by Emma Davies
Time passes without my even noticing. I’m lost in my memories, set free from any constraints the day held over me, existing solely in a space where everything is as it should be. Images of my dad float and settle around me, comforting and peaceful, and my childhood returns to the happy place in my heart I always thought it occupied. I shift my legs out from under me, stretching away the stiffness and running my hands over the piles of photos that litter the floor. It’s only lunchtime, and I have plenty of hours ahead of me to make a start on the task I’d originally planned. And now I want to take my time. I want the albums to be the best tribute they can be to my dad, and to my mum, who so diligently recorded all of this for me.
I start to gather the pictures together, to stack them into piles so that I can begin sorting. Drew’s young face is grinning up at me from the top of the one nearest and I stop for a moment, laying a finger against his cheek. Even as a boy there was something golden about him, and I always knew that what we had was special. I remember my fear when I first saw his plaster cast, and learned that he had fallen out of a tree. How much worse his injuries could have been. A broken back, a cracked skull, things that would have changed his life and mine forever. The thought had terrified me even then.
I lay the picture back down again and pick up the next, trying to decide how I want to order the photos – by date, by subject… I know I won’t get it exactly right, but I can almost certainly sort them into rough chronological order. I glance back down, noticing as I do so a detail I hadn’t spotted before. There’s a date stamp in the corner of the photo I’m holding and, now that I look, quite a few of the pictures have it. The discovery makes the decision easy and Drew’s photo goes to the top of the pile as a marker for all those which will need to come before it or after. I peer closer, checking the date.
I must have got it wrong. One of those occasions when you get numbers muddled, back to front. Or the memory of it misfires. That’s all it will be. But the hairs on the back of my neck are rising…
I sit, holding the photo in my hand, completely unable to move, growing hotter and hotter as the seconds tick by. I should check, put myself out of my misery, but the voice in my head is starting to cry.
I walk silently across the landing and into our bedroom where I take out my journal and open it. The newspaper article I took from Stacey is right where I left it, and I’d give anything at this moment to have thrown it away. I thought about it. My hands are shaking as I unfold it, the chant in my head becoming louder and louder. Please be wrong, please be wrong, please be wrong…
I check the date mentioned in the paper. The day on which Georgia Thomas was attacked. Tuesday 25th June 1996…
And then I look back at the photo, at Drew and the young nurse bandaging his arm, his mum by his side.
The dates are the same.
Which means that Drew and his parents were at the hospital the same evening that Georgia was walking home from Guides.
There’s no way they would have been having my mum and dad round for supper.
They had lied.
And my dad had no alibi.
* * *
I have to wait another forty-seven minutes before Drew comes home. I hear the front door open from where I’m still sitting, sprawled on the floor of the spare bedroom. I retreated back here after my anger spent itself, after I had raged backwards and forwards across the landing, after I had kicked the bedroom door so violently it feels like I’ve broken my toe, and after my scream of rage had given way to near hysterical sobbing. Now I’m just numb.
There are photographs everywhere. No longer in tidy piles but, instead, scattered across every surface, under the bed, anywhere and everywhere they could travel when I’d hurled them. All but one, which I still hold in my hand.
I hear Drew’s footsteps cross the hallway, keys jangling in his hand as he heads for the kitchen. There’s a pause before I hear him again, re-entering the hall from the living room after completing a circuit through the studio. He checks that I’m not in the dining room, or the small sitting room, although why he thinks I would possibly be there is beyond me. He stops then and I can almost imagine him at the foot of the stairs, looking upward, anxiety playing across his face as he tries to decide whether he wants to come up to find me, and if he does what mood I’ll be in. I could even still be in bed where he left me.
But he’s going to find out soon enough as I scramble to my feet just as he steps onto the bottom tread. He’s nearly halfway up by the time I make it to the top, standing on the precipice, swaying gently.
‘Thea…?’
The confusion in his voice is tinged with something else, fear perhaps… Or can he feel the remnants of my anger vibrating in the air?
I can hear my voice, but it’s as if it’s coming from someone else’s mouth. Or as if the words are in another language. But then I understand that there are no words at all, just a sound, the rise and fall of a keening cry that echoes around the hallway. It can’t be me at all, instead some animal, wounded, but, as I turn my head towards the noise, I realise that it’s my pain I can hear after all.
Drew is thundering up the remaining stairs, his feet heavy on the treads, but I don’t want him near me. I back away along the landing, warding him off with my hands. He reaches me and I can see the exact moment when he understands the significance of the snapshot I’m holding in my hand. It’s as if time has slowed into a series of photographic stills, each recording a minute detail of his expression as it changes to show his compassion, his anxiety, his alarm – and then the sure and certain knowledge of what’s coming next.
‘Thea, I’m so sorry, so sorry,’ he murmurs, trying to pull me closer as I fight to push him away. I can’t think with him so near. He doesn’t want to look at me but I have to know I’m right.
‘Thea, don’t do this,’ he warns, eyes wide, but it’s too late. His response gives me all the confirmation I need.
I am free of him, my eyes burning into his, frightened and beseeching.
‘You bastard!’ My slap glances off the taut muscles of his arms, and the feebleness of my action enrages me even more. I shove Drew away from me, scrabbling at his arms. ‘You lied to me,’ I yell. ‘There’s no way your parents could have given Dad an alibi when they were at the hospital with you, and you knew that, didn’t you? Why did you even bother to tell me they had in the first place, you’ve just made everything so much worse!’
‘Worse?’ he shouts. ‘How could it be worse? You asked me if your dad was guilty, Thea, what was I supposed to say? Probably not, but don’t tell anyone, only my parents gave him a false alibi. I was only trying to make you feel better.’
‘Yeah, and how do I feel now, Drew?’ I reply, eyes blazing. ‘Haven’t I been lied to enough already? Something else you were hoping I would never discover. It was bad enough finding out that you knew what happened with Georgia and you could have just left it there. In fact, you should have. But no, you had to go and volunteer information that you knew was a lie. Don’t you see how much worse that makes it? You gave me hope… actually you gave me a certainty that Dad wasn’t guilty, and now you’ve snatched that away from me again. Well, you’ve really excelled yourself, Drew. Congratulations, you’ve made him seem guiltier than ever.’
My hand flies to my mouth. ‘Oh God, this is serious… it’s criminal… Your mum and dad, they…’
Drew grabs my arm. ‘No, Thea, they didn’t. Your dad wasn’t guilty of anything. He was at home with you and your mum all evening on the night that Georgia was attacked, but when the police were looking to make an arrest, to put away someone guilty of something so dreadful, what kind of alibi would that have been? None at all. All my parents did was make sure that there was no question of his innocence.’ He looks down at the photo I’m still holding. ‘Christ, I’d forgotten we even had that.’
I tear it into tiny pieces, hurling them at him in frustration. ‘Well, it’s a bloody good job no one ever found it, isn’t it? Because if they had my dad would almo
st certainly have been convicted of abusing Georgia. A false alibi is bloody serious, Drew. And not only would it have incriminated my dad, but your parents would have been implicated too. Can you imagine what our lives would have been like?’ I break off as my throat closes at the sickening thought of what might have been.
Drew’s face contorts with sorrow. ‘Thea, your dad’s dead…’
‘Exactly! So he isn’t even here to defend himself. If anyone ever finds out that your mum and dad lied, it will be an open-and-shut case. Dad will be found guilty because that’s the obvious solution, and now no one can prove otherwise.’
‘For goodness’ sake, that would never stand up in court.’
‘It doesn’t need to,’ I scream at him. ‘It’s what people will think!’ A sob catches in my throat at the thought.
Drew takes a step towards me. ‘Thea, you’re still talking as if you think your dad was guilty. And he wasn’t! Nothing’s changed, Thea, nothing at all.’
I thrust a finger into his chest. ‘Well, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? How convenient for you if it would all just stay the same. Well that’s where you’re wrong, Drew, because everything has changed. I trusted you. And you lied to me. Keeping information from me I could just about accept, but not this. I’d nearly got my head around the idea that any of this even happened at all, that a massive chunk of my childhood teetered precariously on a secret kept from me my whole life. I’d even pretty much accepted that there may have been valid reasons for keeping the information from me, and I’d convinced myself that I knew the truth, that my dad could never be guilty. But now? Now, I don’t know what to think…’
‘Yeah, and whose fault is that, Thea? You brought us here!’
‘You could have stopped us!’
We glare at one another across a hostile space that neither of us is going to breach.
‘I thought I knew everything there was to know about you,’ I add. ‘That if there was one person I could trust in my life, it was you. That you would never, ever, do anything to hurt me. How could you, when neither of us know where I finish and you begin? It would be like hurting yourself.’
I shake my head, bitter tears sliding down my cheeks. ‘But now I can’t believe how wrong I was. You deliberately misled me. Misled me and betrayed my trust, and I promise you it’s the last time you’ll ever do it.’
Drew’s eyes widen, fear peering out at me. ‘What are you saying?’ he asks, his whole body going limp.
I could blow us apart.
I could detonate a grenade in the centre of our marriage. An explosion so large it would leave only splinters, or dust. I could do it right now…
Instead I walk away.
Nineteen
I leave the next morning, as soon as the girls are safely at school. I make Drew take them; I’ve no desire to see anyone. Besides, I want him out of the house while I pack.
‘Thea, this is crazy, listen to me.’
‘Why is it, Drew? From where I’m standing it’s not crazy at all. I want some answers and I’m clearly not going to get them from you.’
We’re standing in the hallway and he’s not exactly blocking the front door, but close enough.
‘But what about Chloe and Lauren? What am I going to say to them?’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’
He goes to answer but then closes his mouth, his eyes fearful.
‘What? Scared I won’t come back?’
Drew doesn’t answer and I can’t say I blame him. I’m angry and I’m upset, but I’m not vindictive. Not yet anyway, but I can feel the potential for it just waiting for me to give it the green light. ‘I’ll be back tonight, okay?’
‘Yet you’re taking a bag…’
‘I’ll be back, Drew,’ I repeat. ‘Just tell the girls that Grandma is a bit poorly or something and I’ve had to go and see her.’
He hesitates and then nods slightly. ‘Does she even know you’re coming?’
I pick up my bag. ‘I’ll call on the way. Three hours is far too much notice to give of my arrival. I don’t want to hear a whole heap of excuses, I want to hear the truth.’
‘Thea, please… don’t go like this. I understand you wanting to see your mum, I actually think it’s something you should do. But don’t go when you’re angry and upset, when we’re… Look, if you wait a couple of days, maybe we can get something sorted out and I could come with you.’
‘And at what point am I going to stop being angry and upset, Drew? Answer me that. Two days isn’t going to make any difference to how I feel. I’ve had this kept from me almost my entire life and I’m not prepared to wait any longer. It’s bad enough being lied to, but what’s worse is that the one person in all of this I want to talk to isn’t here any more. So, I’m going by myself, Drew. I want to make up my own mind about things. I need to know… And the truth is just something I’ll have to deal with.’
He doesn’t answer but takes the bag from my hand and carries it outside to the car. ‘Please make sure you drive carefully, Thea, and ring me when you get there.’ He breaks off, clearing his throat. ‘I need to know you’re okay… And I’ll be here when you get back, we can talk then, and I…’ He stops, swallowing.
I look up at him, at the face I know so well. But I can’t think about us now.
‘I love you,’ he finishes, close to tears, and I blink hard, trying not to remember the aching empty space in the bed last night. The dip of my waist without the familiar weight of his arm, my knees nestling into the crook of his as I turn over. The way our fingers would link automatically. All of it missing. Apart from when the girls were born it’s the only time we’ve ever slept apart. And I missed him more than I thought possible.
‘I’ll ring you,’ I say, keeping my eyes on the car. If I look at him I’ll never be able to do this. I stare at the road ahead as I pull out of the drive. I know he’s standing there, watching me leave long after the car is out of sight. But my heart is already breaking, I don’t need to see the expression on his face to know that his is too.
In the end I don’t even let Mum know I’m on my way. I can’t, it’s all I can do to keep driving. If I stop then thoughts will sneak around the barriers I’ve put up and I can’t have them do that, not yet anyway. Not until I’m ready.
The traffic is light and I make good time, turning into the end of her road a little before noon. I’m busting for a wee and gagging for a drink, and I realise now how stupid it was not to tell her I was coming. I could have a very long wait ahead of me if she isn’t home. But seconds later, I spot her bright-red Mini and I pull onto the drive behind it.
I reach down to collect my handbag from the passenger footwell before climbing from the car. My overnight bag is still on the back seat and my hand rests on the door handle for a moment, undecided. I have no idea yet whether I’m going home tonight.
A seagull cries overhead as a gust of wind carries the salty tang of the sea towards me. The scent reminds me how ridiculous this situation is. My mother lives in a beautiful part of the country. She’s moments from the sea itself, a pretty harbour on one side and a sweeping bay on the other… Chloe and Lauren would absolutely love to come and stay here and yet, in the years since my dad died, I think we’ve been here twice, that’s all. It seems obvious now why not and I realise that the repercussions of our sordid family secret have extended far beyond just me.
Of all the emotions which cross my mother’s face, I think relief is the one that stays there the longest. I wonder how often she’s thought of this moment, finding me on her doorstep.
‘Darling,’ she says, holding out her arms, but then she checks herself. ‘Oh, are you on your own?’ There are multiple scenarios crossing her mind, but only one which makes any real sense. ‘Is everything all right…? You and Drew, you’re not…?’
It’s the easiest conclusion to jump to, but I don’t have any answer for that particular question. ‘I’m not here because of Drew, Mum,’ I say.
‘No,’ she says. ‘
But I’m glad you are here.’ She draws me in and I’m surprised by the strength of her hug.
Her hair is much longer than when I last saw her, but it suits her. Still a burnished chestnut, not as dark as mine, but with it just tipping onto her shoulders, she looks… rather incongruously, relaxed. And I remind myself to breathe.
‘I made a cake this morning,’ she adds, as I follow her into the kitchen. ‘I must have known you were coming. Either that or it’s my turn to do refreshments at the bowling club. But no mind, I can make another. It’s not until tomorrow.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. I should have rung really, it’s just that—’
‘If you’d stopped to think about it you would never have come.’
‘Something like that,’ I admit. I watch her as she takes the kettle to the sink to fill it with water. ‘You don’t seem very surprised,’ I say.
Her hand freezes for a second and then she continues with her task, still facing away from me. ‘Thea, you moved back to Pevensey. It was only a matter of time.’
Not a criticism as such, more resignation.
‘Were you ever going to tell me?’ I ask.
‘No.’ Her reply is immediate. And definite.
She places the kettle back on its stand to boil. ‘And if you want to know why, it’s because I took very great care to ensure that you never knew. And having made that decision once, I intended to stand by it. There was no need for you to know, what difference does it make?’
‘How can you say that? It makes a hell of a difference!’
‘To what exactly?’ She holds my gaze. ‘What benefit has it brought you?’
I open my mouth but close it when I realise that I have no answer for her.