Resolved on a plan of action, I stood, my chair making a scraping noise that seemed horribly loud in the quiet hospital room.
Jacob looked up. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Just nipping to the loo. Thought I’d give Mum and Dad a quick call, too; see how they are, and if Wiggins is okay.’
He nodded. ‘Give them my love.’
Finding a quiet table to sit at in one of the hospital’s cafés, I pulled out my smartphone and got to work. I had a few journalist’s tricks up my sleeve. Piecing together the bits and bobs that Glenn had mentioned about his former life, I pinpointed the area he used to live: Dunkirk, Nottingham.
It took mere seconds on a website, using the newspaper’s password, to access the electoral register and discover his exact former address. A simple cross reference using his wife’s name, Marcie, ensured it was correct. Another tap to get her landline number.
It had taken about five minutes. Jacob wouldn’t be getting suspicious yet.
Dialling the number, I held my breath.
A woman with a strong Nottingham accent and a thin, reedy voice answered the phone. She didn’t sound like a strident bitch, but that meant nothing.
There was no subtle way of doing this; I’d have to come right out with it.
‘Oh, hi, is that Marcie Baker? My name’s Melanie Oak. Umm, you don’t know me, but me and my husband,’ I was careful to add that so she knew I wasn’t a threat, ‘are friends of your ex, Glenn Baker.’
‘You know where he is? Is he okay?’
‘Er, yes, he’s fine.’ Not the reaction I’d expected. Perhaps Marcie had calmed down and would welcome hearing from him. ‘I wanted to let you know what an amazing thing he has been doing for us. You see, my daughter was attacked a few weeks ago. She’s in a coma, and Glenn has been such a pillar of strength for us…’
‘Well, good for him. It’s a shame he can’t be the same for me – he just upped and left, you know. Barely an explanation—’
‘The thing is, I know this has nothing to do with me, but I think he’s really missing his daughter.’
Silence.
‘He hasn’t got a daughter.’
Oh, the old ‘he’s dead to us’ routine.
‘I know you and he have your problems, and that’s nothing to do with anyone but the two of you. But, well, I can’t talk to my daughter, and it’s killing me. There’s nothing anyone can do about that. Being without his daughter is killing Glenn. Please, let him see Katie. Or at least let him call her.’
‘Katie? She’s next door’s kid.’
What?
‘I’m telling you, love. Me and Glenn don’t have kids. I always wanted them, and he’s so great with them, but…’
‘I… I’m so sorry. There’s been a mix-up. Sorry,’ I repeated, ending the call hurriedly.
What the hell? Why would Glenn lie about something like that? He was yet another bloody person who was lying to me! A person I thought I could trust, but clearly couldn’t. But…
As I thought, I calmed down. And started feeling pity.
Glenn and his wife had wanted kids but couldn’t have them. It could be an emasculating thing for a man; your dad had felt that, briefly, when we’d tried for another baby and failed. That was one of the reasons we’d agreed not to bother with tests, but instead simply to relax, make the most of what we had and be philosophical.
When Glenn talked about the loss of a child, that was what he was referring to.
Still, why lie? Why pretend that his neighbour’s child was his?
My shoulders slumped with the realisation. He’d done it for me. So that I wouldn’t feel so alone when talking about you, Beth. I’d thought he was different, that he didn’t look at me with pity, but all this time he had.
Walking slowly back along the maze of corridors to the paediatric ICU, I resolved to speak to him about it.
Fifty-Three
BETH
FRIDAY 22 JANUARY
Eyes glittered in the darkness. Skewering Beth in place.
‘Things wouldn’t go well for you if you told the police.’
This far out of her depth, she only had one option left. Brazen it out.
Fifty-Four
Hope filled my heart as I woke. The world was normal and wonderful. Then reality punched in, and my face scrunched up as tears leaked down the sides to wet my pillow.
My dream had felt so real. Hugging you, talking to you. I’d felt you, warm and solid. Smelled your perfume as you drew closer, and your minty breath as you planted a kiss on my cheek.
The dream made me crave a drink. That sounded terrible, didn’t it, Beth? But drinking to excess made me pass out, so that I no longer had these vivid encounters with you; encounters that felt so real the loss of you was fresh when I woke. A whole weekend without alcohol had taken its toll, the dreams particularly lifelike.
It was just gone 5 a.m. Monday morning. Jacob lay beside me, sleeping through sheer exhaustion. I didn’t know how he found the strength to keep going. He was amazing, inspirational… and made me feel ashamed because I lacked those qualities. No wonder he sought comfort elsewhere.
My left hand started to cramp. I had the duvet clutched in a death grip that pulled it taut between my body and my husband’s; a physical metaphor for the atmosphere in our marriage. Between Jacob and I lay a mattress no man’s land that neither of us would stray into for fear of attack; the exact boundaries were sorted out without words passing between us. Jacob balanced on approximately five inches of bed on the extreme left, and I did the same on the right.
My right side ached from sleeping in one position for too long. As I slid from under the duvet and onto the floor, Jacob shifted slightly in bed, his foot straying across to forbidden territory, but he didn’t wake. Opening and closing my left hand repeatedly, trying to get the blood flowing round it properly again, I crept silently into the bathroom, where I dressed quickly. This was my routine, and I was adept at moving around in the dark these days.
Once downstairs, a softened thud, thud, thud from the kitchen, a pattering sound, then something wet and cold pushing against my skin.
‘Hello, Wiggins. Yes, all right,’ I soothed. My voice less than a whisper as my hands ran over the furry head.
More gentle thuds as he wagged, then a warm, wet tongue found my fingers before I pulled them away and felt for the torch. By its light I also grabbed a tatty rucksack, once olive green, now camouflaged with years of grime because it was used to gather wood for our stove. Into the rucksack I pushed an axe, kept handily beside the fire in the living room.
Fifty-Five
The only light came from the stars, the crescent moon and the bobbing circle made by the torch. I’d visited the marsh so many times recently I barely needed the faint illumination, instead relying on the familiar changes in smell: from cabbages, to rich earth, to brine. Once onto the sea bank, I watched the tide beating a retreat, uncovering rich pickings for the wading birds and revealing the hardy plants that survived a regular soaking.
The tatty rucksack hung low and awkward on me, and it bounced against the small of my back in rhythm with my stride. Wiggins surged ahead, confident of his footing, while I crunched through frozen puddles.
Finally we reached the sycamore, stunted by the constant wind. Stepping over the bedraggled teddy bear abandoned at its base, I reached out and touched the trunk.
Nothing. No connection.
I yanked off my glove and clutched the rough bark so tightly it hurt. Better. Maybe it would make me bleed. Drip and mingle with the blood already in the earth. But I still couldn’t feel a connection with you.
Something ruffled audibly in the wind. It danced along my hand, tickling then fleeing. Caressing. I couldn’t see them properly, but I knew it was one of the ribbons tied to the tree, making it look as overdressed as an ugly girl ready for her first date.
This marked the spot where you were attacked.
A blow to the skull. A scream for help, cut short.
Sc
enes flickered through my mind, numbing me far more than the cold.
Terror. Panic. Confusion.
I could barely feel my extremities now. You must have felt like that. It made me feel closer to you.
Running. Feet won’t go fast enough. Silently begging for Mum to come to the rescue. Then…
I screamed my rage into the night. The wind took up the war cry.
I would never forgive myself for not protecting you, Beth. I was sleeping when it happened. Safe, warm, cosy at home. There had been no shiver of fear. No eerie mother’s intuition that my daughter needed help. The first time it was obvious something was wrong was in the morning.
‘Oh, Beth, you must have been so cold out here,’ I said aloud. You always hated being cold.
Trying to share my daughter’s suffering was what held me in place as the sky slowly paled to mother-of-pearl with the rising sun. I refused to move despite the wind cutting through my clothing as if it didn’t exist, slicing through flesh until it hit bone and chilled me to the marrow.
* * *
With the sun finally up, I could see properly the landscape I knew off by heart. The land squeezed into a couple of inches; the rest of the view taken up solely by a huge sky. Squatting in the distance, a mere speck, stood the old RAF lookout tower.
I drank it all in, defying the feeling it gave me of insignificance. Then anger twisted my stomach.
Now or never.
Wiggins was leaning against me, warming me with his body and no doubt leeching a little warmth from mine too. I grabbed his collar and led him a couple of feet away, moving stiffly after being frozen with cold.
‘Stay.’
His head cocked on one side. The second I stepped away he moved towards me.
‘Stay!’
This time, he listened.
I tugged at the rucksack’s drawstring. Come on, come on. Yes! The knot gave beneath my unfeeling fingers. Then I pulled out the small axe Jacob used to chop firewood.
The balance of it felt alien to me, the heavy head pulling earthward. But I gripped it with both hands and made experimental swings through the air.
Should I use one hand or two? Two.
The axe made an impressive whooshing sound as it cut through the air.
I turned to the tree.
The pathetic sycamore.
Stunted and twisted from the wind bullying it every day.
The soiled ribbons festooning it fluttered towards me, imploring. I swung back my arm then let it fly. The helplessness of your situation; the frustration of James Harvey being released; the betrayal by your father; the bittersweet agony of my dream that morning – they were all behind that blow. It landed with a satisfying thunk, the sharp blade biting into wood; the impact reverberating up my bones.
I tugged the axe free. Swung again. A strangled sob escaped my lips.
The third blow bounced off the bark.
No more sound from me, just the wind whistling in my ears, egging me on as I thought of bone cracking beneath my blows, of blood running rather than sap. I’m not a violent person, God knows, Beth, but anyone with a child would understand my dreams of parting flesh with my axe.
Missing the tree altogether, my next blow sank into the frost-hardened ground, splitting it open to reveal the clay beneath. Sweat mingled with tears. My arms burned.
I didn’t feel any better.
Why don’t I feel any better?
The scrawny tree stood firm. I couldn’t even get that right.
Still I swung. Feet sliding in the mud created from the thawing of the ground where I stood. Another blow, another, another… My feet slithered from beneath me and I landed heavily beside the axe, which sheared the teddy bear in two.
Wiggins gave a bark of distress and rushed forward, nosing through my balled-up body to plant feverish licks on my face. I wrapped my arms around his neck gratefully and buried myself in his fur. Let the sobs come.
Maybe I was having a breakdown, Beth. Maybe I’d welcome one, to escape reality.
Back at home, it was only just gone 8 a.m. There was no note from Jacob, who had left for work.
Feeling dissatisfied and unsettled, I had no idea what to do with myself. So opened a bottle of wine to help me relax. After two glasses, boredom hit. It was a little after 9 a.m.
I stumbled from the house again. Wiggins by my side, as ever. We crossed the road and went down by the paddocks, along a little walkway that ran from the churchyard through to open fields.
Davy was stroking the neck of one of the horses.
He knew something. Whether about James Harvey or someone else, I wasn’t sure. That look he had given me. The way Jill came over all protective. The fact that he hadn’t been seen at the store since our chat. Call it a mother’s intuition, but I knew he held another piece of the jigsaw. I needed to talk to him again, this time when there was no chance of being interrupted by his mum.
He didn’t notice me until Wiggins ran up and danced around his feet.
‘I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable the other day,’ I said.
‘Don’t be daft. You got a lot on, Mel.’
‘I just want the truth. Beth’s my only child, and someone hurt her. I need to understand why. If it was deliberate then that person could be a potential danger to others. And if it was an accident, well, that could be understandable. They should get it off their chest; it will make them feel so much better.’
Luckily I’d been running through what to say to Davy for days, while he’d been busy avoiding me, so my speech was all prepared. Even though the lies almost stuck in my throat, the alcohol lubricated them until they slipped out easily. I’d no intention of forgiving anyone who hurt you, Beth, accident or not. But I’d do or say anything to get them brought to justice.
‘It’s nothing to do with me or Mam,’ Davy protested. Despite his bulging muscles, he looked like a worried child.
‘I’m not the police. I’m simply a mother trying to find out what happened to her baby. If you do know anything, even a tiny thing that might help me… please, let me know.’
He shook his head, eyes wide, tiny potato nose reddening. ‘Mel, I didn’t have anything to do with this. I were with my mam when Beth were hurt – I told the police that.’
Something about the way he moved clicked into place. ‘Davy, why were you watching me on the marsh the other day? Have you been following me?’
‘Just keeping you safe.’
Keeping me safe, or keeping tabs on me?
‘Safe from who?’
‘Whoever hurt Beth.’
‘Why do you feel responsible for keeping me safe? Come on, Davy, you’re a good guy. Please tell me the truth – because I know you’re hiding something.’
The damn booze meant my emotions were all on the surface. To my horror, I started to cry. This was stupid. Maybe I’d just imagined the look of guilt he had thrown when I’d spoken to him and Jill the other day. Something kept me pushing on, though. I tried to stem my tears and speak, but they kept on.
‘Don’t cry!’ begged Davy.
‘You and your mum, you both know something, don’t you?’
‘Mam’s got nothing to do with this, I promise, Mel. She knows nothing.’
‘What about you? Do you know who did it? Was it you? Are you lying about being with your mum? Promise you know nothing about what happened to her!’
He hesitated, drowning in my swimming eyes.
‘Please, Davy. The truth will come out in the end. Better now than later. Help me! Promise you don’t know anything!’
‘I… I can’t promise, because…’
Davy did this. Why? Why would Davy hurt you?
My heart hammered against my chest, as if trying to break free and punch him. My hands were curled tight.
‘I were with Ursula Clarke,’ he finished.
It took a second before words would come, and when they did all I could manage was, ‘What?’
‘I were with Ursula Clarke.’
‘You’
re having an affair?’
‘We are.’
So that was his big secret. That was why he looked so shifty.
‘You gave the police a false alibi, saying you were with your mum, because you didn’t want your affair to come out? And your mum backed you up?’ I checked, my voice weak. I was stunned. Not by the revelation, but by how petty it was.
‘I were with Ursula till late, about two in the morning, then she got a phone call and I went home. Her husband were away, so—’
‘Okay, well, that’s none of my business. But thanks for being so honest,’ I snapped.
Disappointed, I trudged away. Wiggins bounded after me, giving an excited bark at being on our way once more.
Another dead end. I was never going to get to the bottom of who hurt you – and why. Not until you woke and told us yourself. If you remembered.
‘Mel!’ shouted Davy. I didn’t bother turning. ‘Talk to Ursula.’
But I’d no interest in hearing her confirm his tawdry alibi.
It was only as I got home and lay down on the sofa that a thought occurred in my drink-slowed mind. If Davy lied about his alibi because he was with Ursula, then Ursula lied too – about her cosy night in with Chloe.
Fifty-Six
If Glenn was surprised he could smell alcohol on me at ten o’clock on a Monday morning when we met at the marsh, Beth, he didn’t express it. Instead he listened as I filled him in on what Davy had told me earlier.
While talking, I paced up and down the sea bank, beneath a sky filled with clouds as black as my mood. Gusts of wind tattooed my face with fine needles of icy rain. Far in the distance a weather front moved in, bringing with it a nasty cloudburst. But we had a while before it would arrive – the flat landscape did strange things to perspective, making distant things seem closer and close things seem distant. I kept talking and walking, telling Glenn everything.
The Darkest Lies: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist Page 18