by Katie Lowe
She smiles, apologetically. ‘Yeah. In … 2006, I think? Something like that. I was hoping you’d still be there, but they said you’d not long left. Apparently I’d only just missed you.’
I feel a chill spread over my skin. I’ve always wondered what the ‘official’ story was, after I left. I wonder if she knows; if she’s choosing not to say it, to sidestep my shame. Closed doors, endless, blank-faced questions: the words ‘competence’ and ‘fitness to practice’ echo in my mind. ‘Of course, that meant I had to work under that awful Dr Andrews – do you remember him?’
I do: not a man I’d easily forget. I feel his unwelcome hands on the small of my back, a sharp swell of disgust and shame. ‘Very well. He was my husband’s best friend.’
She presses her hands to her mouth. ‘I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?’
‘Not at all.’ I picture him, arm slung around my husband’s shoulders – the two of them drunk, stupid with it. ‘If he hasn’t been done for sexual harassment by now, I’ll eat my hat.’
‘Thank God.’ She laughs – a laugh that feels familiar. I warm to her a little more. ‘Men, eh?’ Her tone is light, half-joking, though there’s the barest hint of a bite in it. She’s been through something, perhaps recently, that makes her mean it.
‘So why did you leave?’ She asks this like it’s the most natural question in the world.
And maybe it is. But it’s something I’ve worked so hard to forget. I have no intention of dredging it up for an intern I barely remember. Especially not now.
‘Oh, you know. My little girl was a toddler at that point, and … they grow up so fast. I didn’t want to miss it.’ A phrase from my old script, vague and meaningless.
‘And now, you’re here.’
There’s a question there. I volley it back. ‘And so are you.’
‘Yes!’ She beams. I wonder if she’s been waiting for me to ask; whether she did, in fact, see me running from the Hawkwood gates this morning. I do my best to suppress another blush at the thought. ‘It’s kind of top-secret at this point, but …’ She taps her nose with two fingers, twice. ‘I’m setting up a clinic of my own. Well … trying to, anyway. Very early stages.’
I feel a hard, tight knot in my throat I can’t explain. More accurately: would prefer not to explain. I know exactly what it is. It’s envy.
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah. I’ve bought this beautiful old property, about an hour away from here. Hawkwood House. I don’t know if you’d know it – it’s an old—’
‘I live there.’ The words fall out, unwelcome. I laugh, weakly. ‘Not there, I mean. But in Hawkwood. The village. So, yeah. I know it pretty well.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘I am.’ I pause. I know she’s looking for approval. But the cold, jealous part of me won’t let her have it. ‘I didn’t even realize it was for sale.’
‘Well … It wasn’t. Not actively, but …’ She grimaces. ‘You’re going to think I’m tacky.’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, it started when my dad passed away.’ She raises a hand to stop the platitude before I can say it. ‘It was a few years ago, so it’s fine. But he left behind quite a bit of money, and I haven’t been sure what to do with it. It’s only me, because my mum and sister both died when we were kids, so …’ A cloud of red crosses the base of her neck. I feel ashamed, suddenly, for being so mean-spirited, so petty.
I reinforce my smile a little. She goes on.
‘So, I’ve spent the last few years hopping from place to place: out to Europe, to the States, what have you – a disaster for my CV, I have no doubt – looking at properties. I wanted to open a residential centre of sorts – do something good with Dad’s money, you know? But I couldn’t find anywhere that felt right. Which, I know, sounds extremely woo-woo and new-agey. But … well, it’s true. Most of these old places have these awful stories of abuse and God-knows-what attached to them. I wanted to find somewhere that had …’ She trails off.
‘Good intentions?’ I offer, after a pause.
‘Exactly.’
All at once, I know where this is going. The realization gnaws at me, viciously.
‘So, I’d pretty much decided to sack the whole thing off and come home. Go back to work, spend the cash on a big house and do a charity run once in a while to offset the guilt … But then, I was googling something – I don’t even know what, honestly – and I found this post about Hawkwood House on some message board. Literally from 2002. Some random person, asking about the history of the place. They were looking for the archives, or something, trying to find …’
I lose myself, for a moment.
Just a split second, but I’m back there, in the kitchen of our London home. Typing searches into Google, eight months pregnant. A distraction.
The root of all that’s happened since.
That was me, I almost say out loud. I was asking about the archives. I wrote that.
‘But – again, this sounds completely irrational, out loud, but – I thought it might be a sign. So I decided to take a look at the place. My last one, and then I’d give up. And it was perfect.’
I say nothing. I smile, and I wait for her to go on. Still, it feels almost as though she’s stolen something from me. And with this, a sharp, distinctive tug: the urge to take it back.
‘And so, eventually, I managed to get hold of the current owners. They could tell I wanted it, so they came back with this ludicrous price, but … Well, I’m hoping it’ll be worth it when it’s done.’ She laughs. ‘Otherwise, quite frankly, I’m screwed. Daddy’s ghost will haunt me to the grave.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, with as much brightness as I can bear. Still, I hear it: the lukewarm distance in my tone. ‘It sounds like a lovely idea, and I’m sure—’
‘Is there any chance you’d—’ She seems to catch herself, mid-interruption, and winces. When she goes on, she’s shy; a little anxious. ‘Would you like to come and have a look around? I’d love to get your thoughts on the plans, and I’d be more than happy to pay for your time.’
I search around for the right response; for some reason to decline. But there’s nothing. No good reason to say no. And, deep down, the fact is: I don’t want to.
She seems to sense my hesitation. ‘Sorry – is that a really weird thing to ask?’ she says. ‘It’s just … I don’t know anyone in the area, and—’
I stand. ‘I’d better get back to work, but … sure. I’ve always wanted to see what’s inside the old place, so … that sounds nice.’
‘Amazing. Oh, I’m so thrilled. So thrilled.’ In an instant, she hands me her phone. ‘Put your number in there, and I’ll call you so you’ve got mine. We can co-ordinate something when you’re not too busy.’
I feel an itch of frustration, again. ‘I’ve lost my phone, so—’
‘Oh, shit – of course. Email, then?’
I glance at the glossy screen in my hand; the wallpaper a snapshot of a hallway that must be Hawkwood’s, moss creeping through the black-and-white chequered tiles. My stomach flips at the sight of them, the vivid flash of something that feels like coming home.
‘Here,’ I say, attempting to disguise the tremble in my voice. I press the phone into her palm, and smile. ‘I’d better get going. But – thank you for the invitation. Really. I can’t wait to look around.’
Before I leave, I go back inside the café.
The waitress looks me up and down as I approach the bar. I dislike her instantly. ‘Has anyone handed in a phone?’
‘No. Did you leave it here?’
I gesture towards the window. ‘I was sitting outside, with the lady in the white suit.’
She looks out. Squints. ‘Where?’
I don’t have the patience for this right now. There are four tables outside. She can’t be that hard to spot.
‘There,’ I say, turning to where I’d left Darcy, playing with her phone.
‘I’ll probably camp out here for a bit’, she’d said, mo
ving my cup to an empty table. ‘This weather is gorgeous, and I’ve got a stack of admin to do, so …’
My cheeks flush, hot. ‘Oh. She’s … She’s gone.’
The waitress eyes me, doubtfully. ‘Well, I’ll keep an eye out.’
I stutter my thanks, and step out into the warm afternoon air.
A bus roars past, a hot, metallic gust rushing through my hair. From the thrown-open door of a shop, I hear a song I know by heart, but haven’t sung in years.
I feel a memory join me – another day, in another street, in another life. It steps into my skin, and stalks me, all the way back.
9
London, 1998
I feel the sun on my skin, sweat clinging to the back of my neck; the unmistakable pulse of movement underground, the slap and click of footsteps on the pavement.
I am blind, steered by his hands at my shoulders. One of my curls pulls, caught under his thumb.
‘I don’t know why we have to do this. People are going to think you’re trying to kidnap me. Or we’re into some kind of kinky sex games or something.’
He scoffs, his breath hot at my ear. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of romance?’
‘Is that what this is?’
He doesn’t reply. But I can feel him smiling.
As we shuffle along, I imagine strangers staring at us. I wonder if they’re jealous of me, of my perfect life. And then I remember. This is London. More likely no one’s noticed us at all.
We stop. He spins me around to face him, and the kiss he gives me is one I know I’ll remember. Better, almost, on reflection, than right now, when I’m doing the work of feeling: of committing every detail to memory.
I know where we are, even before he loosens the scarf. I knew where we were going, in fact, before we even left the flat. Still, for his benefit, I gasp as I look up, and admire our soon-to-be home. Our first without housemates or lodgers. The first place we can be together, all manner of suggestion, there, in the word: alone.
His parents have paid the deposit, though I offered – wanted – to contribute. It was misplaced pride, on my part, he told me. Totally unnecessary. Because it’s a gift. A beautiful, generous gift. But in a way I can’t quite explain – and certainly can’t justify – it feels spoiled, this way. The house that we’ll share has been paid for by him, and chosen by him, without needing my input at all. Some part of me chafes against that.
Because I want to choose my life for myself.
And then there’s the way he talks about it: as ‘a little starter home’. He doesn’t know what this means to me, because I haven’t told him – but it’s bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived. (Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do have a problem with pride.)
But the sky is pink and gold, and his smile is electric. I know how badly he wants this to be perfect. So, for him, I smile back.
‘This is it.’ The keys in his hand dig into my palm as he speaks. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I’m ready.’
‘I love you,’ he says, pulling me into him. ‘God, I love you. I’m so glad I finally get you all to myself.’ Another long, slow kiss. As though all we have is time.
A cyclist shouts something as he passes, a jab. I feel Graham tense, his grip squeezing my fingers as he turns. I pull a hand free, and turn his face back to me; his cheeks burn hot against my palm.
‘I think he was probably telling us to get a room. Which I’d quite like to do,’ I say, between kisses. ‘Come on.’
His eyes search mine. He’s trying to guess what I’m thinking. To pre-empt it. To make it right.
Because our new life, at last, begins here. But in the face of all that expectation, every slip, no matter how small, feels like an omen. So I smile, and he smiles back.
He leads me through the back doorway, black-and-white tiles marking the way. It’s old-fashioned, with something imperious about it. The squeak of my tattered trainers on the gleaming floor seems completely out of place.
You’ll settle in, I tell myself. It’ll feel like home, eventually.
For now, though, I feel like an unwelcome guest. Less a guest, in fact, than an intruder. In the stairwell, my hand still in his, he stops. I know what he’s thinking.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Inside.’
He pouts, and it ripples through me, like a stone thrown in a pond. He whispers something in my ear – it doesn’t matter what. His lips press to my neck, and the hairs there rise to the touch.
I’m so easily swayed when he’s like this.
I imagine the next few minutes in my mind, as though played on a screen: my skirt hitched high by hungry hands, back pressed against the wall with a force that’s both too much, and just right. The illicit pang of it, of his skin touching mine in the stairwell, where our soon-to-be neighbours might see. Where they will, almost certainly, hear. But then, a thing I don’t expect.
He rocks me back and forth in his arms. Slowly. Tenderly.
He hums a song in my ear, and I know it, instantly. I’d made it our song, months before – privately. At the time, I’d been too embarrassed to tell him. I thought he’d laugh.
Now, I realize, he’d done the same. One hand pressed to my shoulder; the other, the small of my back. We rock from side to side, a secret dance to a song that only we can hear.
And for a little while, all our slights and little sadnesses slip away, until there’s only us. Two people, held in perfect time, blazing with a love so intense that the rest of the world shields its eyes, and turns away.
10
Derbyshire, 2018
The afternoon that follows is the longest of my life.
I find myself glancing furtively at nursing staff and consultants, as though any of them have had the time to not only listen to Conviction, but to trace the woman in their story back to me. I do the same with the patients, even though none of them have phones or tablets and couldn’t listen if they tried. It is ridiculous, paranoid behaviour, made worse by the loss of my phone. I think – jealously, bitterly – of all the people who have heard it, now; wonder how many more, with every minute that inches by.
When I pull the car into the drive, I see Dan and Evie, through the window. They look out, at me, but neither of them smile.
I can tell, right away, that something’s wrong.
I stand, ludicrously, outside the door, fumbling with my keys, though I know it won’t be locked. I’m buying myself time with this. I need to set my mask.
But when I walk inside, my tone is all wrong. It’s too cheerful. Too much. ‘Everything OK?’
Dan stares at me with unbridled concern. ‘We were worried about you. You weren’t answering your phone.’
‘Oh my God. I – I lost it. Sorry. I should’ve found another way to—’
‘Jesus, Mum.’ Evie leans back in her chair, her weariness oddly adult. I almost laugh, a combination of love and relief. ‘We thought something awful had happened.’
‘I’m so sorry. I went out for a coffee, and … Well, I should’ve listened to Dan’s advice. I was giving some change to a homeless lady, and …’ I shrug. ‘I’m an idiot. Sorry.’
Dan reaches out, squeezing my palm. ‘That’s what you get for being nice. Don’t make that mistake again.’ I wonder if I’m being optimistic, finding a comfort in his touch.
Surely if Conviction had come up with something terrible, he’d be icy with me now.
Then again, this is Dan: a man who’ll go to the ends of the earth to avoid confrontation. I’ve always loved that about him. But now, it seems like a fault. I need to know how he really feels. If he’s going to walk away.
I squeeze back. ‘I won’t.’
‘Evie’s football team are through to the regional semi-finals,’ he says, before I can burrow deeper. It’s a hint: a reminder of the thing I should’ve asked as soon as I walked through the door.
‘Wow.’ As though her excellent grades weren’t enough, she’s captain of her school’s netball and football teams. The result: a hallway filled with jerseys and football boo
ts; a complex schedule of tournaments, practice games, and prize-givings to which Dan drives her, cheerfully and without complaint.
‘It’s not that big a deal,’ Evie says, though the blush on her cheek says otherwise.
‘It’s brilliant, Evie. Really.’ I glance at Dan. ‘I’m proud of you. We both are.’
She colours a little more. ‘Thanks.’
Dan stands, and pats his empty chair. ‘Sit. Dinner won’t be long.’
All the day’s exhaustion hits me, the adrenaline draining away. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘I know.’ There’s a pause. I see Evie meet his eye, and look away. ‘So … I’m guessing you haven’t listened to …’ He trails off. There’s no need to say it.
‘No. Have you?’
They look at each other again. ‘Yeah.’ Evie gives me an apologetic smile.
‘People are saying Anna Byers has lost her touch,’ Dan says, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. He slides the tablet across the table, the news app open to a shot of Byers in a dim-lit studio, eyes lowered in a familiar pose. I see what she’s doing, with this: positioning herself like the many media stars who’ve come before, with the same brooding, pensive stare.
The words glow, vividly, below.
After a record-breaking second season – resulting in the release of accused murderer Barry Gibbons – it was inevitable that Conviction’s third could never quite live up to the hype. But with their fourth, on the murder of literature professor Graham Catton in 2008, the pressure is on for Anna Byers and her team to stage something of a return to form.
Their much-promoted trailer and publicity campaign – a slicker operation than previous seasons, showing something of Conviction’s ambitions to be taken seriously as real media players – teased intrigue, sex, and, of course, murder. One episode in, though, we’ve had forty-five minutes of gloomy introspection, most of which has been pulled from the victim’s (frankly, parchment-dry) lectures, read by the victim himself.
Nausea settles in my throat. The very idea of hearing his voice is enough to chill me; it’s like a visitation from a ghost. I stare at the screen, and force myself to read on.