I Let You Go

by Clare Mackintosh

  ‘Let’s take the scenic route, shall we?’

  It’s DI Stevens, his face grim and determined as he pulls me firmly back up the steps and into the court. He lets go of me once we are safely past security, but doesn’t say anything, and I follow him mutely through a set of double doors and out into a quiet courtyard at the back of the courts. He gestures towards a gate.

  ‘That’ll take you into the bus station. Are you all right? Is there anyone I can call for you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you – I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.’ I close my eyes for a second.

  ‘Bloody vultures,’ DI Stevens says. ‘The press argue they’re doing their job, but they won’t stop till they get a story. As for the protesters – well, let’s just say there are a couple of soap-dodgers in that lot with placards like revolving doors; doesn’t matter what the issue is, you’ll find them on the court steps protesting about it. Don’t take it personally.’

  ‘I’ll try not to.’ I smile awkwardly and turn to leave, but he stops me.

  ‘Ms Gray?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you ever lived at 127 Grantham Street?’

  I feel the blood drain out of my face and I force a smile on to my face.

  ‘No, Inspector,’ I say carefully. ‘No, I’ve never lived there.’

  He nods thoughtfully, and raises one hand to say goodbye. I look over my shoulder as I walk through the gate and see that he is still standing there, watching me.

  Much to my relief, the train to Swansea is nearly empty, and I sink back into my seat and close my eyes. I’m still shaking from my encounter with the protesters. I look out of the window and breathe a sigh of relief to be heading back to Wales.

  Four weeks. I have four weeks left before I go to prison. The thought is unimaginable, and yet it couldn’t be more real. I call Bethan and tell her I will be home tonight after all.

  ‘You got bail?’

  ‘Till March seventeenth.’

  ‘That’s good. Isn’t it?’ She is confused by my lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Have you been down to the beach today?’ I ask Bethan.

  ‘I took the dogs along the clifftop at lunchtime. Why?’

  ‘Was there anything on the sand?’

  ‘Nothing that isn’t there usually,’ she said, laughing. ‘What were you expecting?’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m beginning to doubt that I ever saw the letters in the first place. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you in a little while.’

  When I get to Bethan’s she invites me to stop and eat, but I wouldn’t make good company, and I excuse myself. She insists on sending me home with something, so I wait while she spoons soup into a plastic tub. It’s almost an hour later when I finally kiss her goodbye, and take Beau along the path to the cottage.

  The door has warped so much in the bad weather that I can neither turn the key nor open it. I drive my shoulder into the wood and it gives a fraction, enough to free the lock and enable me to turn the key, which now spins uselessly in the mechanism. Beau begins to bark furiously, and I tell him to be quiet. I suspect I’ve broken the door, but I’m past caring. Had Iestyn come to mend the door when I first told him it was sticking, it might have been a simple job. Now my constant forcing of the key in the lock has made more work for him.

  I pour Bethan’s soup into a saucepan and put it on the range, leaving the bread on the side. The cottage is cold and I look for a jumper to put on, but there’s nothing downstairs. Beau is agitated, running from side to side in the sitting room, as though he’s been away far longer than twenty-four hours.

  There’s something different about the stairs today, and I can’t place it. It wasn’t yet fully dark when I came inside, and yet there’s no light coming from the tiny window at the top of the stairs. Something is blocking the way.

  I’m at the top of the stairs before I realise what it is.

  ‘You broke your promise, Jennifer.’

  Ian bends one knee and pushes the flat of his foot hard against my chest. The wooden handrail slips from my grasp and I fall backwards, crashing down the stairs until I hit the stone floor at the bottom.

  35

  You took the ring off after three days, and it felt as though you had punched me. You said you were worried about damaging it, and that you had to take it off so often to work that you thought you might lose it. You began wearing it on a delicate gold chain around your neck and I took you shopping for a wedding ring; something flat and plain you could wear all the time.

  ‘You could wear it now,’ I said, when we left the jeweller’s.

  ‘But the wedding isn’t for six months.’

  You were holding my hand, and I squeezed it tight as we crossed the road. ‘Instead of your engagement ring, I mean. So you have something on your finger.’

  You misunderstood me.

  ‘I don’t mind, Ian, really. I can wait till we get married.’

  ‘But how will people know you’re engaged?’ I couldn’t let it go. I stopped you and put my hands on your shoulders. You looked around, at all the busy shoppers, and tried to shake me off, but I held you fast. ‘How will they know you’re with me,’ I said, ‘if you’re not wearing my ring?’

  I recognised the look in your eyes. I used to see it in Marie’s – that mixture of defiance and wariness – and it made me as angry to see it on you as it did to see it on her. How dare you be afraid of me? I felt myself tense, and when a flicker of pain passed across your face, I realised my fingers were digging into your shoulders. I let my hands drop to my sides.

  ‘Do you love me?’ I said.

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Then why don’t you want people to know we’re getting married?’

  I reached into the plastic bag for the small box and opened it. I wanted to take away that look in your eyes, and on impulse I dropped to one knee and held out the open box towards you. There was an audible buzz from the passing shoppers, and a crimson flush spread across your face. The movement around us slowed, as people stopped to watch, and I felt a burst of pride that you were with me. My beautiful Jennifer.

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  You looked overwhelmed. ‘Yes.’

  Your response was far faster than the first time I had asked, and the tightness in my chest evaporated instantly. I slipped the ring on to your fourth finger and stood up to kiss you. There were cheers around us, and someone slapped me on the back. I found I couldn’t stop grinning. This is what I should have done the first time, I thought: I should have given you more ceremony, more celebration. You deserved more.

  We walked hand-in-hand through the busy Bristol streets and I rubbed the metal of your wedding ring with the thumb of my right hand.

  ‘Let’s get married now,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to a registry office, pull some witnesses off the street, and do it.’

  ‘But it’s all fixed for September! All my family will be there. We can’t just go ahead and do it now.’

  You had taken some persuading that a big church wedding would be a mistake: you had no father to walk you down the aisle, and why waste money on a party for friends you didn’t see any more? We booked a civil ceremony at the Courtyard Hotel, with lunch afterwards for twenty people. I had asked Doug to be my best man, but the other guests would be yours. I tried to imagine my parents standing beside us, but could only picture the look on my dad’s face the last time I saw him. The disappointment. The disgust. I shook the image from my mind.

  You were firm. ‘We can’t change our plans now, Ian. It’s only six months – it’s not long to wait.’

  It wasn’t, but I still counted off the days until you would be Mrs Petersen. I told myself I would feel better then: more secure. I would know you loved me, and that you would stay with me.

  The night before our wedding you insisted on staying with Eve at the hotel, while I suffered an awkward evening in the pub with Jeff and Doug. Doug made a half-hearted attempt to make a proper stag night of it,
but no one resisted when I suggested I should get to bed early ahead of the big day.

  At the hotel I calmed my nerves with a double whisky. Jeff patted my arm and called me a great chap, although we had never had anything in common. He wouldn’t join me in a drink, and half an hour before the ceremony he nodded over to the door, where a woman in a navy hat had arrived.

  ‘Ready to meet the mother-in-law?’ Jeff said. ‘She’s not that bad, I promise.’ On the few occasions I had met Jeff I had found his forced joviality intensely irritating, but that day I was grateful for the distraction. I wanted to call you, to make sure you were going to be there, and I couldn’t quell the feeling of panic in my stomach that you might leave me standing there; that you might humiliate me in front of all these people.

  I walked with Jeff across the bar. Your mother put out a hand and I took it, then leaned into her and kissed her dry cheek.

  ‘Grace, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.’

  You told me you looked nothing like your mother, but I could see your high cheekbones in hers. You might have had your father’s colouring, and his artistic genes, but you had Grace’s lean frame and watchful expression.

  ‘I wish I could say the same,’ Grace said, with a flicker of amusement at the corner of her lips. ‘But if I want to know what’s happening in Jenna’s life, it’s Eve I have to speak to.’

  I gave what I hoped was an expression of solidarity, as though I too was at the mercy of your failure to communicate. I offered Grace a drink, and she accepted a glass of champagne. ‘In celebration,’ she said, although she didn’t propose a toast.

  You kept me waiting for fifteen minutes, as was your right, I suppose. Doug made a play of having lost the ring, and we must have looked like every other wedding party in every other hotel in the country. But when you walked down the aisle there could have been no other bride as beautiful as you. Your dress was simple: a heart-shaped neckline and a skirt that skimmed your hips and fell to the floor in a shimmer of satin. You carried a spray of white roses, and your hair had been swept up on to your head in glossy curls.

  We stood next to each other, and I stole glances at you as you listened to the registrar lead the ceremony. When we said our vows you looked into my eyes and I didn’t care about Jeff, or Doug, or your mother. There could have been a thousand people in the room with us: all I could see was you.

  ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife.’

  There was a hesitant smattering of applause, and I kissed you on the lips before we turned and walked back up the aisle together. The hotel had set out drinks and canapés in an area off the bar, and I watched you move round the room taking compliments and holding out your ring hand to be admired.

  ‘She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?’

  I hadn’t noticed Eve coming to stand next to me. ‘She is beautiful,’ I said, and Eve nodded to concede the correction.

  When I turned, I realised Eve was no longer watching you, but staring at me. ‘You won’t hurt her, will you?’

  I laughed. ‘What sort of thing is that to ask on a man’s wedding day?’

  ‘The most important thing, surely?’ Eve said. She took a sip of champagne and studied me. ‘You remind me a lot of our father.’

  ‘Well then, that’s probably what Jennifer sees in me,’ I replied shortly.

  ‘Probably,’ Eve said. ‘I just hope you don’t let her down too.’

  ‘I have no intention of leaving your sister,’ I said, ‘not that it is any business of yours. She’s a grown woman, not some child upset by a philandering father.’

  ‘My father was not a philanderer.’ She was not defending him, merely stating a fact, but I was interested. I had always assumed he had left your mother for another woman.

  ‘Then why did he leave?’

  She ignored my question. ‘Look after Jenna – she deserves to be treated well.’

  I couldn’t bear to see her smug face any longer, or listen to her ridiculous, patronising pleas. I left Eve standing at the bar, and went to slip my arm around you. My new wife.

  I had promised you Venice and I couldn’t wait to show it to you. At the airport you proudly handed over your new passport and grinned as they read out your name.

  ‘It sounds so strange!’

  ‘You’ll soon get used to it,’ I said, ‘Mrs Petersen.’

  When you realised I had organised an upgrade you were ecstatic, insisting on making the most of everything on offer. The flight was only two hours, but in that time you tried on the eye mask, flicked between films and drank champagne. I watched you, loving the fact that you were so happy, and that it was because of me.

  Our transfer was delayed, and we didn’t get to our hotel until late. The champagne had given me a headache, and I was tired and unimpressed by the poor service. I made a mental note to insist on a refund on the transfer when we returned home.

  ‘Let’s leave the cases and go straight out,’ you said, when we arrived in the marble-clad lobby.

  ‘We’re here for a fortnight. We’ll order room service and unpack – it’ll all still be here in the morning. Besides,’ I slipped an arm around you and squeezed your bottom, ‘it’s our wedding night.’

  You kissed me, your tongue darting into my mouth, but then you pulled away and held my hand instead. ‘It’s not even ten o’clock! Come on, a walk around the block, and a drink somewhere, then I promise we’ll call it a night.’

  The receptionist smiled, making no attempt to hide his appreciation of our impromptu show. ‘A lover’s tiff?’ He laughed, despite the look I gave him, and I was appalled to see you laughing with him.

  ‘I’m trying to convince my husband’ – you smiled as you said the word, and winked at me as though it would make a difference – ‘that we need to take a stroll around Venice before we see our room. It looks so beautiful.’ You closed your eyes for a fraction too long when you blinked, and I realised you were a little drunk.

  ‘It is beautiful, signora, but not as beautiful as you.’ The receptionist gave a ridiculous little bow.

  I looked at you, expecting to see you roll your eyes at me, but you were blushing, and I saw that you were flattered. Flattered by this gigolo; this oily man with his manicured hands and buttonhole flower.

  ‘Our key, please,’ I said. I stepped in front of you and leaned forward on to the desk. There was a moment’s pause, before the receptionist handed me a cardboard wallet in which were two credit-card-sized swipe cards.

  ‘Buona sera, signore.’

  He wasn’t smiling now.

  I refused help with our cases and let you drag your own to the lift, where I pressed the button for the third floor. I watched you in the mirror. ‘He was nice, wasn’t he?’ you said, and I tasted bile in the back of my throat. It had been so good at the airport; so much fun on the plane; and now you had ruined it. You were talking, but I wasn’t listening: I was thinking of the way you had simpered; the way you had blushed and let him flirt with you; the way you had enjoyed it.

  Our room was at the end of a carpeted corridor. I pushed the key card into the reader and pulled it out, waiting impatiently for the click that told me the lock had been released. I shoved open the door and wheeled my suitcase through, not caring whether the door banged in your face. It was hot in the room – too hot – but the windows didn’t open, and I pulled at my collar to get some air. Blood pulsed in my ears but still you talked; still you chattered as if nothing were wrong; as if you hadn’t humiliated me.

  My fist furled without instruction, the skin stretched tightly over tensed knuckles. The bubble of pressure began to expand in my chest, filling every available space, pushing my lungs to one side. I looked at you, still laughing, still jabbering, and I raised my fist and slammed it into your face.

  Almost immediately the bubble burst. Calm washed over me, like the adrenalin release after sex, or a session in the gym. My headache eased, and the muscle at the corner of my eye ceased to twitch. You made a bubbling, strangled noi
se, but I didn’t look at you. I left the room and took the lift back down to reception, walking straight out on to the street without looking behind the desk. I found a bar and drank two beers, ignoring the barman’s attempts to engage me in conversation.

  An hour later I returned to the hotel.

  ‘Could I have some ice, please?’

  ‘Si, signore.’ The receptionist disappeared and came back with an ice bucket. ‘Wine glasses, signore?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  I was calm now, my breathing measured and slow. I took the stairs, delaying my return.

  When I opened the door you were curled up on the bed. You sat up and pushed yourself to the end of the bed, backing up against the headboard. A wad of bloody tissues lay on the bedside table, but despite your efforts to clean yourself up there was dried blood on your top lip. A bruise was already forming on the bridge of your nose and across one eye. When you saw me you began to cry, and the tears took on the colour of blood as they reached your chin, dripping on to your shirt and staining it pink.

  I put the ice bucket on the table and spread out a napkin, spooning ice into it before wrapping it into a parcel. I sat down next to you. You were shivering, but I gently put the ice pack against your skin.

  ‘I found a nice bar,’ I said. ‘I think you’ll like it. I took a walk around and saw a couple of places you might like for lunch tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it.’

  I took the ice pack away and you stared at me, your eyes big and guarded. You were still shaking.

  ‘Are you cold? Here, wrap this around you.’ I pulled the blanket off the end of the bed and placed it around your shoulders. ‘You’re tired, it’s been a long day.’ I kissed your forehead but still you cried, and I wished so much you hadn’t spoilt our first night. I had thought that you were different, and that perhaps I wouldn’t ever need to feel that release again: that blissful sense of peace that comes after a fight. I was sorry to see that, after everything, you were just the same as all the others.