Her Greatest Mistake

by Sarah Simpson

  ‘Mum?’ Jack calls from the front door. I start, turning to face him.

  ‘Where have you been, Jack? You’re really late!’ I spot his mobile flashing in his hand as he flings his bag to the floor.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. It went into extra time.’

  ‘Extra time? I thought it was training tonight?’

  ‘No.’ He tilts his head. ‘I did say I’d a match, not training. This morning.’

  Did he? Am I really becoming so absent-minded? I’d normally have made the effort to go and watch. Or is he just making excuses? ‘I don’t remember. Even so, how long is extra time? You’re still really late.’ Why am I doing this? Because I’m angry with myself for forgetting? Because I’m so stressed? Or because I’m so frightened for him?

  ‘What the hell, Mum? The usual time, then penalties. How about, did you win, Jack?’ He stomps past me.

  ‘You don’t look very dirty.’ I follow him.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll go outside now, roll in the mud, shall I?’ He turns back from the kitchen, grabbing his bag from the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, baby. Come here, give me a hug.’ I throw my arms around him, drawing him in to plant a kiss on his cold cheek; he smells of fresh air. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean to be horrible. I just get so worried. How did you get on? Did you win?’

  ‘Yeah, 3-2 after penalties.’ He walks through to the kitchen to pour himself an obligatory glass of milk.

  I follow. ‘Brilliant; that’s great, well done. Wish I could have been there. I’ll make us something nice to eat, shall I?’

  He nods. ‘Please, I’m starving.’ His mobile vibrates on the table; he lays it face down, disregarding the alert. I warn myself, stop reading into things. Trust.

  ‘Bet you are. There’s some cake left in the fridge, if you can’t wait. I’ll go and get out of these work clothes first.’

  ‘Nah… it’s fine. I’ll wait, thanks.’

  ‘Put the TV on, please, can’t stand the silence – oh, and can you feed Humph, please?’

  I’m halfway up the stairs, when he calls out, ‘There’s already food in his bowl. He’s eating it now.’

  I halt, remembering the scent from Humphrey’s fur. Remembering swilling out the food bowl, leaving it empty on the tray on top of the tumble drier, before I left this morning.

  ‘Is this window open for a reason? Can I shut it? It’s like an ice box in here.’

  ‘Which window?’

  ‘The one in the utility. It’s flipping freezing. Thought, Humph wouldn’t use the window? That’s why we needed a cat flap, you said?’

  He doesn’t. He’s always refused to use it, even when I showed him how. He’d rather sit and wait on the window sill, in defiance, feeling sorry for himself.

  I scramble back down the stairs to join Jack in the utility. ‘Let me see.’ I squeeze in beside him, with literally only enough room to swing a cat in here. I study the window. If someone was intent, they could have squeezed through it. It opens upwards on an angle; it’s just about big enough. But I didn’t leave it open; I know I didn’t. I wouldn’t have – for what purpose?

  ‘Just close it, please. I must have left it open, yes.’ I wander back into the kitchen. I should go and check upstairs. I don’t want to alarm Jack, so I take my chance whilst he’s busy with Humphrey.

  I start with his room, throw open the wardrobe, look under the bed, all clear. Then the bathroom: nowhere to hide in there. The spare room is empty. Then my bedroom: no one under the bed, no one in the wardrobe. They’d have a job, with all my stuff crammed in. I sit on the edge of my bed, that feeling again. Am I reaching the edge of psychosis here? My dreams and imaginings are beginning to blur with reality. Is this you? I shiver at the thought. Surely, you wouldn’t fit through the window? Who else would it be, though? Whoever planted the envelope in my briefcase?

  Jack sticks his head around my door.

  ‘By the way... and don’t start panicking.’

  My heart skips a beat. ‘What, Jack? What is it?’

  ‘That car went past again.’ The look on his face tells me he’s obviously worried about it too.

  ‘That car? You mean…’

  ‘The 911. I’m pretty sure it was the same reg plate as the one last week. You know, coming from the beach?’

  ‘Where, Jack? Where did it pass you?’

  ‘Just outside now, heading down towards the beach. When I was walking through our gate.’

  I jump up. ‘Stay here, I’m going to look.’

  ‘No way, Mum.’ He holds his hands out. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Jack, I have to. Stay here and lock the door.’

  ‘No, Mum, no. If you’re going I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Not a chance, you’re not.’

  He stands blocking my doorway. ‘I’m bigger than you. I’m not letting you through without me.’

  Those worried eyes, the same eyes as before. ‘Okay,’ I tell him. What am I doing? What I have to do.

  We fasten our seat belts, no words between us, and set off for the beach. I haven’t even considered how I’m to handle this, if you’re there. You may have already left, be somewhere else by now. I flashback to the night I met Bea and Ruan in The Wheal; my blood runs cold. The mystery patron – to think we could have been sitting back to back. Then last night, a mere few steps away from you. All the dark shadows, outside the windows, every night since the start of the phone calls. In all honesty, each and every night, since I last saw you, you’ve never actually left my side, have you?

  We pull down towards the cove, slowing to a crawl. I glance through the pub windows as we pass. The usual suspects loiter, but if you’re sitting at the table I won’t see you anyhow. Next to me, Jack clenches and unclenches his fists.

  ‘There.’ He points.

  My stomach floats away; I see it. ‘I see it.’ A Porsche 911, sitting proud in the unattended car park overlooking the beach. What do I do now? I’m not quite ready. I wish to God Jack weren’t with me but, then again, I’m so relieved he is. I didn’t ever want for him to have to face you again, but maybe he needs to. We edge closer to the car.

  ‘There’s no one in it,’ he says.

  A brief sense of reprieve flushes over me.

  ‘What now?’ he asks.

  I look at him. ‘Not sure,’ I say, crawling at a snail’s pace. I park up, not more than fifteen feet from the Porsche. I can’t get any closer; this is too close as it is. ‘I’m going to have a quick look round.’ I undo my seat belt. ‘You stay here, Jack, please.’ Jack unfastens his seat belt, reaching out to release his door. ‘No, Jack, please. I promise I’ll not move more than a few feet from the car. I’m only going to have a quick look.’ He ignores me, stepping from the car anyway.

  Together we walk the few feet to the steel railings overlooking the beach. It’s dark and so difficult to make anything out. I scan as far as I can along the beach and pathway beyond, dimly lit by the half-moon. Nothing. The Atlantic lashes at the rocks to our side, warning us to take a step back. I’m about to suggest we leave, when Jack taps my arm, making me jump. Placing his finger to his lips, informing me not to speak, he nods to the level below us, to the bench looking out to sea.

  I lean over. Straining my eyes, I can just about make the solitary figure out. What? Why sit down there? What are you up to? Is this a coincidence? Or are you the driver of the car?

  I indicate to Jack to backtrack and follow me back to the car. We ease the doors open, despite appreciating the noise of the sea will drown out anything we do, and climb inside.

  ‘Promise me you’ll stay here.’

  ‘Why? What now? It’s not him, so where are you going? Who is it?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. Well, only to confirm it is who I think it is, but you don’t need to be with me, okay. Lock the doors, though, after me.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s okay – it’s only one of my clients. I’ll be a minute or two, that’s all. Just need to check all is okay wi
th them, so you can’t be with me. Do you understand? This time you stay in the car.’

  He nods. ‘But I’m only giving you a few minutes, then, if you’re not back, I’m coming to find you.’

  Gingerly, I tread the moonlit steps down towards the clash of the waves. Praying and hoping I’m doing the right thing. That Jack locked the doors as I told him to. That I’m correct in thinking, assuming, he was definitely alone down here? Or did I miss something? I catch my breath as a gust of wind pushes me off my track. Yesterday, I had my suspicions, standing with Susie. What am I doing? Did I miss something, a few moments ago, looking down in the dark?

  You?

  Chapter Thirty

  Before

  No going back, I said. And I didn’t, wouldn’t. Not even, as I told you… if it meant living in a shed, in a box, anywhere, anyhow.

  Though I didn’t quite appreciate I was to spend so many hopeless years in the metaphorical box. It was edged with six walls. No windows, no natural light. Stale air hung low. The smell of foreboding suffocated. The taste of doom delivered bile to my dry throat.

  But to touch vulnerable air excited you. An inward smile, an outward aura of invisibility.

  We sat divided by the truth. The judicial process.

  The perception of truth; the prostitution of morals. On one side, a tailor-cut jacket smothered your broad shoulders. On the other, a reduced form; grasping onto a version of hope. For you, the threat of ignominy; for the other, me, the threat of entirety. Both exposed to ruin. With motivations so poles apart.

  I sat fossilised, hands trembling, heart thumping my ribcage, only eyes for the ground. Why did I choose these shoes today? So inanely incongruous. My ears buzzed, struggling to clear dense fog. A surging mishmash of imperfect thoughts fed my deep limbic system. Caught between fight or flight, in sight of my predator. I tilted my head back to avert portending droplets. Outward vulnerability was never an option. But my eyes failed me, exposing the painful truth. Only a heart full of Jack saved me from falling.

  You sat calm yet aroused. You could taste frigidity. Something of old, galvanizing your ego. Your game continuing. Humming a tune of flawlessness, winking an invisible eye at the typist. A game with one winner, you thought. One conceivable outcome. You being the king, me being the pawn. A matter of time.

  For thine is my Kingdom. God, how you hate me. The power and the glory. God, how I hate you. The domination of weakness.

  A black-robed grey head strode into the box, and commanded.

  ‘All rise.’

  Together we rose. The beginning of the end.

  I had no idea, that the courts and entire divorce process would be such a hostile, caged box. I had no idea, at the time, it would take years, not months to cleanse ourselves of you.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Before

  I spun the car in the driveway, trembling, desperate to get away before you returned. Drunk on norepinephrine, we accelerated away from the house, retracing the twists and turns Jack and I had run along earlier. My dashboard dinged, alerting me of a below-freezing temperature. I flicked my lights on to full beam, to guide us and potentially blind any oncoming car. You. It was unlikely we’d pass anyone else. I called ahead to the bed and breakfast in Chipping Campden, worried they’d let our room go, for our lateness. It struck me, this was when I should be calling Sam. Have somewhere, someone to turn to; it even crossed my mind for one silly moment to try her. She’d understand; she hated you too. But too much water had gushed under the bridge. Our pre-booked room would serve us well for the time being. Even if it did mean paying with illegal cash, at least until I was able to secure some funds.

  The following week was painful. We spent so many days, Jack playing with the few toys I’d gathered, and me making phone calls to legal bodies, desperately trying to work out where to go next. The dirty money wouldn’t last forever. My mobile was constantly dinging. I refused to answer the irate texts from you; threatening, if I didn’t return. They left me trembling, wanting to vomit. You almost scared me more then, than you ever had before. A hunted animal, in hiding. I hardly slept; the thought of food turned my stomach. I kept promising myself, it would get better. Time would heal.

  In a blur, the week passed by. All the time I could see you in my mind, out, trailing local areas, searching for us. We belonged to you, didn’t we? We had no right to leave. In the eyes of the law, I had no right to keep Jack from his father either. In one of your texts, you said you’d report me for kidnapping. That you had evidence I was mentally insecure, not fit to be taking care of Jack. That you were going to report me to the police. Then, had reported me to the police. You convinced me, in my desperate state, the police were looking for me.

  I became scared to leave the bed and breakfast. Too afraid to go to police myself; you had already blackened my name with them. They had no prior knowledge of our broken marriage; they’d take your word over mine. You were so credible. I had your dirty money, but I’d also been using it – maybe you could implicate me? I couldn’t think sensibly. You could afford the best lawyers. I obtained advice mainly from researching, and occasionally from a sweaty, red-faced, legal aid solicitor. I was terrified, mostly, from all the horror stories I’d stumbled over on the Internet – if I decided to go to the police, they would involve social services, and Jack could be taken from me.

  The following week, the red-faced man, wearing a waistcoat, advised me I must make contact with you. It was in fact true – I couldn’t simply disappear with Jack, despite his understanding of my position. He asked about my then-yellowing bruising. Advised me to go to the police. I couldn’t. I didn’t tell him about the cash I was using, what I’d witnessed but not reported. How would I explain I’d done nothing? Apparently carried on with my evening, to bed, with no conscience? The flash-drive I’d stolen? What if they believed you? I was mentally unstable. Jack would be taken into care, or taken by you. I asked the red-faced solicitor to make a note of my injuries, but informed him I didn’t wish to involve the police. Only hindsight confirms I was a fool. Together, we drafted a letter to you. Two days later, he received your reply from your London solicitors. Threatening, accusing, demanding.

  I was on the edge. I thought I’d got through the difficult bit. I knew you always had been and always would be beyond any law. You were one of them, for a start. Two further weeks, we stayed at the bed and breakfast, on a special long-term rate. After that, with the help of my solicitor-cum-only-friend, we were awarded emergency funding. Enough to cover the rental costs of a flat on the outskirts of Stratford-upon-Avon. Divorce proceeding were initiated. Then, terrified, I was no longer able to withhold my address from you. I chose a flat, because it was cheaper but also because it had an intercom, and several surrounding neighbours, on the Shipston Road. Until the day I most dreaded: you were finally granted contact with Jack by the Court.

  In the reductionist, biased eyes of the court, from the financial court proceedings to the family courts, it was the cruellest, most degrading of journeys. How did I stand a chance against you, the professional? Justice and humanity followed somewhere behind in the distance. Despite a child’s life being at stake, despite the truth radiating from each meticulously prepared court document. The only truth the numerous judges entertained was that you were a member of the club. Many more thousands of wasted pounds on legal representation. The court finally ordered for the sale of the marital home; several months after we were able to purchase a tiny cottage on the edge of Wilmcote village. You didn’t like this, did you? You then saw to the diminishing of my funds, very quickly eating and meeting the bills became a weekly worry. Our financial child-maintenance agreement counted for nothing, the CSA being just as inadequate in the pursuit of someone who knew every loophole, with a limitless supply of cash. Justice and integrity were no more than a white-collar illusion, courtesy of a black-gowned elitist boys’ club.

  I sat through hours of lies, weeks of manipulation and months of distorted and perverted arguments. Arguments
for the rights of him, regardless of his intent; his wants; I questioned in vain about the rights of the child. Cafcass were weak, too afraid to challenge, choosing to rest on the fence or to side with a course potentially most coercing, more threatening. Jack was interviewed by cardigan-adorned strangers, in dowdy, unfriendly environments. Asked to draw pictures, interpret scenarios and fill in the gaps of the same procedures used for each and every different child. And even so, the most prevalent and telling of these findings were ignored, for a wish to calm the waters.

  Jack’s was the unheard voice of a child.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cornwall 2016

  I stir with the smell of the sea; a lock of hair resting across my cheek. Images of me battling the elements, trying to make sense of the man in front of me, a mere stone’s throw from where the tide lapped, flashing through my mind. Over and over throughout an agitated sleep of a kind. It’s the white, dense fluff smothering me now. In the early hours of the morning, I recognised the man was you. All over again. The proverbial bad penny. I can’t afford to let you into my mind.

  Later, I’m going to meet that man from the bench; try and get to the bottom of of who he is. How he knows you. What his business is with me. I’ll cancel my morning’s appointments, whatever they are. Last night, me and the bench man agreed to meet, at the café above Waterstones in Truro, impartial, but not conspicuous. Bustling, so safe. He told me, today he would explain things; but now I wonder, do I want to know? The cotton wool is closing me down; urging me to retreat into a ball. If it were not for Jack, maybe I would.