by Jennie Ensor
A rap on her door. Katherine’s voice.
‘Suzanne? Are you awake?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘The police are here. They want to speak to you.’
She glanced at the clock. Nearly 3am. What on earth could they want with her in the middle of the night?
Laura. Something’s happened to her.
Suzanne put on her long cardigan, went into the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water. She’d hollowed out with dread.
In the hall stood two uniformed officers. A stocky, plain woman looked at her with dull eyes. Towering beside her, a youth with stuck-out ears like small Yorkshire puddings. The sleeves of his uniform were a fraction too short for his arms.
‘Are you Mrs Suzanne Cunningham?’
She stared at each of them in turn. ‘Yes. What do you want?’
‘Hello, Mrs Cunningham. I’m Sergeant Richards from Wimbledon Police.’ The woman’s voice grasped at warmth. ‘And this is Constable Trimble.’ The youth gave Suzanne a silent nod. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you so early in the morning. Would you mind if we came in and sat down?’
Katherine gave her a reassuring smile and headed upstairs. The police officers followed Suzanne into the living room.
The woman officer made a small head movement. ‘This isn’t your home, Mrs Cunningham?’
‘No, I’m staying here with my friends, Katherine and Jeremy. What are you here for?’
‘There’s been an incident.’
The back of her scalp tingled.
‘Can I just check your home address, Mrs Cunningham?’ The PC, this time.
‘31 Elgin Drive.’ She gave the postcode. ‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘There was an address written down on a piece of paper in the glovebox of your husband’s car,’ the sergeant said. The constable showed it to her. She recognised her own writing: Gone to stay with Katherine. The phone number was given and Katherine’s address.
She looked at them, a horrible suspicion growing in her. What were they doing, looking in the glovebox of Paul’s car?
‘Is your husband the registered keeper of a silver Porsche, registration GX04 VYA?’
‘Yes, he is. Why, what’s happened?’ Suzanne looked from one officer to the other. She wiped her clammy palms on the cardigan. ‘Please, tell me what it is.’
‘Mrs Cunningham, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’ The sergeant blinked, and shifted a fraction in her seat. ‘There’s been an incident involving your husband. Emergency services were called to the scene just after two am. A vehicle was found crashed into a tree at the end of Elgin Drive – a silver Porsche. It had been driven at a high speed, judging from the amount of damage—’ The sergeant stopped, her eyes becoming duller. ‘We believe it was your husband at the wheel, Mrs Cunningham. He was dead when we arrived at the scene.’
Tree. Husband. Dead.
The words refused to make sense. She looked into the officers’ faces. Both wore such serious expressions.
‘I don’t understand. He crashed into a tree?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ the sergeant resumed. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Cunningham. A nearby resident heard the crash take place and came out to see what had happened.’
‘What time did you say this was?’
The sergeant brought out a notebook and glanced at it. ‘It was fifteen minutes past two.’
Her scalp prickled. It had been him, earlier.
‘Your husband wasn’t wearing a seat belt,’ the constable said. ‘Did he normally wear one?’
‘Yes, always.’
She realised she was staring at his ears and wrenched her gaze away. Her mind was off on a tangent. Why didn’t he have an operation to fix his ears?
‘Mrs Cunningham?’
She forced her mind back to the PC’s question; no seat belt. What did that mean? Either Paul had been in a great hurry to go somewhere, or he was in such a state he hadn’t cared about belting up.
An icy clamminess settled over her. She was certain of it now: Paul had killed himself on purpose.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cunningham, I know this must be hard for you. But I have to ask you a few more questions.’ The sergeant turned the page of her notebook. ‘When did you last see your husband?’
She answered the questions, despite not feeling fully present in the room. Her mind drifted. She was alone, far out at sea, and there was no one to rescue her.
‘Mrs Cunningham?’
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
The constable repeated his question. Would she be able to visit the mortuary later to identify her husband’s body? A family liaison officer would be available to offer support and would explain all about the post-mortem procedure and the inquest.
When they’d gone, Suzanne went upstairs. The door to Katherine and Jeremy’s bedroom was ajar and she could hear them talking. Jeremy’s voice followed by Katherine’s fainter reply. Something about someone snoring. The exchange sounded ridiculously ordinary.
She went into her bedroom and shut the door. She would tell them in the morning that Paul was dead. How could she tell them now, when she didn’t believe it herself?
She lay down in bed and closed her eyes. A murky light seeped into the room and she found herself thinking about ordinary things: her back pain was getting worse, with this mattress, perhaps she should go to the osteopath again; what was Marmaduke doing now? He was all alone with Paul.
No, that wasn’t right. Paul was gone now. He would never be coming back.
She sat up, imagining the thud of the impact, the buckling of metal, the lifeless body slumped against the steering wheel.
Suzanne found her mobile on the dressing table and switched it on. She ought to tell Daniel and Laura. She was about to call Laura when she saw there were two voicemail messages. She played the most recent, sent at 1.32am:
‘Mum, I’m OK. I’m in the police station at Shepherd’s Bush. They’re taking my statement now.’
Then an earlier message, inaudible except for the words ‘Dad’ and ‘following me’. The fear in her daughter’s voice made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Suzanne pressed the call button. Laura picked up immediately.
‘Hello, Mum. I’m so glad to hear from you. Did you get my messages?’
‘I did, just now. What are you doing at the police station?’
‘I’m waiting here with a cup of tea. I don’t want to go home yet and the police might want to talk to me again. I told them about Dad, I told them everything.’ Laura sounded drained of energy. ‘He was waiting for me in his car, outside my flat. He tried to stop me going to the police. I thought he was going to hurt me.’
Suzanne felt a numbness settle over her. She couldn’t process her daughter’s words. Paul had been trying to hurt Laura? How could that be?
‘They were trying to get hold of him,’ Laura went on. ‘Then they told me he’s been in some sort of incident. Do you know where he is? They won’t tell me.’
‘He’s dead, Laura.’
‘What?’
‘He drove into a tree. The police told me twenty minutes ago. It was just up the road from the house.’
A small gasp, then silence.
‘I’ve got to go and identify the body,’ Suzanne continued. ‘Will you come over later?’
‘Of course. I’ll get a cab.’ Laura lowered her voice. ‘Was it on purpose, Mum?’
‘Yes. Yes, it was.’
Suzanne drove into the vacant driveway of number 31. The storm had bashed the poppies in the flowerbed; bruised heads sagged from bent stalks. She turned her key in the lock, pushed on the front door. The smell of glass cleaning spray struck her first. The light had been left on in the hall. She put down her things and opened the living room door.
The room had changed since the last time she was there: the wood of the sideboard and the coffee table shone; the cushions were neatly arranged and the carpet had been vacuumed, as if he’d wanted to leave the place l
ooking nice for her to come back to.
No note. The police had said to look out for a suicide note.
She went into the kitchen. No empty beer cans lying around, no sign that any food had been prepared. Everything had been put away and the surfaces were spotless. No note in the kitchen either. She checked the dining room and the conservatory, then opened the office door. The desk had been cleared of his papers – of everything, except for the computer screen, a cigarette lighter and a scattering of ash. Something papery.
She went closer, wondered briefly what it had been and if this little heap was something the police or the coroner might be interested in. Then she brushed the debris into her hand and dropped it into the kitchen bin. Whatever it was, she’d rather it was gone.
There was no note anywhere. She allowed a vague disappointment to drift away. Perhaps it was better that way. Yes, it was definitely better that way. She didn’t want to read some concocted explanation of his actions, or a pathetic goodbye. She didn’t want to know that he couldn’t live without her, or Laura, or Emma, or whatever else had gone through his head, or any more of his words that meant nothing.
Her thoughts shifted – Marmaduke. Where was he? She’d forgotten all about him. Why hadn’t he come to greet her? She peeped under the kitchen chair, alarmed now. Marmaduke’s bowl contained a few pieces of dried-up food. Quickly, she unlocked the back door.
‘Marmaduke! Here, kitty-kitty!’
She tapped her fingers against the glass and called him several more times, but he didn’t appear. Leaving the back door ajar, she went inside, sat down, and tilted her head back against the wall. Despair rolled through her. The emotion was bigger than she’d expected, bigger than she knew how to deal with.
This was it then, the moment of reckoning. She was alone. Her husband was dead and now her cat had disappeared. What the hell was she going to do?
She’d never been good at facing reality, it was so much easier to run away and hide. But she couldn’t hide from this pain. Once again, she saw Paul’s face as it was revealed on the mortuary slab: the long red gash across his brow, the eye misshapen and dark with blood. Had he really loved her, despite everything?
She closed her eyes. Why couldn’t he have been an ordinary man? An ordinary husband, an ordinary father to her children? That was all she’d ever wanted.
Her shoulders heaved. She began to cry, the sobs crashing out of her, seemingly unstoppable. Then something rubbed against her legs, purring noisily.
‘Marmaduke! Where have you been?’
She picked him up, stroked his back, and tickled under his chin. He was thinner, but otherwise seemed fine. Suzanne put half a tin of cat food into his bowl and watched him eat.
Laura arrived first, then Daniel. The three of them sat at the kitchen table, one or other occasionally getting up to bring cups of tea or coffee. No one said much at first. They all sounded unlike their usual selves, tentatively treading around what they really wanted to talk about.
‘So, it was suicide?’ Daniel asked at last, rubbing his chin.
‘That’s what the police think,’ Suzanne replied. ‘All the signs were there. The whisky, no seat belt, no other vehicles involved.’
‘Why? Why did he do it?’
‘I don’t know, Daniel.’ But she could guess. What did he have left to live for? He’d lost everything.
‘He must have felt terribly alone,’ Daniel went on. ‘Like we’d all abandoned him.’
‘It was shame too, I think,’ she said. ‘He always hated people judging him.’
Laura lowered her face onto her folded arms. She looked terrible: her eyelids puffy, her face greyish in tone.
‘He didn’t want to go to prison, that’s what he was afraid of. He knew I was going to the police. When we were talking in the car, he begged me not to go. He tried to stop me.’
Daniel gave his sister a hard look.
‘He hurt my arm.’ Laura glared back at her brother. ‘I thought he was going to … I don’t know what he might have done. I pushed my fingers into his face, to stop him hurting me. That’s why his eye was damaged.’
Suzanne stirred her tea. It was extra strong and made with sugar, which she never normally took. Today though, she needed all the help she could get. She tried not to think about the torn and bloody eye that had stared up at her from the mortuary slab. Why hadn’t they closed it? Perhaps it was because they were going to examine the body.
‘You did what you had to do,’ she said.
‘But did she have to tell the coppers?’
Laura’s face flushed. ‘What do you think we should have done, just sat around patiently and waited for him to find his next victim?’
‘Stop it, you two!’
Her voice was louder than she’d intended. Both Laura and Daniel stared at her.
‘Your father chose to do what he did,’ she said. ‘He chose to act like a total prick and then he chose to throw his life away. This is no one’s fault but his.’ She got to her feet, surprised by the certainty she felt.
Neither Laura nor Daniel spoke. They both looked shamefaced. Laura heated some chicken soup and Daniel busied himself with his phone.
‘I’m sorry, Laura,’ Daniel said.
‘It’s OK.’
The hostility between them disappeared, replaced by an attempt at banter. They did their best to help with the practical things and clearly wanted to be on hand should their mother fall into a pit of despair. In the late afternoon she tried to shoo them away, reassuring them that she’d be OK, she needed to rest now, but they refused to leave.
Suzanne opened the door to the bedroom she’d shared with Paul.
It was too early to go to bed, but she desperately needed to sleep. She lay on the bed, fully dressed, glancing around the room. The chair was no longer piled with his clothes and Laura had changed the sheets. Paul’s comb, watches and bottles of scent still rested on the chest of drawers.
It was difficult to believe that her husband had actually gone, that he wouldn’t put his head around the door any moment and ask what was for dinner, or did she want a glass of water. But he wasn’t coming back. She was a widow now.
The thought was too strange, it didn’t slot in anywhere. A wobble, deep in her psyche.
Katherine’s recent advice came to her. Try to think of something funny when you can’t deal with things anymore. She tried, but nothing came to mind. She noticed the tapping of her heart, louder now and a little too fast. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to the count of five.
Five, four, three, two, one.
She repeated this several times. After a while, she was calmer.
It’s going to take a while, but you’ll get there.
A wry smile came to her lips. Yes, she’d get there. The old geezer up above had surprised her, yet again, but she wasn’t going to fall apart this time. Somehow, she would get through this latest crisis. Deep down she was a tough old bird.
34
Laura
12 May 2011
The remains of the buffet lay on the dining table: dented balls of deep-fried mozzarella, nibbled sandwiches, and the crumbling remains of quiches and cake. At last, apart from her mother and Daniel, everyone had gone.
Laura went to the French windows. Outside, yellows and blues studded the flowerbeds. The sun came out from behind a cloud and went in again.
Everyone had spoken well of her father this morning, and no one had mentioned the likelihood that her father had killed himself. None of his relatives had made it to the funeral, except for a great aunt and a cousin from Canada, and they’d said little about him. But many of his friends and work colleagues had turned up. To them, her father had been a different man, it seemed. A likeable, charming man who had done many kind and helpful things, who’d laughed with them and had made them laugh. It was as if the man they were talking about wasn’t her father at all, but a good-natured imposter. Perhaps each had decided not mention the less pleasant side of him. Or perhaps, to them, he really
had been a different man.
She thought back to when she was growing up, how he’d never stayed the same person for long. Every so often, the brooding silences would build into rage, for no discernible reason. Then, hey presto, the anger was put aside and a jovial, contented man would appear. In a similar way, when he touched her, he went into a sort of altered state. Once he’d finished, he’d snap out of it. As if he were a magician performing a conjuring trick, the man with glazed eyes would instantly transform, from the ogre she feared into a father like anyone else’s.
‘Hi, sis. How’s it going?’
She turned to Daniel, now standing behind her. He was wearing a black shirt and his grey suit, the jacket now removed. He hadn’t had time to buy a black suit for the funeral, he’d told her earlier. Hadn’t wanted to, perhaps.
‘It was an effort,’ she replied. ‘I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. I hardly knew most of them. And they all seemed so positive about him.’
Daniel shrugged, gave a small sigh. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. You’d never think he’d topped himself.’ He looked into the garden. ‘Or he’d done all that other stuff.’
She noticed again the absence of his girlfriend. ‘Where’s Karen? I thought she would be here.’
‘She’s OK. She had something on today.’ His voice was guarded.
‘Have you told her what really happened with Dad?’
‘No, definitely not.’ He glanced behind as if Karen might suddenly appear. ‘She wouldn’t understand.’
‘Why don’t you try talking to her?’
‘What do you think I should say? “Hey, my dad was a child molester on the side, how about that? He abused my sister and then he went for the daughter of my mum’s friend, and, when he got found out, he decided to top himself”?’ He glared at her then closed his eyes for a moment.
‘I’m sorry, Laura, all this has shaken me up. Everything I thought I knew about him … I know he could be a real bastard at times. The way he ranted at Mum when she was just trying to make him happy, the way he used to come down on us like a ton of bricks for the slightest thing. He wasn’t that hot as a father, I always knew. But he was my dad. And now …’