by S. E. Lynes
Jim is sitting by the open back door, sipping from a can of lager and holding his cigar outside. He has finished fixing and painting for the day, including making good the hole in the kitchen wall, and has had a bath and changed into a blue shirt and jeans. Nicola is upstairs doing homework and Graham is out, as usual.
For a moment, Carol says nothing, wanting only to look at Jim for a second longer before he sees her looking and changes that tiny bit. Just the sight of him brings her a feeling of peace. She forgets for a moment about Graham and Ted and all the rest. Jim has been here for five precious days and what she is about to say makes her chest hurt. It will spoil everything they’ve had but she has to say it, she knows that. Because while Jim is here, her son is lost. She cannot lose her son. She cannot. And so … this will be her last evening with a man who has shown her something so simple: that love can be kind and slow and free from fear. That he doesn’t know what she’s about to say, that he is held in this quiet calm before she says it, makes her feel terrible, but it’s nothing compared to the thought of actually telling him. He must know they have to talk, that things have been difficult, but he will not expect to be told to go and not to come back, not after all his kindness. It isn’t fair. Of all the punches she has taken, this is the hardest. And she’s the one giving it.
He must sense her standing there, because he turns to her and smiles lazily. That smile. She could drink a pint of him and still be thirsty.
She sits on the chair nearest his. ‘Not exactly Butlin’s round here, is it?’
‘Believe it or not, darlin’, it’s actually worse on the rig.’
The house will be so empty after he’s gone, emptier than before. And less safe.
‘At least you won’t have to put up with us band of gypsies on there.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she searches his face for a reaction. She can’t seem to get to what she needs to say.
‘It’s the peace at night I’m looking forward to.’ He squeezes her hand and winks at her. ‘I’m starting to feel violated, to be honest with you.’
‘Give over.’ She laughs, reassured that he can joke about their lack of love life. He has waited for her, has not minded that she’s had nothing to give him. And soon he will know that his patience has been for nothing. Her eyes fill.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, wiping at her cheeks. ‘I’m a bloody wet weekend.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ She hears him take a swig from the can. ‘You might be a wet weekend now – which you’re not, more of a very nice weekend with a few showers – but it’ll be clearing up by Tuesday, and before you know it, you’ll have sunny spells on Friday … Oh, for fuck’s sake, what am I talking about?’
She makes herself face him, sniffing, laughing. ‘But you could have anybody.’
‘Oh aye, that’ll be right. Wanted: hairy divorced roughneck with beer belly, available only half the time for DIY and dodgy romantic gestures involving kilts.’ He stands up, does a muscle-man pose and pushes out his stomach until he looks pregnant.
She smiles. He always tries to make her smile, as if that’s his main aim in life.
‘But I’ve got no job,’ she says. ‘And two kids. And our Graham …’
‘Well, having a job isn’t everything. Mine’s already ended one marriage for me.’
‘I can’t ask you to take us on. It’s too much.’
‘Oh, come on.’ He pulls her up from her chair and holds her. ‘I mean, don’t let it go to your head or anything, but don’t forget how beautiful you are either, OK?’
She sobs into his chest. Her shoulders shake. Jim keeps her close, says nothing.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says finally. ‘But it won’t work, love. I think you know it too.’
‘What?’ He pushes back. His blue eyes are broken glass.
‘I’m so sorry. I can’t … This can’t work with our Graham as he is. He’s only just had to leave his dad. I can’t ask him to accept another.’
‘I’m not trying to be his dad, Carol. I would never do that.’
‘I know. You’re lovely. You’re too lovely, I’m not used to it. Sometimes I don’t know how to be with it. But we’re not just friends, are we, even if we haven’t … and Graham’s not stupid.’
‘But you said he was out of sorts before I even got here.’
‘He was. But he’s got worse, much worse. There’s something else; I can’t put my finger on it. Something not right. He won’t look at me, he won’t speak and now he’s not coming home nights. It’s all too soon.’
Jim rips off a piece of kitchen roll, hands it to her and sighs.
She presses the tissue flat to her eyes and hides there. After a moment, he takes her hand and leads her through to the lounge. With his arm around her shoulders, he sits with her on the sofa.
‘Shh,’ he says. ‘Come on, now.’
She sniffs. ‘It’s just that Ted was … I mean, what I’ve told you is only a small bit of it. It was every day. I was scared stiff every day for years. This … with you, I mean, it isn’t what I’m used to. It’s too much … it’s too much kindness and it’s not that I don’t trust you, I do, but I don’t trust it, do you know what I mean? The kindness. I keep waiting for you to turn nasty, which is terrible, I know, and it’s not your fault. I keep thinking I’ll say or do something wrong.’
‘What could you possibly do wrong?’
‘I don’t know! I never did know. One minute it’d be all smiles and the next he’d have his hands round my throat.’ She thinks of Jim punching the wall, the hole he made, the violence that’s in him too. ‘You’re too kind, love,’ she says.
‘No such thing.’ He strokes her hair. She moves her nose under his arm and smells washing powder, men’s deodorant and sweat. She inhales it, holds it in her chest like smoke. He pulls his arms tighter and rests his lips on the top of her head. Together they slide, in little surrenders, until they are lying down.
‘I’ll go in the morning,’ he says softly. He is still stroking her hair.
* * *
Carol wakes to the creak of the living-room door. Graham is standing over her, eyes flashing with accusation.
She sits bolt upright, still groggy with sleep. Behind her, she hears Jim stir, groan as he too wakes.
‘Hiya, love,’ she says to her son, who shakes his head and disappears.
She jumps up, follows him through to the kitchen. Wiping her cheeks, she grabs for the kettle, fills it. ‘Must have fallen asleep,’ she says. ‘What’ve you been up to?’ There is nothing she can do but this: start again from scratch every time she sees him, hoping that eventually he will want to start again too.
But he shrugs, eyes glued to the floor. ‘Out.’ He looks up, glares at her, a lip curl worthy of Billy Fury.
She’s about to tell him off about the hours he’s keeping, point out that looking at her like that gets none of them anywhere. But Jim is in the lounge, and besides, she doesn’t want to put any more aggro between herself and her boy, not now. You have to pick your battles, and he is almost a grown-up. Oh, but he is still a child, a child who has been through too much.
She is about to speak when she hears Jim’s shoeless tread on the stairs. Graham is still looking at the floor.
‘Jim’s off tomorrow,’ she says.
‘So?’
‘So, that’s it. He’s helped us and now he’s going. He won’t be back. It’d be nice if you could shake his hand and at least say thanks, seeing as we won’t see him again.’
Graham looks up, meets her eye. His curled lip becomes a sneer. It tightens the barbed wire already in knots around her heart.
‘Nice,’ he scoffs, and shakes his head.
She knows better than to respond. And anyway, her son has already turned his back on her. He is already heading up the stairs. A moment later, she hears him go into Nicky’s room – to check on her, she thinks. She has no idea what comes next, other than that by tomorrow evening, she will be facing all of it, all of it, alone again.
Twenty-Seven
Jim is on the doorstep, his kitbag over his shoulder. The sun is not yet up. Behind him, a black cab rattles. This is not real, she thinks. This is not fair. This can’t be it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.
‘Don’t be. I’m gonna stay with our Tommy a few days. Be good to catch up.’ He touches her arm lightly. ‘We’ll keep in touch, eh? Never know how things are going to work out.’
He should be angry, she thinks. He should be shouting at her, telling her she’s a time-waster.
‘I can’t ask you to wait,’ she says. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘I won’t. I just won’t put too much energy into looking elsewhere.’ He puts down his bag and takes both her hands in his. ‘I’ve left my number. Give us a call when you get a phone, OK? When you get straight. No crime in talking, is there?’
‘You’re too good, Jim MacKay. Too kind.’
‘Told you, no such thing.’ He kisses first one hand, then the other. ‘Maybe I’m just like you. Maybe we’re both just held together with tape, eh?’
She nods. ‘You’ll miss your train.’
He lifts her chin and kisses her on the mouth. She doesn’t stop him. Not like Graham will see; it’ll be hours before he gets out of bed. And even if he did by chance look out of the window, he’s already broken into pieces. She’ll pick them up later, try to put him back together. This moment is all she asks.
‘Tell Nicola,’ Jim says, ‘if she doesn’t get that merit prize, I’ll be down to the school to bang some heads. And tell Graham … tell him to look after his mum for me, OK?’
She wipes at her eyes. Sadness is usually mixed up with something else. Not today. She wonders if she’s ever felt it as purely as she does now.
He picks up his bag, draws his finger down her cheek. ‘Look after yourself, Carol.’
* * *
As if to prove a point, that evening, and the next, Graham stays home. When they cross in the kitchen, he doesn’t talk but at least he’s there, where she can see him. He’s eaten his tea two nights straight, and tonight he’s even come down to watch a bit of telly with her, albeit in silence. She misses Jim, misses him terribly, but she doesn’t try to talk to Graham. For now, it’s enough that he’ll sit in the same room as her. She’ll try in a few days, when she feels him thawing out a bit. Besides, she hasn’t the strength to try to get inside his head. Not just yet.
‘Listen, it’s getting after eleven,’ she says. ‘I might head up the wooden hills, eh?’
Graham shrugs, puts his cigarette to his lips.
‘Night then,’ she tries, fighting the sadness in her chest. She’s about to ask him if he’s OK when a banging sound comes from the front door. Her heart leaps into her throat.
‘Who can that be?’ She meets Graham’s wild brown eyes. He is already standing up.
‘I’ll go,’ he says. ‘You s-stay in h-here.’ He makes for the living-room door. The material of his T-shirt and jogging pants seems suddenly very thin.
‘It’s probably some neighbour or other,’ she calls after him. ‘Look through the letter box before you open the door.’
The banging comes again, louder. It couldn’t be Jim, could it? But even as she has the thought, she knows it cannot. Jim is at Tommy’s. Or halfway back to Scotland by now.
She follows her son into the hall, watches him crouch, peer out of the letter box. He stands and, without looking at her, opens up. The loud click of the door latch. Low voices. Graham in the door frame, gesturing as if to show someone in. A flash of silver. Black. Chequerboard-striped cap. The bark of a police radio.
A uniformed policeman is stepping into her house. Behind him, in a dark overcoat, another man.
‘Mum,’ Graham says, all trace of meanness gone. ‘They w-want to t-talk to you.’
‘Come in,’ she says simply, pulling her cardie tight around her.
Graham heads for the kitchen. The black uniform follows, then the dark overcoat. She lets them go ahead of her, their dark hulks filling the hallway. A second later, the strip light blinks into life. She steps into the kitchen after them, hand to her forehead to shade her eyes. Black uniform, peaked cap, big black shoes. Dark overcoat, balding head, hangdog face. They fill the room. Outside, the sky too is black. They are all reflected in the curtainless windows: her, Graham and two coppers in her kitchen. Like a picture.
‘This is Carol Morrison,’ says Graham.
They all have their eyes screwed up against the white glare of the light.
She takes a step further into the kitchen, relief coursing through her. ‘No, love. I think you might have got the wrong house. I’m Watson. Carol Watson.’
The dark overcoat checks his notes.
Morrison. Black and silver uniform. Carol Morrison. Morrison. My God, it is her. That’s her name now. The one they gave her. That’s her name here, in this life.
‘I beg your pardon, love,’ she says quickly. ‘I am Carol Morrison. I’m not thinking, sorry.’
‘That’s quite all right.’ Dark overcoat speaks whilst the uniform moves from foot to foot, as if the floor is hot beneath his big black kicking shoes. ‘Your former neighbour, Pauline Wilson, was able to provide an address.’ He checks his notepad. ‘Can I confirm that your married name is Carol Watson? Formerly of 22 Coniston Drive, The Lakes Estate?’
She feels for the worktop. ‘Is it Ted? Has he done something? Is he in trouble?’ The policemen are both looking at her as if they’re waiting for something. ‘I’m sorry, yes, I am. I mean, that was my address. They gave me a new name, you know. We had to … Call me Carol, anyway; I can’t be doing with Mrs.’
‘I’m DC McGann,’ the overcoat continues. ‘And this is PC Price.’ The uniform clasps his hands in front of him and looks at the floor. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
She lowers herself into a chair. Graham stands behind her. His hands are warm on her shoulders. She pushes the ball of her thumb to her chest, to try to ease the pain that has started there. She smiles at the policemen. She has a peculiar feeling – like she’s about to go under anaesthetic.
‘Mrs Watson? Carol?’ DC McGann is talking to her. He’s sat down too and is resting his hands flat on the table. She doesn’t recognise him for a moment. He looks up, meets her eye. ‘I’m afraid I have to inform you that in the early hours of this morning, the body of a man was found outside the Grapes Inn on Halton Road, Runcorn.’
‘The Grapes.’ She studies her hands spread out on the table: chapped skin, chipped nail varnish, raised veins running like tree roots. ‘That’s Ted’s pub. Was he drunk?’ She looks up at DC McGann. His eyes are shiny and dark, like the peat puddles she saw once on a walk, she can’t think where. ‘You can tell me, you know. He was drunk, wasn’t he? Been fighting? Wouldn’t be the first time.’
DC McGann shakes his head. ‘Mrs Watson. Carol. The man we believe to be Mr Watson … your husband … is deceased. We cannot confirm the identity or cause of death at this stage, but if you could answer a few questions, it would be very helpful to our inquiries.’
‘Deceased?’ She puts her shaking hand to her mouth. ‘Dead, d’you mean? D’you mean dead?’
Graham’s hands leave her shoulders, though she senses he’s still behind her.
‘We apologise for the delay in notifying you but it took us some time to trace you.’ DC McGann moves on his chair. It scrapes on the floor, loud in the silence. His eyes are lighter, now that she looks at them properly – chestnut, kind eyes, animal eyes. ‘Carol, we believe you’re separated from your husband, is that correct?’
She nods.
‘This is difficult, I know, but did your husband have any particular distinguishing features that would help us to establish his identity?’
She clears her throat. ‘He’s got an appendix scar on his belly and another scar on his knee from a cartilage operation.’
He writes down everything she says on a notepad. She watches his upside-down handwriting grow across the page. ‘Left or right?’
> ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Delamere Forest. That’s where we saw peat puddles. With my dad, when I was a girl.’ She laughs. ‘God, I haven’t thought about that in years and of course my dad’s no longer …’ The table blurs into a single shade of beige.
‘M-Mum, wh-what are you g-going on about?’
‘Sorry, love, I—’
Graham makes a strange noise. She knows she’ll remember it for the rest of her life, this noise, like the howl of a wild beast. She knows she’ll remember it and remember that she knew immediately that it was coming from her son. She turns on her chair and holds him around the waist, presses her head into his stomach.
‘Wh-what have we d-done?’ he says, his stomach muscles tense against her ear. ‘What have we f-f-fucking done?’
‘At this stage, we don’t have a formal identification.’ DC McGann’s soft Scouse accent. ‘I need to ask you to come with us to identify the body. We can do it now, or in the morning if you prefer.’
She finds herself to be in a kitchen in the middle of the night. Graham is striding towards the back door. The chairs slow him. He shoves them under the table as he passes.
‘Graham, love,’ she says. ‘Where are you going?’
The tips of his ears are red. He won’t look at her. ‘Out.’
But the uniformed officer is by the back door. He’s somehow showing Graham back to the table.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here, son.’ He pulls out a chair. Graham sits down, beaten, and so quickly, as if he never wanted to go in the first place. He covers his face with his hands.
‘Graham,’ she says gently.
He draws his hands from his face and looks into her eyes with disgust. ‘We did this. If we hadn’t left him …’
‘All right, lad.’ DC McGann’s pencil hovers over his notepad. ‘You’re in shock. That’s understandable. But let’s wait until we have more information, eh? Can you tell us where you were last night?’
‘He was here,’ Carol says. ‘With me.’