Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  Mary, are you OK? Someone was talking to me.Was it my mother bending over me, stroking my brow? How would she know where I was? I’m fine, I replied, wondering if she could hear me. I’m just taking this sweet, sweet trip on ludes.

  David was right. It felt good. Better than good. Nothing bothered me while everything ripped me apart. I knew I could fly. I wasn’t Mary Marshall any more, and that, for the first time in my life, made me feel special.

  Mary, are you sure you’re all right? Perhaps it was my father, pleased as punch to see his daughter in such esteemed company. A doctor, Mary. My, you are doing well for yourself. But it wasn’t my father. Dad? I asked into the void, helpless as a baby. Then everyone I’d ever known zoomed around me like colours on a spinning top. My eyes stretched wide as an album of my life flashed through the rickety shed. They all left their message of sympathy; all joined in the dance beat out by the rain; all screwed up their faces in shock. Have we been washed away? I heard myself ask, but no one replied.

  Then I was struck by pain.

  It took a hold of my heart and my mind and my body in equal measure and darkness pushed over my face. The first sting fell on my cheek. It came and went so quickly, it was only when the next one arrived that I remembered the first. I touched my face, smarting from the slap.

  ‘David?’ I asked. The fear was too slow coming. I simply didn’t believe it.

  Suddenly my neck was cracked back against the dirty sofa and I had to open my mouth wide so the skin on my throat wouldn’t split. I screamed but nothing came out.

  ‘Da . . . vid . . . no . . .’ Fresh air whipped against my stomach as David’s clever doctor hands ripped chiffon and lace from me that I already thought had been removed. I was confused. Time and reality skidded around me. I sent my arms to fight him off but they lay lifeless on the floor. I laughed. I can’t feel my arms. All I could see was the cobwebbed wood of the hut’s ceiling. A single bulb hung darkly from a central beam. The only light in my world was from the brightness of David’s pills.

  ‘Jonathon, Jonathon.’ I called out for help. I tried to lift my head, but the weight of it was too great. ‘Help me, Jonathon.’ No one, yet everyone, replied. Even the confusion was confusing.

  Jonathon’s gone . . .

  I vomited and coughed, choking for my life. Suddenly I was on my front, face pressed to the musty boards in the stain of my own sick. David was thumping my back. He was trying to help me. He’d seen me choking and was trying to help me. A moment’s lucidity. Maybe he wasn’t going to hurt me at all.

  ‘Please stop,’ I begged, but the taste of dust and grit choked me again. Then there was a great weight on my back and a pressure on my head so that my cheek was scuffed into the dirty floor.

  Someone, help me . . .

  Then my life split in two. My body was torn apart, every neatly stitched seam of my soul slashed to tatty threads. The size of him, the heat of him, the smell of him as he forced himself inside my body time and time again, the very core of him jetting into the very centre of me as I fell in and out of consciousness. I screamed for breath; screamed for help, but nobody heard. My nails scratched at splinters in the floor as David stole the life from me – each thrust a year eroded.

  David. My doctor. My friend. I thought he loved me.

  Then silence, the relief as he rolled off my body. I heard distant thunder, vibrating through the wood of the hut and into my bones. It was over. It seemed to have taken just seconds yet stretched from the beginning of time.

  Surely it was all a mistake?

  I vomited again, the vile taste a welcome wash to the sawdust in my mouth.

  But fear was waiting for me, whipping me senseless again as I saw David’s knife lying on the floor across the room – a discarded weapon, glinting, calling to him. Discarded but not forgotten. I shook with fear. I tried to speak but nothing came out.

  ‘Shh,’ David whispered, leaning over me, watching me die, if not in body then in spirit. ‘Don’t talk. Just don’t speak. Shh. Keep quiet, Mary . . .’

  It was the last thing I heard before I passed out.

  JULIA

  ‘My father called?’ I laugh to cover a line of indelible sadness; a lifetime of making excuses to my friends at school, playing make-believe with myself that I had a dad. Truth is, I’m fine about it now. What you never had, you don’t miss, right? ‘I don’t think it would have been. Could have been,’ I add, baffled, excited, frightened. What if it was?

  I let out another nervous laugh but only because of what she must be thinking. Did he walk out because of you? As a kid, dazzled by my mother’s silence on the matter, that’s what I always assumed. My father hated me and walked out on us. Mum couldn’t bring herself to discuss it.

  ‘Well maybe not your father then, but some older guy left an urgent message for you to call. It wasn’t Murray.’ Ali crunched into an apple, oblivious to the spark of pain she had caused. She handed me a slip of paper. ‘And it certainly wasn’t Alex’s little voice.’ She winked. ‘OK. I’d better get on. Fancy a drink this Friday?’ Ali headed up the school’s admin team. We’d all be sunk without her.

  ‘Why not,’ I say. ‘I deserve a bit of fun. Perhaps Murray can have the kids overnight and we can, you know, paint the town red.’ I felt silly saying it.

  ‘You look like you need it. We’ll eat first and then . . .’

  But I don’t wait to hear what Friday night could hold. When I see David’s number jotted on the message pad, I gather my bag and scuttle from Ali’s office like it’s on fire.

  In a quiet corner of the playground, my coat hunched around my neck, five rings seem like five hundred. ‘David?’ I’m standing still but breathless, trying not to shiver but failing. ‘What’s . . . what’s going on?’ I hardly dare ask if he’s out.

  ‘Julia,’ he says, and his voice is swift and smooth, like a bird. I glance up at the sky.

  ‘Are you . . . are you really . . .’ I can’t say it. For these few seconds, there is hope. More hope than I’ve had for weeks, and if I’m right, then there’s a chance my life will be allowed to heal. There will be hope for Mum again, hope for Alex and Flora to have some steadiness in their lives, and hope for me to rebuild mine. I blurt it out. ‘David, where are you? Are you free?’ Stuffed inside my gloves, my fingers automatically cross and I screw up my eyes as if I can’t stand to see his reply.

  ‘I’m at home.’ And because of the poor reception, his words echo a thousand times down the line.

  Screaming at Murray will not change things but I do it anyway. ‘You’re bloody useless. Why didn’t you tell me he was being released today? I’d have been there. I thought you said it would be a while, that there were things to take care of. What happened about the bail conditions?’ I’m on my way to get the kids; on the way to David’s.

  I step on to the deck of the hulk Murray calls home. ‘When are you going to grow up, Murray?’ Then I fling myself at him and find my face pressed into the soft skin below his ear. It smells so familiar I have to pull back, frightened and ashamed. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper. The shouting’s over. Just that little bit makes things all right for the moment.

  ‘We were lucky,’ he tells me professionally, which is so unlike Murray it makes me think there’s a problem. Knowing Murray as I do, I can tell he’s holding something back. He sighs. ‘As you know, the evidence wasn’t enough for the CPS to guarantee a conviction. Simple as that.’

  But it’s not simple. Not to me. ‘That’s a good thing then, isn’t it?’

  ‘For now,’ Murray says. ‘But as a condition of his release, David’s not to leave the area and he has to report to the police station every three days. He won’t be allowed his passport either. One tiny bit of evidence against him could reinstate the charges. The police won’t rest until they get him back inside, Julia.’

  ‘God,’ I say, mulling all this over. ‘It’s that unstable?’

  He nods, swallowing. ‘There was one other condition of bail.’

  I’m waiting, freez
ing, thinking that nothing could dampen the joy of having David back. ‘Which is?’

  ‘That he doesn’t go anywhere near you or the kids.’

  For a moment, I think he means it. For a split second, I’ve dropped through the bottom of the boat and I’m standing chin deep in sludge, struggling to breathe. I splutter through my reply. ‘You’re not serious, right?’ Murray nods, as solemn as I’ve ever seen him. ‘And the court said that, did they? The police or the CPS or whoever else has a darned say over an innocent man’s life?’ I’m shouting again; a gradual crescendo.

  ‘No, Julia. I said it.’

  The kids are excited to get out of school early. Patricia, my head teacher, was less than enthusiastic about my early departure so soon after my return to work, but I didn’t wait around to hear much more than a shocked ‘Oh?’

  ‘Did they catch the killer, Mum?’ Alex, despite his seatbelt, is on the edge of his seat. ‘Will David be able to tell me stories of real-life baddies from when he was in prison?’

  I smile and glance at the kids in the rearview mirror. They are my entire life, strapped up and safe. One of them a cop in the making, the other obsessed with dolls and her pictures. I love them dearly. ‘David’s going to be tired and perhaps a little on edge, honey, so don’t go giving him the third degree.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Alex is annoyed that I am halting his line of investigation.

  ‘It means let him relax and don’t question him.’ I brake for a dozy pheasant strutting across the road. We are nearing David’s remote house. Strangely, the desolation makes me feel safe. ‘Right, here we are. Remember, lay off the questions and don’t make too much noise.’ I sign this for Flora and help her out of the car. She collects an assortment of crayons and dolls from the back seat.

  ‘Is this nowhere?’ Alex asks, gaping around at the darkening landscape. Dusk still falls so early. We are not far from where I found Grace. I shudder. I can’t afford to think of that now.

  ‘Pretty much.’ Flora grips my hand.

  The house lights glimmer squares of orange within the stone wall. It feels as if we’ve come home. The door opens the second I lift the iron knocker. David stands there, calm and reassuring, while a spillage of heat and the scent of good food draws us inside.

  I fall into his arms when he holds them open. He feels a little thinner, a little warier. Finally he pushes me away and holds me at a distance. ‘Shut the door, Alex.’ He is engrossed in me.

  ‘Oh David,’ I let out a part sigh, part cry. ‘This has just been the worst time. When we last stood here, the police—’

  ‘Sshh. That’s all over. Now I’m home, it feels as if I’ve never been away. I’m fine. I’ve suffered worse.’

  He is amazing and resilient; filled with determination more than I can imagine, and that’s why I adore him. Briefly, I wonder what he means by I’ve suffered worse, but being a doctor, I expect he just means that he’s seen worse in his job.

  The kitchen is sparkling, not a remnant left to remind us of our last supper. In fact, something is cooking in the oven and I get a whiff of garlic and onions as the whoosh of the fan sends out comforting smells.

  ‘Looking good,’ he says brightly, closing the oven. I stand gawping at his normality. He has just been released from prison yet is acting as if nothing has happened.

  Soon we are eating, clattering knives and forks, conversation jostling for attention. Afterwards we settle in the living room. Alex and Flora are already sprawled on the floor, playing snap with the deck of cards Alex always carries. ‘Picking up where we left off, eh?’ I nestle under David’s arm, a little self-conscious in case the kids turn round and see us, but it has to happen sometime. They may as well get used to us being close. ‘I always knew you were innocent,’ I whisper into his ear. ‘The whole thing was preposterous, and how Ed could have—’

  There is a finger over my mouth and a pair of dark eyes glinting at me, imploring me to not dwell on things. ‘Do you know what bothered me most about being in prison?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. There must be a thousand things: fear of never seeing the outside world again, violent inmates, terrible food, poor treatment . . . ‘I don’t honestly know, David.’ And that’s the truth. ‘I can’t begin to comprehend what you’ve been through.’

  ‘What bothered me most about being locked up was not being able to see you.’

  David is suddenly on his feet, striding over to Alex. ‘No, no, no,’ he says. ‘Not like that.’ Alex thinks he’s going to be told off and semi cowers as David looms above him. ‘Look, if you want to win, then you must sit like this.’ David lowers himself on to the floor and crouches so that his hands are positioned over the deck of cards. ‘Then you’re ready to slam your hand down the second it’s snap.’ David’s face is inches away from Alex’s. ‘OK?’

  Alex slowly nods and a smile follows. ‘OK.’

  I sigh heavily, not realising I’d been holding my breath all this time. Flora’s hands wiggle frantically at me. That’s not fair. Will you be on my side, Mummy?

  Of course, I sign back. I lower myself on to the carpet and gaze in wonder at the four of us. We are playing snap. Alex and David roar with laughter as Flora and I completely miss a turn. Flora sees the joke and scuffs the cards with her foot. Alex is about to fly at his sister but David grabs him and tickles him and for the briefest flash of time I see Murray playing with his son. I see us as we should have been; as we will never be.

  ‘Did you hear something?’ David suddenly freezes, holding his hand up to silence us. ‘I swear I heard something outside.’ He is on edge. It is understandable. ‘A crash or thump. It was loud.’ He is on his feet and flicks off the wall lights. He peers out of the window. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he says and snaps the curtains closed. When he turns, his face is ashen.

  ‘What? What is it?’ My heart skips as I stand up and rush to the window.

  ‘Two vans. A bunch of people with banners. They’re outside the house, shouting.’ David’s voice shakes. The last time I saw him this scared was when Ed took him away.

  I peel back the curtain. A dozen protesters line the front wall of David’s property. ‘Oh dear God.’

  ‘Come away. Let me think.’ I can smell the adrenalin on his breath; hear his heart thump beneath his shirt.

  ‘We must call the police,’ I say. ‘I’ll phone Ed.’ But we’re both thinking it. Last time he was here, David was carted off in a police car. ‘They’re on your side now. The charges have been dropped.’ My hand on his arm does nothing to help. ‘In fact, they should have anticipated this happening and offered protection for you.’

  David paces the room, thinking. He’s not really listening to me. He strides around the house locking the back door, the French door, pulling curtains closed and checking the catches of the old windows. ‘You need to get me out of here.’ His face is pale and his words equally washed out.

  He means us, too, I tell myself. ‘But it’s your home. You can’t let a bunch of strangers drive you out within hours of being released.’ I lay my hands on his shoulders.

  ‘What is it, Mum? Can’t we play snap any more?’ Alex asks.

  ‘Not now,’ David says with the patience of a father. ‘Let me sort out this mess and then we’ll have fun again.’ Alex seems satisfied. In the silence that follows, we are left with the angry shouts echoing through the walls.

  Justice for Grace . . . Mur-der-er . . . Justice for all . . .

  The sound of breaking glass makes my skin prickle. ‘Murderer?’ I whisper, but David dashes from the room. I run after him to the kitchen and skid to a halt in the mess. Several of the small window panes are smashed and the thin wooden bars splintered.

  Lying on the worktop is a brick with paper wrapped around it. David doesn’t make a move so I pick it up. My hands shake with the weight as I pull off the paper. I read the words silently.

  ‘Kids, get your coats on,’ I say, trying not to panic. I have to get them out of here. I pass the paper to David.

&n
bsp; ‘Oh Christ,’ he says after a quick glance. On one half of the paper is a photocopied picture of Grace Covatta – her face made-up and grinning – and pasted beside it is a photograph of David, snapped as he was leaving prison. Across his harrowed face is a large black X drawn in marker pen with Dr Death scrawled underneath. ‘Why are they calling me a murderer?’ he asks in a voice warped by fear. Then, ‘Let’s go. We have to get out of here.’

  Back in the hallway he stops. ‘Look. It’s me they’re after, not you and the kids. If you leave by the front door, that will provide cover and I can slip out the back. I’ll make a dash across the fields and in ten minutes I’ll be at Hogan’s Lane, where the road bridges over the river. Will you pick me up there?’

  ‘Of course.’ I don’t even need to think about this. My hands tremble. ‘You must take a torch and boots and a coat. Hurry. Get everything together.’ I’m urgent and panicking, yet totally in control. We will get through this. ‘But I wish you’d let me call Ed,’ I say. David shakes his head firmly.

  In another moment, we say a second frantic goodbye.

  ‘Remember, don’t stop until you get to Hogan’s Lane. I’ll flash the torch three times as I get near the junction.’

  Then, rendering me speechless, David opens up a cupboard beneath the crooked stairs and fumbles around in the darkness. He takes out a small wooden box, opens it and pulls out a bone-handled knife – used for hunting or fishing, I tell myself. He flicks it open and closed so that the blade is just a silver flash. ‘Protection,’ he explains, pocketing it. He leaves by the back door.

  Drawing a breath as if we are about to swim a mile underwater, I huddle Alex and Flora at my side and open the front door. They falter when they see it’s a woman with kids. The cruel verses of their vitriolic chant fade and turn to random cries and jeers that come straight from the heart.

  ‘Where is he?’ a woman yells. I don’t look. I wing my arms around the children as we scuttle down the front path with our hoods up and faces bent to the ground.