Who Did You Tell (ARC)
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me drink again, I started blaming you too, but that was wrong
of me. I could have walked away when I saw you on that bench,
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but I didn’t. I chose to sit down next to you because I wanted
to. Just like I chose to take that can of beer.
And this decision I’ve made now – I’m choosing that too,
and it’s got nothing to do with you, or anything you did or
didn’t do. And it’s got nothing to do with us either, or how we
were with each other. It’s about me and me alone.
This is the end, Astrid. It really hurts me to say that, to
imagine never seeing your face or hearing your voice again. But
I’ve made my decision and it’s final. There’s nothing you or
anyone else can do to change my mind.
The lump in my throat swells. I’m not sure I can read any
more of this, but I have to. I owe it to Simon to read his last
words.
Like I told Mum, I’ve got to cut all ties with my past. With her.
And with you too. I’ve got to make a new start.
What’s he talking about, a new start? My toes clench on the
floor. This sounds more like a break- up letter.
I’ve no idea where you are right now, but I’m guessing there’s
a strong chance you’re in Flinstead, with your mum. I’ve no
idea what her address is – Warwick Road, is it? So I’ve given
this to an old friend of mine from school and asked her to
track you down. I’m guessing she won’t have too much
trouble finding you. Everyone knows everyone in Flinstead,
right?!
I try to swallow. He’s making jokes. Jokes about Flinstead.
This isn’t a suicide note. It can’t be.
Her name’s Laura and we’re together now.
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My fingers grip the paper so tight I nearly tear it.
‘She’s good for me, Astrid. I don’t love her like I love you – I
don’t think it’s possible for me to love anyone that way – but
she’s kind and sweet and she isn’t a drinker and she’s been good
for me. I think it might actually work between us. I really do.
My whole body feels like it’s encased in cement.
But in return for delivering this letter to you, she’s made me
promise I’ll do something for her. Well, a couple of things,
actually. A Facebook friend of hers has shared a post by a young
woman about how she’s still nervous going out on her own
after having her handbag snatched on the street. I must have
read that post a million times, and it’s definitely her, Astrid.
The woman I mugged. Everything fits. The date it happened,
the location. Right down to the bit about some girl with braids
trying to help her. You see, I lied to you, Astrid. I made you
think we’d done it together. It was cowardly of me to take
advantage of your blackout, but I couldn’t handle the guilt on
my own. I needed you to share the burden. The truth is, you
tried to stop me, to pull me off. And you tried to go back to
see if she was okay, but I wouldn’t let you. I wouldn’t let you,
Astrid, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. Luckily, she was
okay, apart from a few cuts and bruises from when she fell.
I’m hoping I can make contact with her and tell her how sorry I
am, how much I regret scaring her like that in front of her kid.
I read that last paragraph again, but the words don’t fully
register. I read it a third time, the meaning slowly sinking in.
The relief, when it comes, is overwhelming. I’m laughing
through my tears. So she isn’t dead. She’s alive and well and
posting Facebook messages. Helen was lying about that too.
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Making me think I’d killed an innocent young mother. The
laughter dies in my throat. How could she? How could she?
Laura also wants me to do one last thing for my mum. Mum’s
been texting her non- stop ever since our row. More of her
emotional blackmail, of course, but this one’s harder to
resist. Tomorrow, it will have been 25 years since my dad died
and Mum wants us to go back to the place in Sussex where we
scattered his ashes into the sea. Seaford Head. A sort of
pilgrimage in his honour, I suppose. It was one of Dad’s
favourite places.
An icy feeling spirals in my chest.
I know it’s just her way of getting me to agree to see her again,
but I’m determined that it’ll be the last thing I ever do with her.
And anyway, I’m doing it for Dad, not her.
The tremble starts in my hands and spreads up my arms,
until my whole body is shaking uncontrollably. What was it
Helen screamed at me in those last few seconds before I
wrenched myself free, when I told her that Simon had chosen
death over her?
I hear her words in my head all over again. ‘He didn’t. He
didn’t! You think you know everything, but you’re wrong! You’re wrong! ’
I fold over my knees, clutching my stomach.
Helen was at Seaford Head with Simon. She must have been
there when he died.
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Monday, 12 July 2019
There isn’t a word for a parent who’s lost a child. There should be, but there isn’t. Children who have lost a parent are called motherless or fatherless. If they’ve lost both parents, they’re called orphans. But I can’t call myself childless, because that’s untrue. That would imply I never had a child to start with. And I did. I had the most beautiful little boy in the world. His name was Simon and I loved him from the very first second I held him in my arms.
They don’t tell you what it’s like, do they, being a parent? They don’t tell you how it makes you feel when your child is sad and trou‑
bled, how you’ll do anything to take their pain away. And it gets even harder when they grow up. If they lose their way, it’s worse, far worse, than your own suffering. Because you can’t make it better any more, not if they don’t let you.
If you knew all that before having them, you might think again.
But that’s nature’s greatest trick, isn’t it, the biological imperative?
Making us yearn to reproduce, filling our fertile years with all that time‑ wasting nonsense.
I’d have been a lot happier if I’d never had him in the first place. I was never really cut out for mothering. I know that now. But the fact is I did have him. And that’s the other thing they don’t tell you, that 287
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whatever your children do, however much they throw it all back in your face, you can’t stop loving them. You might hate what they’ve become but, deep down, they’re still that little gap‑ toothed child you smothered in kisses and they always will be.
Once, a long time ago, I knew how to comfort my darling boy. How to make him giggle through his tears. Oh, I wasn’t dumb enough to think it would never change. I knew he’d grow up, move away. Of
course I did. I just didn’t know how much of him I’d lose. Or how I’d lose myself in the process.
That’s why I’m here. Because I’m lost. They’ve suggested I start keeping a journal. So here I am, sitting at a desk in the library, a nurse watching me from a discreet distance. Journalling. That’s what they call it – one of those silly, made‑ up words. Apparently, it doesn’t matter what I write, as long as I write something. Anything that comes into my head. Nobody except me will read it, they said, although I don’t believe that for a second. There’s no privacy in this place. One of them probably reads it when I’m in the shower, or when I’m in group therapy, which isn’t that dissimilar from an AA meeting. Except it isn’t in a draughty old church and I don’t have to make stuff up.
When he met me at Seaford, I knew. I knew straight away that it
was the last time I’d see him. I wasn’t good for his recovery, he said.
Not good for his recovery! That’s rich, I said. If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead by now. Prophetic words, eh?
But it was what he said next that did it. The words no parent ever wants to hear. ‘I don’t you want you in my life any more.’
How could he say that? How could he take his love away after
everything I’ve done for him? All the sacrifices I’ve made. All the mis‑
ery he’s caused. When a child disowns you, it’s the ultimate rejection.
A million, zillion times worse than being left by a lover or a spouse.
And that’s why I ran towards the edge. I ran because I had nothing left. Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted it all to be over. The pain. The guilt. The worry. The constant ache in my soul. I wanted it gone.
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And although he’d kept on saying I had to let him go, when it came down to it, he couldn’t let me go. He had to run after me and pull me back. Why? Why did you do that, Simon? Why did you try to save
me? I didn’t want to be saved.
I can hear him yelling all over again, feel his hands as they clutched at my jumper, me pushing him away, then losing my balance and
crashing down on my back. And I can feel the vibrations, the ground crumbling under his feet as they scrabbled for purchase, his arms clawing at the air. And then he was gone. He is gone. My boy. My darling little boy. My Simon.
Why didn’t I throw myself after him? That’s what I can’t under‑
stand. All I know is, when I crawled to the edge and peered down, saw him lying broken on the rocks below, the unnatural angle of his neck, I couldn’t do it. I was so wrapped up in my horror and grief. It should have been me lying there, not him.
When a child is gone, they’re gone. They’re gone for ever, and
nothing will fill the gaping hole they leave behind. Nothing.
Blaming Astrid gave me something else to think about. Blaming
Astrid made me stronger because anger is a fuel. It fires you up from the inside and propels you forwards. Stops you facing the grief. Stops you sinking.
But you know what? She could have died a thousand deaths, each
one more gruesome than the next, and it wouldn’t have made a scrap of difference. Not in the end. Because I would still be alive, and Simon would still be dead.
Perhaps one day, when I’m a little stronger, I’ll send her a copy of this journal, so she can understand that just because you imagine your‑
self doing something and enjoy the way it makes you feel, it doesn’t mean you actually want to do it. It doesn’t mean you’re going to do it.
Murder, suicide, it’s much harder than you think.
I’d like to say I’m over all that now. I’d like to say I wish her well, I really would.
But the fact is . . . I don’t wish her well. He loved her more than 289
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me and I can’t forgive her for that. So if, in my head, I’m still killing her for being here when he isn’t, it doesn’t mean that that’s what I’ll do. It doesn’t make me a bad person just thinking about it. It’s normal to have the odd violent fantasy about someone you hate so much that every muscle in your body contracts when you think of them. I mean, everybody does it sometimes, don’t they?
Don’t they?
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Acknowledgements
To come
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Lesley Kara is an alumna of the Faber Academy ‘Writing a Novel’
course. She lives on the North Essex coast. Her first novel, The Rumour, was a Sunday Times Top 10 bestseller.
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