by C. J. Cooke
‘Michael destroyed the painting, is that right?’ DCI Lavery prompts. I nod, on the verge of tears. The memory of it almost turns me inside out.
‘Can you tell us why?’
It burns in me, the fact that I told Jeannie what happened. I might have known she would tell someone, use it against me right when it would hurt most.
‘We got a new head teacher at the school where I worked,’ I say, clasping my hands rightly. ‘Scott Renzi. Michael started coming out with strange comments about the way Scott looked at me, where I’d been if I got home five minutes late. I didn’t really think anything of it. Michael isn’t the jealous type. I knew he wasn’t sleeping at the time.’
‘Sleeping?’
I nod. ‘He has bouts of insomnia, usually when he’s stressed. It can be very severe unless he gets medication for it, and even then … Anyway, I made a comment one evening about something Scott said. He’d praised me for something I did at work. I can’t even remember what it was, now. Michael didn’t say anything at the time.’ I’m stammering, my words blending one with another. Nobody speaks. ‘The next day, I got home from work and saw that … he’d destroyed the painting.’ I draw a breath and wring my hands, pained by the memory. ‘I knew that Michael felt betrayed. That in his head I was cheating on him with Scott, that I was going to leave him …’ I start to explain about Michael’s mother leaving when he was little, how I knew this was something he’d never really dealt with, but it all comes out jumbled. ‘Anyway, I knew this was his reaction in the heat of the moment. He’d put the painting in our fire bin and … incinerated it. But when I tried to talk to him about it, he was so wounded and apologetic that I ended up just letting it go. I mean, it was only a painting.’
My voice has tapered to a whisper. I don’t want to talk about this any more. Michael isn’t here to defend himself. It feels terribly unfair, and an agonising reminder of that out-of-body moment when I realised what he’d done.
‘How did you feel about that?’ DCI Lavery asks.
‘I was … bewildered,’ I say, tears beginning to prick my eyes. But the thing is, I know how paranoia feels. I know it can drive you to think something is real when it isn’t. And he was sorry, so very sorry.
I press my hands against my face and start to cry. DC Fields moves to the space on the sofa next to me and places a hand on my back.
‘Forgive me for saying so,’ he says. ‘But that doesn’t sound at all like something a “good husband” would do. It sounds like the work of someone very cruel and manipulative.’
‘He was sorry,’ I tell him, wiping my face. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not like Michael at all.’
I can’t tell him anything about what happened on Mont Blanc. Michael is not a bad person. He was insecure, and out of his mind without sleep. I knew he was sorry for what he did.
‘Everyone has dark colours in their character,’ I say. ‘Michael would never lift a hand to me, never hurt me.’
‘And yet, he attacked Benjamin Trevitt,’ DCI Lavery says.
I can see now why they asked about the painting. To portray Michael as violent. It’s not true.
‘The fight with Ben Trevitt wasn’t long after the fire so I know Michael was under a lot of stress,’ I say. ‘I did try and speak with Ben but he didn’t want to know. He just blanked me. What does that say about him?’
My last remark is a little bitter, I’ll admit, but it’s true. I called the Trevitts after the fight but they wouldn’t answer. I saw Ben Trevitt at the school gates – I remember wincing at the bruise on his face, a horrible black eye – and waved at him but he stalked off angrily. What else could I have done?
But a question has rolled into the room, the missing piece of the puzzle wedging itself amongst the others to form a picture. What if Ben Trevitt had something to do with the crash? Reuben Skyped Josh from the beach hut, I remember that. It was likely that Josh knew exactly where we were staying. He could have told his parents. And when Michael punched Ben Trevitt it was in front of his own son, in front of all the other parents, and I knew from our brief exchanges at the school gates that he had an ego, very Alpha Male …
Was he so humiliated about it that he was driven to take revenge?
28
Michael
20th June 1995
We spend the afternoon at the Mer de Glace, a glacier almost five miles long. I say aloud that it looks like a trail of white feathers winding through black crowns. Luke gives me a slow clap for my poetry while Helen comments on how my description fits the scene exactly. We take a cable car above the glacier to reach an ice grotto, the work of a lapidary. A long, polar-blue tunnel carved into coruscating ice. It is like stepping inside a gigantic blue agate, the walls inside made of quartz instead of ice. And the deeper we get, the architecture shifts to something almost human, almost umbilical, like we are re-entering the womb.
I think better of saying this out loud, given the company I keep.
‘Father Christmas is at the other end, isn’t he?’ Luke jokes as we walk through the tunnel.
‘Do we get to meet Rudolph?’ Theo asks anyone who’ll listen.
We head back to the trail after lunch and spot loads of weird horned creatures eating on a grass ridge.
‘What are they?’ Helen asks aloud, stopping to look at them.
‘It’s like a badger mated with an antelope,’ Luke observes.
‘Chamois,’ Theo says, lighting a roll-up. ‘A species of goat-antelope native to the Alps.’
‘Huh.’ Luke arches an eyebrow at his brother. ‘They dangerous?’
Theo shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t try to cuddle up to one at night.’
Helen coos to the small one that gingerly pads over the rock towards her. Reaching towards a tuft of grass she rips it out and holds it towards the animal. It approaches with its face down and Helen laughs as it takes some of the grass from her hand. Just then, a bigger one – the parent – comes clopping over the stones and we all notice the size of its horns.
‘It’s like the Billy Goats Gruff,’ Theo says.
‘Just watch out for the troll,’ Luke adds. Then, seeing Helen inch closer to the bigger animal, ‘What the hell are you doing?’
She motions to it with another fistful of grass. The smaller one gets closer and I see the bigger animal stamp its feet.
Luke grabs Helen’s arm in a firm grip and pulls her out of the way. I see her wince, as though in pain, though she lets him pull her away from the animal. She shrinks at the look of anger on Luke’s face.
‘You want to get yourself killed?’ Luke shouts.
‘Chill out, babe,’ Theo tells him. ‘You want a smoke?’
Luke stomps off ahead. I notice that Helen is shaken, rubbing her arm.
‘You OK?’ I ask. She flicks the corners of her mouth up but I can tell she’s shaken.
Later, when we stop for a snack, Helen pulls her hair out of its tight bun and tugs her sweater over her head. I notice the spot on her arm where Luke had gripped.
Four long yellow bruises there, spaced close together.
That was why she winced: he gripped a sore spot on her arm.
‘What happened?’ I say lightly.
She pulls her arm to her chest, covers up the bruises. ‘I … I fell.’
‘Fell?’ I say, pulling off my boots to get a stone out. ‘Looks like finger marks.’
Her eyes lift to Luke, who is having a smoke with Theo about ten feet away. His mood is shifting, I can read it. It’s like the anger boils up in him and then has to find a way out. Sometimes it’s by starting a fight, occasionally by getting so drunk he passes out in a doorway, and usually by smoking something that smells too sweet to be wholesome.
‘It’s nothing,’ she says, but as she lifts her sweater to put it back on I notice another bruise on her right shoulder, a black crescent-shaped mark. She traces the direction of my stare, throws her sweater on. Luke stomps over, full of the joys.
‘Hey, sweet cheeks,’ he says to Helen, and she
looks up. Her eyes contradict her smile.
‘Hey. Feeling better?’
He gives a deep inhale, pounds his chest with his fists. ‘Yup. Shall we get going?’
‘Helen hasn’t eaten,’ I say. ‘I was just boiling the kettle …’
He glances at his watch. ‘We’ve got to get going if we’re to make it to the refuge for supper.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Helen says quickly, getting to her feet. I go to protest more but she throws me a look that makes me shut up fast. I swallow back the remainder of my own noodles, put my gear on. Theo and Luke are already ahead, Helen trailing behind.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting to feel sorry for her. Why did Luke force her to come along? One minute he’s all over her and the next he treats her like he doesn’t want her here.
We reach the refuge eight hours later. It’s built on a large outcrop with a glass wall overlooking the massif, affording breath-taking views. Hard to believe we’re still on planet earth. More like Mount Olympus up here. The sun is beginning to sink into foamy cloud, glossing the ridges and crests of the Alps in a beatific gold. We had planned to stay in one of the dorms inside the hut but, this being summer, the place is heaving. The camping area behind the hut is filling up fast so we take our spaces and set up our tents. I don’t mind camping – much cheaper than sleeping in the refuge, though I don’t admit this to Theo or Luke. They could probably afford to buy the place outright.
We encounter some of the people we met at the previous hut: the group of Italians who caught Luke’s attention by speaking loudly about drugs, and the old French guys who told us about the campsite in the first place. One of them looks around a hundred years old, Santa Claus beard, craggy face and teeth that would look good on a donkey. He invites the four of us to join him and his pals for a beer around the campfire later on. Tiresias, he says his name is, which isn’t lost on Theo, Luke and me.
Helen is sharing a tent with Luke and I’m sharing with Theo. We originally agreed to share my spanking new three-man tent purchased specifically for the occasion, and as I help Theo erect the one he’d brought for us – a tiny, inadequate offering that I suspect won’t withstand the harsher winds close to the summit – I feel a flush of anger.
And as I watch Helen climb into the tent, followed by Luke who throws us both a victory salute – he always does this when closing in on a skirt – another emotion catches me by surprise. Jealousy. I am jealous of him.
Get a grip, mate, I tell myself. This time last week you hated her guts. Now you’ve got feelings for her?
I try to tell myself that I’m missing Nina but I know it isn’t that. It isn’t Nina, and it isn’t the mountain air.
It’s Helen.
29
Michael
6th September 2017
I come to. It’s stopped raining but I’m lying on my side in a large puddle in a back alley. Someone’s chucking black bin bags into the dumpster beside me. He stands in front of me, looks down. A big guy in whites. Shouts something that sounds a lot like he thinks I’m drunk and wants me to get out of here.
I roll on to my hands and knees. Blood drips down from my ear into the water beneath me. I lean against the wall, make my way to a standing position. The man is still shouting and gesturing at me to get lost. I see two of him. ‘Barre-toi!’ he shouts, waving a fat hand. ‘Dégage!’
‘I got mugged,’ I mumble, but he picks up a broom and starts jabbing the end of it in my ribs. I double over in agony as he jabs the spot where they kicked me. It feels like I’ve a couple of ribs broken, at least. He pulls out a mobile phone and punches a number into it.
‘Gendarme?’
That, I understand. I look around for my bag but I know it’s gone. He’s phoning the police. I tell him I’m sorry and stagger off.
It’s daytime. I have no idea what time. It looks like people are heading to work. Lots of cars and scooters on the road, lots of people on the pavement. I look down and see the Seine running alongside me. Notre Dame in the distance. The Eiffel Tower. I wish Helen was here. I wish I could tell her. I dig my hands in my pockets, shot through with a need to call her.
But there’s a moment of blind panic. Everything was in my backpack. My passport. All my credit cards, the money I drew out.
My train ticket.
Gone.
I check my pockets again, just in case. Way down in my front pocket I find my phone. There’s a small slip of paper, too, a few coins, about four Euros. With a sigh of relief I see it’s the ticket I bought for Normandy.
The ticket reads 08.46. Have I missed the train? I start heading back to Gare du Nord, scanning the buildings for a clock. Finally I stop a few people and try to recall my French GCSE.
‘Escusez-moi … Um … quelle heure est-il?’
No one will give me the time of day, quite literally. Eventually I spot the screen of a woman’s mobile phone. 08.43 appears in white digits.
‘Thanks,’ I tell her, and hasten my pace to the station.
The train is waiting on platform 4. I have seconds to spare. ‘Pièce d’identité,’ a guard barks.
Another commuter pulls out a driving licence, someone else produces a passport. I hold out my hands.
‘Non … non passport.’
‘Pièce d’identité,’ he repeats, and I’m sweating now, but despite my pleas he stands firm.
The train pulls out of the station without me on it.
30
Helen
6th September 2017
I close the front door behind the detectives, numb with shock. They took the desktop computer from upstairs and my Kindle. I told them I only use it for reading but they took it anyway. DC Fields promised me I could call him anytime if I wanted to chat about anything. All I can think of is that they’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Michael has done nothing wrong. He’s missing, and seriously injured. He is potentially in a lot of danger. But somehow the emphasis seems to have shifted from finding him to pinning blame on him.
My sister’s comment about the painting has fuelled it.
I drag myself back upstairs and crawl into Saskia’s bedroom. I curl up on her pink rug and scream into the fur of one of her unicorn teddies. My grief has converted to white-hot rage. What the hell is Jeannie playing at? I confided in her. When Michael destroyed the painting, I was absolutely distraught. I remember pulling the charred bits of painting out of the fire bin in utter horror. Even then, I believed that he was playing a horrible trick, that he’d burned a different painting and was going to pull out the one he’d bought in Venice. That he’d tell me he was joking. But he wasn’t.
Just then, I hear a noise in the hallway.
‘Helen? Where are you?’
Jeannie. I hear the sound of the front door locking behind her. Then another voice.
‘Hi, Mum!’ Reuben shouts. The buoyancy of his voice is jolting. ‘Is Dad back?’
The question hits me flat in the chest. ‘No,’ I say, and I stumble over an excuse about why he’s not here, but he has seen. His eyes search my face, see that I’ve been crying.
‘When is Dad back?’ he says, looking past me and up the stairs. ‘Where is he, Mum?’
‘I …’
He holds up his iPad. ‘Malfoy’s finished his pirate ship. I want to show Dad.’
‘Who’s Malfoy?’ Jeannie asks Reuben, taking his coat off his shoulders. ‘Isn’t that someone from Harry Potter?’
‘He’s my friend on iPix,’ Reuben says, showing me a drawing on the screen. ‘He’s helping me with my blue whale animation. Is Dad upstairs?’
How badly I want to say yes. I say nothing, and he heads up there, taking the stairs two at a time, calling, ‘Dad! Dad?’
Jeannie and Shane are speaking in low voices, full of affection. I’m still unsettled about their relationship. He’s an academic, or so he says. He wraps an arm around her waist, whispers something in her ear that makes her giggle. He’s light years from the type of guy she has tended to date –
fiery, gorgeous, self-centred, abusive men, usually actors or dancers. Jeannie seems different, too, though I have no doubt it’s just a role she’s playing right now. Gone are the crop tops, pink hair, and slashed jeans. Today she’s wearing a forest-green Hobbs dress and black brogues. Her short red hair is styled and parted to one side, and she’s wearing full make-up: thick mascara, autumnal eyeshadow, glossy red lips. She’s had a manicure, too. How can she think about getting a manicure when my world is falling apart? I struggle to picture the scenario. Popping in a salon to get her nails done while Saskia lies in a coma in the hospital. Chatting to the beautician about the turn in the weather. It’s absurd.
I notice Shane’s boots. Black boots, just like the ones I saw when I came to on the road after the crash. I give a loud gasp.
Jeannie turns to me, sees me standing with a look of horror on my face.
‘Helen,’ she says, walking towards me. ‘Come here. I have something for you.’
She takes me by the hand to the dining room where a display of flowers sits on the table. It’s not a bouquet of roses or lilies, but bruise-coloured thistles, garish strelitzias, bloody-hued poppies, and purple foxgloves that look like open mouths, round with shock. Behind the bouquet I notice the edge of a gold frame. When I see what it holds I gape in abject horror. It’s a framed print of the painting that Michael destroyed and which the police have just questioned me about. The timing is staggering.
I draw a hand to my mouth. Jeannie folds her arms and gives me a sympathetic smile.