a couple. And anyway, why would it make a difference to me what she thought? I rub my temple. I’m tired. There’s too much going on. I remember that when Daryll took me home, he suggested that, ‘our friends’ clearly thought we would make a ‘lovely couple’. Was that when the idea took hold? I can’t pin this on Connie.
I stare at her. She looks genuinely taken aback. Bemused. ‘Honestly, I was quite surprised when you left with him that night. You’ve never left with anyone before. Not that I’m judging either way,’ she adds in a rush. Connie’s blue eyes are wide, I know she’s desperately trying to say the right thing but unsure of what that is. ‘I knew you were seeing him, but I assumed it was some sort of flirtation. You know, an ego boost. I mean it’s just been a few of weeks. You’ve never been the sort of person to rush into anything.’
By this, Connie means she’s assumed there is no sex involved. She probably thought he was taking me on long edifying walks across Hampstead Heath or maybe we’d had the odd jaunt to an arthouse cinema to watch a foreign film. She has imagined any relationship I might have now would be akin to those I had at uni and in my twenties before I met Simon. She thinks she knows me. It’s true, other than Simon – who I had sex with on our first date – I always waited for months before I got intimate. But I was young back then. Everything was different.
‘But a divorce? So suddenly?’ She seems stumped, sad. She slumps on to a stool.
‘Did you think we’d carry on as normal? That he’d move back in with us?’
‘I thought there might be a chance. I’ve been visiting him throughout, Daisy. I believe he has feelings for you. Honestly, I thought you had feelings for him.’
‘I don’t know what gave you that idea. He’s an alcoholic.’
‘People have feelings for alcoholics!’ she snaps. ‘Why are you always so judgy? Didn’t you ever do anything wrong?’ I can’t answer her. We stare at one another, an angry stalemate that is cushioned by years of friendship and rooted in concern. Eventually she adds, ‘Besides, he’s changed.’
‘They don’t change.’
‘Do you want milk in your tea?’ This question comes from Lucy. Connie and I turn and stare at her. Blinking. She pours milk into all three mugs and then slides them across the breakfast bar. If this was anyone else, I would assume they were trying to helpfully break the tension; I realise that most likely Lucy is simply bored of the conversation.
Anyway, Connie is undeterred. She continues, ‘I hadn’t realised this thing with Daryll was so serious. I mean, you haven’t said much about it.’
‘We’re not still kids. I don’t need to give you a blow by blow account,’ I snap.
Connie looks a bit offended, I sound sharper than I intended but I have to keep her at bay.
‘Would you like to talk about him now?’ Lucy asks.
I jolt with surprise, the hot tea splashes over the rim of my mug.
‘No, I wouldn’t. Since you ask. I don’t think my relationship with him or any other man is anyone’s business but my own.’ Connie stares at me, shocked. I know I’m behaving like a bitch. I’m pushing her away. It’s for the best.
Lucy simply says, ‘I understand.’
‘In fact, I need to go. I’ve just remembered that I have something to do.’
‘What?’ asks Connie. I can’t decide if she’s being polite and taking a genuine interest, or being impertinent and openly doubting that I could have anything better to do than sit here gossiping with her. The fact is, I have a lot to do and if I stay here I might break. I might say more than I should.
‘Things,’ I reply vaguely and stand up, bustle to the bottom of the stairs and call up to Millie. ‘Come on, Millie. We have to leave now.’
‘No time to finish your tea?’ Connie asks.
‘No,’ I reply firmly. It takes Millie a Jurassic age to amble down the stairs, gather up her stuff, put Eric into his travel box and finally head for the door. She so obviously does not want to leave, and keeps breaking off to have conversations with Sophie. By contrast, Connie, Lucy and I wait in silence. I glare at the floor, but I can feel their eyes on me. Penetrating, questioning. It’s a relief when we are on the step and the door bangs behind me.
44
Chapter 44, Simon
All afternoon, Leon begged Simon not to approach the Dales.
‘You’re so close man. Nearly out of this hell hole. Don’t fuck it up.’
But Simon wouldn’t listen, couldn’t hear. ‘There’s nothing for me on the outside. It doesn’t matter anymore.’
‘The Dales, they’re bad news. You know that, yeah.’
He did, but he didn’t care. The Dale brothers didn’t brew hooch themselves, largely because the process was smelly and inconvenient, and they did not want that sort of mess and stench emanating from their own cells. They did, however, decide who could take the risk and then they took a cut of profits made, for granting those cons permission. They also decided who could get access to the drink. The brewers wouldn’t sell it to you without the approval of the Dale brothers. Since Rick Dale had moved out of his cell, Simon had avoided the Dales as much as he could. He’d never gone anywhere near their dining table, their cells; he left the gym if he saw the brothers and their gang walk in; he spent most of his time in the library, a place neither man ever set foot. But that very evening during Association Time he knocked on their door, walked into the lion’s den. A lamb.
‘Hello, Simon,’ said Rick, ‘Long time no see.’
Simon felt uncomfortable that Rick Dale remembered his name, bu
t he should have expected it. They remembered everything. Knew everything. Because information was power. This was yet another grimy reminder of what his life had become; he was on first-name terms with a violent, ruthless killer. He didn’t want to remember that, or anything. He wanted to forget. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’
‘I want a drink.’ Simon wondered if they could hear the fear in his voice, whether that or the desperation shouted the most.
‘Do you now?’
Simon nodded. ‘I need one.’ He did. Needed it. Longed for it. Had to have it. Being sober meant that things were sharp and more audible; since Daisy’s visit, he needed the roar and the blur. No matter what. He missed the bubbly recklessness, the padded landing that being drunk provided. He’d served three years in prison for that woman and she wanted a divorce. OK, she didn’t know he’d served the time for her. Although – and this thought ripped him in half – what if she did know?
What if she had remembered the night and had left him in here to rot anyway?
It was too much to stand. How could he ever be sure? She was a liar. A cheat.
More than once, he had asked Connie what Daisy remembered about the night of the accident, and he’d always been told, ‘Absolutely nothing. She wishes she could.’ But was she screwing him over? Again. What had he done? What had he sacrificed? In the moment he’d made the decision to take the heat there had been some logic to it, some majesty, chivalry even. Seeing Millie’s body sprawled out in the rain; blood and hope running into the gutter had made him think he had to get sober. He knew he couldn’t do that on the outside.
Now he knew he’d been kidding himself. He needed his old mate, alcohol. It was all he could depend on. He was never going to be sober. Inside or out, he was an alkie. So what?
‘Have you got a drink?’ Simon demanded. His voice came out more aggressive than he intended but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. The big man – who accompanied the brothers everywhere – six foot wide and tall, stood up slowly and stepped towards Simon. His stance said he didn’t like Simon’s tone. It was impossible to back down now. Simon took a step towards the giant and squared up to him as best he could.
‘Easy tiger,’ murmured Pete Dale, the older brother. Simon wasn’t sure who was being asked to step down; he was relieved when the mountain of a man stepped back.
‘Have you got a drink that you’d think of sending my way?’ Simon clarified, choosing to ignore the silent stand-off. It wasn’t that he was fearless, he was careless. Drink, the getting and having, had always made him careless and now more so than ever, apparently.
‘It costs,’ Pete Dale informed him. Not money. Well, not just money. Simon knew that much, after three years inside. He’d be made to pay in a myriad of ways. Favours, covers, lies.
‘I’ll pay.’
‘You’re nearly out,’
‘I am.’
‘You could be useful.’
Simon nodded. ‘I’ll need a job.’
Pete and Rick exchanged a look. Eventually, Pete the decision-maker nodded. Rick reached under the bottom bunk mattress and pulled out a quarter bottle of whisky. Whisky. It was too good to be true. Simon had been expecting access to some poxy hooch. Something that was likely to burn his gut but would at least blunt his pain. Rick held out the small bottle.
‘Take it.’ Pete urged.
‘All of it?’ Simon asked, fearful and yet excited. He could imagine the liquid carousing down his throat.
‘Yeah.’
Simon hesitated. That was a lot of whisky. If he took it, the debt would be substantial. Debts were always disproportionate in here. He’d seen prisoners become sex slaves because someone had swapped a work rota. But if he didn’t take it now, if he just turned around and walked out the cell, he’d owe them anyway because he’d asked for something and they’d agreed to his request. Besides, he wanted the drink. He’d be mad not to. Rick shook the bottle, slightly. The amber liquid shimmied. Simon snatched it.
‘Lads, lads, sorry to interrupt.’ It was Leon. He looked flustered, nervous. ‘The screws are cell-spinning. I think they’re heading your way. I just wanted to let you know.’ He threw the comment out, it was directed towards the Dales although Leon was careful to keep his head down.
‘There’s been no word,’ said Rick, suggesting they were usually warned when the screws were planning a shakedown. Everyone cocked their head and sure enough the sounds of irritated yells, heavy boots, sassy comments and sharp put-downs suggested Leon’s report was accurate. Cells were being searched. Flustered, Simon threw the as-yet-untouched bottle of whisky on to the bunk and quickly left, bustling Leon out in front of him. He didn’t see what Pete and Rick did with their contraband, but he guessed the mountain man took it, hid it in his room, or got someone else to take the rap. Someone who owed a favour.
‘Fuck,’ swore Simon, once he and Leon were safely ensconced back in their own part of the block. Their cell had been searched and found to be clean. ‘That was a once in a lifetime offer. They won’t offer me whisky again.’
‘It’s good news. You didn’t drink anything. Another day sober,’ said Leon.
‘Fuck that,’ snapped Simon. He was a man who lived with regrets. When he drank he used to regret whatever had caused Daisy’s silent fury or the unexplained bump, then his regrets escalated. He’d lost his job, Millie, Daisy, his freedom. Right now, all he regretted was walking away from the whisky. What could he do? Suddenly he had an idea, he turned to Leon. ‘Hey, you did them a favour today. Saved them getting caught with anything. Maybe you could ask them for the drink?’
‘Piss off, Simon,’ said Leon wearily. He then climbed on to his bunk, faced the wall and fell silent.
45
Chapter 45, Daisy
Millie isn’t best pleased about being pulled away from playing with Sophie. No doubt she hoped we’d all spend the evening together. So she’s a bit sulky and as soon as she finishes her supper, she scoops up Eric and says she wants an early night. I doubt she means sleep, most likely she’ll be dividing her evening between playing with the kitten and sending outraged WhatsApp messages to Sophie, complaining about the unfairness of life, my unreasonableness in particular. Fine by me. It’s not great parenting, to allow her to be on social media all night, but it’s the path of least resistance and that’s all I’m capable of right now. The hardest thing about being a single parent is that when you are exhausted, either physically or mentally, there is no one to pass the baton to. Ever. Tonight, I just don’t have it in me to try and talk her round or cheer her up by offering a movie night with popcorn. Besides, I have things I need to be getting on with.
I lock the doors. Put the chains on. Close the curtains. As Millie has gone to bed, I don’t switch on any lights or lamps, even when it starts to get dark outside. It’s better if the house looks empty. Daryll said he might come here. Although, he might not; he often says it’s a possibility but then doesn’t show. He likes to keep me on my toes. On edge. If he does come I want him to think I’ve stayed late at Connie’s. I can’t face him tonight. I just can’t.
I pour myself a large glass of white wine. I don’t often drink alone. For obvious reasons. Tonight, I’m grateful for the past-its-best bottle lingering in the fridge. I want to dash, as speedily as possible, into that state when I can’t quite think, feel or remember as sharply. I put on the TV, not that I imagine any of the Saturday night shows will hold my attention. They’re all too buoyant, too loud for my mood. I struggle to absorb their relentless upbeat tone so I put on a DVD instead. I’m probably the last person in the UK to still have a DVD collection, but I find it so easy to sling a little disc into a machine, rather than battle with three remote controls and choose between two million TV channels. I select Roman Holiday. A romantic classic. It’s always been a favourite of mine. I discovered it before I met Simon and that’s useful. I find any old movies that have memories of him attached are a bit too hard. Even comedies like Guardians of the Galaxy are uncomfortable be
cause I remember him dampening the trip to the cinema as he was agitated, keen for a drink and unwilling to sit for a couple of hours without one. Remembering Simon acting like that hurts me. Then, I remember how when he loved the movie his eyes twinkled and his face creased as he laughed out loud, finally got lost in the comedy. Remembering Simon acting like a regular husband kills me.
I press mute and let the film play silently in the background. On the off-chance Millie is trying to sleep, I don’t want to disturb her. Sound travels in our small house; it’s cheaply insulated and sound-proofed. That’s caused me some concern recently. I wonder what exactly, she’s heard. I’ve tried so hard to ensure she’s not disturbed. It’s OK doing without the sound. I’m not planning on watching the movie. I have far too much to do. Besides, I know it so well that I can recite most of the lines. It’s just something to have in the room, to stop the loneliness creeping in. Although loneliness does usually find a way in anyhow, it curls like smoke underneath the front door. Suffocating.
Right, enough. Those sorts of thoughts won’t help. I’m feeling sentimental. Vulnerable. It’s the drink. It must be. I need to remember I was lonely when I lived with Simon too, at least some of the time. It was far from perfect.
I need to get busy. We can’t take much with us. A suitcase and a backpack each. Any more will be too cumbersome. I don’t know where we’re going, where we will live. There’s a possibility that we’ll be moving around for a while, so we can’t drag huge amounts of luggage with us. I need to be ruthless. It’s impractical to imagine I’ll pack anything other than essentials. My first thought was to move to Canada, perhaps somewhere near Simon’s sister. I briefly had this idea that Simon could join us. But that’s madness. How is my sister-in-law likely to greet me if she ever discovers why I had to run? And besides, Simon is on-licence, he can’t leave the country for another three years. He drove our car into our daughter, not something I can forget. We’re not a family anymore. It’s weak and crazy of me to daydream about a happy ending for us. Then I wondered whether we might go to Australia. I have an old friend living out there, Sam and her husband James and their children. They are somewhere near Melbourne. Sam’s Facebook feed it always full of pictures of her kids, playing in swimming pools looking tanned, healthy and happy. It would be nice to go somewhere where I have a contact, a start, not just an absolutely terrifying blank canvas. But I ruled out that possibility too, because Sam is an old work pal of Connie’s, that’s how we met. How can I explain to Sam that Connie mustn’t know where I am? I have to be brave. I have no choice. I must cut everyone completely out of our lives. To keep Millie safe, I have to give up everyone and everything. My friends, my family. I can’t bear the idea that it will be for ever. I can’t think that now. Maybe after some time I could contact my parents and Rose, ask them to keep the secret. I have to be realistic about which country I’ll be allowed to emigrate to. I’ll need to sell the house and have my half of it forwarded on, as most countries that I’m considering need proof of financial independence. I have an estate agent booked to come and give a valuation on Monday. Tomorrow, I’m going to have to do a huge clean up. There’s a lot to do.