Part of the Silence

by Debbie Howells

  I watched him at the counter, talking to a friend, noted how his easy confidence merged with unself-consciousness, and caught his eye as he happened to glance my way. The two of them carried on talking, while I concocted their life stories. They were old friends, probably from their school days, who both worked in the city and who caught up now and then. When his friend left, after a few minutes, he made his way over to where I was sitting.

  Had he felt it, too?

  I agreed to another latte, but already, in a few words, a meeting of eyes, it was much more than that. There was an inevitability, a sense that our meeting was more than just chance. I wasn’t looking that late September afternoon. But fate had intervened when I found him.

  From the start, he was different. The first time, in the dark quiet of the hotel room he’d booked, it was there. I felt it in my bones, the rawness of connection to him, a need for his body against mine that was so much more than sexual. I hadn’t known sex could be like that. It had always been about control and pushing boundaries, doing whatever it took to break into the numbness that surrounded me, even briefly, so that I could feel. But not like this—not joining myself to another soul.

  Somewhere deep in my dark, twisted heart, I’d discovered an ache, a craving for more. I tried to stifle it, because it frightened me. I didn’t want to feel like this. When you hooked up with someone for no-strings sex, you existed in the bubble of the moment. Love wasn’t part of the deal. But this was different.

  That moment, that incredible moment I’d never forget, when he held my face in his hands, the intensity of his eyes burning into mine, as he told me he’d fallen in love with me. I didn’t know what to say, just had a miraculous sense, for the first time, of coming home.

  My cynical self stepped in at that point, stopped me from making a complete fool of myself. I knew, didn’t I, that love was for other people—those who were older, the successful, those with normal expectations of life, those who wanted children, who had an ability to feel? When I was so fucked up, it was ridiculous to imagine anyone would love me. But eventually, I let my guard go down, felt love wash over all the years of abuse I’d subjected myself to, soothing the chaos in my mind. Discovering that euphoria didn’t last, but it gave way to a new pain, the kind that came from being apart.

  We didn’t talk about other people, other lovers. It had always been one of my rules. In my world, you met for uninhibited sex for a couple of hours, usually in the afternoon, then went back to your separate lives. I didn’t know what to do with being in love.

  It was his idea for me to move in. I’d thought about it, wondered if he’d ask, waited for it to come from him, and when it did, I let surprise spread across my face, then delight. Relief, too, that I’d read him right. That for once, thank God, I hadn’t been wrong.

  “It makes sense, you moving in here,” he said softly, stroking a wisp of hair out of my eyes, peeling off my T-shirt, then unfastening the zipper on my shorts.

  He was right. He had a narrow, terraced house, while my place was small and shared with a roommate, Robin, who got snide on the rare occasions I had guys over. I’d tried not to let it get to me. Robin was jealous, but girls often were, I found. Of how I looked, that I was always meeting different men. Even when I was moving out, she was a bitch.

  I’d tried really hard to make things right. “You must come over and see our place! Maybe we can double-date.... It’ll be fun!”

  But her eyes narrowed. “You really are nuts, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head and looked at her, puzzled. “I don’t know why you’re being like this. We’re friends.”

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Yeah. Right.” She stared at me. “Friends. Such good friends, you take my clothes. And trash them. And don’t tell me.”

  I colored. “I borrowed them. But you said I could. And your clothes are so much nicer than mine. If I’ve upset you, let me pay you.” I fetched my wallet, pulled out a wad of notes.

  “If it had just been the clothes.” Her voice was level as she pushed the money away. “But you didn’t know where to stop, did you? My clothes first . . . then my flat, my friends, my family, just about my entire life, Casey . . .”

  “That’s not true.” My wounded cry was genuine. Her family and friends had made me welcome. “I thought we were friends. I thought your friends liked me.”

  But Robin shook her head. “Christ. You’re good.”

  I looked at her, bewildered, as she went on.

  “You really think some of your latest boyfriend’s money will fix it and we can all pretend everything’s fine.”

  I felt myself tense. I hated confrontation. What was the point? It was far better to resolve things amicably. “I’m sorry,” I said, avoiding her gaze. “I really didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She ran her hands through her hair. “Casey. I don’t get you. It’s the coming in at all hours, the drinking, the drugs . . . then acting as if you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “But I’m not doing drugs,” I protested hotly. “Okay, maybe now and then, but I’m not now, I swear.”

  “It’s not just that.” She paused. “You think I don’t know what you do when you go out? It’s not my business, but people talk, Casey. Everyone says you’re fucking a different guy every night.”

  “I’m not. . . .” She was right. It was none of her business, but it was so unfair. I’d changed. I was telling the truth. “I might have been, but now, I swear, I’m not.”

  “Whatever.” She sounded disgusted.

  I could feel my cheeks flame. “If I were you, I’d feel the same. I’m really sorry. You should have said. I was on the rebound. It was just a thing I did for a while, but not anymore.”

  She was silent.

  “I’m not like you,” I said. “I’m not good on my own. And it didn’t mean anything. It was just sex. There’s nothing wrong with that. They all knew.”

  “Except Liam.” Robin’s voice was dangerously quiet. “He was in love with you, Casey. You really screwed him up.”

  “Liam was so damn needy, it was ridiculous.” It was out before I could stop myself. I hadn’t known about the ex-wife who made his every day a misery or the depression that plagued him. “That’s hardly my fault, is it?”

  Robin’s expression was disbelieving. “What about compassion, Casey? Caring for other people? Caring what happens to them?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” I said, my temper flaring. “You don’t give a shit about me. Not really. You never did. I was just a convenient lodger who paid you rent.”

  Robin whistled. “Jesus. This is pointless. And to think, for a while, you almost convinced me.”

  I watched her get up and walk across the room to the window. Silent, she gazed out of the window, her back to me.

  “Look.” Robin turned round. “We both know how it was. And it doesn’t matter. You’re moving out. It’s for the best.” She hesitated. “Just . . .”

  “What?” I was impatient.

  Robin folded her arms. “He’s a good guy, Casey. Be nice to him. Don’t mess this up.”

  “Oh, I get it.” I stood there, anger burning inside me. “This isn’t about me. It’s about him, isn’t it? You’re jealous. You always have been, because guys like me. Loosen up, Robin. Have some fun—before it’s too late.”

  I’d wanted to leave as friends, but I couldn’t help that she felt this way.

  Robin’s face turned white. “Just get the fuck out.”

  * * *

  Losing Robin hadn’t mattered to me. I was with someone who loved me, who knew how spiteful Robin had been, but who understood. He’d had friends who’d turned on him, too, but we had each other now. He appreciated me, lavished gifts on me.

  When I found out I was pregnant, I was shocked. It was one of those freak cases. I’d always been careful; I was on the pill. The idea of motherhood had never entered my head before. If it had been someone else it had happened to, I’d have laughed in their face. It was a risk, wasn�
��t it? If you had sex, it was always there. Nothing was 100 percent reliable.

  People weren’t, either. The fucked-up left a trail of carnage, I discovered. He loved me, but he was weak. I left it a couple of weeks before telling him, wanting to hold the knowledge tight to myself. To imagine a whole new world of possibilities, such as being part of a family that would be nothing like the one I’d grown up in. Life experience did that to you. You could choose not to repeat the pain, the dysfunction, and instead to build a loving, nurturing home for a child to grow up in. Already I could see it—the carefully decorated bedroom, the family meals, the home that would always be a safe place, no matter what.

  He didn’t want a child, he told me. Not with me . . . But I didn’t find that out until later. I hoped that because he loved me, love would change his mind. It didn’t, of course. Since when had I got so stupid? So romantically naive, when everyone knew men were weak? They said all the right things but didn’t have the balls to see them through.

  In the end, he didn’t need to worry. After ten weeks, I felt the familiar hot stickiness between my legs. My losing the baby solved all his problems. That was when I felt it come back. The emptiness. Dissatisfaction. The deep, rotting hole inside my heart.

  It was followed by the darkness. I hadn’t meant to slip back into my old ways. I told myself that just once was forgivable. Twice, even. Anyway, it was his fault he caught me. He’d lied to me about going away to meet a client. My heart almost stopped when I heard his key in the door. Fortunately, we were still dressed. I fabricated a story about how Oliver was a distant cousin who’d just happened to call me earlier that day.

  But he didn’t hold out a friendly hand. Nor did he smile. He didn’t say anything to either of us, not till later, when Oliver had gone. He didn’t ask if it had happened before. It was worse than that. His look of hurt. The tears, which, in the reflection of car lights from outside, for a moment turned to blood.

  “We need to talk.”

  He took my hand and led me over to the sofa. There was sorrow in his eyes—such lovely, kind eyes—as he told me how he couldn’t go on like this. Numbness descended on me, masking my pain. His words, bloody words, washed over me, leaving me untouched, as I forced a few of my own selfish tears.

  This wasn’t my plan. I didn’t understand why he was being like this. Everyone knew happiness didn’t last.

  “I can’t live like this,” he told me.

  I reached forward to touch him, but he pulled away, as if I’d shocked him.

  “I know he’s not the first. How could you? How could you?” His voice rose.

  I flinched. It was so unfair. Only then I worked it out, how Robin must have warned him. He should have told me. Given me the chance to explain that Oliver, the other guys, they meant nothing. It was just sex.

  He was just like the rest, I thought, feeling the shutters come down. I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone. If that was how he felt, I was done.

  * * *

  You don’t need to look for proof to see life for what it really is. To feel the hurt and grief, the bitterness. The bleakness and hopelessness, which never leave.

  All those stories about love, about sharing your heart, about the magic of connecting with someone . . . I found out the hard way, that was all they were. Fairy tales waiting to be shattered, when you gave your heart and it wasn’t enough.

  I wasn’t enough. But I’d always known that, even as a child. Not bright enough, pretty enough, smart enough. I’d simply forgotten. Nothing had changed. It was hardly surprising that he didn’t want me enough.

  I didn’t matter. But ultimately, we all mean nothing. Our self-important lives have no significance, not really. In a thousand years, will anyone care? We’re born; we live; we die. Our lives are a succession of eye blinks on the timeline of a small planet, so at the end of time, the human race will have been meaningless. A cosmic joke, no more than specks of stardust striving for survival, for greatness.

  Greatness . . . What does it even mean? Is greatness measurable? Is it innovation, fame, your name written in history books? Or is there greatness in the man who saves the life of a small bird?

  Everyone forgets, we’re small, so small that one day nature and the elements will reclaim their planet, rid it of its human blight, wipe away every last trace of us. Restore balance. Have you thought about how a single tree benefits the planet more than a person?

  People don’t think about how nature’s power is greater, how it is everywhere, in the height of the trees, the phases of the moon. In the weather, in a dull drizzle from saturated clouds, dampening scents and blurring the edges of footprints. In the seeds sown into plowed fields, onto crumbly red soil, where they need light, warmth, water. In the passing of time, before they’re ready for harvest.

  Timing is everything. But you can’t leave things too long, because it comes to all of us. When we least expect it, stealing out of the darkness. In our world of opportunity, death is our greatest certainty.

  37

  CHARLOTTE

  October 22 . . .

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been over for a few days. Man trouble.” I hold up the bottle I’m carrying. “I brought wine . . . if you’re allowed?”

  Jen nods. “Sounds good.” She opens one of the cupboards and gets out two glasses.

  “So what’s been happening? Any news? No Detective Constable Abbie Rose?” I look around. “Do you have a corkscrew?”

  Silently, she opens a drawer. When she turns around, there are tears rolling down her face.

  “What’s happened, Evie? Tell me.”

  “It’s the police. The searches have stopped. They think I’ve had a breakdown and Angel was my stillborn baby.” Her voice cracks.

  “They can’t.” I’m shocked. I put the bottle down, walk over, and put my arms round her.

  “I’m okay.” She pulls away, then goes to one of the cupboards where she finds two wineglasses.

  After taking them from her, I pour the wine. “Here. Drink this.” I can’t believe the police have done this. “It’s crazy,” I tell her. “Completely. For Christ’s sake, you’re a mother. You know the truth. Just because you don’t have photos doesn’t mean you made her up.” I pass one of the glasses to her.

  She has a slug of wine. “The police think I did.” Her voice breaks.

  “Jesus.” I’m utterly shocked.

  She stares at her glass. “Jack thought the same as you.”

  “Jack?” Then I remember. The guy who came when I found the body in the maize field was called Jack. Jack Bentley.

  “The policeman with the dog. He lost his son. He’s the only person who really understands.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He said I should trust my gut.” She turns the wineglass between her fingers.

  “Don’t you agree with him?”

  She looks at me, her eyes filled with fear. “I want to. I really do. But do you know how many versions of me and Nick I have come up with? Even Abbie doesn’t know what to believe. I can’t trust myself.”

  I imagine Abbie Rose, sitting at this same table, laboriously recording everything Jen says. “It doesn’t matter what Abbie Rose thinks. Jack’s right. You’re the only one who knows. Can you really give up?” I say more gently.

  “Right now what else can I do?” She drains her glass, and I top it up. “I’m confused about so many things. Nick came back again.”

  “God.” He’s the last person anyone needs.

  She shrugs. “I didn’t want to see him, but it set off more memories, which was something. And my mother’s asked me to stay.”

  “That could be really good for you.” I nod encouragingly. “A change of scene and someone to fuss over you could be just what you need.”

  Jen doesn’t respond. “We haven’t really spoken for years. And . . .” She hesitates.

  It’s there, in her silence. The truth. She hasn’t given up. A part of her still knows she has a daughter.

  * * *<
br />
  When I drive home, the lights are on in the house and loud music is playing. When I go in, the place is a complete mess, with cupboards and drawers emptied onto the floor.

  Rick’s drunk—and stoned. At least he’s an amiable drunk, rather than a nasty one. All traces of his anger seem to have gone.

  “I’m searching,” he keeps saying to me. “I know it’s here, babe. Help me look.”

  “It’s a fucking mess, Rick. What are you playing at?”

  “I can’t find it,” he says mournfully. “It’s gone, babe. Where’d you put it?”

  “Put what?” I snap, bending down to start picking up what he’s strewn all over the floor.

  “Dunno, babe, do I? Wouldn’t have to ask if I did . . .”

  By the time I’ve finished tidying, he’s snoring on the sofa. I sit on the floor, watching him. This isn’t working anymore.

  * * *

  I catch him the next day, after he’s chased off his hangover with an early morning surf, and wait for him to shower and change, working out what I’m going to say.

  When he comes downstairs, his hair still damp, neither of us mentions last night.

  “Rick? This isn’t working.”

  He stares at me a moment, then sighs. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.” He shrugs, cold again. “So now what?”

  “Are you still going to Portugal?” One of his surfing friends has a place there. Last I heard, a whole crowd of them was going in search of big waves.

  “Not for another week. I could stay at Jimbo’s,” he offers. “It’s out of season. He’s got plenty of room.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “It’s okay. There’s no need. You get ready for your trip. I’ll stay with a friend.”

  He walks over, leans down, presses a kiss against my forehead. He smells of shampoo. Then he pulls back, looking into my eyes. “Best thing,” he says quietly.

  “Yes.” A pang of sadness hits me.