by Maggie James
The least she can do is meet with him, talk with him, ask him these questions in person. Better than supplying the answers in her head. It’s the only way to get the truth, the voice in her brain insists. It won’t commit you to anything. If he bullshits you, simply walk away.
She misses Mark, or Joshua, or whatever the hell he’s called; she recognises that much. Sometimes, at night, she reaches for him, only to be met with the coldness of the unoccupied side of the bed. Occasionally a thought comes into her head and she thinks: I must remember to tell Mark. Then reality hits, and she regrets the loss of him, every minute, every second. Not having anyone to confide in accentuates his absence from her life.
The thought of Mark is temptation on a plate. Natalie pictures his smile, the spiky tufts of his cropped hair, his broad chest. In her mind, they’re having sex, his body slippery with sweat against hers. He’s rubbing her nipples between his fingers, telling her she’s one hell of a hot fuck before his mouth becomes deliciously busy elsewhere. She loves the way he flips her self-image in a second from overweight to sexy. The memory causes a twitch between her legs; she’ll relive his hands on her body once she’s in bed, her fingers moving in time with the scenes in her head as she makes herself come. The pictures in her brain are potent, steamy, arousing. Enough to convince her she’s a fool if she doesn’t give Mark the chance to explain.
Decision made. She’ll contact him and, at the very least, they can talk. First, she’ll get his explanation of Abby Morgan’s murder. Her gut instinct will be tuned in for any hint he’s lying. When he’s done speaking, she’ll pose her questions. Some of them may have been answered by what he says, of course, particularly whether he’s repentant about the murder. He won’t be able to fake remorse, not well enough to fool her. If her bullshit radar lights up, she’ll walk away. If it doesn’t, she’ll ask him if he wants to be with her long-term. A bold question, the sort for which she’s never had the guts before. Again, if he’s not straight in his answer, her crap detector will sniff him out. She won’t go any further with the commitment issue beyond that, not at this stage. They can work the rest out further down the line.
He’ll probably have questions for her, too. He’ll want to know things like can you accept what I’ve done, do you promise not to tell anyone who I am, will you ever throw my past in my face, and she hopes she’ll be able to answer yes, yes and no.
His message gives her some reassurance he wants to be with her. Surely to God he wouldn’t have sent it if he didn’t? Now it’s up to her to respond.
Natalie pulls out her mobile. She’ll suggest lunch, down at the Watershed perhaps, or somewhere out of town, like The Rose and Crown. A place they’ve been before, familiar yet neutral territory. Her text will be brief, non-committal; a simple statement of how she wants to meet up, hear what he has to say.
Wait; she needs more wine, before she does this. She slugs back a generous measure of the Pinot Grigio, now lukewarm, and settles back into the beanbag.
Do it, she tells herself.
Her fingers obey. ‘Miss you too. Can we talk?’ Before she has time to backtrack, she sends the text.
Natalie gulps down the remainder of her wine before pouring herself another large glass. She cradles her phone in her hands, willing him to respond straight away.
He doesn’t disappoint. Two minutes, tops, go by before her mobile vibrates with his reply coming through. Her fingers can’t open it quickly enough.
‘Desperate to see you, explain things. Miss you like hell. X.’
17
A WHOLE POUND COIN
Sunday, just over a week since his last visit to Rachel Morgan, and Mark’s travelling down the M5 again for lunch at her flat.
He’s optimistic, upbeat, buoyed up by the texts he’s been exchanging with Natalie. Both of them are playing it cool, not straining their fragile truce. They’ve not spoken on the phone so far, simply swapped messages. What they have to discuss needs to be said face to face, not via their mobiles. She’s agreed to meet him, though, which is the main thing. Tuesday evening he’ll go to her flat. Better than Natalie’s suggestion of a pub meal. Their conversation will be too intimate, too personal, to risk it being overheard. Besides, if things go well, he’ll want to touch her, hold her, take her to bed. Somewhere public doesn’t fit that particular bill.
He’s praying he’ll find the words to convince her he’s no vicious child killer. Natalie Richards, with all her insecurities, is the woman he wants despite her being every bit as damaged, as flawed, as he is. Jointly, though, they can synergise something better. He doesn’t ask for much; people as scarred as he is tend not to. A loving relationship, his job at the building supplies firm, a home together. Children one day, perhaps. Natalie wants them, he’s well aware, and he won’t deny her, however strange the idea of him being a father is. The chances seem fair his life will morph, slowly but firmly, into what he’s always wanted. Stable, solid and good.
Before any of this can happen, though, Mark’s priority is to resolve things with Rachel. Today will be the last time he has any contact with her; they’ll meet, he’ll find out what he needs to and after that it’ll be over between them. Then, slate wiped squeaky clean, he’ll be able to meet Natalie on Tuesday, minus the guilt of Rachel Morgan hanging over his head.
He’s nearly at her flat now, the journey having passed without him needing his counting rituals once. He’s early, as he always is, but the extra few minutes will give him time to breathe, prepare himself for the afternoon ahead.
Five minutes later, his energies recharged, he presses the bell for Rachel’s flat. Her face is overly eager when she opens the door; he composes his features into a suitably warm expression, a warning sounding in his head. Don’t fuck this up. As both their smiles fade, a moment of awkwardness raises its head. The kiss surges into Mark’s mind, and he’s damn sure it does in Rachel’s, too.
‘Come on in.’ Rachel waves him inside. A hot smell reaches him, a delicious aroma of cooking meat, cheese and onions. His stomach growls at the prospect of food; it’ll also be welcome as a way of easing any lingering tensions between them. She’s suitably garbed in a striped apron, hands encased in oven gloves, sleeves rolled down over her scars.
‘Beer?’ Rachel gestures towards the fridge. ‘Got some Budweiser in. Wasn’t sure what you’d like. Or I’ve got red wine, if you prefer?’
‘A Budweiser would be good. Just the one, though, as I’m driving.’ Not to mention he wants to keep a clear head for any discussion they have about Shaun.
She shucks off the oven gloves, pulls open the fridge, handing him a can. ‘Sit down. Make yourself at home. I’ve put a glass on the table for your beer. Lasagne’s the dish of the day. I hope that’s all right?’ Her forehead is puckered with concern she’s made the wrong choice.
‘Can’t wait. Smells wonderful.’ He watches the relief wash over her face.
‘Oh, good. I wasn’t sure, what with you saying you’re more of a meat and potatoes guy. Wanted to cook something other than a roast, though. I’m doing chips with the lasagne, so one way or another you’ll get your meat and tatties today. It’s all been rather rushed this morning. Had to miss running with the Hashers. Shaun’s been here.’
‘Is everything OK?’ He’s concerned. Has she been cutting herself again, or wanting to?
She shrugs. Her back is towards him as she bends down at the oven, her gloves back on, pulling out the dish of lasagne, so he can’t read her expression. ‘I guess so. No, not really. It’s Dad. Shaun goes down to Taunton every so often, to check up on him, see how he’s doing. No change, unfortunately.’
‘Still drinking?’
‘Yeah. Can’t see him getting off the booze, not now. He’s too far gone, with no compelling reason to stay sober. He’s not spoken to Mum in years, and it seems his remaining children aren’t enough of an incentive to ditch the drink.’ Weary resignation leaks from her voice. Mark can tell she’s long ago accustomed herself to the reality of having an alcoholic
for a father. ‘He’ll drink himself to death and there’s not a lot I, or Shaun, or anyone, can do about it.’
‘I’m sorry, Rachel.’ Such inadequate words.
‘Not your fault,’ she replies, unaware of how wrong she is, and tips a generous helping of chips onto his plate before handing it to him. She pulls out a chair to sit down, pouring herself a glass of Chianti. Her portion of lasagne is very much smaller than his one, and she’s gone for salad rather than chips, he notes. ‘Dig in.’
The food is sublime, a perfect blend of meat, cheese and pasta. ‘This is bloody good,’ Mark says. ‘No, scrub that. It’s great. You should do this for a living.’
She laughs. They eat in silence for a while, with Mark unsure whether to pursue the conversation about her father in the hope it’ll lead back to Shaun. In a way, he’s like a vulture, picking over the bones of her wrecked family life. It doesn’t make him feel good, not at all.
‘I miss him.’ Mark’s head jerks up as Rachel’s words pull him from his mental quicksand.
‘Your father?’
‘Yes. I was always a Daddy’s girl, at least when he was sober enough to notice me. He wasn’t so bad with the booze, not when I was younger, before Abby’s death. I blame myself for him leaving, the drinking getting worse, everything.’ Her hands shake slightly as she forks lasagne towards her mouth, drips of béchamel sauce falling onto her plate. She gulps some Chianti, her gaze fixed on her food.
‘Abby was every bit as much a Daddy’s girl as me. It tore him up not doing the fatherly thing. Not protecting her from what happened, I mean.’
Mark can’t dredge up any words that don’t seem entirely inadequate. Rachel spears a slice of tomato, contemplating it. ‘Sorry to bring up all this crap, Mark. What you must think of me and my dysfunctional family, I hate to imagine.’ Her fork disappears into her mouth.
‘I grew up in a glass house where screwed-up families are concerned. No throwing of stones here.’ Mark smiles, attempting to loosen the tension a little. Silence settles down around them again as they eat. Despite the excellence of the lasagne, the heavy combination of meat and cheese sits like an iron bar in Mark’s stomach, weighed down as he is by the revelations about Matthew Morgan’s booze-filled existence. He’s not been able to touch his Budweiser; drinking alcohol seems an insult to the man whose life and family he’s contributed to ruining.
Rachel finishes her meal first, eyeing his half-eaten food with alarm. ‘Too rich for you? Too much seasoning?’ Every one of her insecurities is clearly kicking in, and he hastens to reassure her. ‘Just a slow eater, that’s all.’ He vows to finish every morsel of it, even if he vomits, rather than inflame Rachel’s self-doubt any further.
Time to bring up the topic of Shaun.
‘You said your brother checks on your dad occasionally? Can’t be easy for him.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, it’s not. He can’t be sure from one visit to the next how Dad will be. Never lets on if it bothers him, although it must do. Not many people are as strong as Shaun.’ Sisterly pride infuses her words.
‘Sounds like he’s your rock.’
‘He is. I guess some of us are simply born tougher than others are. Mentally, I mean. Shaun being one of them.’ Her words echo what Mark has already thought. ‘He loved Abby, of course, but somehow he dealt with her murder better than any of us. He grieved for his sister, he missed Dad when he left, still does, but he’s always been able to stay on top of it, rather than getting dragged under like Mum and I do.’
‘Does he really cope? Or simply bottle up his emotions?’
Rachel pulls a face. ‘Hard to say. He’s not always an easy fish to fathom.’
‘Like you said before, he’s the strong, if not so silent, type.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Thank God he is, though. For you and your mum, I mean.’
‘Don’t know how he does it. When I ask him, he just shrugs and tells me that’s life; it throws rocks in your path at times. Seems like he leapfrogs over them, whereas I fall flat on my face.’ A shadow of a smile hovers round her mouth.
‘He’s never been treated the way you have by your mother, though. Rocks? Seems she’s more like one hell of a mountain.’
‘But that’s partly why I think he’s always dealt with everything so well. He won’t admit it, but I reckon it’s because his conscience is clear. Unlike me, he has nothing to feel guilty about where Abby’s death is concerned.’
Mark leans over, briefly touching her left arm. A gesture of support, of empathy. Even though the pressure of his fingertips is feather soft, he can feel the ridging of her scars through the thin material of her sleeve. An awkward moment passes between them before she pulls away.
Embarrassed, he seeks to smooth over the tension. ‘None of you has any reason to feel guilty, Rachel. If only you could understand how it wasn’t your fault, any of it.’
She chooses to ignore his words, not that he’s surprised. Self-blame as deeply entrenched as hers requires more than a few glib sentences to lever it out of place. ‘Shaun was upstairs, remember, when Abby was lured out of the garden by those boys. Doing his homework. He wasn’t drinking alcohol or too busy reading, like Dad and me. Just boring old schoolwork. So he has no reason for guilt. That’s my opinion, anyway.’
‘Neither do you.’
Her mouth twists bitterly. ‘You reckon? I had my headphones clamped on tight, Christina Aguilera booming in my ears. Couldn’t hear anything else. I wasn’t even watching her either, like I’d been told. Had my head in my book, oblivious to the world.’
‘Apart from your cat. I remember now. You were stroking your kitten.’ Mark smiles at his mental picture of the pretty ten-year-old, absorbed in another world, her right hand smoothing the animal’s black fur, the sunlight striking fire into the pale copper of her hair. He smiles, and the memory almost blots out the remembrance of what follows. Not quite, though, because nothing can ever erase Abby Morgan’s death. He’s lost, back in time, fourteen years ago, and so he doesn’t realise, not at first, the significance of what he’s just said. Neither does Rachel.
Time slows down to a crawl as awareness pulls him back, sharp and sudden, into the moment. His words echo through his head, plucking the mask of Mark Slater away to reveal Joshua Barker. What he’s said should never have been said, and he can’t claw the mistake back inside. His only hope is for Rachel not to connect the dots, a faint one admittedly, but perhaps she’s too immersed in her thoughts to register his words. To understand the implication of his knowledge of her black kitten.
At first, he doesn’t see any change in her expression. She’s still lingering in her head over Christina Aguilera and Harry Potter. Then Mark notes the exact moment when her mind shifts to the soft black fur of her cat, when not a penny but a whole pound coin drops in her brain. Her eyes stretch wider and her face, always pale anyway, takes on the colour of chalk. Her gaze slams into his, and he’s unable to hide behind the mask any longer.
‘How do you…’ Her voice sounds as though it’s fighting its way through treacle in her throat. ‘You mentioned me stroking my cat. How did you know about that?’
Mark’s aware of his breath, coming rapid and shallow, his chest tight. No words can explain the unexplainable. He takes refuge in a lie.
‘I…’ He swallows, trying to stifle his dread of what’s to come. ‘I must have read about it or heard it on the news.’
‘None of those details were ever released to the media.’ Her voice manages to be both hoarse and high at the same time. ‘I told you about listening to music, and reading, but not the cat. I never mentioned the cat. I know I didn’t.’ She staggers to her feet, pushing back her chair with one hand, the other grasping the table to steady herself. Mark aches to hold her, pour out what happened, receive her understanding, her absolution, whilst recognising the sheer impossibility of such a notion. She’s on the verge of guessing who he is; he’s the last person she’ll ever allow to touch her.
‘You’
d only know that if…’ She’s pressed back against the wall now, hands in front of her to keep him at bay. He sees her swallow, her breath audible, as rapid and shallow as his own. ‘Oh, God. My God. Which one are you?’
A question he’s able to answer, yet he doesn’t. If he admits his identity, if he says his birth name, it will make all this real, and he’s unable to cope with it. One, two… He starts the familiar count in his head, abandoning it seconds later as she speaks again.
‘Why?’ She’s crying now, the chalk of the previous moment replaced by red staining in her cheeks as the sobs come. ‘Why did you seek me out? How could you? I thought….’ The words fight with her breath in her throat, her syllables strangled. ‘We talked about going running. You asked to meet me for lunch.’
Mark can only nod, still silent.
‘You kissed me.’ She flings the word out, as though by even saying it she’s defiled.
Mark doesn’t respond. What, after all, can he say? No words exist to vindicate why he’s here, why he approached her after the vigil. She’ll be attributing all sorts of twisted motives to his behaviour, how he must have drawn sick gratification from kissing his victim’s sister, how he’s revelling in turning the blade deeper in her wounds. How can he possibly explain the kiss being a cry for understanding, a gesture of repentance?
Rachel’s face is contorted with disbelief, denial, rage. She’s regarding him as one would a fully-fledged incarnation of the Devil, standing before her reeking of brimstone and brandishing a pitchfork. He doesn’t blame her. It’s even worse than being back in the courtroom before the handing down of his sentence by the judge. So he sits in front of his half-eaten plate of lasagne, too agitated even for his counting rituals, waiting for whatever she has to say.