by Jess Ryder
‘Alan had lost his job, and he didn’t have many friends. I used to think he was really popular, good old Foxy, Mr Charming and all that, but I realised later that that was his version of himself, not other people’s. If anyone asked, I said he’d walked out on me and I didn’t know where he’d gone. I reckon most of them thought, good riddance to bad rubbish.’
‘Didn’t he have any family who cared?’
‘Just a younger brother. Micky knew what Alan was like; they’d fallen out over the way he was treating me. Alan was always manipulating him – it’s how he was with everyone. Micky felt guilty because he’d told Alan where I was living. He came to see me a few weeks after Dawn was born. I have a feeling he suspected something awful had happened, but he didn’t ask and I didn’t tell. I gave him Alan’s stuff – personal documents, certificates, passport … I didn’t want them in the house. Then we said goodbye and I never heard from him again. I don’t know how he ended up.’
But I do, I think. ‘What was Micky like?’
She pauses to reflect. ‘Spitting image of his brother, just a hell of a lot nicer. The boys had had a tough start in life. Micky got into trouble with the law when he was a teenager. But he was straightening himself out. He had a good heart. I’d like to think he made a go of it.’
‘What did you tell Dawn about her father?’
‘Obviously I couldn’t tell her the truth,’ she says. ‘But she reached that age when kids ask questions so I had to say something. I told her he’d gone to Australia and died of cancer. She knew he used to beat me; I’d made no secret of it. I wanted her to know what men could be like. She trained to be a therapist, you know, so she could help women like me. I’m so proud of her.’
Right on cue, the door opens and Dawn enters. She looks at me timidly. ‘How are you? All right if I come in?’ I try to nod, but my head swims with pain. She crosses over to the bed and sits on the other side, and once more I’m struck by the physical similarity between mother and daughter.
‘I’ve told her everything,’ Kay says simply.
‘You did what?!’ Dawn’s eyes open wide. ‘Are you mad?’
‘Don’t talk to me about being mad … You’re the ones who started all this.’
‘But Mum … what about Abi? If she’s arrested, she won’t cope.’
‘There’s nothing we can do about that. Enough’s enough. It’s up to Stella what happens now.’
Dawn looks at me. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I say. Their story is weighing heavily on me. ‘Tell me more about Abi. She was the one who actually killed your husband. That’s a terrible burden to carry for the rest of your life.’
Kay nods, putting her hands in her lap. ‘I don’t know exactly what she did, I didn’t witness it. But she was clearly very traumatised. Didn’t talk about it for days, and then she started saying stuff, talking about the blood, the man on the floor. It was obvious she remembered some of it. I told her she’d been very ill and had been hallucinating, that she’d had some awful nightmares but that was all they were – none of it was real. She believed me. At least, I thought she did.
‘She seemed okay, at first. The damage didn’t really show itself until she was a teenager. Then it was eating disorders, self-harming, aggressive behaviour, refusing to go to school, the lot. I sensed she’d remembered killing her stepfather but had suppressed it very, very deeply. I’d contributed to that, of course. I felt bad about it, but there wasn’t a choice.’
Kay starts to cry, silent tears falling down her creased cheeks. Dawn stretches across the bed and takes her hand. ‘It’s okay, Mum, you did what you thought best.’
‘I wrecked her life the day I met that man. I ruined everything.’ She feels in her sleeve for a tissue. ‘I’ll never forgive myself.’
‘I tried to give Abi therapy,’ Dawn says to me. ‘You’re not supposed to treat members of your own family, but I knew she wouldn’t open up to anyone else. She was very confused. She knew something very, very bad had happened when she was a kid and felt it had been her fault. I tried hypnosis. She had memories of a house full of women and my father turning up one night, and of being very frightened. It sounded like a refuge to me, but Mum had never said anything about living in a refuge. We asked you, didn’t we, Mum? But you said it was all nonsense.’
‘Yes, that’s true … I hated lying to you, but I was frightened too.’
‘We did some searches, tried to find a record of my father’s death in Australia, but we drew a blank. You kept insisting that he’d died of cancer, but you couldn’t show us any proof.’
‘I know, I know … I was so worried.’
‘Abi started to remember other things – the house was on a hill, she had a round bedroom at the top, overlooking the sea … there was a muddy beach nearby, and a pier. Through my job, I was able to get a list of refuges in the area. Nothing fitted her description, but then somebody told me about Westhill House, which had just closed down after forty years. Started out as a squat, then was taken over by a charity and converted into proper safe accommodation. We went to have a look at it and Abi knew straight away that that was where she’d stayed. It was up for sale. We even posed as potential buyers so we could have a look around.
‘Everything came flooding back. Abi had a panic attack there in the hallway. We had to make some excuse and leave; it was really embarrassing. After that, she became obsessed with this idea that she’d killed my father and that he was buried somewhere in the house or garden. She said we had to find the body and get rid of it before the new owner did.
‘We couldn’t buy the place ourselves, obviously. We kept an eye out; it didn’t sell for ages. Abi had all sorts of notions about breaking in and squatting, but then the Sold sign went up. She decided she had to make a plan. I didn’t want to get involved, but she was going crazy, and I was really worried about what she’d do if I refused. She got friendly with the estate agent, and he said you were a lovely couple, really nice people. That’s when she came up with the idea of me pretending to be a victim of domestic violence. The rest you know …’
‘Dawn’s been explaining how wonderful you were to her,’ says Kay, wiping the corners of her eyes with the tissue. ‘You remind me so much of the women who worked in the refuge – their kindness and generosity were second to none. They took everything on trust, never doubted my story, never challenged me.’
‘You’re forgetting that I’m the one who’s been abused here,’ I say hotly. ‘They lied and deceived me, manipulated me to cover up a crime. They completely fucked up my relationship with my boyfriend. And then, when it went wrong, they tried to kill me. If Dawn hadn’t fetched you, I’d be in the ground now, along with your bastard husband.’
‘Yes, yes, you’re right, it was appalling what they did.’
‘But Abi wasn’t trying to kill you; that was never part of the plan,’ Dawn assures me. ‘She just panicked.’
‘Yeah, but I almost died! Your sister needs help; you all need help.’
There’s a pause, filled by the pain in my head. I feel dizzy, as if the room is spinning round, taking me forward in time, away from the 1970s and back to the here and now.
Kay takes my hand and grips it tightly. ‘Now you know the truth, what do you want to do, Stella?’
‘Mum, we can’t let her—’
‘I made a deal, Dawn. I’m going to honour it.’
‘Abi will never cope in prison.’
I hold up my hand to silence them. ‘Give me my phone, please.’
Kay looks sharply at her daughter. ‘Do as she says.’ Dawn stands and goes over to my desk, opening the drawer and taking out my mobile.
‘Please, please don’t do this,’ she pleads as she holds it out to me.
My hands are trembling as I prod the phone into life. The battery has been running down; there’s only ten per cent left, but that’s enough to make a single, quick call. Nervous about the boulder I’m about to roll down the hill, but still resolute, I
start to dial.
Chapter Forty-One
Stella
Now
The doctor – a young man with owl-like glasses and a beaky nose – peels back the bandage and peers at my wound. I feel nervous under the bright lights of the cubicle. Will my account of what happened match with the physical evidence?
‘How did you do this?’
‘I was hit over the head with a spade.’ I remember reading somewhere that the best lies are the ones based on truth. It’s a technique I’ve used for years.
‘Really? How come?’
‘I was doing some gardening; it was an accident.’ I flinch as he prods the tender skin at the back of my head.
‘When did it happen?’ He pulls off his rubber gloves and throws them in the bin.
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
He frowns. ‘You should have come to A and E immediately.’
‘Sorry.’ I don’t offer any explanation for the delay. How could I tell him I spent the night tied up in a tarpaulin on the floor of the garden shed?
‘Well … the wound looks clean and it’s stopped bleeding, but we still have to be careful with infections. When did you last have a tetanus jab?’
‘Can’t remember. When I was a kid, I think.’
‘Any fever? Headache? Sickness?’
‘My head’s sore and I felt sick for a while, but I’m a lot better now.’ That’s true. As soon as I entered the hospital, the pain in my brain subsided and I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
‘Hmm.’ He shines a torch into my eyes. ‘I think you’re okay. We’ll give you a jab, get you stitched up and send you down for a scan, just to make sure there’s nothing more serious going on.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Might have to wait a while, I’m afraid. Have you got anyone with you?’
‘No.’
He stops writing his notes and stares at me for a few moments. ‘And it was a gardening accident, you say. You’re sure about that?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It was quite a whack … Who did it?’
‘A friend. She was digging the flower beds and I stupidly got in the way.’ It sounds like a lame excuse, but it’s the best I can come up with. ‘It was my fault.’
‘Okay …’ He pauses again, as if searching for the right words. ‘Look, I don’t want to interfere, but … if you want to talk to anyone about anything, we have specially trained staff here. I can refer you—’
‘It wasn’t domestic violence, if that’s what you’re getting at,’ I say quickly. ‘If it was, I’d speak up, don’t worry.’
‘Good … Glad to hear it … Well, you know where we are if you need us.’ He smiles briefly, then puts his pen back into his top pocket. He knows I’m lying, covering up for someone else. I can almost see the questions popping out like thought balloons on either side of his head. Why didn’t she come to hospital immediately? Why is she here on her own? He could easily be forgiven for assuming I was an abuse victim.
No, not a victim, a survivor.
* * *
Three hours later, put back together and re-bandaged, scanned and given the all-clear, I take a taxi back to the house. I’m still feeling weak and vulnerable, anxious about what’s been going on in my absence.
The journey back to Nevansey seems to take for ever. I sit in the back seat, staring blankly out of the window, fingers gripped around my phone. A well of emotion is rising in my chest. I’m having to use all my strength to stop myself contacting Jack. When we first met, we were in touch several times a day, updating each other on our whereabouts, sending jokey messages or photos – amazing sunsets or just funny things we’d spotted in the street. Sometimes he’d just text, I love you, and I’d text back, jokily, Who is this?
Even though I know it’s over between us, I still feel that urge to hear his voice, to listen to his calming tones and his consoling words. I desperately want to talk to him, but I daren’t. If I told him what had happened, he wouldn’t hesitate to call the police and have everyone arrested. There’d already be a tent over the burial spot in the garden, people in white suits taking photographs, journalists gathered outside the house, waiting excitedly for some gory news.
I didn’t call the police when Dawn handed me my phone, although I was sorely tempted. I rang Alan instead. He didn’t pick up – I knew he wouldn’t – so I left a message he couldn’t ignore.
‘I know the truth about Foxy. Come over to Westhill House now.’
The taxi reaches the pier and turns left along the Esplanade. I look out of the window at the familiar view: the bank of pebbles pushed against the sea wall by the force of incoming tides, the swathes of dark brown mud as sticky as treacle, the black wooden groins rising out of the water like rotting teeth. It has a strange beauty all of its own.
I haven’t used the beach as much as I thought I would. I imagined long romantic walks along the coast path, picnics in grassy dips, wild swimming. I was going to learn how to cook lobster and eat oysters. I wanted to submerge myself in the culture here, not be a down-from-Londoner, pushing up the property prices.
I’m not surprised to see Alan’s battered white van parked on the driveway. I knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore my message. I pay the cab driver, then walk up the steps to the front door. Fumbling in my bag for my key, I eventually find it and turn it in the lock. The heavy door creaks open, revealing the tiled hallway. Immediately I picture the body that lay there all those years ago, blood oozing out, pulse fading. I enter cautiously, feeling as fragile as a dead leaf blown in by the wind.
‘Hello? I’m back.’ I shut the door behind me and put my bag in my room. The house is quiet. Everyone must be outside. I walk down the corridor, through the kitchen and into the conservatory. The back door is open, held back by a brick and letting a cold draught into the house. I pause, resting against the frame, summoning up what little energy I have left to go into the garden.
It must have rained earlier, because the ground is wet and slippery. I follow the path of trodden grass down to the bottom, bending my head to go under the arch of the pergola. My stomach lurches as I reach the old shed, where I lay for several hours, certain I was going to die. I take a few more steps, then round the end of the building.
Kay, Abigail and Dawn are huddled together as if at a funeral, mesmerised by the hole at their feet, watching every cut of Alan’s spade as he digs, throwing the clods behind him in a shower of mud. He’s not Alan, of course, but Micky. But I’ll never get used to calling him that, any more than I’ll ever adjust to thinking of Lori as Dawn.
Abi is the first to react to my presence. She catches me in her peripheral vision and glances up. Our eyes lock for a second, then she looks away, embarrassed. I have no memory of her tying me up – probably just as well – but I do remember her lifting the spade above her head and crashing it down on my skull.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘Stella, you’re back.’ Kay responds instantly, stepping forward and holding out her arms. ‘How did you get on at the hospital?’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I mumble. ‘I’ll live to fight another day.’
Alan looks up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his gardening glove. The air is spiked with cold, but he has stripped down to his vest, revealing ugly, tired tattoos on his forearms.
‘Stella,’ he says, panting with exertion.
My tone is chilly. ‘So this is what it takes for you to reply to my messages.’
He rests the spade against the growing mound of earth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry for everything.’
‘Shall we talk?’ I nod towards the house.
He tugs off his gloves. ‘Of course.’ Stepping out of the pit, he picks up his sweatshirt and pulls it over his head.
‘I’ll take over,’ says Dawn. She picks up the spade and starts attacking the earth.
Alan follows me back up the path and into the conservatory. The old deckchairs are leaning against the wall. I take one an
d flap it open, then lower myself onto the seat. He prefers to stand, sticking his hands in the pockets of his dungarees.
‘You’re Micky, is that right?’
He nods, chewing on his bottom lip. ‘Yeah, but I’ve been Alan for nearly forty years now. I don’t think of myself as Micky any more.’
‘Why did you steal your brother’s identity?’
He sighs, and rests his back against the brick wall. ‘I got into some trouble when I was young, ended up with a criminal record. It made it hard to get work; nobody wanted to give me a chance. I was hanging around with a few blokes I’d met inside, and they wouldn’t let me go, you know? I could feel myself being pulled back under.’ He screws up his face, as if the remembering is painful.
‘I knew Foxy was violent towards Kay. I was glad when she left him. I bumped into her a few months later in Nevansey – she begged me not to tell him where she was living, and I promised I wouldn’t. I kept it a secret for weeks. But Foxy was falling apart, kept saying how much he loved her and wanted her back, vowed he was going to change, and like a fool, I believed him. Told him she was in the refuge. Worst thing I could have done, as it turned out.’
‘How did he react?’
‘He went mental, said he was going to drag her back by her hair if necessary. I should have warned her, but I didn’t.’ He sighs and looks down at his muddy boots. ‘It was early December. I hadn’t heard from Foxy for a few weeks, so I went over to the house. He wasn’t there, but Kay was. She didn’t have to say a word, I could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t scared any more – she looked like a different person. I knew then that my brother was dead, and I didn’t give a shit. As far as I was concerned, he’d got what he deserved.’
‘Kay told me the two of you never spoke about what had happened.’