Close My Eyes

by Sophie McKenzie

  He shrugs and holds up his Swiss Army knife. ‘I’ve got what I came for.’ He stares at me, his dark blue eyes heavy with meaning. A shiver snakes through me – somehow both terrifying and intriguing at the same time.

  ‘Right.’ I step back, letting him pass. As we reach the front door Lorcan takes out his phone.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ I say. ‘You really don’t have to—’

  ‘It’s not a problem.’ Lorcan checks the time on his phone. ‘I’m seeing Cal for lunch in half an hour anyway.’ He hesitates. ‘Would you like my mobile number? In case . . . if you want to talk, if there’s anything I can do?’

  I nod. I can’t help but feel there’s something illicit about me taking his number. Like it should have happened through Art, if it was going to happen at all.

  We swap numbers and Lorcan leaves. I go back into the living room and it’s not until I see the phone on the side table that I remember Hen. I spend the next ten minutes reassuring her. She doesn’t mention Lucy O’Donnell’s claims – or refer to the money Art paid to MDO until the last part of our conversation. Then she asks if I’m still worrying about it all.

  ‘A bit,’ I confess.

  I hear Hen draw in her breath. ‘Oh, Gen,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry to go on while you’re having to deal with all of that.’

  ‘It’s okay, I—’

  ‘But I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she says. ‘I mean, it would be crazy to get obsessed over some random madwoman and a bit of money going out of one of Art’s accounts.’

  ‘Fifty grand isn’t a “bit” of money,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, but Gen, even if it was a million pounds it wouldn’t prove anything except . . . God, except how much you want it to be true that Beth is still alive.’

  I suddenly see myself from Hen’s perspective: childless and obsessed and clinging to a pipe dream. I remember overhearing her on the phone the other day, her voice pitying and exasperated.

  ‘Honestly,’ I insist. ‘I’m not obsessing about any of it.’ Right now I’ve had enough of Hen. I love her dearly, but she’s demanding and I don’t have the energy to manage all her emotions as well as my own.

  Soothed, Hen finishes the conversation by making me laugh at an encounter she had in Harvey Nichols on Saturday with a shop assistant who once cut up her credit card.

  ‘She was all over me like she couldn’t do enough for me,’ Hen says, with a grin in her voice. ‘Just goes to show. She was snooty as hell five years ago when I didn’t have any money.’

  One hour later and I’m all set to head into town to teach my Monday afternoon class. It still hasn’t snowed but when I step outside there’s a bone-freezing chill in the crisp, dry air. I go back into the house and dig a blue wool beanie out of the hall cupboard. I tug it down over my ears and wander along the road enjoying the combination of cold and sunshine. I’m almost in a good mood when I reach the Art & Media Institute.

  Plenty of today’s students are keen to talk to me after class. I have a quick chat with a couple of them, then slip out of the building and head to the bus stop. I’m feeling remarkably positive until I get off the bus at the other end and realize that it’s now late Monday afternoon and, despite my promise to myself, I’m no closer to tracking down Rodriguez than I was last week. I’m so lost in my unhappy thoughts that I walk into someone as I turn the corner, two streets from home.

  ‘Oh, excuse me,’ I say, all flustered. Then I look up.

  The woman I’ve walked into is Charlotte West from my Thursday tutor group.

  ‘Geniver,’ she says, as if we’re old friends. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She runs her hand over her blonde hair, letting her fingers trail down to that Orla Kiely bag, identical to the one Hen bought me. With a jolt I realize she has had her hair shortened and styled into a shaggy bob with a long, wispy fringe. It’s like a mirror image of my own hair, only fair.

  ‘I live here,’ I say, utterly thrown. ‘How come you’re here? I thought you only came up to London for your writing class . . .’ For a second my mind goes blank. Should Charlotte have been in today’s class after all? Have I got completely muddled up? No, Charlotte definitely comes on Thursdays.

  ‘I have lots of friends in London actually.’ Charlotte smiles again.

  ‘Of course,’ I stammer.

  ‘Before we moved to Somerset we lived quite near here. Then after the divorce . . .’ She pauses. ‘Well, I’m on my way to visit a friend now, in fact.’

  I have the strong sense she’s lying about that last statement. But why? ‘I’m just back from today’s class,’ I say, trying to pull myself together.

  ‘Did you come on the bus?’ Charlotte asks smoothly.

  ‘Er, yes.’ My eyes drift down to the book in her hand. Oh goodness. She’s holding my novel – Rain Heart – the one she was talking about at the end of our last class.

  Charlotte follows my gaze. ‘As I say, I’m visiting a friend.’ Charlotte’s smile deepens. She touches her fringe self-consciously. ‘And I was reading your book again. It really is very good. Will you sign it for me?’

  ‘Thank you, sure.’ I take the book and pen Charlotte offers and scribble her name, ‘Best wishes’ and my signature on the title page. I hand the book back, still feeling awkward. This is just such a weird coincidence . . . Charlotte being near my house, carrying my book and my bag and with her new hair style.

  ‘So where are you . . .?’ Charlotte waves her hand, taking in the surrounding roads.

  ‘A couple of roads up there.’ I point, vaguely, in the direction of home. Maybe I’m overreacting, but there’s something about the way Charlotte’s looking at me that is making me feel increasingly uncomfortable. She’s trying to sound casual, but there’s an insistence in those hard green eyes.

  ‘What, Burnham Street? That’s the next one on from where my friend lives.’

  ‘Er, yes . . .’

  ‘Just you and . . . your husband?’ Charlotte raises her eyebrows.

  Again, I feel the pressure behind her question. Still, it’s no secret that I’m married. I wear a platinum band on my ring finger. Art has a matching one. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Oh, well, it’s nice to see you.’

  ‘I’d love to be able to write like you,’ Charlotte says. ‘I was going to ask, actually, if there was any chance of private tuition after the end of term. Maybe I could buy you a coffee? Discuss it?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, taking a step back. ‘I don’t do private classes. Look, I really have to go now, Charlotte. I’ll see you on Thursday.’

  Charlotte says nothing for a moment, as if she’s waiting for something to happen. Then she nods with a sigh. ‘Bye, then, Geniver.’

  ‘Bye.’ I turn and walk away. I can’t help but feel spooked. I stop at the corner and look around, half-expecting Charlotte to still be standing where I left her, watching me, but she’s gone.

  I get home and switch on all the downstairs lights. Art hates it when I do this, but thanks to Charlotte I feel unsettled and the house is big and dark and empty. Another huge mound of junk mail is spread out over the doormat. I pick everything up, check there’s nothing important or personal and carry the whole lot to the recycling pile in the corner of the kitchen.

  I’m about to drop my armful of brochures and envelopes onto the rest, when I catch sight of the story on the front page of the local free paper. There’s a small picture of a middle-aged black woman.

  Lucy O’Donnell.

  I scan the caption underneath the picture. My blood turns to ice.

  She is dead.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I snatch up the paper and read the full story:

  Police are appealing for witnesses to a fatal hit-and-run accident that took place last Thursday afternoon at the junction of Seven Sisters and Berriman Roads. The victim is a black woman in her forties. Anyone who thinks they may be able to identify this woman should contact . . .

  My heart thumps in my chest. I stare at the words, as the terrible realization settles over me. Lucy O’
Donnell has been killed. The woman at the very centre of the truth about Beth has died under – I glance over the news story again – under what have to be suspicious circumstances. If it was just an accident, why haven’t the police identified her? The image they’ve used is from the photo Lucy showed me, only with her sister, Mary, cut out of the picture. I remember her shoving it into her coat pocket. But what about her handbag? Why didn’t she have that with her too – or her purse or her phone? And what about her husband, Bernard? She said he was here in London too, so why hasn’t he gone to the police?

  I’m clutching the newspaper so hard the sides of it are crumpled in my fists. I remember coming home from my lunch with Hen last Thursday afternoon and the police lights flashing up ahead as my bus crawled along Seven Sisters Road. That must have been for Lucy.

  I sink into a chair at the kitchen table and carefully pore over the story again, looking for more clues about what might have happened. Is Lucy’s death a coincidence? Could it have something to do with what she told me? I feel sick, my mind running over the sequence of events. Lucy turned up on my doorstep on Wednesday morning. I told Art about her soon after. The newspaper says she died on Thursday afternoon, the very next day – and just a few hours before I tried to call her that night.

  No, surely I’m being ridiculous to think there’s any connection between what Lucy told me, my telling Art, and her death. Disconnected thoughts clutch wildly at my mind. I go upstairs and I crawl into bed and all my limbs feel heavy and I’m exhausted but my brain is whirring and won’t be still and I lie there and everything I’ve been told is crowding in on me.

  Art paid MDO money just after Beth’s stillbirth. But Beth was alive.

  Dr Rodriguez stole Beth.

  Art knew.

  Somehow these accusations are all mixed up with each other. But I don’t know how – or if – any them are true. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch. It’s driving me mad. I force myself to focus. Other people were involved – not just Dr Rodriguez and Lucy’s sister, Mary. What about the funeral home that buried my baby? If Beth wasn’t really dead then who did they bury? I get up and fetch the letter from Tapps Funeral Services.

  I make the call with trembling fingers. But I’m too late. It’s gone six and all I access is the answerphone. I leave a message for Mr Tapps to call me on my mobile as soon as he can.

  Art arrives home just after eight, from some long, out-of-office meeting. I’m waiting in the kitchen. He looks exhausted and I know the last thing he needs is an interrogation from me. But I have to talk to him. Not about Lucy O’Donnell dying in a hit-and-run. I’ve agonized over that and I’m not going to mention it. Art will just see how upset I am and say I’m being neurotic. He’ll say it’s a sad accident bearing no relation to the lies she told me. Instead I’m going to push him on MDO. If Art is somehow involved in all this then that money, paid so soon after Beth was born and hidden away in a mysterious file, is surely significant. Anyway, it’s the only concrete lead I have to follow.

  I pour him a beer, then sit down beside him at the table and take a deep breath. ‘Did you find out about that loan?’ I ask, trying to sound as offhand as possible. ‘The one to MDO from L B Plus from years back?’

  ‘No, I told you.’ Art sighs. ‘I don’t remember. It was just some business thing.’

  ‘Come on, Art.’ I say, still trying to make my voice light. ‘You never forget your business deals.’

  ‘Well, I’ve forgotten this one.’ He looks directly at me. ‘I asked Dan. He said he’d have to check but it was probably a client payment.’

  ‘But why would you be paying a client?’ I persist.

  Art rubs his eyes. ‘No, I mean it was probably client money we were passing through another company . . . this MDO of yours. Dan offered to check it all out for me, but I told him not to bother. We’re really busy at the moment, Gen. I don’t want him tied up looking into ancient transactions on a whim.’

  ‘It’s not a whim.’

  Art’s head shoots up. ‘So what is it, Gen?’ His voice is sharp. ‘What the hell is all this about, because all I can see is you over-reacting and getting obsessed—’ He stops with the word ‘again’ on his lips, but not quite out of his mouth.

  ‘I don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask,’ I say, hating the injured tone of my voice. ‘It’s a lot of money.’

  Art rolls his eyes. ‘Loads of money goes through our books every day.’

  ‘But the timing . . . it just looks . . . weird. I mean, so much cash, just after Beth . . .’ I tail off, floored by Art’s stony glare.

  ‘It’s a coincidence, Gen.’ Art sits back in his chair, pushing his glass of beer across the table.

  A dull weight settles in my chest. I know from years of living with him that he has withdrawn. Pushing him further will get me nowhere.

  And yet I can’t stop.

  ‘Please, Art,’ I persist. ‘You’re making me feel like I’m totally overreacting but—’

  ‘You are totally overreacting,’ he says coldly. ‘It’s horrible not being trusted.’

  ‘I do trust you,’ I insist.

  ‘Right.’ Art gets up and walks out.

  Feeling weary, I sit for a while, listening to Art move around upstairs. He sounds like he’s in the spare room, just down the corridor from our bedroom. The last time I can remember him spending the night in there was two years ago, after we’d had a massive row over a holiday he couldn’t go on at the last minute because of work. It’s not fair for him to be so angry now. Just as it wasn’t fair of Hen to be irritated with me before. I know I’m being mistrustful, but why can’t either of them understand just how devastating it is to be told my baby might be alive?

  I switch on the TV and attempt to distract myself with the news. There’s an item about the Irish economy. For a second the commentator’s accent makes me think of Lorcan, then I’m back to wondering about Art and that MDO payment. It’s the uncertainty that’s killing me. Is Art really hurt because he thinks I don’t trust him? Or is he hiding something?

  After twenty minutes or so, I follow him upstairs. As I thought, he’s in the spare room. I creep past the door. He’s on his side on the bed, fast asleep. Frustration fills me. And irritation that he can sleep so easily when I am in such turmoil. I’m going round in circles wondering what to do. Getting nowhere. It’s time for action.

  Without thinking about it any further I go up the stairs to Art’s office. If Art is hiding anything, it’s going to be inside the cupboard where he said he kept the paperwork on Beth. The floorboards creak louder than usual in the evening silence. I march over to the cupboard. Just as before it’s locked, so I grab a pair of scissors from the nearest desk and insert the slim blades between the doors. With a single fierce thrust I snap the lock. It gives more easily than I expect. The doors swing open. I see the red shoebox immediately, on the middle shelf, surrounded by files labelled ‘Personal Tax’. Another look at its contents feels like a good place to start. I hesitate, listening out for any sounds from downstairs. Art will discover what I’ve done in the morning of course, but right now I’m too angry to care. I take the shoebox and lift the lid.

  The box is empty.

  I stare into it, unbelieving. For a moment I think I’ve actually gone mad. I doubt everything: that this was the box Art showed me before; that it contained all the paperwork on Beth’s stillbirth and funeral; that my eyes are working properly. Then the shock passes and the realization sinks through me. This is the box. But all the papers are gone. Where are they?

  I look around, scanning the other shelves and the nearby desk. A few slivers of coloured paper lie beside the shredder. I pick up a handful of red and blue. I’m sure these are the colours of the Tapps Funeral Services logo. I recognize it from the letterhead.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  I spin around. Art is standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed, his hair tousled. He’s looking at the open cupboard and the broken lock.

  I hold out my hand,
palm open, revealing the scraps of shredded paper.

  ‘Did you shred all Beth’s papers?’

  Art walks across the office towards me. The floorboards creak loudly. His eyes are fixed on the splinters of wood that stick out from the cupboard door. ‘Why did you break this open?’ He stares at me in horror. ‘Gen, what is the matter with you?’

  ‘Answer my question.’

  Art reaches the door and touches the broken lock.

  ‘Art,’ I insist. ‘What did you do to everything in the box?’

  His face is pale. ‘Gen, I’m seriously worried about you. If you wanted to look inside this cupboard, why didn’t you just ask me for the key? This isn’t normal behaviour.’

  Frustration surges inside me. ‘Neither is shredding a death certificate.’

  ‘I didn’t. The death certificate is in with all our other legal papers,’ Art says. ‘I only got rid of the brochures and the letters.’

  ‘But they were all we had of her.’

  ‘No they weren’t. They were admin. They were nothing to do with her. Anyway, until that bloody woman turned up on the doorstep you hadn’t looked at them for years. You didn’t even know most of them existed.’ He reaches out to touch my face, his eyes desperate with tender concern, but I lean back, away from him.

  ‘Come on, Gen. I don’t want it to get like it did with that babygro.’

  I catch my breath. Art never understood why I wanted to keep the little white babygro. He thought it was morbid.

  ‘I don’t think it’s healthy for you to be going over everything again,’ Art says sadly. ‘I’m worried about you, Gen. You’re becoming obsessed. First that stupid payment, then all of the paperwork . . .’

  ‘I just want to know the truth,’ I insist.

  Art shakes his head. He reaches for me again. I back up against the desk. I feel trapped, penned in. Art’s fingers stroke my cheek. ‘Gen, darling, I’ve been talking with Hen and we both think you should go back to that therapist.’

  I push his hand away. So it was Art on the phone to Hen the other day. Or, if not then, another time. I feel sick. It’s not just the idea that Art’s been confiding in Hen again. Therapy is the last thing I need right now. The counsellor I saw for a while after Beth died helped a little, but in the end I got sick of the sound of my own voice going over the same old ground. The support group I tried was just as bad. All those mothers had other children already – or got pregnant again during the course of our meetings.