‘Chloe.’
I stand, unable to breathe. Part of me wants to run, and I can’t help but look to the door, in instant fear of his judgement. But when I find the courage to look back, it isn’t anger I see on his face, but regret. He’s almost smiling at me in fact.
‘How did you know I was here?’
I take a breath. I glance at his body, slimmer than I remember, his face older. But it’s still him, the man I once knew so well. I can feel it, the knowledge that I know him inside and out, even if I can’t remember how. ‘Janice told me she thought you might be here, and I wanted to see you.’ It seems in that moment like such a stupid thing to say. Yet he shrugs his shoulders, holds his palms out wide.
‘Well, here I am.’
I nod, but don’t know where to look. He takes a step towards me and I can feel my anxiety increasing. The closer he comes, the worse it gets: so many questions to be asked and apologies that need to be offered. So many things I have to say and I wouldn’t even know where to begin. My breath becomes laboured and my hands are shaking. The words fight for a place on my lips: sorry, forgive me, I wish … But as he narrows the distance between us, only one word comes out.
‘Joshua…’ As I say his name, my voice breaks, the tears flowing freely down my cheeks. The only thing that stops me from falling is Andrew. I feel his arms reach for me, hold me close. And standing there in this alien hallway, I feel more at home than I have in weeks. He holds me as I sob, says nothing, my wet cheek pressed against his shoulder. I know his touch, the way our bodies fit together. He is routine, simple. He is what we crave, and then tire of, and then lament once we lose it. The relief of that realisation is consuming and terrifying all at once.
‘Andrew, I’m so sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t know what to say, or where to start.’ My words jumble as I reach up to wipe my eyes.
He’s shaking his head, still holding me close. ‘Let’s not do this here.’ His voice is cracking too, a tear that could rip apart at any moment. He looks away, up the stairs. ‘We’re not supposed to have people in our rooms, but we can talk in private up there. I think we need that, don’t we?’
He heads towards the narrow staircase. His fingers find mine, guiding me along behind him. He feels like the past. And in that moment I experience that connection for which I’ve been searching since the moment I woke up: something real, with a history, without lies or untruths. That’s what home is, I think, knowing yourself alongside another person, not being able to explain why but being sure that you’re supposed to be together. It’s knowing there are problems but still being able to see the emptiness of life if that person didn’t exist. In that moment it is just Andrew, and me. It’s us, isn’t it? Just like he asked me a thousand times when he was in pain. And it is us, but I wonder now just how much of us is left.
THIRTY-FIVE
He opens the door to his room and we step inside. It’s smaller than I anticipated, long and narrow, with a single bed pressed up against the far wall. A hessian runner covers the length of the floor, and a farmhouse wardrobe consumes most of the rest of the space. Pictures hang on the walls: boats, old Brighton, and a large black-and-white photograph of the Undercliff Walk at Saltdean, the name written in neat black lettering underneath. I recognise it as a place we have been together. It conjures an image of hot summer days lounging in the old Lido, the coastal breeze cooling our sunburnt skin. Ice creams in a café overlooking the water as the waves roll into shore and the sun dips below the horizon. Days when we felt the invincibility of youth, when we thought we knew everything and yet knew so little. Did he hang that picture there because it reminds him of us?
He sits down on the edge of the bed and leans his head down into his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. His face is tired in comparison to the pictures I’ve seen of him at my parents’ house, hollow and aged, his features older and less refined. He looks worn out. The same way I feel. But he has cut his hair since the last time I saw him, the line of it square and neat around his neck. He looks better than I remember or expect. I don’t suppose he can say the same about me.
‘That looks painful,’ he says as he points to the scar on my head. I am standing just inside the room, next to the door, as if I am ready to escape.
I reach up, trace my fingers along the raised red line of scar tissue. ‘It’s sore, but I’m OK.’ I sit down on the edge of the bed, leaving a space between us.
‘Your voice sounds funny too,’ he says as he stands up. At first I think perhaps his movement stems from a desire to not be near me. But as I watch, he opens a drawer, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. I take in his movements, the way he licks his lips, rubs at his eye, the way he seems more settled once there’s something in his hands. A distraction from my presence. When he catches me staring, I look away, only to see that on the bedside table he has placed a framed picture of the three of us, wrapped up together and sitting on Brighton beach. Me, Andrew, and Joshua. It must have been winter, the sky cloudy, my wild hair ravaged by the wind. Looking at it makes my eyes sting, and I have to look away. Still, the very fact that it’s there gives me some hope to carry on.
‘It’s because of the accident. They had to drain a bleed from my brain,’ I explain.
He nods, draws on his cigarette long and hard. ‘I know, Chloe. I was there at the hospital.’
‘You were there?’ Can that possibly be true?
‘Of course I was. As soon as I heard about the accident, I rushed to your side. You are my wife.’ But as he says the word, his throat catches; either sadness or anger. Anger, I think, which hurts so much. ‘Anyway, you’re alive, so it means you got off lightly.’ He sits down next to me again, closer this time. I can’t argue. I suppose I did get off lightly, in comparison.
He holds the packet of cigarettes out, offers me one. I take it, even though I’m not sure if I smoke or not. But I remember that craving I’ve had a number of times before today, and as I hold the thing between my fingers, the motion feels natural. He snaps his finger over the wheel of a lighter and holds the flame close for me. Smoke floods my lungs as I draw on the cigarette. For a moment we are silent.
‘I’m so sorry, Andrew.’
‘Sorry for what?’
‘Everything.’ I wish I could offer him something more than an empty apology. But I have nothing else left. Nothing that matters, anyway.
He presses his fingers deep into his tired, sunken eyes. ‘Don’t, Chloe. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t really get off lightly. You nearly died and you lost your son. You could never have known it would end up like this.’ He turns to me, and for the first time since I arrived he really looks at me. We’re so close I can see the different colours in his eyes, streaks of brown and yellow fanning out like the sun’s rays from around the pupil, the dark blue outline of his iris. Beautiful, I think. ‘I just never imagined, not even when they told me how serious it was, that when you finally woke up you wouldn’t remember me.’
The thought that he was there during those early days comes as a surprising comfort. ‘What I don’t understand is why I don’t remember you being at the hospital.’
He shakes his head a little. ‘Because I wasn’t there when you woke up. I’d gone home to get a change of clothes. Your mother told you that I’d be back soon. “Andrew won’t be long,” she said. But you just stared at her and asked, “Who’s Andrew?” You knew nothing, couldn’t remember a thing. Your dad thought it would be confusing if I came in when you couldn’t remember me. So I stayed away, waiting for them to tell me when it was safe to visit. When it was appropriate.’ A moment of anger passes over him, his eyes cold. ‘Of course it never was. That was no great surprise. He always wanted you to get rid of me. When you couldn’t remember me, I guess he took his chance.’
‘But why didn’t you come and see me anyway? Why didn’t you just ignore him?’
‘Because I believed him at first. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you time.’
‘He told me he paid you off. That he g
ave you a blank cheque to leave me alone.’
He shakes his head. I notice his jaw setting tight. ‘The man is just unbelievable. Look, there’s no denying that I was a mess, Chloe. We had our problems and you left me. But when I heard about the crash, I was at your side. I sat with you for hours, begging you to wake up, making promises about what I would do if you did. That’s why I’m here. I promised you that if you woke up, I’d go into rehab, get my act together. I stayed away like your father asked because I thought it was the best thing for you.’ A sad smile passes his lips. ‘Sounds a bit stupid now, doesn’t it? But he was being so reasonable with me and he kept me up to date with how you were, so I believed him. Plus he helped me a great deal with Joshua’s funeral. Most supportive of me he’s ever been.’ He wipes away a tear. ‘It was my idea to scatter the ashes from the pier. I thought you would like that.’
‘So you were there.’
‘Of course I was there. I’m sorry that we held it without you, but we thought…’
‘You don’t have to say it. I understand.’
‘What I can’t stop thinking about is that Joshua was alone when he died. How much pain he must have been in. How scared he must have felt.’
And I know in that instant that this is something I can give him. Will the knowledge that I was there, and that our son died in my arms, ease his pain? ‘He wasn’t alone, Andrew. I was with him.’
He shakes his head, draws smoke into his lungs. Some of the easiness between us is lost. ‘No you weren’t. You were found in the driver’s seat. Joshua was outside the car, on the ground. DS Gray told me what happened.’ He closes his eyes. ‘He showed me pictures.’
‘That’s true, but DS Gray told me other details too. Things that don’t make sense. I can’t remember exactly what happened, or explain how, but I know I was with Joshua when he died.’ I stand up. I can’t sit next to him as I tell him what I know of that night. I can feel the tension in his limbs, an urge to flee from the details. He doesn’t want to hear this any more than I want to say it. But both of us know we have no choice. ‘Something else happened that night, Andrew. I’ve spoken to the police. There are a lot of inconsistencies.’
‘Nothing about it makes sense. Where were you going? We were supposed to be meeting by the pier.’
‘That’s what DS Gray told me.’
He looks confused. ‘Don’t you remember that either?’
I shake my head, lean against the door. I feel a new fluidity in my movements. It’s Andrew that makes the difference. He makes me fit in my skin, helps remind me who I am. ‘I have only the vaguest memories of that day. I don’t remember why I didn’t come.’ It’s on my lips, the possibility that I went to meet somebody else, but my courage fails me. ‘But I remember that at some point that night I was in the woods, running towards Joshua.’ When I look up, Andrew is staring at me, hanging on my every word. I take a breath, steel myself. ‘He was on the ground, and I knelt at his side and held him. The police found his blood on my dress. I didn’t leave him alone. I was with him when he died.’
He brings his knees up to his chest, stares out of the window. Perhaps towards Brighton, the memory of a life we once shared in that little house. A house that is no longer our home. ‘So how did you end up back in the car?’
I shake my head, even though he isn’t looking at me. I have to carry on. ‘I don’t know. But the police think there was a second car involved, and that the driver of that car might have put me there.’
‘For a while they thought it might be me. Thank Christ I was standing like a mug at the pier waiting for you. They got me on CCTV. And then in a bar after that.’ He begins to circle the room, takes one last drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out. He opens the window to let in some fresh air. ‘So tell me. Were you with him?’
My world bottoms out and my stomach somersaults. I have been dancing around the subject, trying to find the strength to tell him what I must, and all along he has known. ‘You knew?’
‘I found out on the day of the crash. He called me, told me you were going to be leaving with him. I didn’t believe it at first. Only half an hour before that we had spoken on the phone, agreed to meet. You wanted us to go somewhere new, make a fresh start. And then I pick up the phone and this motherfucker tells me that you won’t be coming back to me; that instead you are leaving with him. I didn’t know what to believe, Chloe. I tried calling you, but all I got was your voicemail. I called your parents. Your dad told me that you had left the house upset and not to call again, as if you being upset was my fault.’
‘He didn’t want us to get back together because of your drinking,’ I say.
‘Chloe, I hadn’t had a drink in weeks, not since you walked out that night with Joshua.’ He nibbles on his lip, rubs at his eyes with his palms. ‘I thought we were doing OK, that we were working on things. When you left me, I knew it was my last chance. You said that was it, but I kept telling you I’d change, that we could make it work. Eventually you agreed. Like I said, I thought we were going to meet at the pier, try again somewhere else. I’d booked us a hotel in Eastbourne for a few nights, somewhere to stay until we decided what we were going to do.’
I can feel his gaze upon me but I can’t bring myself to look up. How much we both hurt each other. Hurt Joshua. All those memories that have been coming back to me of my loneliness and his drinking; they didn’t tell the whole story. I start to cry.
‘Don’t blame yourself, Chloe. It was me who ruined us, not you. I did all I could to push you away.’
I take a tissue from a box on the side, wipe my eyes. My head is throbbing, my insides churning. ‘Was it Damien Treadstone who called you?’
‘You don’t remember who he was?’ I shake my head. ‘I’m not sure. At first I thought it was Ben, the guy who works at your parents’ place. He’s always liked you, and there was a time when the feeling was mutual.’
I’m quiet for a moment. He knew about it? ‘You’re telling me I had feelings for him?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I always wondered whether or not…’ He can’t find the strength to say it aloud. ‘All I know is that you were friends, more so than I would have liked. More so than I was comfortable with. He’s bad news, Chloe, but you could never see it. You used to have a soft spot for him, used to say he was just misunderstood. But then when I read the reports about the accident and that Damien Treadstone’s car was found at the scene, I assumed it was him. The police tried to trace the phone records, but he called me from a payphone. That’s why nobody can corroborate his alibi, Chloe, because really he was with you and he doesn’t want to admit it. He’s married with a kid. Now that he’s lost you he wants to hang on to his life, whereas ours has gone up in smoke.’
I stub my cigarette out in a small ceramic dish and lean against the wall. How can he be so kind, excuse me of any blame? ‘It was you in the graveyard, wasn’t it? You were trying to reach me.’
‘I just wanted to see you. Your father kept telling me to wait, but I’d lost everything. Lost you both.’ He shakes his head. ‘I was desperate. I had taken the decision to stay away, to let you get well, but then I started to doubt what your father was telling me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a liar, Chloe. He had no intention of ever telling you about me. I worked that out a while back. But you seemed so frightened when I tried to approach that I took the decision to finish my programme here first, get the house in some sort of order and then come and find you, tell you the truth. Your parents have got quite a hold on you.’
I’m so angry, with my father and myself. He never had any intention of helping me remember; even today, just an hour or so ago, he was still lying to me about what he was trying to do. Telling me he was helping me forget the man I had an affair with.
Andrew motions for me to sit down next to him, then takes my hands in his. ‘Don’t blame yourself. You could never have predicted how this would end up. Neither of us could have.’
We sit together for a
while, share another cigarette. He tells me some stories about when we were young, about Joshua’s birth, and the good holidays we had. He also tells me about the bad times, some of which I remember, many of which I don’t. I tell him that I remember taking Joshua down to the beach to get away from him. That I’m sorry I always left when it got hard. But he doesn’t agree, his head shaking.
‘You used to take him to the beach because it was a place we all loved. You said it made you feel close to me even when I wasn’t there.’ He reaches across and picks up the family picture. ‘See. We were always at the beach. You said the sound of the water reminded you of the river at the bottom of your parents’ garden, the mill and the times we used to spend there together.’ He reaches up, strokes my face and uses his thumb to wipe under my eyes. ‘Maybe it’s hard to remember it all, Chloe, but there was a time when you and I had everything. If only we had realised it then, eh?’
* * *
I leave not long after that. I sign out and we hug at the doorway. ‘So what now?’ he asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where do you go from here? Will you be all right?’ I look out into the dark night. The taxi I called is already waiting outside, its engine ticking over. Andrew has given me the money to pay for it.
‘All I know is that I have to understand what happened. I have to know what part I played in all of this, and why I took Joshua with me that evening.’ He nods along. ‘What about you? Will you be OK?’
He leans against the door frame, tucking his hands up into his armpits. ‘I need some time, Chloe. After I lost you both, I went off the rails a bit. I need to focus on getting myself right. But it’s weeks since I drank. I’m doing OK. After that, who knows? All I know at the moment is that I’m glad you came and found me.’
As I walk to the car, I know what I have to do. I must find Damien Treadstone. Were we having an affair? I’m not sure, but I realise that I have to face up to whatever it is I did. Safety is no longer a person or a place, a makeshift bed in an old mill in the arms of a boy too young to know better. It’s not in the arms of a strange lover either. This time I will find safety, or at least some form of it, in the truth.
Between the Lies Page 22