“For ever at odds over our son”… It wasn’t much to go on but it was evidence of sorts that Alfie himself was what had come between husband and wife.
Another piece referred to Alfie as a baby:
“The baby has come between us”… So even as a baby, Alfie had driven a wedge between them. Why? And what did “bring him back” refer to? Freddie had taken Alfie away as a five year old, not as a baby. I read through several more pieces, then came across one which, when I read it, made me start. Papers slid off the quilt and cascaded on to the floor as I read the words written on the paper triangle I held between trembling fingers.
“He died, Rae.” I read the words again and then again. There was no mistaking their meaning. Two lines above those words, Freddie had written, “we lost our boy”. Their son had died. Not only was my boyfriend not the man he pretended to be, he was pretending to be someone who was dead, someone who had been dead for twenty years and more.
I clapped my hand to my mouth and wondered if I should rush to the bathroom before I was sick. I swallowed down a mouthful of saliva and tried to steady my breathing, staring fixedly at the scrap of paper in my hand. Then I realised I had before me two adjacent sections of letter. What looked like a tea stain had been bisected by the scissors used to cut out the triangles. I matched the two halves of the stain and read:
“I just can’t pretend any more that he exists.” That was surely the missing word? That was what had driven Freddie away. And he’d gone alone. He’d left Rae because he could no longer cope with her fantasy that their son still lived.
I don’t know how long I cried or who I was crying for. I don’t know if it was shock, grief or anger. Perhaps all three. When eventually I was able to stop, I reached for my phone on the bedside table and searched for Alfie’s number. I stared at the illuminated screen, my thumb poised over the button, then with a strangled sob, I hurled the phone across the room.
I got out of bed, grabbed my cords and a thick jumper and dressed quickly, my body still shuddering with the aftermath of my tears. There was nowhere I could go but I was damned if I was going to spend another minute in this madhouse. I would find a hotel and bang on the door till they let me in. I dragged my case into the centre of the room and started to throw things in. I tossed aside my Christmas gifts, including the scented candles Viv had given me and her jars of homemade jam which I’d so looked forward to eating when I got back to Brighton. I looked round the room to see if I’d forgotten anything.
The Postage Stamp quilt.
How could I take it? And how could I leave it behind?… I sank down on the edge of the bed and started to cry again, cursing the day I’d met Alfie bloody Donovan and his bogus bloody family.
And then I started to panic. I felt so alone. So completely alone. I’d not felt so alone since that Christmas morning when it was too quiet and I’d gone downstairs, wondering why there was no stocking at the end of my bed, why Mum was up already and her bed made (which wasn’t like her at all), and I’d gone into the kitchen and seen a big heap of clothes in the middle of the floor, only it wasn’t a heap of clothes, it was my mother.
Panic drove me out of the attic and down the stairs. Panic drove me past the enormous front door that my fumbling hands couldn’t open, drove me on through the kitchen to the back door, which I unlocked, then locked behind me. I stood outside in the snow, staring at the key, stupefied, not knowing what to do with it. I shoved it into my coat pocket and started walking fast, oblivious of the drifted snow that went up over my shoes and was soon soaking the hem of my trousers. I walked like a thing possessed, down the drive, out onto the road and turned, like an automaton, towards the mill, in search of sanity.
The Whole Truth
Chapter Seventeen
Gwen
I stood outside the mill, out of breath, my heart pounding, and looked up. There was a light on. I had three choices. I could knock on the door and hope that Marek was awake. I could walk back to Creake Hall and cry myself to sleep. Or I could stand outside the mill and wait till I died of hypothermia.
As I considered my options I became aware of mournful music in the air. Clearly, I had completely lost it and was now hallucinating. Then I realised the music was coming from inside the mill. It was Marek’s cello. I listened for a minute or so, then my frozen feet carried me up the few steps to the front door and I watched as my hand lifted the doorknocker. The sound made me jump. I wanted to turn and run, but there was nowhere to run to, so I stood still and tried to think what I’d say when Marek opened the door.
When he did, I stood blinking in the light from the doorway, blinking too at the sight of his fingerless mittens and the woollen scarf wound round his neck several times. My planned introductory remarks flew out of my head and I said, ‘You look like something out of Dickens.’
‘And you look like you’ve seen the ghost of Christmas Past.’
‘I think perhaps I have.’
He gazed at me for a moment, his face impassive, then stepped back. ‘Come in before you keel over.’ He closed the door behind me, saying, ‘I won’t offer to take your coat. You’re not likely to get overheated.’ He led the way upstairs to the sitting room. It was lit only by candles - at least twenty by my estimation - and the round, red brick walls made the room feel womb-like. There were bunches of holly and chrysanthemums in jugs scattered around the room. On the table stood a large bowl of apples, an open bottle of red wine and a dish of nuts. Shattered walnut shells littered a plate and a silver nutcracker winked at me in the candlelight. I felt momentarily cheered by the sight. The cello lay abandoned on its side beside a chair and music stand. As Marek moved around the room the candles flickered and the burnished wooden body of the instrument seemed to breathe like a living thing.
He didn’t sit, nor did he invite me to. He stood watching me, waiting, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. After a long silence, I said, ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
He indicated the cello with a wave of his mittened hand. ‘Neither could I.’
He said nothing more and I knew he was waiting for me to explain. I was determined not to burst into tears again, so with a kind of desperate enthusiasm I said, ‘Would you play to me? I stood outside listening for a while. Was it Bach?’ He nodded. ‘Would you carry on? Please. I think it would calm me. Help me think.’
I braced myself for questions, but none came. Relieved, I sank down on the sofa and stared at my sodden shoes. My feet were numb with cold, but I couldn’t find the energy to undo my laces. When I looked up again, Marek was seated, the cello positioned between his legs. He was watching me.
‘You really think this will help?’
‘Yes, I do. If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Do you want to know what I’m playing?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’m going to play the Prelude from Bach’s Suite no. 2 in D minor.’
‘Thank you.’
He gave me another long look, then lifted his bow. The piece was slow, stately and infinitely sad. No sooner had Marek started to play, than he appeared to tune me out. At the concert I’d had a sense that he was trying to communicate the music to us, but this time I felt I was watching something private: a meditation, a dialogue between Marek and the instrument, perhaps between Marek and Bach. It felt almost like eavesdropping. As I listened to the music, my heart rate slowed, the need to scream abated. I became engrossed in the movement of his hands and the fierce expression of concentration on his face, which softened occasionally as he lifted his head, closed his eyes and moved his lips slightly, as if he were singing with the instrument. The candlelight played on the strong bones of his face and made his skin glow. When he opened his eyes, they seemed to burn - if something so dark can be said to burn.
When, after a few minutes, the music stopped, Marek sat very still, the neck of the cello resting against his shoulder. I stared at the instrument, envious and exhausted, wishing I could do likewise. He laid his bow down on the music stand and said, ‘Wh
y have you come?’
‘I needed to see you.’
‘It couldn’t wait till morning? Should I feel flattered?’
‘Marek, Alfie’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘Rae’s son. Alfie. He’s dead. He died years ago. There are letters written by his father. I’ve seen them. Alfie died as a child. As a baby, I think. So my boyfriend - my ex-boyfriend - is an impostor. And they all know! I couldn’t bear to spend another minute in that house, so I came here. I’m sorry, but it’s freaked me out and I didn’t know where else to go.’
‘I said you were welcome any time. And you are.’
‘You don’t seem very surprised.’
‘That you came here?’
‘That Alfie - my Alfie - is a fake.’
‘There’s not much you could tell me about families that would surprise me. So no, I’m not all that surprised. It explains a lot, in fact.’
‘But why would anyone do such a thing? Why would anyone go to such lengths? I mean, how many years has this been going on? They filmed a documentary with Alfie - my Alfie - eleven years ago! He’s been playing the part for eleven years at least! How could anyone do that? Give up their own life and assume somebody else’s? And why would the family want him to do it? It’s just… madness! But they can’t all be mad, surely?’
‘It’s not necessarily madness. It might just be a communal fantasy. Something they all share. When did the child die?’
‘I don’t know. The letter just refers to him being dead. Freddie - that was Rae’s second husband - was obviously trying to get her to come to terms with it.’
‘Rae didn’t accept her son’s death?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Then the fantasy might have been going on since he died.’
I looked at Marek in disbelief. ‘You mean, the boy died… and everyone carried on pretending he was alive? But that’s insane!’
‘No, not if they all know that’s what they’re doing. It’s just collusion. On a surprising scale.’
‘It’s horrible! It’s sick.’
‘Well, it’s certainly not healthy. But it’s a way of coping. Sometimes the dead just won’t lie down. They live on. In people’s minds. So they’re kept alive in the memory. Sometimes the dead won’t even stay in the past. Children especially. The bereaved imagine the child growing up… They fantasise about what sort of person he would have become… They observe anniversaries - not just of the death, but of the birth, so the child appears to grow up. To have a post mortem “life”.’ I stared at Marek who now appeared to be talking not to me, but to himself. His eyes had clouded over, as if he wasn’t seeing me any more, wasn’t seeing anything. ‘It’s a strange sort of comfort, I suppose. And perhaps a form of punishment. For surviving.’
‘Marek… you’re not talking about Alfie, are you? The dead child.’
He lifted the cello away from his chest and laid it down on the floor, then he sat up slowly, placed his hands on his knees and looked at me, searching my face for something. I didn’t look away, though it was hard not to. He appeared to come to some decision and, without taking his eyes from mine, said, ‘I am talking about a dead child. I’m not talking about Alfie Donovan.’
‘Marek, what happened to you?’
‘Nothing happened to me. Something happened to somebody else.’
‘What?’
‘Death.’
‘Would you rather not—’
‘Yes, I would rather not talk about it, Gwen, but unless you leave soon, I think we could end up in bed together. If that were to happen, I’d like you to know who you’d be getting into bed with.’
‘Because, of course, I have known who I’ve been sleeping with for the last five months!’
‘That seems like all the more reason for me to be straight with you. I imagine you feel in need of some authenticity. Isn’t that why you’re here?’
‘Yes… It is.’
Marek went to the table and refilled his glass. He turned to me. ‘None for you, right?’
‘No, thanks.’
He sat down in an armchair and studied his glass. Eventually he drank. He still said nothing but, watching his hands, I feared for the glass. I was about to speak when Marek said in a clear voice that shattered the silence, ‘I killed a child. She was called Anna. She was five years old.’
After an eternity of silence, I said, ‘It was an accident?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she… your daughter?’
‘No.’ He raised the glass to his lips and drank again. ‘If she’d been my daughter it might have been easier. That would have been crime and punishment in one. Anna was just a little girl I hardly knew. A neighbour’s child. In the wrong place, at the wrong time.’
I waited but when he said nothing more, I asked, ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’
‘If you’re prepared to listen.’
‘Yes, I am.’
He stared at the wine in his glass. ‘It happened in 1996. August. I was driving home. I hadn’t been drinking. I wasn’t using a mobile. I wasn’t even talking to a passenger… I was almost home, doing about forty. And Anna ran out into the road. Right in front of me. I braked, but I didn’t stand a chance. Nor did she. I hit her and she flew up into the air. Spinning… The car was still moving and she came down on top of the bonnet. I watched it dent with her weight… Then she hit the windscreen… She looked at me through the glass. She was still alive and her eyes were open. She looked… astonished. The car came to a halt and she was thrown off the bonnet, on to the road. She was dead by the time they got her to hospital.’
A log shifted in the wood-burning stove and Marek turned his head towards the glow of the fire. As he continued, his face was as expressionless as his voice.
‘She was being chased by a dog. Anna’s older sister said she’d been teasing a neighbour’s dog. It turned nasty and she ran away. The dog ran after her and Anna ran in to the road to get away… There were several witnesses and they all said there was nothing I could have done. She just… ran out in front of the car. I was exonerated from all blame.
‘I knew the family slightly. My wife was a nursery teacher and taught Anna, so we used to see them at school events, sometimes at the supermarket. But I didn’t know anything about her when I killed her. I couldn’t even remember her name… But I know a lot about her now. I made it my business to find out… She would be seventeen now. She would have been seventeen on April 3rd. She liked swimming and ballet and had a cat called Twinkle. Her baby brother was called Andrew and her sister was called Sophie… My wife told me all this. She didn’t want to, but I insisted. Sarah - my wife - knew all about Anna. And I wanted to know. I needed to know. And Sarah thought it might help. It didn’t.’ He swallowed some more wine. ‘The family never spoke to us again. They moved from the area as soon as they could. I took time off work, then I went back. Too soon probably. I didn’t cope well. Everyone was very understanding. Even the papers had pointed out I wasn’t to blame, but I still felt guilty. Anna was dead because of me. If I’d taken a different route home, if I’d left work earlier or later, if I’d been driving slower, Anna would still be alive.
‘In the end I cracked up. So did my marriage. Sarah needed to move on. She wanted kids. And I didn’t. I wouldn’t allow myself that. She said it was a form of self-inflicted punishment and I suppose it was, but it punished her too. I knew what I was doing to Sarah, but I couldn’t face having a child. What if we’d had a daughter? What right had I to a child when I’d killed someone else’s? Sarah said I was irrational. Eventually she said I was mad. I knew she was right, but it didn’t affect how I felt. The only way I could live with what I’d done was to punish myself. Make sure I never forgot Anna. It felt like the least I could do. Honour her memory. Keep it alive.’
He leaned forward, set his glass down on the coffee table, then sat with his hands clasped, his shoulders hunched.
‘I had a breakdown. When I recovered I knew I couldn’t go back
to psychiatry. I felt a fraud. So I told Sarah… She said she needed to make a fresh start too. And she’d met somebody else… I totally understood. She was only thirty-three. And she’d stood by me for four years. The split was amicable. She married again and had twins. Two boys. I re-trained as a gardener and moved to Norfolk. I met Viv at a horticultural show and we got talking. She asked me if I wanted to work at Creake Hall. It was a bigger job than I’d ever done, more responsibility, but I liked Viv and she liked me. I felt ready for a challenge. And having the mill thrown in with the job made it easier to make ends meet.’
‘Does Viv know? About your past?’
‘She knows I used to be a psychiatrist, nothing more. She’ll have guessed about the breakdown from the gaping hole in my CV, but she probably assumes that practising psychiatry within the NHS is enough to drive a man to the brink. And I wouldn’t say she was wrong… Viv doesn’t ask questions. And I don’t ask them any questions. But if the brother died and they felt they had to keep him alive somehow… well, I wouldn’t be all that surprised.’ He turned his head and watched a guttering candle as it flickered, then went out. ‘The dead don’t let go easily.’ He looked at me and added, ‘You know that yourself.’
The wind had got up and was howling round the mill. The candle flames shuddered in the draught from the window and another went out. When I finally spoke I was surprised to find my voice sounded quite steady - as calmly dispassionate as Marek’s. ‘After my mother died, I used to think about how things might have turned out differently. If I’d woken up sooner… If I’d rung for the ambulance instead of screaming the place down. She seemed dead to me when I found her, but maybe she was still alive… If I’d had a nightmare on Christmas Eve and woken up and gone to find her, maybe she wouldn’t have taken the drugs that killed her… In the end I felt responsible for her death - still do, in a way - simply because I didn’t prevent it.’
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