Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  Carefully, slowly, I open the door at the end of the passage, shutting it behind me before I turn on the torch. With a little bit of light, I can see quite clearly that I’m in Carlyle’s bedroom. My eyes widen and focus on the bed; the thing that drove me here in the first place. It’s huge, perfectly made up with an undisturbed quilt. I stare at it, just to make sure. Holding my breath, I silently open the window.

  JULIA

  ‘So? David’s allowed to have a picture of me.’ Murray is holding a photo in front of my face, clasping it triumphantly.

  ‘This picture was taken about four years ago when we went on a picnic. Do you remember that day?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ I take the photograph, stare at it. I was heavier then; rosy and plush. ‘Alex broke that toy car on the way home and howled.’ I smile at the memory. I like it that David has a photograph of me. He kept it in his study.

  ‘So how do you think David Carlyle happened to have this photograph in his possession? Not to mention what else might have been plastered all over his study walls. The Blu Tack was there. Tape and pins too. Evidence of the evidence.’ Murray is breathless, like a kid unwrapping presents at Christmas.

  ‘What might have been on the walls? That’s all you think about, isn’t it, Murray? What might have bloody been.’ The razored comment is only a cover for the anxiety that is starting to build in my stomach.

  ‘Julia. Think. Why would David have this?’ He flicks the picture with his finger. ‘It’s a Polaroid photograph. An instant snapshot.’

  ‘And?’ I say, dizzy with delusion. ‘Perhaps he found it.’ It’s suddenly obvious. ‘He’ll have seen it on the dresser with all Mum’s other knick-knacks and taken it as a souvenir.’ I like it that David wanted a piece of me.

  ‘Julia, concentrate. We’ve never owned a Polaroid camera. It wasn’t me who took this picture. Your mother didn’t come on the picnic. It was just the four of us on that day trip, and none of us took this.’

  ‘Well I don’t know then,’ I whisper. ‘Is it really me?’ I peer up close, hoping it’s someone else.

  ‘It’s you,’ Murray whispers back. ‘And it makes me wonder what the other pictures on his study wall were. Were they of you? The kids?’ He pauses; allows me a breath. ‘Or perhaps Grace.’

  ‘Murray!’ I exclaim with a last shred of hope. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that David had a hit list and I was on it?’ I laugh. I really laugh. ‘The only list of people David has is his patient list. You’re crazy. Crazy and jealous.’ My mouth’s gone dry. ‘Totally mad.’

  I’m not sure if I’m really spinning in circles or it just feels like it. Murray is everywhere at once, swirling round me. ‘Anyway, Ed would have told me by now if they’d found photos of me stuck all over David’s wall. That would just be plain creepy.’ The thought alone stops me spinning and gives me the strength to kick Murray out. ‘Just go. Please. Isn’t there something you can do to get David out?’

  ‘It’s late, Julia. There are procedures to follow and there’s nothing I can do tonight.’

  And like a ghost dissolving through a wall, Murray leaves. Just the whisper of his suspicion still hanging in the air.

  My phone wakes me even though it’s not particularly late. My neck is stiff and I realise that I’ve dozed off beside the fire. ‘Nadine?’ Her number is displayed. For a second, I don’t remember if she’s looking after Alex and Flora, but then I recall tucking them into bed earlier.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Are you OK?’ I don’t answer. I sit upright and muss the tangles from my hair. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I spoke to my friend Chrissie, the psychologist.’ A silence, and I think it’s poor reception, but my phone still shows five bars. ‘We need to talk, Jules. Murray too. Can you meet me in the morning?’

  ‘I have work,’ I say quietly, wondering if this is a Murray-fuelled dream. He has sown the seed of suspicion and it makes me wonder if my whole life is make-believe. ‘Sure,’ I reply when I register the gravity of her voice. ‘Can you come over to Ely during morning break time? We can have coffee.’

  ‘No, Julia.’ My name beds on her tongue before she lets it go. ‘We need to meet at the police headquarters.’

  In all the years I’ve known my mother, I’m sure that she has never lied to me. She is a staunch believer in the truth, and apart from instilling this moral in me throughout my childhood, she also set new foundations of integrity in her foster children.

  This was one of the reasons why she was sent the most difficult kids from the local authority. They trusted her to get on with her work. It’s no surprise then, just as I’m leaving for school, that a social worker comes calling at Northmire. I’d all but forgotten the message I left at their offices.

  ‘I’m Larry Crest from the foster care department. I’m new and doing the rounds getting to know all our foster parents. Mary Marshall, I presume?’ He’s young, eager, and wants to make an impression. He pushes the tiniest glasses I have ever seen back on to an equally tiny nose. It takes less than an intake of breath to lie.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, smiling and extending my hand. ‘But I was just going out.’ I don’t know why I am doing this.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He almost bows. My mother has made quite a name for herself. ‘It won’t take long.’

  ‘No,’ I reply tersely. I stare at my watch, trying to hide my face. He obviously doesn’t know how old Mum is. ‘Brenna and Gradin have already left for the school bus.’ I unlock my car. An image flashes through my mind. Gradin locking on to his sister in a gateway – love at first, then anger. The girl never makes it to school. Then Grace is in my thoughts, naked, bloody.

  ‘It isn’t them I’ve come to see, actually. I’m responding to a phone message that was left at our department. It seemed rather important. Perhaps a private meeting is in order?’

  Flora and Alex rush out of the house and fight to be first to the car. Damn. He stares straight at them, frowns, but says nothing.

  When I look at my two children, I can’t help superimposing the dismal lives of Brenna and Gradin over the top. What hope do they have? What chance of ever having a life one tenth as stable as Alex and Flora’s exists for them? ‘None,’ I say, answering my own thoughts. They are misguided kids. They need me, Brenna because she needs a mother figure in her life and Gradin because, despite his age, he is still a child.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean none. No reason for you to come. Everything’s fine now.’ Larry looks puzzled. I draw him close. ‘Look, there was some trouble between them. Sibling stuff. I was going to ask for more background information, but it’s all sorted now. Better than ever, in fact.’What am I saying? The way Larry’s face is easing and a relieved smile is forming, he’ll be back in his car, crossing me off his list of concerns.

  But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help pretending to be Mum, just to see what she would say if she were speaking. I push my doubts about Gradin’s behaviour from my mind and remind myself again that he’s only a kid, not capable of much at all.

  ‘Hurry up, Mum,’ Alex yells from within the car. He hates being late for school.

  ‘Look, I have to go. But Larry,’ I touch his arm, smile warmly, swallow down all the thousands of reasons why I shouldn’t be doing this. ‘I really appreciate your concern. If I ever need anything, I’ll come straight to you. Trust me, Brenna and Gradin couldn’t be doing better.’

  ‘Well, that’s great. Goodbye then, Mrs Marshall.’ And Larry gets into his car. I wait until he has disappeared from sight before shutting myself in my own car. ‘Oh God,’ I say, head welded to the restraint. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘What, Mum?’

  I turn and clasp Alex’s hand. He is old enough to never miss a trick. ‘Sometimes adults have to tell white lies. I didn’t want to lie to that man but it just came out.’ I grimace, realising I sound like a kid myself.

  ‘You did the right thing. You saved Brenna and Gradin from being taken away.’ He squeezes my hand, being brave, when I know that what
he wants more than anything is to go home. As long as Brenna and Gradin are my responsibility, we’re staying at Northmire. ‘Will Dr Carlyle have to tell white lies so they don’t lock him up in prison for ever?’

  I glare at my son, let go of his hand and start the engine. I’m left wondering what it is that an eleven-year-old sees and I don’t.

  MARY

  Today I am going to tell Julia everything. Everything.

  I test my mouth. Flexing my jaw, I accidentally bite my tongue – a sign perhaps that I should keep quiet.

  I need to practise. I take a deep breath when a nurse walks past. I stick out my hand like she’s a taxi. She turns with an impatient sigh and frown. ‘Yes, Mary?’ They all know my name. They say it a thousand times a day. Then her eyes widen and incredulity sweeps over her. ‘Yes, Mary.’ Amazing, she’s thinking. The one that never speaks has, in some small way, communicated. She’s crouching beside me, hopeful, feeling lucky to be the one who finally gets me to talk.

  It’s like this, nurse, I begin. If you’ve got a while, I’d like you to listen to a story. I wait for her reaction, but she simply tightens her frown, puzzled now, as if I’m wasting her time. She doesn’t seem to hear me. Please, will you help me? Will you help me tell my daughter everything? It’s not like me to beg.

  The nurse says nothing. She just blinks at me, and everything that I want to spill out, everything I’ve ever wanted to confess to Julia crams my head so full that I swear it’s oozing as tears from my eyes.

  ‘Never mind, love.’ And before she walks away, she hands me a tissue.

  Perhaps it was pride that drove David into the café the very next day. I’d not expected to see him for several weeks. But there he was, bright and breezy because he knew that’s what I wanted more than anything – to keep our friendship alive. Anyway, he was the one who’d overstepped the mark.

  ‘Mary,’ he said, and kissed me in front of Abe. A slice of his respect stamped on my cheek. I touched it. ‘Coffee and poached eggs, please. And two pieces of toast.’ He was chipper, happy, and didn’t mention our last heated encounter.

  I stood motionless for a moment. Abe watched the exchange from behind the counter. The swallow caught halfway down my throat and then the relief came. David still liked me. He still wanted us to be friends. The way he’d forced himself on me in his room had slipped into the past and I saw the fog between us clearing as he sat at his usual table. He unpacked his books. I didn’t admit it, but a little part of me was terrified of him.

  ‘Fine,’ I said about the order, but he didn’t hear. David was already brain-deep in revision. I was surprised then – and nervous with guilt, excitement, delight and fear in equal measure – when later he invited me along as his guest to a wedding party.

  ‘It’s a big event,’ he said. ‘A society wedding.’ He didn’t look up from his books, but I knew he wasn’t reading them. He didn’t even turn the page as I stood behind him, wondering what it all meant, why he was inviting me, a waitress.

  A friend of the family, he’d said. A top Harley Street consultant’s daughter, son of a landowner, country house, wealthy guests, publicity . . . it all got mixed up just at the thought of going somewhere with David, at his side, on his arm, as his guest.

  I calculated the risk, the implications of attending such an event with David. If we played it right, if we trod carefully, if we kept a glass screen between us, nothing need go wrong. David was my friend. A good friend. I was a café waitress. I served him tea and we chatted. We were mates, chums, acquaintances. That was what it was, wasn’t it, because if I’d got it wrong from the start, if I’d misread his intentions, then I didn’t think we’d survive another misunderstanding.

  The risk assessment complete, I didn’t hesitate. ‘I can’t wait,’ I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  ‘I want you to meet some people there,’ he said. And then he told me that those people were his parents.

  David and I suddenly became us. I either had to put a stop to this completely, or succumb to what he wanted. ‘Your mum and dad?’

  He turned right round to face me and tried not to smile. He lifted my hands out of my apron pocket and sandwiched them between his. I was self-conscious because they were rough from the washing-up. ‘My mother and father are my parents, yes.’ It was a smile that should have been delivered by an older man, not someone nine years my junior in his first year at medical school. When he was like that – full of confidence, charisma, passion, humour – that was the David I found hardest to resist.

  ‘Silly me,’ and I spun on my heel hoping it would force him to release my hands, but he held on so tight that my shoulder muscles pulled.

  ‘I want to show you off,’ he continued, ‘so make sure you wear something nice.’ Only then did he let go. I scuttled off to the kitchen feeling like Cinderella.

  ‘He’s just a boy. Just a boy,’ I muttered a thousand times as I waited for the order to be cooked. I wrung out a tea towel so that the rope of it burned my palms. ‘Yet I’m playing with a man.’ Nothing could have stopped the rush in my stomach as I delivered David’s breakfast. ‘I’ll look stunning,’ I promised calmly, defying my true feelings. ‘You won’t recognise me.’

  All good weddings take place on sunny days. In truth, summer hadn’t let up for weeks, and someone had been watering this particular lawn, going against the drought regulations. There was a marquee, a string quartet sending delicate notes fluttering between the guests like confetti, flowers jostling in the pre-storm breeze that came most afternoons now, and little girls in crumpled silk dresses which would have started the day perfect.

  The marriage ceremony had only been open to close family and friends. The village church was too small to seat all the guests, and afterwards, the chosen few walked down the leaf-lined sunny lane back to the manor. David, of course, had attended the service and sent a car to fetch me to take me to the reception. I would be returning with him in the morning, after a night in a nearby hotel.

  The words wouldn’t come out – never came out – about separate rooms, about slipping between the sheets together, about me wanting him more than anything despite knowing it was wrong, or about waking up alone. In the end, the decision never needed to be made.

  ‘It’s a beautiful house,’ I said, staring up at the weathered stone. I was getting that feeling. The same one I got when I first moved to Cambridge. I knew it would pass. I just needed some more wine. I threaded my arm through the crook of David’s elbow and knew we looked ridiculous. Older woman – sister, even – vying for a go with the young doctor. I didn’t care what anyone thought.

  ‘The Boseley-Greene family has owned this estate for aeons. All of this crowd come from similar backgrounds. They’re all loaded.’ I imagined he was including his own family in this. He rarely spoke of his parents, and since I’d arrived, I’d been looking out for them. I wouldn’t rush him. We had all evening. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to meet them.

  ‘Rich, then?’ I said, laughing. We ambled through the guests.

  David laughed too. ‘You don’t know. You just don’t know.’ He gave me that older man smile again. I was growing to like it.

  Suddenly, David brought us to a halt. ‘Sarah, Nigel, Vicki, Pete, Tanya . . .’ The recital was endless. ‘I’d like you to meet Mary.’

  And there I was in the centre of a group. They were all young like David, all beautiful, all self-assured, all not like me. I didn’t think they were Cambridge students. I didn’t recognise them from David’s posse at the café, if they were. A dozen pairs of eyes watched me, expectantly. They knew instantly I wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Hello, Mary,’ Sarah had scorched red hair and a gown I swear I’d seen on the front of Vogue.

  ‘Hi.’ I was determined not to feel inferior. I looked good, stunning even. I’d saved my tips and spent them on a cream dress and a hat. The neckline dipped low and a purple corsage matched my shoes. David hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I’d stepped from the car. ‘I’m Mary Mars
hall,’ I added in case they cared.

  ‘Are you a friend of the bride or groom?’

  I wasn’t sure. ‘Bride, I think. Is that correct, David?’ But when I looked round, David was gone. A void where he once was, and when I looked again to double-check, another man had stepped into his place.

  ‘I’m Jonathon,’ he whispered to me. His hair shone like faded copper coins, an unusual touch of red that glinted in the late afternoon sun. ‘David’s best friend from school.’

  I could tell instantly that he was the brother of Sarah, the young woman with the fiery hair. Piece by piece, I was patchworking a life around David. He had always been so evasive when it came to discussing his past.

  It was dizzying, and I was almost as taken by Jonathon as I was by David. I loved the fun of it all – the people, the music, the designer clothes and expensive cars, the backdrop of the manor house. Besides, Jonathon was nice to me while David was gone. He confirmed that he was Sarah’s brother. He held out his hand and I took it. ‘I’m charmed,’ he said. Like David, he was young. Like David, he was fascinating, and I felt utterly beautiful in his company.

  ‘I see you’ve met the enemy.’ David was back, passing me champagne, blinking in the sunlight. ‘Good to see you, Jonno.’ The two of them exchanged a brief handshake, a pat on the back.

  They both wore tailored grey suits, and I soon learnt that their parents used to take holidays together. Jonathon’s father, like David’s, was a surgeon. We chatted, and once or twice, when the conversation turned to me, to my life, to my meagre existence, to my tiny flat, my dead-end job at the café, my failed entry into university, that’s when I skilfully sidestepped and threaded their words back to their privileged existence. I winked at David. I was enjoying being part of this threesome.