Dear Amy

by Helen Callaghan

  ‘But we have to tell Miss Costas first,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘And the nurses.’

  ‘June already knows,’ he says, looking up and down the corridor again. ‘It will only take a few minutes. You want to be back here when your nanna wakes up, don’t you?’

  I am imprisoned by doubt, by indecision. I do not want to go with him, but there is no way I can refuse that won’t seem incredibly rude, that won’t make me look like a crazy person. He hasn’t done anything wrong, after all. And I remember what Nanna always says: ‘Social services – never get on their bad side, pet. Watch what you say. They could have you off me in a heartbeat.’

  For all his smiling, he looks to me like someone that would hold a grudge. He has the power to take me away from Nanna and put me in a Home. I do not want to antagonize him.

  And after all, he knows Miss Costas is called June. They must have spoken. I’m just being stupid. I don’t want to look stupid in front of Miss Costas, who is my favourite teacher.

  I push down my misgivings – his constant checking out of the corridor, the almost-caress at the end when he squeezed my shoulder, the way he stands too close – and nod.

  ‘That’s a good girl.’

  In the front seat of his little red car, as we take the main road to the village, I reach into the pockets of my coat and suddenly realize that I have left my house keys in my school bag. My bag is lying under the chair next to Nanna’s bed at Addenbrooke’s.

  ‘I’ve not got my keys,’ I say. ‘I left them at the hospital.’

  He does not reply or look at me. I tell myself he must not have heard me, though I know in my heart he has.

  In my heart, I already know everything.

  I don’t remember much more about the car journey.

  Thankfully, I remember even less about what came after that.

  31

  My adventures with hospitals are not over. Perhaps they will never be over. Live in hope, says Martin, and I try to.

  Once more I am walking down a long hospital corridor, and I am looking for somebody.

  This time, though, I know exactly where I am going.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, knocking on the wooden door. ‘Is now good?’

  ‘Oh hi. Yeah sure. Come in.’

  Katie Browne is lying on her hospital bed in a pale green nightshirt. She puts down the iPad she was holding. From the tinny sounds that issue from it, I guess that she’s been watching The Hunger Games again.

  Early on I lent her my iPad and told her to buy what books she wanted and rent movies on my account. Martin was sceptical, but so far she has always had to be pushed to spend any money on it.

  It means, though, that I can see what she reads and watches – what she consumes – and what she consumes is fantasy Amazons, warrior-women skilled in sword and bow and laser pistol, protectors of the weak, champions of justice. Because I have access to the same books and movies on my phone, I’ve started to consume them too.

  It’s surprisingly therapeutic, and touching. Through her wounded, unspoken front I see into her dreamworld, and it fills me with hope for her recovery.

  And, by extension, hope for my own.

  Through her window I can look down on the swarming roads and towers of Addenbrooke’s. She follows my gaze, smiles.

  ‘Yeah. It is a cool view.’

  I sit on the chair next to her bed. On the little bedside cabinet there is a riot of brightly coloured greetings cards.

  ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘Um, no.’ Her smile falters and she turns away, as though shutters have come down across her soul. It has been nearly three months, but Katie is not yet ready to discuss the cellar, or what happened to her, to the frustration of her support team. I can hardly blame her, really.

  But when she is ready, I’ll be here.

  ‘I was going to say happy birthday.’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah!’ Her relief is palpable. ‘But you’re a day late.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. The meeting with the lawyers was yesterday.’

  ‘You met the lawyers?’ Her eyes widen. ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘No, not that meeting with my lawyers. I meant my divorce.’

  Her dark eyes are wary. She does not know what to say about my divorce. Despite all she has been through, she is still essentially a child.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’m over it.’

  The meeting had taken place in London, which is where Stephen, my solicitor and newfound indispensable person, works from a smart office near Gray’s Inn. It was already late afternoon by the time I arrived, my guts heaving, my stomach in my mouth, and I was conducted into the ultra-modern meeting room and shown into a high-backed chair.

  Eddy was already there. His presence was a physical shock, and I felt myself grow numb and light-headed.

  Stephen’s assistant, Tanya, then moved to the sideboard. Behind her, London was visible in a milky dusk, framed by floor to ceiling windows. St Paul’s poked up tinily, like a novelty sugar bowl, and I almost wanted to lift up the lid and peek inside.

  ‘Would anyone like tea? Coffee?’ she asked in a small fluting voice, like a bird.

  I shook my head. So did Eddy.

  ‘Not for me,’ he said.

  Eddy looked the same, and yet also not – he was, as always, fastidiously neat, but his exquisitely cut white shirt and small lapelled black jacket made him seem like someone playing a part, perhaps that of a gangster or Bond villain, and his glittering cufflinks appeared vulgar, particularly in the context of our meeting and what it was about. It was as though he had lost the power to fill his own clothes. He was a generic version of himself, constructed of discount materials.

  Or perhaps it was I that had changed, and I saw him with different eyes.

  Who knows.

  ‘Penelope, you’ve had a chance to discuss the agreement with your client?’ asked Stephen.

  Eddy’s solicitor was a woman, an ash-blonde tigress with a steely gaze, clad in a titanium-grey dress-suit and terrifying black patent high heels. I guessed instantly that this was the person who had advised him to get back with me so he could mortgage my house and use the proceeds to fight for his share of Sensitall’s innards.

  This consideration really warmed me towards her, as you might imagine.

  ‘I have,’ she replied firmly.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘No, we’re fine.’ She glanced at Eddy, who was pretending to be engrossed in the highly polished table top.

  Stephen flipped open a folder and took out copies of the documents.

  ‘Right then. Let’s get on with it.’

  This agreement was a lot less scary to me than it could have been, for one simple reason: Eddy had been paid £30,000 for revelations about me that had appeared in a national tabloid. In a bleakly hilarious twist, there was a question as to whether I was entitled to some of this money as part of our shared assets.

  The sheer betrayal of it all still took my breath away. He told some grubby reporter everything I had confided to him in the secrecy of our bed, that I confessed while we walked, hand in hand, along Grantchester Grind or through the Fens themselves; all of those deep and hidden things, which it turns out were all lies anyway, tales spun by the Red Queen out of desperation and terror, and always flight, flight, flight. Stories about the drug use, the breakdowns, the distant clashing rocks of my imaginary past.

  Neither of us, however, is interested in fighting about this now. I, at least, have other priorities. As a consequence, I will keep my house, Eddy will keep his flat, and we will have no further dealings with one another.

  Stephen pushed the sheaf of paper towards him. ‘Mr Lewis? You first.’

  Eddy signed the documents quickly, contemptuously, as though this was all beneath him, and then shoved them over the desk to me.

  There was a big cross drawn next to Margot Lewis, marking where I should sign my name. My pen paused over it, as though startled. After all, who is Margot Lewis?
Can she legally sign documents? Does she even exist in any meaningful way?

  In for a penny, in for a pound. My pen scratched decisively across the paper.

  And just like that, we were done.

  I lingered with Stephen on the steps of his offices while he fussed with his cashmere scarf.

  ‘Well, that was awful,’ I observed.

  ‘Yes, but better to have it over and done with.’ He fastened his coat against the cold breeze. Somewhere out there the City of London was knee-deep in rush hour, but here, in the medieval parkland of the Middle Temple, all was strangely quiet, serene. ‘I don’t think you’ve been holding out for a reconciliation.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Can I walk you to the station?’

  ‘Thanks, that’s very kind, but no. I’m meeting someone in the Delaunay.’

  ‘At least let me flag you a cab from the road,’ he said.

  ‘No really, it’s fine. I’d rather walk. And I haven’t spotted any reporters – though I haven’t properly beaten the shrubbery around here yet, so maybe I’m jumping to conclusions.’ I barked out a laugh, but he wasn’t fooled and he gave me a stern glance.

  ‘It’s nothing to joke about. This is going to get worse before it gets better, Mrs Lewis,’ he said, in his fussy no-nonsense lawyer voice. ‘There’s Christopher Meeks to consider. The arrest is just a taster. The trial will be a trial.’

  He walked me up to High Holborn and left me with a cordial goodbye near Chancery Lane before being swallowed up by the swirling crowds descending into the Underground. I pulled my coat tighter around myself and ducked out of the human current, sliding in next to the kiosk dispensing the Evening Standard just until I could orient myself. The air smelled of fuel exhaust and hops. It was already nearly dark and the railings for the Tube entrance were cold at my back as I pulled out my phone, about to tap out a message.

  Something made me glance up – a familiar voice.

  Eddy was a mere few yards away, talking urgently into his phone, his forehead furrowed. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he was saying, his hand straying up to his collar to tug it as he often did when nervous. ‘I never promised . . .’

  He turned, saw me. His mouth thinned. I could see him thinking – should I turn my back to her? Pretend I haven’t seen her?

  In the end, to my surprise, he did neither of those things.

  ‘Look, I’ll ring you back, all right?’ He swiped the phone off, dropped it into his pocket and strolled over, with a little studied nonchalance, as though it meant nothing.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I had business in town.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, clucking his tongue. ‘Me too.’

  He came and stood next to me, and we both stared out at the tide of commuters flowing past, while we rested in the little harbour provided by the kiosk.

  We could have been spies, meeting to pass on information.

  ‘You know,’ he said after a few moments, and his jaw was tight, ‘half of the stuff they printed in that newspaper didn’t come from me. I don’t know where they got that from.’

  I sighed. The subject was already exhausted as far as I was concerned. Part of our signed agreement was that he promised never again to sell information about me to any newspaper or media outlet – rather like shutting the stable door after the horse is gone, in my view, but Stephen was insistent.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I said. It didn’t.

  ‘I know I’ve hardly been the ideal husband,’ he murmured, ‘but I really am sorry it worked out this way.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’ My hands were cold and I shoved them into my pockets. On the road, taxis were honking at one another over some perceived slight. The chill had brought out the roses in his cheeks.

  ‘Can I ask a question? Since we’re here?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Did you really not know you were this Bethan Avery person?’

  I craned up to look at him. ‘Are you serious?’

  He shrugged, as if to say, Well yes.

  ‘No,’ I said coldly. ‘No I didn’t.’

  It was his turn to sigh. ‘I suppose it explains a few things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like why our marriage failed.’ He opened his palms, as though this were a fait accompli. ‘I mean, if you had no idea who you were, how was I supposed to know who you were?’

  I stood up straight. It was time to go.

  ‘Does it matter? The important thing has always been that you knew who you were. You knew who you were and what you wanted and kept me posted.’

  ‘But . . .’

  I wanted to tell him that our marriage failed because he left me for another woman, because he was greedy and egotistical, but instead, I simply tightened my scarf around my neck.

  ‘Eddy, I would love to stay and chat, but I have to go.’ I extended a hand. ‘I’ll see you around, no doubt.’

  He wanted to say more, I think, but realized it would be pointless. We shook hands, like business colleagues, and within moments the human swell of commuterdom had funnelled him away into the depths of the Central Line, leaving me alone.

  Martin was waiting outside the Delaunay, chafing his gloved hands together.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘Eddy,’ I sighed out. Though my old rage, that furious, uncontrollable chthonic monster, has now subsided, sunk back into the depths, I am still bitterly disappointed in Eddy. However, I was not surprised. I could see past it.

  I was coping better than Martin, it seemed.

  ‘You can’t stop the greedy bastard selling his story again,’ he said. ‘He can just turn “anonymous source”, and unless we catch him red-handed, there’s nothing you can do.’ He ground one fist into his palm, an unconscious gesture of rage. ‘Just so you know.’

  I nodded. I understood.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and one of those hands now closed around my own.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I actually meant it.

  ‘Are you ready to celebrate your divorce?’

  I gazed up at the brilliantly lit windows of the restaurant, and bit my lip. It smelled good. It looked good.

  ‘Yeah, I am . . .’ I was tired, and not terribly publicly inclined right then, but there was no way to say this without hurting him.

  ‘You’re not so sure, are you?’

  I hesitated, mortified that my feelings had been so obvious to him. This was meant to be a treat he’d planned for me, after all.

  ‘You know,’ he said, and there was a warm twinkle in his eye as he slipped my hand into his pocket, ‘it’s entirely possible to celebrate divorces at home too, and in equally splendid style. Which is an option we should consider.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘No. Not another word. You’re exhausted, I can tell. Let’s get a takeaway, stay in and chill some champagne.’

  I grinned at him, pleased and relieved that he got it.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Let’s go home.’

  I took the arm he offered, and we began the journey back to Little Wilbraham, to the house on the Fens.

  ‘What do I call you now?’ he asked me, the first time he took me back there. His voice was thick, drowsy.

  I turned around in his arms. I had been sure he was asleep. I do not really sleep, myself, not yet.

  ‘What do you call me?’

  I had been dodging this question for nearly two weeks at that point. I told everybody I was too exhausted to think about it – the reporters, the police, concerned well-wishers . . . the parents of the other murdered girls. Yes, I’ve been meeting them too. Again and again, I keep waiting for them to confront me – if Bethan, the first victim, had gone to the police instead of on some seventeen-year amnesiac bender, then so many lives might have been saved.

  But none of them confront me.

  Instead, they pity me.

  It’s much, much worse.

  ‘Yes, you silly
mare,’ said Martin. ‘You need a name.’

  He was quite right. I must pick an identity and stick with it. Until then, I was in limbo.

  ‘I can’t decide,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be Bethan Avery – you know, the mad girl who was kidnapped and kept in a cellar, then forgot about it for nearly twenty years. And I’m not sure I’m legally allowed to be Margot Lewis still.’

  ‘I can’t see why you’d want to be Lewis anyway.’

  Well, that much was definitely true.

  They fired me in the end, once Eddy’s revelations hit the papers.

  It was bound to happen, of course. It’s a different world nowadays, or so they would have you believe. What with the dissociative amnesia, identity theft, fugue states and putting a child molester’s eye out – it all marks a girl’s card.

  To be fair to St Hilda’s, I wasn’t exactly fired; I was placed on leave while ‘everything got sorted out’, as the head said, but we both knew I would never be coming back. I was lucky nobody was pressing charges against me, and at that point it was by no means clear that they wouldn’t in future.

  Lily took me out to buy me exit cocktails at the Varsity Hotel rooftop bar, to take away the sting, but it was such a faff getting security to throw the reporters out that I couldn’t, for the life of me, relax for the first couple of hours.

  That said, once they were gone, it’s impossible to stay unhappy up there, with the beautiful vista of Cambridge spread out on all sides, the frowsy towers and ivied walls, the emerald-green patches of garden, the river with its bracketing willows.

  Also, they have booze.

  ‘What will you do?’ she asked me.

  ‘Years and years of therapy,’ I knocked back the remains of my white port Martini. ‘Or so they tell me.’

  She tried to fight through the discomfort the idea gave her, and put on a brave face. I love her for that.

  ‘No, I mean, what will you do? How will you live?’

  I set the glass on the table, looked to catch the waiter’s eye.

  ‘One day at a time.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus.’