Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  I take hold of the chair. I feel dizzy.

  ‘Grace Covatta was pregnant. Perhaps still is pregnant,’ he adds.

  It only takes a second for me to realise he’s lying. ‘Oh. Right. And who said that? Santa Claus?’ I’m not listening to any of this rubbish.

  ‘No, Julia,’ he says softly. ‘David said.’

  MURRAY

  It was juvenile, I know, allowing Julia to believe that I am romantically involved with Rose. It was all Nadine’s work, setting me up on a blind date in a rash attempt to get my life back on track. It didn’t work. A part of me panicked when Julia found us together and I couldn’t resist throwing in the bait to see if she bit. She didn’t. It hurts that she doesn’t care.

  ‘God damn, Nadine, this is all so wrong. Can you name one part of my life that’s right?’ She looks confused, exhausted. A long shift at work has extracted the life from her. I stopped off at the hospital for a bit of sisterly comfort.

  ‘Your beautiful children?’ Of course she was going to say that. I feel a clench of guilt.

  ‘That’s why I can’t bear the thought of Carlyle anywhere near them. Julia has to promise me that she won’t see him when the kids are present.’ I doubt she will ever agree to that. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’

  ‘Then do it,’ Nadine says as if it’s easy. ‘As far as I can see, you have a limited number of options, Murray. First, you can win Julia back somehow and skip off into the sunset with your family. Secondly, you can dig the dirt on the doctor – if there is any – expose him, and hope that Julia sees sense. Or thirdly, you can close your briefcase, get on with your life, see your kids every Sunday and forget all about Julia Marshall once and for all.’ Nadine’s voice gets progressively snappier so that when she mentions Julia’s name, she’s spitting her words on to the floor.

  ‘An exit into happy-ever-after land with my family is very hard to imagine. Forgetting that Julia exists is . . .’ I think, glancing at the ceiling, ‘. . . impossible.’

  ‘Then that just leaves option two. Expose the creep for what he clearly is.’ Nadine peels back the wrapper on a bar of chocolate that she has just bought from a machine. ‘Lunch,’ she confesses. ‘Or maybe it’s breakfast.’

  We walk along the corridors of the hospital. Nadine blends into the walls, the very fabric of the building, with her white tunic, white trousers and soft-soled shoes. She belongs here. ‘Want some?’ she asks. I take a square of chocolate.

  ‘And how’s Julia going to react to that? If what I suspect about Carlyle is true, even in the vaguest sense, Julia’s never going to buy it. Not from me. She’ll accuse me of ruining her happiness. And if it’s not true, if he’s clean, then how can I sit back and watch their happy ending?’

  Nadine stops, turns and faces me squarely. ‘You don’t. You hide your eyes. But for now, Murray, you need them wide open.’ It’s what our mother used to say to us when we were kids.

  ‘So I quit being his solicitor and become a detective. Is that what you’re saying?’ We’re standing near the main entrance where all corridors converge.

  ‘I didn’t say that, did I, bro?’ Nadine gives me one of her false innocent looks. ‘Just don’t forget who I’m married to.’

  Nadine stands at the hospital entrance, teased by the daylight outside. The sky is blue, the frost shimmering across the tarmac. ‘Chrissie’s findings were worrying, Murray, but perhaps only in the light of Carlyle’s arrest.’

  I take over her thread. ‘But considering that he’s been charged with assault, any slips he makes are magnified with suspicion. He couldn’t sneeze without me thinking he had the plague.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m not siding with him, but you need to study the facts clearly. I’m sure there are times when you’ve done things so out of character that if a stranger saw, they’d get the wrong impression of you entirely. Perhaps even label you a criminal.’ There’s a pause as we share a moment’s recollection – the same recollection – that seems to take us a decade to wade through.

  Julia didn’t know who else to call. Nadine had to leave her work. The kids were tucked up in bed at our house and Flora was still so little, she couldn’t possibly be left even for a moment. My memories of that night are largely patchworked together from Julia’s outpourings, Nadine’s calm telling of the tale, and a doctor’s follow-up consultation to convince him I hadn’t lost hold of my senses.

  ‘Really, it was a one-off binge. Stress at work. That kind of thing.’

  ‘But you threw a chair at your wife.’

  ‘No,’ I say, laughing, trying to blow the whole mess back into insignificance where it belonged. Sadly, no one else saw it like that, least of all my wife. ‘The chair wasn’t meant to go anywhere near Julia.’

  ‘But you threw a chair.’

  ‘I was drunk.’

  ‘Then you hurt yourself and knocked over two nurses.’

  ‘Not on purpose. I didn’t mean to break the bottle.’

  ‘But you ended up in hospital having your arm stitched up.’

  ‘Yes, you already know that.’ Covering old ground seems pointless, except to me it isn’t old ground. I couldn’t remember a damn thing about my psycho-binge. I was desperate to know if I’d hurt Julia but she refused to answer my calls and barricaded the front door. She told Nadine she never wanted to see me again. If I’m honest, it was the beginning of the bad times. Before that, we’d never given much thought to my drinking. It was as integral to our lives as changing Flora’s nappy or walking Alex to school.

  They gave me antidepressants for a while; marked up my file so no doctor would ever treat me as a normal person again.

  ‘I’m not the one in custody,’ I say before Nadine can chip me with her thoughts. The clatter of the hospital brings me back to the present.

  ‘Assaulting NHS staff is taken extremely seriously. Essentially, your medical file may not look that different to Carlyle’s police file.’ Nadine has her work voice on. Soothing yet firm, tolerant yet persuading.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, shocked she’s comparing me to a suspected criminal. ‘It was all an accident. All because of the drink.’

  ‘Perhaps Carlyle has a similar excuse.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ I say. ‘He just says he didn’t do it. Calmly and consistently. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re siding with him. Surely you want him locked up as much as I do.’

  ‘Of course. I’m playing devil’s advocate, Murray. Besides, I don’t think anyone wants him put away more than you because no one wants their family back more than you do.’ She stuffs the foil wrapper into her pocket and glances at her upside-down watch. ‘Look, all I’m saying is be careful. You’re treading a thin line between being a lawyer and a vigilante. Don’t confuse the two. And whatever you do, don’t act desperate with Julia.’

  I agree, nodding, pausing as we wind things up.

  ‘Julia has a theory,’ I say before we part. ‘That I suspect David is somehow connected to Mary in a bad way. Sinister is the word she used to describe it.’ I wait to see if Nadine agrees, if she thinks the same. It’s just a hunch, after all, but she says nothing. ‘If I’m honest, Nadine, Julia’s right. I do think that.’ When she stares at me blankly, her eyes dissolving from tiredness, I say, ‘Go home, sis.’ I give her a kiss on the cheek. She’s done enough for me.

  Nadine reanimates and fishes a pen from her pocket. She jots a number on my hand. ‘Chrissie Weaver,’ she says. ‘And remember, eyes open.’ Then she turns and walks off to her car.

  Chrissie Weaver is younger than I expected, but as she rattles through her qualifications, along with all the prestigious places where she’s worked, I become seriously impressed. I’m buying her lunch. An expensive lunch. It’s her day off and it’s the least I can do seeing as she has given half of it up for me.

  ‘I shouldn’t have this,’ she says, tapping the file. ‘Least of all be showing it to a stranger. But,’ she sighs, ‘Nadine’s been a friend for ever, and when she told me her brother needed a favour, well, I couldn�
�t resist.’ She shrugs her shoulders and her eyes sparkle. This is obviously exciting for her. I wonder just how much Nadine has revealed.

  Chrissie is attractive and no doubt incredibly smart because she then tells me about a list of awards she’s won for her psychiatric research work. ‘I just adore it,’ she says as if she’s talking about a boyfriend. ‘When I get home at night I just want to be back at work. I take my laptop to bed with me. Most girls would be shopping on their day off. Me, I’m working on a research paper this afternoon.’ No wonder she refused the wine I ordered. In solidarity, I only pour myself a small measure.

  Over the next half-hour, I hear all about her dedicated lifestyle and commendable work ethic and how another promotion is just around the corner, all the while pretending to appear interested when what I really want is to get my hands on the file marked Mary Marshall. It’s tucked neatly inside a stripy canvas bag that rests beside Chrissie’s feet. I salivate, and it’s not because of the forty quid’s worth of food that’s just been placed between us. ‘What are you researching?’

  She smiles, helping herself to a langoustine. She cracks its back. ‘Communication in dementia patients. Everything from Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s to CJD.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I reply with a good dose of pretend enthusiasm. It doesn’t occur to me immediately. The wine is good and I study her over the rim of my glass. I don’t like doing this, I really don’t, but I have to. Flirting doesn’t come naturally, not unless it’s with Julia. ‘Such a serious subject for a beautiful young woman.’

  ‘Not that young.’ She laughs, and pops the pink flesh between her teeth. ‘I just look after myself.’ She’s enjoying herself and that’s exactly what I want.

  ‘But still too young for an old bloke like me.’ Thank God I found this shirt; the one that vaguely suggests I have a sense of taste. ‘Just kidding,’ I add so she doesn’t think I’m a total creep.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Her pupils flicker large, then small, sizing me up, and for a moment I think she means it. Briefly I feel like Carlyle. Powerful, respected, dominant, and it gives me a bit of a rush. Then it strikes me. ‘Does your research work include . . .’ What was it? I think. What did David call it when he brought Julia and Mary back to Northmire? ‘. . . whatever illness Mary Marshall has?’

  Chrissie steals another langoustine. ‘These are totally delicious. I’m going to reek of garlic.’

  ‘We’ll reek together,’ I say and really wish I hadn’t. ‘So does Mary have the kind of illness that you’re studying?’

  Chrissie lays down the langoustine husk and sucks her fingers. ‘Sorry,’ she grins and peers at me over chunky-framed glasses that are way too big for her face. ‘When I looked through Mary’s file, there was nothing to suggest that she had any actual pathological disease at all.’

  ‘Vaso something. Some kind of dementia that showed up on her MRI scan results.’ And we both chant it together: But there weren’t any MRI scan results.

  ‘You don’t mean vascular dementia, do you?’ Chrissie’s tucking into the bands of squid heaped under a drizzle of scarlet sauce that nearly explodes my mouth. ‘I love Thai food, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ And if my lips weren’t still tingling, I would lean across the table and kiss her right on the mouth. ‘Oh yes to both of those, I mean. Wonderful food and vascular dementia. That was it. That was Carlyle’s reason for having Mary hospitalised.’

  Chrissie shrugs, more interested in the free lunch than solving my mystery. ‘It’s very odd, don’t you think, that he offered to pay for Mary’s private treatment. The Lawns is incredibly expensive.’

  I pull a face. In every way, she’s right. But she doesn’t know the relationship between Julia and David. It’s odd on every count. ‘Strange indeed, although that’s what’s happened.’

  ‘But David Carlyle doesn’t seem to be paying the bill, does he? His name’s not on the account.’ This I already know. ‘And neither does there seem to be a need for treatment for vascular dementia. Not if Mary Marshall doesn’t have it, and especially not at The Lawns, which, as we all know, deals purely with psychiatric patients.’ Another mouthful stifles her next suggestion. ‘What about getting Mrs Marshall another MRI scan? A second opinion?’

  Hands up, I know she’s right. I stuff my fingers into the napkin, wiping off sauce and garlic. ‘And round and round we go.’

  ‘Suck them,’ Chrissie says, winking behind the thick lenses of her spectacles so that her eyes look like giant clams. It’s then that I know she’ll do anything I want.

  The boat stinks. Diesel, river sludge and stale spaghetti bolognese from last night’s micro-meal blend together to make a perfect scent for my mood. An expensive lunch and Chrissie still hasn’t given up the file.

  ‘It’s not much,’ I tell her. Excuses would be futile. I’m a man living alone. There is a certain expectation of slobbishness. ‘But it’s home.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ she says. ‘You should see my flat. Four straight walls within four straight walls within four . . . You get the picture. This is so . . .’

  ‘Grotty?’

  ‘Romantic.’

  I must be careful. Remember Nadine’s words. Eyes open. ‘Tea?’ Julia would want tea now.

  ‘Sure, but I can’t stay long.You can take a look at the file while I drink tea but then I have to go.’ She says it as if I’m a naughty schoolboy allowed to have a couple of sweets. Only a couple, mind.

  I jiggle the kettle. Just enough water. I try to light the stove. ‘Sorry. Out of gas. Juice?’ My plan to buy time is not going well.

  ‘Really, I’m fine. Take a quick look at the file and then I’ll be off.’ She’s nervous about handing it over, I can tell.

  ‘Why not leave it with me? It’s no trouble to drop it back at the hospital in the morning.You can trust me, you know, I’m a lawyer.’ I grin and hope that Chrissie sees the joke. She just stands still, looking worried.

  ‘I’ll wait.’ She settles down on the single chair by the fold-down table and taps away at her mobile phone. I end up dropping on to the beanbag with Mary Marshall’s file resting on my legs, wondering how I’ll ever make sense of all the medical jargon. A bottle of wine at lunchtime, even to an experienced connoisseur like me, tests my alertness score. But not so much that I can’t whip up a plan to harvest the file for my own private use. A manila file is a manila file. My boat is littered with them from the office. Clients work their way into my private life any way they can.

  ‘Nature calls,’ I say. Chrissie doesn’t look up from her phone or notice that I take Mary’s notes into the tiny washroom along with Mr A. Barrett’s file on a case he’s sure to lose, whatever I do. I swap the contents around and tuck Mary’s papers behind the shower curtain before returning to the cabin.

  ‘You know, I fancy some fresh air. Do you want to sit out on the deck with me while I read through this?’ I wave Barrett’s file in the air. Chrissie thinks it’s Mary’s. This is going to take some doing, but I’m up for it.

  ‘Oh that would be nice. I can watch the moorhens.’ Chrissie wraps her scarf around her neck.

  Perfect, I think, leading the way. As we mount the slippery deck, I hold my breath and waste no time in falling overboard with the file clutched to my chest. The last thing I see as I go under is Chrissie’s mouth open, screaming, as she lunges for the precious file. Then I screw up my eyes in the murky water, doing exactly the opposite to what Nadine told me.

  MARY

  When I opened my eyes, David was standing in front of me, accepting my offer to dance. Pure pleasure. Pure excitement. He was forbidden fruit and this was the next best thing.

  ‘Where’s Jonathon?’ I asked, glancing around the hut. In the seconds that I had closed my eyes, it was as if my entire life had changed. I laughed provocatively, nervously. I was alone with David. His body appeared twisted and enlarged in strange places, as if I was looking at him in one of those fairground mirrors. Sense didn’t tell me it was the lude. Sense had long gone.


  ‘He walked back to the party,’ he said. I think that’s what he said. Didn’t he want to play any more? I asked, but nothing came out.

  ‘Can you dance the quickstep, then?’ Some things are clear. Others are as if they have been dipped in melted toffee. I felt as if I had lost my bones. ‘Have you got them?’

  David frowned. ‘Got what?’

  ‘My bones.’ And then I heard my silly words echo down a long corridor that spanned the entire stretch of my life. David took hold of me and we danced. There was no music. ‘I feel sick,’ I confessed.

  ‘That’ll be all the booze you’ve had,’ David whispered, but then handed over his hip flask. I wanted to tell him he was bad; that he should be looking after me, but when I opened my mouth to protest, nothing came out. I was on the inside of a merry-go-round, watching out-of-control horses gallop past. David and I were suddenly riding the horses, the pair of us speeding up, everything spinning faster and faster. I wanted to tell him that I loved him.

  ‘What you need to do,’ David suggested with heavy eyes, ‘is take another lude. It will cancel out the alcohol, for sure.’ He plucked another pill from the envelope and popped it between my lips. ‘Steady, baby,’ he crooned. ‘Down it goes.’ I relaxed and dropped on to the sofa. He would look after me. He was going to be a doctor.

  Minutes became hours, or the other way round. The rain beat on the tin roof of the hut. I remember because it sounded the same as the beating inside my head. Nothing was real, yet everything was so vibrant, I could hardly bear it. Even my clothes became too much of an irritant to my sensitive skin.

  ‘Undress me,’ I said, slurring. David looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language. Undress me, I screamed, pulling at my clothes. It hurts. But it wasn’t a scream at all. It was a useless cry in my head that no one heard. I rubbed at the layers of my new dress and pulled at the shoulder straps. Then I started laughing. I wasn’t wearing any clothes. I was already completely naked. Wasn’t I?