‘Karen? What’s happened?’
The concern in Sienna’s voice is mingled with the sound of exhausted disorientation, and I feel guilty at calling despite knowing it is nearly midnight in Australia. She knows I would never disturb her at this time of night unless there was something wrong, and this has caused a panic that I already regret inflicting upon her. She knows what has been preying on my mind these past few weeks, and she will realise why I am contacting her now.
‘I’m so sorry to call you late, but I didn’t know what else to do. God, I shouldn’t have rung … It’s probably going to sound stupid.’
‘What’s happened?’ she asks again.
‘Someone’s been sending me messages. Emails.’
There is silence. I hear my statement played back in my brain and even to myself it sounds ridiculous. The issue isn’t anything that merits a late-night phone call to the other side of the world – Sienna is more than likely considering the same fact – but it is too late for that, and now I need to explain my reaction to what I have received, if only to justify disturbing her sleep.
‘What sort of emails?’
‘I had one a few weeks back – it said, “How do you sleep at night, you bitch?” And I’ve just had another one.’
‘Saying what?’
‘“It’s time you paid for what you did.”’
Once again there is silence from the other end of the line. I already know what is going through Sienna’s mind. I head upstairs to my office, clutching the phone to my ear.
‘Okay,’ she says, after a moment. ‘Who does it say they’re from?’
‘There’s no name on either of them,’ I tell her as I turn on my laptop. ‘The address is [email protected].’
‘Violet sky?’ Sienna repeats. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Was your name mentioned in either of them? Are they actually addressed to you?’
‘No, my name’s not there, but they were sent to my email address.’
‘Someone’s probably got the wrong address,’ she says, her voice soothing as she attempts to calm my concerns. ‘It sounds like a prank to me, someone just messing around, that’s all. Take no notice. I get so much junk mail – if I had a pound for every email telling me I’m in line for some huge inheritance, I really would be rich.’ She laughs, but the sound is brief and is followed by another pause. ‘Are you okay, Karen? You sound tired.’
She doesn’t need to say it: her meaning is obvious. She thinks I’m overreacting, or that I’m confused; she believes the messages may not be quite as I’m relaying them to her, or perhaps she doubts they exist at all. She knows about the pills I’ve taken in the past to try to help me sleep; she is aware that a cocktail of alternatives has gone before them. The knowledge doesn’t help make my suspicions credible.
‘I’m fine,’ I snap, realising too late that my tone is unnecessarily abrupt.
I open the internet browser on my laptop and type the words ‘violet sky’ into the search engine. One click takes me to a long list of search results, which at first glance offers nothing more than links to weather-related sites and Photoshopped images that look too beautiful to possibly be real. They are the type of skies I imagine Sienna to live beneath, and Christopher too, wherever he might be now.
‘Even if they were meant for you,’ Sienna says, too polite to comment on my irritability, ‘what could they refer to? “It’s time you paid for what you did.” Paid for what? You’ve not done anything, have you.’
You’ve not done anything, have you. A statement, not a question. We both know what she’s referring to, but it is something we will never agree on. Sienna was just a child – she doesn’t know the details of that time. I will never forgive myself for what happened. She can’t convince me that it wasn’t my fault. No one can.
‘Honestly, Karen,’ she continues. ‘You need to try not to worry yourself with this.’
‘That couple I mentioned,’ I say, feeling trepidation at giving air to the uncertainties I have experienced since Sienna and I last spoke. ‘There’s something not right about them.’
‘You said you didn’t think anyone was in danger.’
‘Not at first, I didn’t, but now I don’t know. There’s just something off about them,’ I add, realising my description of the situation is a poor one at best.
I click on the second page of internet results for ‘violet sky’, but I’m wasting my time – there is nothing here of any use to me.
‘He’s controlling her, I think – she never seems to say everything she wants to say; it’s as though she’s always holding something back. And the husband is constantly on edge, but not in a normal way, not in the way some people naturally are when they come to me for help. He came here on his own today; he’s not long left. He was completely different without his wife here.’ I stop myself from telling her I thought he was flirting with me. She really would think I’m starting to lose my mind if I did. ‘I want to help them, but I feel as though I’m missing something somewhere.’ I pause and take a breath, aware that my words are falling into one another in their desperation to be freed. I know what I want to say, but I realise what Sienna will think of me. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Christine Blackhurst,’ I admit.
She says nothing for a moment, and there is little reassurance in her silence. It feels as though she is preparing how best to advise me that I should take a break. Before this second email, perhaps I might have agreed that that was all I need.
‘You don’t have to see this couple again,’ she tells me. ‘If you’re not comfortable around them, cancel their remaining sessions.’
‘I can’t. I don’t think she’s safe.’
‘You think he’s violent to her?’
‘It looks likely.’
‘Has she told you he is?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘What do you mean, not exactly?’
‘It’s like she’s trying to tell me something but she can’t say it in front of him. I’ve seen the way she watches him. And she looks at me as though she’s pleading for my help. She actually mouthed the words “help me”.’
Sienna pauses, and I don’t need to be able to see her face to know what her expression is likely to be saying. ‘Have you seen any evidence on her? Bruises or anything?’
‘No,’ I admit.
Sienna pauses again while she considers what I’ve told her. Her doubt is louder than the silence. ‘You think they’ve been sending you these messages, then?’
Though she may not intend it, her tone is laced with scepticism. I imagine how I might respond if it was me who was listening to these words, and I realise I can’t blame her for her reaction regardless of how much it frustrates me.
‘No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t see why they would. And the husband was here with me when the one I received today was sent, so he can’t be involved, can he?’
‘Has either of them threatened you in any way?’
I know now that this phone call is a waste of time. She has asked this question knowing what my answer will be. They haven’t caused me any harm; they haven’t done anything wrong. All I have is a handful of suspicions that lack any concrete justification, and a head filled with insecurities planted there by other people, people who existed long before either Lydia or Josh arrived in my life.
I need to sleep, but most of all, I need to leave the past behind me.
‘No, they haven’t. I’m sorry I called you,’ I say, and though it is meant with one intention, the words leave my mouth with the tone of another.
‘You don’t need to apologise. I’m always here for you, Karen.’
It is kind of her to say it, but I know the sentiment is delivered through a sense of duty. I am not Sienna’s responsibility. My problems are not hers.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’ll speak to you soon.’
Yet again, our conversation ends with a lie. I return to the email inbox on my phone, staring
at the words that await me there, as though by looking at them hard enough I will be able to change their form.
It’s time you paid for what you did.
When I look back at the screen of my laptop, I am greeted by a deep purple sky that stretches above an endless clifftop. It is idyllic, beautiful. It is far from something that should fill my heart with dread.
I close the emails on my phone and focus my attention on the laptop, returning to the internet browser and typing Josh Green’s name into the search engine. I painstakingly trawl the search results on Facebook, trying unsuccessfully to match the name to the face that has sat opposite me these past couple of months. I try Joshua Green, but still there is nothing to be found: no man who even vaguely resembles the one who was here with me just an hour ago. A Google Image search produces the same lack of results, and when I repeat the process with Lydia’s name, yet again I find nothing that leads me to her.
Frustration engulfs me and I abandon my search, slamming the lid of my laptop shut. Not everyone has social media profiles, I remind myself, though it seems strange that there is no mention of Josh on any hospital website. I realise I don’t know which hospital he is based in, but there should be evidence of him somewhere. I try to steady my racing pulse and the swarm of doubts that fills my head, suffocating the rest of my thoughts. Some people prefer to shun an online presence, wanting to keep their personal lives private. I have always regarded it as a sensible option, though in Josh and Lydia Green’s case, there is only one thought that occurs to me, repeating itself until it cannot go ignored.
Perhaps they don’t want to be found.
And if not, why not?
Eight
Lydia
Lydia arrives at the house alone, as planned. Karen invites her in in her usual manner, doing everything she can to present herself as the trusting counsellor and the perfect host. She seems different today, but Lydia wonders whether that’s just because they are finally alone, free of Josh and all his childish tendencies.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
Lydia shrugs and offers an attempt at a smile before slipping off her jacket for Karen to hang up on the end of the staircase. ‘I don’t think he’s happy about me coming here today.’
She follows Karen down the hallway and into the consultancy room. Today, without him there, she can look at it properly. She notices for the first time the titles of the books that line the shelves on the far wall, an array of psychology textbooks and guides to relationships interspersed with a few classic novels that she wonders whether Karen has ever read.
‘Has he said that?’
‘He doesn’t need to.’
She takes her usual place on the sofa and waits for Karen to complete her routine of making tea. She checks her handbag for her phone, knowing what she needs to do; knowing that today, without him there, is the only opportunity she will get to show Karen everything the woman needs to see.
‘You were in a controlling relationship, weren’t you?’ she asks.
Karen places the tea tray on the table and avoids eye contact. Her relationship with her first husband is no secret; in fact, she has shared her experiences in what she obviously regards as an effort to help others who have found themselves in similar marriages.
‘My first husband, yes.’
‘I read some of your articles before we met,’ Lydia explains. ‘What you went through was terrible.’
Karen says nothing, and a silence descends, making both women uncomfortable.
‘It all sounds a bit close to home,’ Lydia adds.
Karen looks at her now, waiting for her to offer more. This is her opportunity; she knows she must take it while it is there in front of her.
‘What do you think of Josh?’ she asks.
‘Does it matter what I think?’
‘It matters to me. I wonder sometimes if I’m the only person who sees it.’
‘Sees what?’
‘What he’s really like.’ She reaches to the floor for her bag and searches inside it. ‘I know what he’s doing to me,’ she says, unlocking her phone. ‘I’ve read up on it. I read your article. That’s how I came to find your name.’
She swipes the home screen and taps on the internet icon, opening the page that shows Karen’s piece: 10 Signs You Might Be in a Controlling Relationship. ‘Here,’ she says, pointing a finger at the screen. ‘Number one. “Your partner suggests that you are responsible for their actions and responses”,’ she reads. ‘He does this all the time, Karen. Any time we disagree about anything and he decides to lash out, it’s my fault, as though I’ve taken control of him somehow. You know what he can be like – you’ve seen his temper for yourself. He’ll never accept responsibility for anything – it’s always what I’ve said or done that’s made him behave that way. Number two,’ she continues, returning her focus to her phone. ‘“Your partner conceals apologies.” He’s a pro at this. He never says he’s sorry. Ever. He never thinks he’s in the wrong. He’ll say things like “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way” or “I’m sorry you’ve taken it that way.” He always somehow manages to turn it back around on me. He apologised to you, but you had to force it from him, remember? When he snapped at you last time, when we were talking about his mother. It’s all part of the charm, you see, to keep you on his side, but he’s never like that with me. Is that normal?’
Karen is looking at her with pity, and Lydia knows what her answer would be if she felt able to just give it. No. No, it isn’t normal at all.
‘Three,’ she continues, when Karen fails to answer her question, ‘and I won’t go through them all, don’t worry – you don’t need me to tell you, do you? “Your partner makes you believe that no one else will want you.”’ She looks at Karen as she clamps her bottom lip between her teeth, fighting back the emergence of tears. ‘You don’t see it in this room, not what he’s really like. I said he’s never charming like that with me, but actually he was once, a long time ago, when we first met. Do you know, for the first six months of our relationship he bought me a bunch of roses every Wednesday after our first date. I didn’t expect it to continue – it would have cost him a fortune – but after the flowers stopped so did the niceness.’
She pauses, takes a deep breath; tries to organise her thoughts into the order she wants to share her story.
‘He became a different person overnight,’ she continues. ‘He started telling me what I could and couldn’t wear, who I could and couldn’t meet up with. I had a friend from school, a male friend I’d known for years. He didn’t want me to see him, so we lost touch. He asked me how I’d feel if he spent time with another woman, and I saw his point. I thought that maybe now I was married it wasn’t right to spend time with another man. But then it was female friends too. He’d make excuses for why I needed to stay at home – there was something being delivered, or a workman coming to do some job or other. If I said anything to challenge him, he’d call me ungrateful; he’d say he was working all the hours to give us a lovely life and I didn’t appreciate him.’ She stops and sighs. ‘I was pregnant by this point. He’d got what he wanted.’
‘A child?’
‘No. He’d trapped me. That was all he wanted. We got married when I found out I was pregnant – I thought it was the right thing to do. How 1950s is that? All the compliments and surprises, the little gifts he used to leave around for me … that soon came to an end. I was stupid.’
‘Love-bombing,’ Karen says.
‘What?’
‘What you’ve just described. It’s referred to as “love-bombing”. My first husband did the same to me. A person showers another person with gifts and compliments – usually someone they’ve identified as vulnerable in some way. That person becomes a target, in a sense. It’s all about manipulation and control. And you weren’t stupid, Lydia. You’re not the first and sadly you won’t be the last. You are not to blame for how anyone else behaves.’
‘Were you vulnerable?’
‘Once,’ Karen says.
It is said with such conviction that she wonders whether Karen really believes it, or whether it is simply that she wants others to believe it. How many times has she told this story, relating her experience as a victim?
‘But maybe it is me,’ she says. She leans forward and puts her phone back into her handbag. ‘You’ve heard what he’s like with Lucy. She loves him. He’s well respected at work. His friends think the world of him. He isn’t like this with anyone else.’
‘Why do you think it’s you, Lydia?’
‘For the reasons I’ve just given. Everyone else can’t be wrong. Maybe he’s right – maybe I make him the way he is.’
‘Do you think that’s possible? Do you have that much control over him?’
‘I don’t have any control, do I? I mean, it feels as though he’s controlling me. Maybe he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Perhaps it’s not controlling at all – perhaps I’m just looking too deeply into things. He’s always telling me I’m overly sensitive. Do you think I’m being too sensitive?’ Her words pour out into the room. It feels good, this release, like having a valve loosened and the pressure in her brain eased to a level that is slightly more bearable.
‘Have you told anyone else about all this?’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘Do the children see the way he treats you?’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s very clever like that. Whenever there’s an argument between us and the children are there to hear it, he manages to make me the guilty party. He usually brings up my drinking. It’s only a couple of drinks of an evening. Do you see that as a problem?’
‘Do you see it as a problem?’
‘Please stop answering my questions with questions.’ Her words are snapped and brittle in tone. They take both women by surprise. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, pushing aside a length of hair that has come loose. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. I just … I want someone to be honest with me, that’s all. Everyone seems to do the same thing you’re doing, skirting around the truth, never saying what they really think. I just want someone to help me.’
The Divorce: A gripping psychological thriller with a fantastic twist Page 12