The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

  ‘Would you like me to go with you to the prison next time?’ offered Dee during one of their better days. ‘It might help her to know you’re safe with us. I could tell her how well you’re doing.’

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But as soon as they got to the room called ‘Domestic Visits’, her mother’s jaw set as she took in Dee. It probably didn’t help that Dee had had her hand on her shoulder, the way she sometimes did to give her courage. Scarlet moved away but it was too late. Mum had seen.

  ‘Hello.’ Dee had what Robert called ‘my wife’s sweet angel face’ on. ‘How very nice to meet you. I thought it would be reassuring for you if I came along so you can see who your daughter is living with. She’s very happy with us. Aren’t you, love?’

  Scarlet cringed. This was awful. Dee might be trying to be nice but she was making it worse. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ she wanted to say. ‘I’d rather live with you. You do know that, don’t you?’

  But that would seem rude in front of Dee!

  ‘I know it can’t be easy for you being in prison,’ she continued.

  Stop! Mum was looking really upset. Dee was sounding all school-teachery now.

  ‘I can promise you that as your daughter’s foster mother, I …’

  ‘Shut up!’ Mum’s face had gone all blotchy red and her eyes were glittering with fury. ‘Don’t you dare use the word “mother”. I’m her mother. Do you hear me? No one else, especially not some bleeding-heart do-gooder like you.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Dee’s voice was low. Gentle. The way it was when she was explaining maths homework to Scarlet. ‘I get how you feel. It’s normal for you to feel angry. But … Ouch!’

  Scarlet gasped out loud. Her mother had scratched Dee down the right side of her face. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What about me?’ Mum screamed as the officers took her away. ‘Don’t you care about your own mother? You traitor!’

  ‘I’m not,’ she cried back. But it was too late. She’d gone. ‘It’s all right, love,’ said Dee taking her hand. But Scarlet pushed her away. How could she have allowed herself to get so close to her and Robert, sometimes imagining they were her proper parents? Mum had been right. She was a traitor. After that, Scarlet told Dee to go away when she got her nightmares.

  ‘I do understand that your emotions are divided,’ Dee told her. There were still marks down her cheek from where Mum had scratched her. Scarlet tried not to look. ‘I really do. Remember I was in care myself when I was a kid?’

  But could this be a lie to make Scarlet love Dee again?

  After that, the prison bitch wouldn’t permit Scarlet to visit for a bit because of Mum’s behaviour. Didn’t they all realize it was a punishment for her as well? When she was finally allowed back, the social worker went with her. Mum seemed much quieter. ‘I’m sorry about before,’ Scarlet had whispered. ‘You know that you’re the only person I love.’

  ‘I hope so,’ whispered Mum. ‘Cross your heart?’

  ‘And hope to die,’ added Scarlet, just for good measure.

  ‘I miss you, baby. I don’t know if I can go on for much longer without you.’

  But now it was all going to change.

  ‘I’ve got my parole!’

  Mum’s voice screamed the news down the phone.

  At first, Scarlet thought she was crying. But then she realized it was laughter.

  ‘I don’t get it. What does that mean?’

  ‘They’re going to let me out. Isn’t that great! We can live together again.’

  Scarlet’s heart began to pound with apprehension. Why? She should be happy. ‘Where will we live?’

  ‘I don’t know where, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Just as long as you and I are with each other.’ Mum started to cry again. ‘It’s made me ill not to be with you. All I think about is my little girl and how they’ve taken your childhood away from me. I’ll never get over it. None of this was my fault, love. You’ve got to believe that.’

  Of course she did. Scarlet knew that. Mum had told her enough times. But she also couldn’t help worrying. ‘Will we have to go back to the old flat?’ she asked.

  ‘No bloody way. They’ll have to rehouse us somewhere else.’

  ‘Maybe you could come and live here with Dee and Robert.’

  ‘Why the fuck would I want to do that? Don’t you love me any more, baby?’

  ‘Course I do, Mum.’

  ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, love. I wasn’t talking to you. The bitch behind me keeps going on about how I’ve been on the phone too long. Now piss off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her, love. Not you. Not my baby.’

  Then Mum burst into tears all over again, but before Scarlet could comfort her, the line went dead.

  Dee was in the kitchen when Scarlet had come in after the phone call. ‘Everything all right?’

  She put the kettle on the Aga, or the Ah Ger as she’d first called it when she came here. It was bright red. Like blood. But when you leaned against it you felt all warm and cosy.

  ‘Sort of.’

  Then she told Dee about what Mum had said about coming out and how she was so excited but also scared about where they would live.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said suddenly.

  Dee’s eyes were wet. ‘I’ll miss you too, love. But we’ll always keep in touch.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  A few days later, the visitor arrived.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Scarlet demanded, her body shivery with frightened goosebumps.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table with Dee and Robert and a different social worker from the one who normally took her to see Mum in the prison. This was, they’d explained, an ‘emergency conference’. Usually, they had a weekly ‘family meeting’ (as Dee called it) to talk about stuff like homework or tidying her room or ‘any other issues’. The best bit was that there was always a home-made chocolate or Victoria sponge cake with warm jam oozing out.

  But today there were plain biscuits and a scary feeling in the air that caught in her throat.

  The social worker answered.

  ‘I’m afraid that your mother has done something very wrong.’

  Scarlet felt a sharp blast of cold running through her, even though it was really hot in the kitchen. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to say.’

  ‘But you know.’

  ‘Yes …’

  Scarlet wriggled uncomfortably in her special kitchen chair with her name on the back. Dee had stencilled it on in blue letters soon after she’d come here, and even though it seemed a bit childish now, she loved it. ‘So why can’t you tell me?’

  ‘It’s best that you don’t know.’

  This was Robert.

  ‘How can you say that? You’re not my real parents.’

  ‘But we are your foster parents and we’ve known each other a very long time. Now listen, Scarlet –’

  ‘Robert! Don’t raise your voice like that. You’re upsetting her.’

  ‘I’m just trying to create some order here.’

  ‘The point is, Scarlet,’ continued the social worker, ‘that your mother isn’t going to be released now for at least five years – and that’s only if she behaves herself.’

  ‘But she promised me,’ whispered Scarlet. ‘They’re going to find us somewhere to live, and we’re going to be together.’

  ‘She did something bad in prison again, Scarlet. I’m sorry. But that’s the way it is.’

  This was her fault! It was because she’d been nervous about Mum coming out. She’d jinxed everything. ‘If you’re wondering what will happen to you, love, it’s all right.’ Dee was taking her hand. ‘You can carry on living with us.’

  There was a crash. Scarlet hadn’t meant to throw her chair to the ground. But there it was. One of the legs had broken. It felt as though someone else had done it.

  ‘I don’t want to
live with you any more. I only want Mum.’

  The social worker’s voice was clipped. ‘We need to think about your best interests.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Scarlet felt her scream rise into the air. ‘That’s why we need to be together. When can I visit her?’

  Each of the adults glanced at each other in a funny way. ‘I’m afraid it might be some time,’ said Robert.

  A bolt of fear shot through her. ‘Why?’

  Dee took over. ‘She’s been sent to a different prison, love. It’s a long way off.’

  ‘WHY?’

  Both Dee and Robert looked at the social worker. ‘It has a special secure section,’ she said slowly, as though choosing her words very carefully. ‘Like I said before, your mother has done something very wrong.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. She’s a good person. You’re all lying to me. I know you are.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’

  CRASH! The biscuit plate went flying. Scarlet looked at the fragments of blue-and-white china on the terracotta tiles. Had she really just done that?

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Robert!’ This was Dee. ‘Stop shouting. Look. She’s shaking.’

  ‘We’ve got to do something! This is becoming intolerable. Locking herself in her room; throwing things around. What’s next?’

  Dee tried to put her arms around her. ‘She’s been through so much.’

  But Scarlet pushed her away.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Don’t you dare push my wife.’

  ‘I think that’s more than enough.’ This was the social worker. ‘Can everyone calm down right now, or I will have to take Scarlet to another placement.’

  Dee had looked scared then. ‘I’m sorry, love. Robert didn’t mean to get cross.’

  The social worker left soon after that, but her words planted an idea in Scarlet’s head. Mum was still jealous of Dee – she kept asking how ‘that foster woman’ was during visits. And although Scarlet always reassured Mum that no one could ever take her place, the truth was that she had learned to care for them. After all, Dee had been so kind and Robert had shown her how to take photographs. But now the news that Mum was going to stay inside for five more years changed everything.

  Scarlet’s mind went back to that terrible scene in the prison when Mum had scratched Dee. Then again, Dee shouldn’t have had her hand on her shoulder like that. It had made Mum jealous. And she shouldn’t have kept on about how happy Scarlet was. Maybe – she’d never thought of this before – Dee had actually done it on purpose to upset Mum and make her do this thing that was ‘really wrong’ so Scarlet could stay with her for ever. That was it! And she and Mum had both walked into the trap. There was no way she could stay here now.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ said Dee, gathering up the broken china. ‘We understand. Don’t we, Robert? Be careful not to cut yourself. Let me help you.’

  But the nicer Dee was, the angrier Scarlet became. Every minute she spent here made her feel even more disloyal towards Mum. ‘I’d rather live with someone else,’ she told the social worker during the next visit.

  The woman looked worried. ‘Why? Don’t they treat you well?’

  ‘Yes but …’

  ‘Then you’ll have to stay. We usually only organize moves if the foster families or the children do something wrong.’

  Scarlet felt a leap of hope. Dee and Robert wouldn’t ‘do something wrong’.

  But she could.

  The fire started at night. When Scarlet looked out of the window, there was a ball of flames flickering up into the sky. It was just like Bonfire Night, except it wasn’t the right time of the year.

  ‘FIRE,’ she yelled out, running onto the landing. ‘HELP!’

  Robert stumbled out of their bedroom, his eyes wild with terror. ‘Where?’

  ‘Your studio,’ cried Scarlet.

  ‘I’ve got to get my stuff out,’ he yelled.

  ‘No!’

  They raced after him and only just managed to hold him back as the shed roof came crashing down. The heat was fiercer than anything she’d ever known. Lumps of wood – lit up like giant matchsticks – came hurtling towards her.

  ‘Careful,’ Dee implored. ‘Robert – stand back. We’ve got to get Scarlet into the house. Be sensible.’

  The three of them watched from the kitchen window in stunned silence as the final plank was consumed by the flames just as the fire engine came screaming down the lane.

  It was only when the police came round to talk to them that they found the small can of petrol under Scarlet’s bed along with a box of matches.

  ‘How could you,’ wept Dee, ‘after everything we did for you? I loved you like my own daughter.’

  Robert refused to speak to her. In a way, that was worse.

  ‘What will happen to me?’ asked Scarlet in a small voice as she was led out in handcuffs.

  ‘Youth court,’ snapped the policewoman. ‘Then, if there’s any justice, to a juvenile centre. With any luck, you won’t be out for some time.’

  23

  Vicki

  The train from Paddington to Penzance is as busy as it was when I came up this morning. Someone bumps against my bruised wrist as I search for a seat, and I wince. Maybe I should get it checked out, but then if I do, it will go on my medical file.

  I’m not sure I can risk that.

  As we leave London, I run over the last few hours in my head. None of it seems quite real.

  For a minute, back in Tanya’s house, I’d really thought she was going to seriously hurt me when she’d flown at me. If it hadn’t been for the self-defence course all those years ago, she might have succeeded. Instead, she was the one who had ended up on the ground.

  I’m still shaking. Glad to be on my way home.

  On the other side of the aisle is a family, chattering about catching the ferry to the Scilly Isles. I’d tried to persuade David to go there during our marriage but then I’d got pregnant, and he said I needed to rest more.

  Patrick.

  The seat next to me is marked ‘Exeter’. I’m reminded of the time I lived there before moving to a village near Totnes in the belief that I could start again. Then it was Cornwall.

  Now it looks as though I am going to have to find somewhere else. Shame. I could have put down roots.

  Even when David eventually turns up – please may there be a ‘when’ – I can’t stay in a place where the neighbours will have seen the police going in and out or gawped at me fitting under a bench.

  The very memory makes me nervous. I begin to massage my wrist and gasp with pain again. The man on the other side of me looks up curiously.

  I glance away, watching the countryside whizz past. An ox-bow lake catches my eye. An outlying farm comes into view and then goes in a flash. A perfect place to hide a body. Then I shiver. The thought of David lying dead somewhere is simply too awful to contemplate.

  ‘How long now?’ squeals one of the children in the carriage, snub nose pressed against the window.

  I feel a ‘what-might-have-been’ stab in my chest. As soon as I get home, I will call Inspector Vine. This time I’ll show him the evidence. And when he asks why I didn’t hand it over before, I’ll try to explain that when you love someone – even if they’ve crushed you – it isn’t always easy to betray them.

  Will the detective believe me? Who knows? At times, I don’t believe myself. Epilepsy does that. It makes you wonder who the real ‘you’ is. The person that others see, thrashing around. Or the one who looks back at you in the mirror?

  We’re in Devon now. My mind turns to Dartmoor. One tor after another. Once, in my old life, I’d climbed up Haytor.

  I must have dozed off for some time because, when I wake, the train is slowing down. The man next to me is staring in a concerned way, just like the elderly woman on the way up to London had done. A hot and cold bolt of fear shoots through me. Was it possible I really had had a seizure this time?

  ‘I was just wondering whether t
o wake you,’ he says. ‘Penzance is the next stop. We’re nearly there.’

  Slightly rattled, I thank him and reach for my coat. I can see the water now, glittering in the darkness. I feel my body relaxing, even though I am dreading the prospect of handing over the ‘evidence’ which could damn my ex for life. Maybe, before I do that, I will take a night-time walk along the beach. The tide will be out at this time. I’ll take off my shoes, even though it’s still nippy, and feel my feet sinking into the sand. I’ll gather some shells and remember what my dad used to say. ‘Hold it to your ear and you’ll hear the waves.’ Those were the days of happy, rainy trips to the coast with hard-boiled eggs which crunched with sand when you bit into them and that early childhood certainty that everything was safe.

  ‘I can see the sea!’ cries one of the children in the carriage. I wince. Patrick.

  The mental pain is so intense now that I can barely walk to the train door. There’s an emergency alarm box on the wall. I have a crazy impulse to smash it. Do others have that, I wonder?

  Calm down, I tell myself. After I get back from my beach walk, I will blend something to help the stress and demons in my mind. Lavender, rose and bergamot for my shower. It’s one of the ways we aromatherapists treat ourselves. Another is to soak a tissue with essences and tuck it into the bra strap, inhaling the oils to clear your mind and change the way you feel.

  I must get home.

  But there’s a queue of people waiting to get off. The man who’d woken me up gesticulates that I should go first.

  How polite.

  There’s some kind of hold-up at the outside door of the carriage. They’re not easy to open. Such a heavy mechanism. I’ve struggled before. We’re moving forward now, but slowly.

  Then I see it. A flash of fluorescent yellow jacket. Three men. One woman. Waiting. Watching. Scanning the faces of everyone getting off. Sweat begins to trickle down my back. Something has happened. I know it. Have they found David? Is he …