Your Life For Mine

by Karen Clarke

  My thoughts were running like mice. I couldn’t seem to arrange them into any sort of order. ‘Not exactly.’ I gripped my half-empty glass. ‘I’ve thought about him for so long, you see, about how he died saving my life, feeling so guilty and wondering how his family had coped, thinking you must hate me—’

  ‘Hate you?’ Her voice sharpened. ‘You did us a favour.’ Her hand came to rest on my knee. ‘My life improved no end after he’d gone.’

  I reeled back. ‘That’s … harsh.’

  Angie sniffed and sat back, seeming to deflate a little. ‘I wouldn’t have met George if Mike hadn’t died. He made me believe in love again.’ Her face softened, the lines around her eyes smoothing out. ‘Twenty-five years we’ve been married, and never argued once. He treats me like a princess.’

  I clutched at her words, knowing them to be true. It was comforting to know she hadn’t suffered, even if her reaction was a bit extreme. ‘Are his parents still alive?’

  She sat back, seeming startled by the question. ‘They were getting on when they had him, were dead before I met him,’ she said slowly. ‘Partly why I fell for him, to be honest. He made out he was some lonely orphan who needed love, needed a big family … very charming he was. Until we were married, then he went off the whole idea and started having affairs. He liked the thought of being in love, not the reality.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘He could get nasty sometimes.’

  The picture she was painting wasn’t pleasant, but I had to say it. ‘If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. I … I thought I could visit his grave, at least.’

  That gave Angie pause. ‘Like I said, at least he did one good thing in his life before he died, and I’m glad for you.’ She shook her head. ‘But you shouldn’t have spent all this time feeling bad about it, love. You don’t owe him anything. You were only a child. It was his decision to swim out after you that day.’

  Hearing the words so often repeated over the years by family, friends and counsellors sounded different coming from Angie. His decision. You were only a child. I could feel them seeping through me, wrapping around my heart. Would it have made a difference, knowing – as Angie had viciously put it – that Mike hadn’t been a nice man; that he hadn’t been mourned, there were no heartbroken children, that his parents had been long-dead? Probably. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, thinking of all the times I’d imagined the lives ripped apart by his death. ‘I’m who I am, because of that day,’ I said. ‘I became an art therapist so I could help other people, make my life worthwhile to justify Mike losing his.’

  ‘There you go then.’ Angie became brisk, matter-of-fact. ‘Another good thing that came out of him dying.’ She smiled properly, her eyes friendly. ‘You know what, I’m glad you came. It’s good to know things turned out well for you. I couldn’t have cared less the day he was found, if I’m honest. I was so bloody angry with him.’

  ‘You said there was a note,’ I said. ‘What sort of note?’

  Her smile dimmed. ‘He pushed it through the letterbox that morning. Not here, we lived in Truro then, big house with all the trimmings. He weren’t short of money, even if it was inherited. Anyway …’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘I’d been out at work and when I got back it was there, on the mat. Said he’d had enough, he couldn’t take any more, that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.’

  ‘Like … a suicide note?’

  She raised one shoulder, let it fall. ‘Either he was planning to do away with himself, or do a runner, get away from her. I don’t know why he was there that day, unless he was planning to jump in the sea. There’s a notorious spot nearby for jumpers.’

  I was trying to get my head around what she was saying. ‘You think maybe he didn’t make it back to the beach deliberately?’

  Both shoulders lifted this time. ‘All I know is, Mike was a really strong swimmer. He competed at national level when he was younger. It was his favourite way to keep fit, or so he said. He used a friend’s pool a lot, though it turned out he was sleeping with the wife.’

  I ignored the last bit. ‘You said he was seeing someone else when it happened.’

  Angie’s eyes frosted over. ‘Linda Taylor,’ she said, making a face as though the words tasted sour. ‘An alcoholic. You could tell, even though she was pretty. Lot younger than him, that’s how he liked them. She lived with her mum on the Gadsbrook Estate near Truro, probably still does, if she hasn’t drunk herself to death. Worked nights in a fancy bar in the town – that’s where she met Mike. God knows what he saw in her. I think he liked being in charge, or maybe he really loved her. Who knows?’

  She stopped as a man appeared in the doorway. He was big, his fleshy face topped with thick grey hair, with eyes that twinkled behind round glasses. ‘I didn’t know you were expecting guests today.’

  ‘This is George.’ Angie got up and rubbed her hip with a wince. ‘George, this is the young lady I told you about.’

  I rose, returning his slightly bemused smile. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, desperate for some space to process all the new knowledge. ‘Thank you so much for talking to me.’ I turned to Angie. ‘I can’t tell you how much it’s helped.’ It was true. I felt lighter than I had half an hour ago – maybe than I had for years – even as my brain still seethed with questions. Had Mike really intended to take his own life and I’d unwittingly been his way out? It was an odd sort of consolation, if it was true.

  ‘It was nice to meet you.’ Angie’s face worked briefly. ‘You look after yourself now.’ She opened her arms and I moved into them, not sure what to do with the rush of emotion in my chest. ‘Don’t give that man another thought.’ She pressed a clumsy kiss on my cheek and I breathed in her flowery scent. ‘Just get on with your life.’

  I wanted so much to do exactly that, but as I left Angie and George on their doorstep and drove out of sight, my mind returned to the newspaper I’d found that morning; to Vic, and to everything that had happened since my birthday, and I knew it wasn’t that simple.

  Someone wanted me dead, and I still didn’t know who, or why. All I knew was, it had nothing to do with Angie.

  Maybe Linda Taylor would have some answers.

  Chapter 27

  I pulled the car over at the end of the road and googled the Gadsbrook Estate in Truro. Thirty minutes away.

  I called Rosa. ‘I’m sorry to ask for another favour, but can you check something for me, urgently?’

  To her credit, she didn’t ask questions, just took down the details. ‘Give me five minutes,’ she said.

  While I waited, I checked my messages. Vic wanted me to let him know I was OK. I’m missing you xx

  I wanted so much to call and tell him where I was, what I’d learnt, but no longer knew whether I could trust him and didn’t want to dwell on what that meant for our relationship. In a supply shop, looking at paints. Hope you’ve found a nice pub! XX

  When he didn’t reply, I texted Matt.

  How’s Hayley?

  He replied right away, with a photo of Hayley standing on a chair in his Mum’s kitchen, wearing a daisy-patterned apron, her hands and face dusted in flour. Her hair was in lopsided plaits, and the thought of Matt painstakingly weaving her hair made my throat ache.

  Having fun. You?

  I replied with a smiley face, not trusting myself to write anything that might give away my mood, which was an unsettling mix of euphoria and fear, combined with a wild desire to howl at the sky.

  Two minutes later, I had my reply from Rosa. No Linda, but a Maggie Taylor at number 4 Kingfisher Road. Lived there 30 years.

  Maggie must be Linda Taylor’s mother.

  Thanks, Rosa. Talk soon. X

  I’d just turned the corner at the end of the road when my phone began to ring. I pulled over, surprised to see Marianne’s number.

  ‘Have you seen Katya?’

  ‘What?’ It took a second for my brain to recalibrate. ‘Why would I have seen Katya?’

  ‘She didn’t go home yesterday. She messaged her fo
ster mum to say she was coming to find you.’

  ‘Find me?’ I was having trouble computing Marianne’s words. ‘She knows I’m away for a few days.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Marianne said. ‘She’s coming down there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Beth.’ Her voice was sharp with worry. ‘I thought you might know.’

  I recalled my last conversation with Katya, remembered her tears, my promise that I’d be back, and felt a queasy flicker in my stomach. ‘I’ve been worried about her lately,’ I confessed. ‘She’s become too attached, I think.’

  ‘And you’re bringing this up now?’ The usual warmth had been pared back. ‘Don’t you think you should have said something?’

  ‘I was trying to decide how to deal with it, without getting her into trouble,’ I said, going hot with shame. ‘I thought I could get to the bottom of what was going on.’

  ‘Well, clearly something is.’ I knew it wasn’t just concern for Katya. If it turned out she was suffering some sort of breakdown that we – I – hadn’t flagged up, it would reflect badly on Marianne.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I really am.’ I tried to think through the chatter in my head. ‘She can’t know where I’m staying though, so I don’t see how she can find me.’

  ‘She’s a bright girl; she’ll have found a way.’ Her tone was abrupt. ‘The police aren’t too worried because of the text she sent, but obviously Dee’s concerned.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Just let us know if she turns up.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I wish you’d talked to me, Beth.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said, miserably. ‘Maybe I could call her, tell her to go home.’

  ‘Her phone is switched off, and I don’t think you telling her to go home is going to help.’ Marianne grew more placatory. ‘Do you know what it’s about?’

  I pinched the skin between my eyebrows. ‘She was worried about me,’ I admitted. ‘She wasn’t happy about me going away.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘No, but it could be a fear of abandonment, you know, because of her mother.’

  ‘I thought that had all been dealt with in counselling.’ Marianne’s voice faded out, then came back. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Keep us posted, Beth.’

  ‘I will.’

  She hung up and I stared at my phone, feeling sick. Any euphoria from moments ago had dwindled to a sense of foreboding. I knew I should drive back to Penzance, forget about Maggie Taylor … but if I could speak to her about Linda, I had a feeling something crucial might slot into place – maybe even involving Katya.

  If Maggie wasn’t home, I would leave a message, asking her to call me.

  Suddenly faint with hunger, I swung the car into the nearest petrol forecourt and bought a ham sandwich from the shop. I ate it one-handed as I drove, my mind swooping from Katya, to Angie, to Maggie Taylor, to Vic and back to Katya.

  Could she really be in Cornwall – in Perran Cove? I had no doubt she was capable of finding out where I was staying and Vic would call if she turned up – if he was there. She’d be safe at the cottage.

  But, was I?

  *

  A now familiar headache pushed behind my eyes, not helped by the blazing sun bouncing through the windscreen. I wished I hadn’t left my sunglasses at the cottage.

  My nerves leapt when I arrived at the Gadsbrook Estate, which was a warren of cul-de-sacs, lined with boxy, identical houses. Kingfisher Road was narrow and winding, edged with cars on both sides, and a group of teenage boys with skateboards watched as I drove slowly down it, peering in vain for number four. In the end, I drew into the tiny car park behind a shop called Trewin’s at the end of the street, with an overflowing litter bin outside, and made my way back on foot, feeling conspicuous. I was clutching my bag as if expecting someone to snatch it. I hoisted it onto my shoulder, walking with more purpose.

  Number four was in a state of disrepair, paintwork flaking off the door and window frames, the garden parched and overgrown, the path cracked and weed-clogged. The elderly woman who answered my knock didn’t look much better: stringy grey hair hanging limply around a gaunt, lined face, her hands and face dotted with liver spots.

  ‘What?’ Her irises were pale, the whites of her eyes a sickly yellow. She’d been drinking, the stench of alcohol seeping from her pores.

  ‘Are you Linda Taylor’s mum?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  As she started to close the door, I wedged my foot in the gap. ‘Please, I just want to talk to her,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me where she is?’

  The door swung wider. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘It’s to do with Mike Barrett,’ I said. ‘A long time ago, he and Linda were—’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I began.

  ‘I haven’t got all day.’ She glanced behind her, as if there was a stack of work waiting, one bony hand clutching the doorframe as if to hold herself up.

  ‘I’d really like to speak to Linda.’

  ‘You’d have to be a medium to do that,’ she slurred. ‘Linda died a long time ago.’

  I stiffened. ‘Linda’s dead?’

  ‘Overdose.’ She sniffed, wiping the back of her hand across her nose. ‘Booze and pills.’

  I let that sink in for a second. ‘Mike Barrett,’ I said, more hesitant. ‘Did you know your daughter was having a relationship with him?’

  Maggie bared her teeth. One was missing at the front, the rest stained brown. ‘Promised her the world,’ she said with a half-hearted sneer. ‘She got clean for him then he went and died. After that, she gave up.’

  The pain in my temples intensified. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Lost cause, that one.’ Her eyes had gone watery. Was this the tragedy I’d been expecting at Angie’s? ‘Started a long time ago,’ she said, head drooping forward, as if the bulk of memories was too much. ‘Like her mum she was, chip off the old block, always falling for the wrong man, probably looking for a father figure. Her dad was no effing good, took off when she was two. She should’ve …’ She mumbled more words I couldn’t catch, seeming to lose track of where she was, and started to close the door again. As she did, a crooked line of photos on the stained wall by the stairs leapt into focus. The nearest was of a boy, aged about ten, dark-haired with big, solemn eyes. Something about him seemed familiar. ‘Is that your son?’ I pointed and Maggie turned, swaying slightly. The billowing garment covering her from neck to toe was a nightdress, her bird-like frame visible through the cotton. ‘My grandson,’ she said in a maudlin tone. ‘Jack’s boy.’

  ‘You have a son?’ Perhaps he – Jack – could tell me more about Linda. ‘Do you think I could have his number please, Maggie? I’d like to talk to him.’

  She squinted at me, as if trying to remember who I was. ‘Lives abroad,’ she said, sparse eyebrows pulling together. ‘Doesn’t have nothing to do with me, haven’t spoken to him in years.’

  ‘Your grandson?’

  ‘Just said, didn’t I? They live in New Zealand, or America or somewhere. I can’t remember.’ Her face contorted. ‘Piss off, you nosy bitch.’

  The door slammed shut in my face, a flake of dull red paint floating to the ground.

  I drove back to Penzance on autopilot, thoughts whirling like dried leaves. I thought about the differences between Angie and Linda, the two women in Mike’s life; one he’d married and the other he’d … what? Promised the world to, according to Maggie.

  And after he died, whether it was suicide or by accident, Angie had managed to move on and be happy, glad he’d gone for good, but Linda, in love with a man much older and – according to Angie – not short of money, who’d promised her a better future, had found life so bleak when he’d died, she’d chosen to end it.

  And what about her brother, Jack? The son who fled to the other side of the world to escape his family? Had something gone wrong there? Was he back, wanting someone to pay f
or his sister’s death? If Mike hadn’t died, Linda might still be alive – they might have married, she could have had a child. All their lives would be different, just as mine and my family’s would have been, if Mike had lived. We’d been damaged by what happened, but at least we were alive and well – thriving, even. Happy, in comparison to the Taylors. How hard would that be for someone whose life may have spiralled out of control and was looking for someone to blame? Like his sister, Jack may have inherited an alcohol addiction from their mother. I knew nothing about him, and yet …

  Vic Berenson’s not his real name.

  It was ridiculous to think they could be the same person. And Vic had a sister, very much alive, in Canada. A sister I’d never met. What if he’d concocted a life that didn’t exist, in order to infiltrate mine? He really would have to be a psychopath to do that and it didn’t fit with everything I knew about Vic.

  Psychopaths are convincing liars.

  ‘Shut up, Emma,’ I muttered.

  I was nearly in Penzance, the miles having passed unnoticed, when I swung into a pub car park and picked up my phone.

  ‘What’s his real name?’ I said, when Emma answered on the first ring.

  ‘You still haven’t asked him then?’ Considering she must be at work and I rarely called, she didn’t sound remotely surprised to hear from me.

  ‘I’m asking you.’ Please, don’t let it be Jack Taylor.

  ‘OK.’ I heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘It’s Jonathan Ryder.’

  For a second, I felt dizzy with relief. Not Jack Taylor. I exhaled a long breath. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I did some digging after our conversation the other day. Checking him out.’ I let that go, for the moment. ‘Turns out there’s no birth record for a Vic Berenson anywhere in the UK, but there was a record in the National Archives from 1998 when he changed his name from Jonathan Ryder.’ There was no triumph in her voice, just concern. ‘He changed it when he was eighteen,’ she said. ‘You have to admit it’s dodgy, Beth.’

  ‘OK, it’s odd, but he declared it, which he didn’t have to do. It’s not illegal to change your name by deed poll.’ I couldn’t remember how I knew that, but was certain it was true.