by Maggie James
‘Which…’ She swallows, clearly attempting to get her mouth to work. Her voice still sounds as though it’s being pulled through razor wire. ‘I asked you before. You owe me that much. Which one are you? You’re Joshua Barker, right?’
‘Yes.’ He doesn’t even attempt to prevaricate. All traces of Mark Slater have been stripped away. The events of fourteen years ago arise in front of him and Rachel, their sting uncurled and ready to strike.
‘Rachel, please listen to me…’
‘You’re fucking joking, right?’ She’s found her voice now, and it’s more of a scream. ‘Why the hell should I listen to you? Mum’s been right all along, when she says the two of you are evil, how neither of you has any conscience, how you should rot in jail for the rest of your miserable lives. I thought you were genuine. That you liked me. We kissed.’ Again, the words are spat out. Mark’s shocked by the profanity. Rachel has always been so polite, so well-mannered.
‘Do you get some weird kick out of this?’ A bead of spittle flies from her mouth, landing on the table between them. ‘Enjoy this, do you? Leading me on, making me think…’ It’s then that she breaks. She sinks back into her chair, pillowing her head on her arms as she leans on the table. Sobs hiccup from her, her scars lividly in view where her sleeves have ridden up. For once, she obviously doesn’t give a toss. Apart from her tears, she’s silent, spent, finished.
‘Rachel.’ He has to try to gain her understanding. ‘I’m sorry. For your sister’s death, for what I’ve done to your family, for everything. I should never have approached you after the vigil. I did it…’ He swallows hard. ‘Because I needed to make sense of Abby’s death. I’ve always been so sorry, Rachel. You must believe me.’ Why should she, though? Even as he says them, the words sound cheap, easy, the kind liars always use to justify themselves.
‘You fucking bastard. Don’t you even dare say her name.’
Mark tries again. ‘I didn’t hurt her, Rachel. It was Adam Campbell, the other boy. He did it all. It was impossible to stop him. He was so…’ Adam muscles his way into Mark’s mind, his size, his innate aggressiveness. Above all, the sense of the other boy harbouring inside him something warped, twisted, beyond redemption.
‘I’ve always been desperate to make amends. I just don’t have a clue what to do. That’s why I approached you after the vigil.’ Is she taking any of this in? She’s a foot or so away physically but emotionally she’s light years distant. Mark has no idea whether anything he says can bridge the gulf between them. ‘I hoped if I could talk to you, find out how it’s been for you, for your family, I might get some pointers. I never meant to hurt you, honestly I didn’t.’
What he’s just said bridges the gap between them all right, but not in the way he intends. She raises her head, spearing him with the loathing in her eyes. It’s so strong he flinches, as though her hatred might shoot forth to stab him, cut him, slice and dice him into shreds.
‘Is that the best you can come up with? He made you do it? How fucking feeble.’ She’s getting into her stride now. ‘I don’t believe a word of your shit. You’re evil, pure evil, the pair of you. You beat and stabbed a two-year-old child to death, for fuck’s sake. Only someone completely without any conscience would do such a thing. You’ve breached the terms of your release, not that you should ever have been paroled in the first place. By going to the vigil. By even daring to look at me.’
‘I know.’ He’s the one sounding hoarse now. ‘It was wrong. I thought -’
‘You didn’t think at all. You bastard. All you cared about was getting your kicks out of tormenting me. As if I’ve not suffered enough, every fucking day, since Abby’s death.’ She pushes back her chair violently, the legs scraping against the carpet, pulling herself to her feet. ‘Get out. Get the fuck out of my flat. You’re scum. Fucking scum. Don’t think I won’t tell the police you’ve broken your parole. I’ll make damn sure your arse gets thrown back in jail where it belongs.’
18
STUPID AND WEAK
Mark has no idea how he manages to unlock his car door, let alone start the engine. He drives a mere couple of hundred yards from Rachel’s flat when he has to pull over or risk a crash. The pain in his chest squeezes tight, constricting his breath, far worse than when Natalie walked out on him. Breathe, just breathe through it, he tells himself.
Rachel’s tortured face flashes before him, white and terrible, with its accusatory gaze. Her words slice through him. How she concurs with her mother about him being evil. How he’s scum, wicked, should be rotting in jail. Mark’s inclined to agree. Wrong, ill-judged, selfish, to have ever talked to her that day in Moretonhampstead, to burst the bubble of her grief by foisting his own issues on her. Hell, he needs to confront the damage he’s caused to the Morgan family, sure, but piling more hurt on top of what already exists isn’t part of his game plan. Desperate to drive out his own demons, all he’s succeeded in doing is sending them Rachel Morgan’s way.
With eyes squeezed shut, he begins to count. One, two, buckle my shoe, and Abby Morgan’s wrenched-off trainer flashes into his mind, transporting him back to the shed floor, with the streams of sunlight bouncing off the pink Velcro. God, oh God. He’ll never be free of the horror of his past. He’s at liberty when it comes to his physical self, but his mind’s forever imprisoned in the abandoned farm shed of fourteen years ago. Three, four, knock at the door. Onwards and upwards, his brain moves through the numbers, seeking the safety of the higher ones, except this time the comfort doesn’t come. The anguish, the memory of Rachel’s face, her voice, as the realisation slams home of who she’s kissed, stays firmly wedged in his mind. It’s all too much, and for the first time since he was a child, Mark cries. He rests his forearms on the steering wheel, the unfamiliar sensation of tears on his face, as the wounds inside him split open, raw and deep.
Joanna Barker strides into his head, the pain of her rejection chilling him. She’s followed by the fury that overwhelms him as he drives his fist into the wall of his room at Vinney Green. Natalie walking out on him. Rachel’s slashed arms. His fault, all of it; and crowding out all of them is the memory of Abby Morgan’s broken and bloodied body, accusing him of cowardice for not preventing her death.
Knuckles rap on the glass beside his ear, jolting his head off the steering wheel.
A policewoman is bending towards the window, her hands motioning for him to open it. Panic kicks into Mark, sharp and instantaneous. Immediately he’s eleven years old again, cowed and confused. Impossible not to obey this woman. His fingers fumble for the down button.
‘Sir, are you all right?’ The woman’s voice is concerned, kind, but Mark needs her to get the hell away from the car, right now. No police, not today.
He nods, unable to speak.
‘Is something wrong? Do you need help?’
Mark shakes his head, trying to find his voice. When he does, it’s croaky. ‘No. I’m fine, honestly. It’s just that…’ He clears his throat. ‘I’ve got some shit to deal with, that’s all.’
She nods in sympathy. ‘Where are you heading for? Do you have a long way to go?’
‘Bristol. Not far.’
The woman’s mouth purses a little. ‘You shouldn’t attempt to drive a car. Not whilst you’re…’ She’s clearly searching for the right word. ‘In a distressed state.’
Desperation to get rid of her grows ever more urgent in Mark. ‘You’re right. Thing is, I just need to sit for a while and get myself together, you know?’ He manages a weak smile. ‘I’ll be fine. Honestly.’
She’s clearly unconvinced, but as Mark’s not breaking any laws, all she can do is reiterate her warning not to drive until he’s safe to do so.
Once the policewoman’s gone, Mark leans back against his headrest, incapable of further tears. He’s spent, finished. Exhaustion born from the strain of recent weeks slams into him; he’s weary all the way down to the bone and into his marrow, tired of everything. Somehow, he has to drive to Bristol, back to his life. Such as
it is. Recollection hits him. Hell, he’s supposed to be seeing Natalie on Tuesday. Their big talk is in the evening, the one supposedly to sort things out between them, convince her he’s worthy to share her life. Well, that’s fucked up now, for sure. The contempt in Rachel Morgan’s face has hammered a basic truth home to him; he doesn’t deserve happiness.
Drive, Mark, drive, he tells himself. Get a grip on yourself. He peels himself off the steering wheel, fumbles for his keys, starts the engine. The journey will have to be done on autopilot; thank God it’s not far. He’ll count, and breathe, one, two, in, out, allowing the rhythmic disappearing of the road beneath his wheels to hypnotise him, numb him until he reaches the sanctuary of his flat. He recalls Natalie telling him about Callie Richards’s agoraphobia. Right now, he understands the appeal, although he’s not planning to add it to his list of compulsions. To stay indoors, making one’s home a haven against the outside world - he gets why people go down that route.
He sets the car in gear and drives away, heading towards the M5 junction, counting as he goes, batches of seven, repeatedly, getting a rhythm in his head. He takes the journey slowly, sticking to the inside lane all the way, too exhausted to deal with the logistics of mirror, signal, manoeuvre. The self-medication works; eventually he’s in Bristol, back at his flat, before he’s aware of how he got there.
At home, he pulls a bottle of Black Sheep from the fridge before slumping on the sofa with his beer. What he can’t understand is how things ever got this far. The impulse to speak with Rachel after the vigil was bad enough, but this? Facebook messages? Lunch, not once, but twice? What the hell was he thinking? The pain of Natalie’s rejection is no excuse for his behaviour. He’s managed to screw things up, which means retribution won’t be far behind. People like him always get caught and punished. It’s the consequence of being born lower down in Nature’s pecking order.
Mark swings his legs off the sofa. He’s wound too tightly to sit still. One, two, he paces across the floor, nervous energy surging through him. Back and forth, four strides taking him from one side to the other of his living room. He settles into a rhythm as he walks, beer bottle in hand.
It looks as though his subconscious has sabotaged him, leading him to press the self-destruct button. Was that what he wanted to happen? Was the mention of Rachel’s black kitten deliberate? Some weird kind of Freudian slip? Did he delude himself about seeking answers from her whilst all the while intending to reveal himself as Joshua Barker? So she would either absolve or condemn him? After all, Michelle Morgan has already judged him, whereas Rachel’s verdict on him has been an unknown before today. He’s unsure of the answer, but he suspects he’s pretty close to the truth.
How she’ll react to the knowledge of who he is seems inevitable. She’ll resort to the knife. Mark pictures the blade, slicing through the flesh of her arms, her legs, her senses oblivious to the pain, the silent scream sounding out through the blood, the open wounds. She’ll cut, and it’ll be deep too, in an attempt to carve out the memory of their kiss. After all, he’s branded himself on her with his lips. One more in a series of never-ending punishments for her supposed neglect of her sister fourteen years ago.
Besides the inevitable self-harm, Rachel will also seek revenge, of course. She’s too furious, too insulted, to do otherwise. Don’t think I won’t tell the police you’ve broken your parole. On the slim chance she doesn’t, perhaps through shame or embarrassment, then Shaun definitely will. She’ll get the itch to cut and then call her brother. He’ll demand answers about what’s triggered her latest urge for the knife. Rachel will eventually confess how she’s unwittingly been seeing Joshua Barker. I hadn’t a clue who he was, I swear, she’ll say. Enough, surely, to shatter this man’s seemingly unshakable cool at last. Shaun will inevitably erupt with anger and the police will be informed within the hour.
Perhaps Rachel won’t turn to her brother, though. Second, less likely, scenario. She’ll cut, releasing her pain with yet another silent scream. More scars for her collection. Then she’ll lock the knowledge of their connection inside her, too ashamed to confess she’s kissed one of the individuals convicted of her sister’s murder. The police will never find out. He’ll keep his job, his flat, his life, such as it is. It’s more of an existence, really. He doesn’t kid himself he’ll be able to reinstate Natalie in his life, not now, not after this. He’ll continue to get up, go to work, come home, eat and sleep as per usual. All without the embellishments that add depth to living. Like friends, warmth, love. He’ll never have those, so what he’ll be left with is worth fuck all anyway.
The most likely scenario, though, will be the first one, in which Rachel seeks revenge. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, after all. She’s definitely that all right, humiliated as she’ll be by her former hopes about him. She’ll turn into her mother, all fire and brimstone, her mission to throw his arse back behind bars for the rest of his life. No, one way or another, the police will come for him. He’s unsure how much time he has left, but he won’t be free for long. The rapping of the policewoman’s knuckles against his window now seems a warning, a foreshadowing.
When the police do arrive, he won’t be able to deny his connection with Rachel. Their shared history on Facebook is a giveaway; even if he deletes his account, some techno-whizz will be able to recover it. Mark’s sad about the prospect of disappointing Tony Jackson; he’s a decent enough guy who’s come to expect Mark will always toe the line, not give him any trouble. Now Jackson gets landed with this shit. The poor bastard’s simply another in a long line of people he’s let down.
Back to jail. Really, it’s not such a bad prospect. He’ll forfeit his job and his liberty, sure, but he’s used to prison life. No, it’s the loss of Natalie that hurts the most. A sense of inevitability follows the pain, though. Did any chance of making things work with Natalie ever exist, tainted as he is? No is the answer.
She tugs at the back of Mark’s mind, though. Natalie’s messages have been guarded but she’s made it clear she’s open to listening to his side of the story about Abby Morgan. How reconciliation between them might be possible. He’s been so stoked up about their forthcoming meeting on Tuesday, but now the idea is unbearable. All that seems lost now. He should never have texted her in the first place. Someone else he’s hurt by being the total fuck up that he is. He’s failed Natalie. If he ends up back in prison, then they’re over anyway. If he doesn’t, he still can’t see the two of them being able to work things out, for the simple reason she deserves better than him.
Enough is enough. He’s acted like an idiot recently, too much impulse and not enough thought or consideration. Time to stop, right now, and grow some balls. He’s fucked up once too often and whatever he does or says from now on, he has to get it right. Too many people have been hurt by him already. Whilst he can’t do anything to influence Rachel, he can do what’s right by Natalie. The kindest thing will be to set her free from him.
So, then. Decision made. He’ll still go to her flat on Tuesday as they’ve arranged. No talk of reconciliation, no holding out false hopes of a shared future. He’ll simply tell her they can’t be together.
Shit. He remembers Rachel’s threat. All this assumes he’ll be granted the chance to meet up with Natalie. Rachel Morgan might be talking to the police right now. If he remembers correctly, once his name is logged into the criminal database, it’ll trigger an alert, warning the few individuals who know his new identity, flagging up his breach of the rules to Tony Jackson and his superiors. After that, they’ll arrive swiftly at his door. Extinguishing all chances of him ever explaining anything to Natalie.
A circle of pain is clamping down around Mark’s head. Too little time, too much to do. He could call Natalie, ask to go over there now, but his brain is too fried, his nerves too shredded; he’ll end up getting what he needs to say all wrong, making things worse rather than better. No, this has to be done right.
A thought occurs to him. Perhaps he should text her, ask if they can
bring their meeting forward, to Monday evening. Then he remembers. They arranged it for Tuesday for a reason. Natalie’s away all day tomorrow. Some television production she’s working on up in London. A slap-up meal afterwards. She won’t be home before midnight.
Shit. He’ll have to take his chances as to whether he’s granted sufficient time to explain things to her.
Mark stops his pacing, tossing his empty beer bottle in the bin. Time for a shower. Once in his tiny bathroom, he turns the water on as hot as it will go, willing it to wash away the stress of the day. He doesn’t hurry; this may be his last shower as a free man. The heat steams through the cramped space, enveloping him with comfort. Mark closes his eyes, leaning against the tiles as the warmth cascades over him.
Without warning, a memory surfaces; Joanna Barker’s voice sounds in his head. It’s fourteen years ago, not long before Abby Morgan’s death. His mother’s outside the bathroom as he showers before school, shouting at him not to waste so much water. A frequent complaint of hers. For a second, her irritation works its usual effect in the present day, causing Mark’s fingers to stray towards the off knob on the shower. He stops himself, struck by how pervasive, how powerful, the maternal influence is. All these years, and she’s still able to cow him.
His mother. She’d not be surprised, not at all, if she knew about his latest fuck up. She always did consider him stupid and weak. Unworthy to be her child. You’re your father’s son. Along with can’t trust you to get anything right. Her favourite mantras when annoyed, making it clear his paternity isn’t something of which to be proud.
Thing is, her voice in his head has a point, given how badly he’s screwed up this time. Perhaps it’s not so hard to explain why she didn’t love him. The answer is so obvious, really. Joanna Barker sniffed out his weakness, his unworthiness, as soon as he made his entrance into the world. Maternal rejection is hardly unknown in the animal kingdom, after all; why shouldn’t humans act the same way? Abby Morgan was the excuse his mother needed to oust him from her life completely and finally, a thorn pulled from her flesh at last.