Her Name Was Rose

by Claire Allan

  My head hurt and even though I don’t think I believed what I was saying any more, I said, ‘He’s not a monster though. I need to believe he’s not a monster.’

  Donna took my hand. ‘Emily, please. Believe me, he is a monster. And I can prove it.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ‘When Rose died, before Cian came to get her things from work, I cleared out her locker for him. I knew she had plans – and whatever had happened, I didn’t want him thinking badly of her, finding out what was going on. I owed that to her memory,’ Donna said. ‘It was the very least I could do for her.’

  ‘You kept her stuff?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Only the incriminating things,’ Donna said, looking directly at him. He paled. We both knew the incriminating stuff would have been related to their relationship.

  ‘What kind of incriminating things?’ I blurted out. ‘And how do they prove Cian is a monster?’

  ‘She kept a journal – she wrote in it that it was the one place he couldn’t control her thoughts. And she kept her pills there too.’

  ‘Pills?’ I asked.

  ‘Birth control pills,’ Donna said, blushing. ‘There was no way Rose wanted to have another baby – not now. Not with Cian. She couldn’t keep the pills at home though – not even in her bag. He’d have found them. He checked everything.’

  ‘Did she mention me?’ Owen’s voice was soft, desperate even.

  ‘She said she loved you. And she knew you loved her too, she never doubted that. You made her happy.’ Donna’s voice was low, almost a whisper. She couldn’t make eye contact with him.

  I expected – well I don’t know what I expected – maybe I imagined he would have been happy at the news but he wasn’t. He looked more broken than before – and then a wave of something, anger maybe, washed over him.

  ‘Donna, you know the police have been asking me all sorts of questions. You know Cian has been feeding them lies – has had Emily feed them lies …’

  I bristled at his words but I couldn’t defend myself.

  ‘All the time, the proof was there that Cian was treating her badly and that she was happy with me. That could have changed everything. Weeks ago.’

  ‘I thought I was protecting you,’ Donna protested. ‘Everyone thought it was an accident – a horrible, tragic accident, and I wanted to protect you from Cian. I wanted to make sure he didn’t take his grief and his anger out on you. And I felt a duty to protect her memory as well. I didn’t want people – not Cian, not the world – raking over her life. Painting her as a victim. Painting her as a slut.’

  The word slut made Owen wince. ‘Rose was nowhere near a slut,’ he hissed.

  ‘I know that and you know that,’ Donna said hastily. ‘But would the world see it differently? If Cian got hold of her journal, if he spun it the way he wanted to spin it …’

  ‘But if she was cheating on him?’ I offered … desperately clinging on to what minute hope I had left that there was an explanation other than him being a monster for all this.

  ‘Emily, wake up,’ Owen said. ‘Stop trying to find decency in that man.’

  ‘I’ll show you the journals,’ Donna said. ‘I’ll bring them to work in the morning.’

  ‘But …’ I started, remembering how I had stormed out. Work was not my work. Not any more.

  Owen cut through my thoughts. ‘You reacted to how I treated you. And I’m so very sorry for that. It makes me no better than him. Your job’s still there for you if you want it, Emily.’

  ‘I need to think,’ I said.

  ‘Come in tomorrow. See the journal. At least keep yourself safe,’ Owen said.

  Donna squeezed my hand and I felt a fresh wave of tears rise up. I had opened up to these people. I had told them I had watched Rose die, I had taken her job – and they still wanted to protect me. Not like my family, who had been so embarrassed by me that we barely spoke.

  ‘I know this is all overwhelming,’ Owen said. ‘But our intentions are good. I promise you.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ I told them. ‘You don’t have to be nice to me. I’d understand. I lied to you. I’ve made such a mess of everything.’

  ‘Emily, we’ve all made a mess of this,’ Owen said, a look of resignation on his face. ‘We’ll all have our guilt over this until the day we die, I imagine. Now we have to do what we can to make sure she gets the justice she deserves.’

  I nodded and they stood up, made to leave. Suddenly it was as if every ounce of energy drained from my body and all I wanted to do was sleep.

  ‘It’s a busy day tomorrow – so come in after 5pm, or call any time you need to. Think about your job – about staying,’ Owen said.

  I just nodded because I was too tired to speak. Owen shook my hand, his touch so gentle as if trying to make up for the way he had handled me earlier. He stood back and Donna hugged me. ‘Are you okay?’ she whispered. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  I did. I really did. I wanted that sense of security of knowing someone else was there – but no – I needed time to think. To sleep. To have space.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said, nodding at her. There was a hint of something in her eyes – but I had to ignore it. I didn’t have anything more to give anyone else just now. It was all I could do to hang on to my own sanity. They left and I stumbled into my bedroom and threw myself down on top of my bed. Blissfully, I was asleep within minutes.

  *

  The cold woke me. I lay there trying to get my body to catch up with my brain. It was freezing. I wondered if the heating had packed in – although it had been a mild enough night before and this was the kind of cold that seeps right into your bones. By the soft glow of the street lamp that illuminated my bedroom window I could see that steam was rising from my mouth with every exhalation. I tried to reach out to pull my duvet around me, cursing myself for falling asleep on top of the covers but my limbs felt heavy, weighed down. No matter how I tried to force them they would not move and I was sure it was getting colder.

  There was a creak by my door. The squeaky floorboard outside my bedroom sighed loudly – the way it did when someone stood on it. My heart started thumping – so loud I could hear it; so loud that I could feel it in my ears. I was afraid to open my eyes, to move my head. Was that a shadow? I wanted to move again – but I couldn’t. I opened my eyes slightly – my curtain was billowing – the window open, the cold air rushing in. Another creak.

  A shadow. Was it just headlights passing outside? Everything had a haze. And still I couldn’t move. Should I play dead? Was that absurd? Did I have a choice? Whatever, it was impossible – the curls of warm breath steaming in the air above me would give me away in seconds. I felt my finger twitch – tried again to move. Had I been restrained? I tried to sense if my wrists were bound but I could barely feel them. Even through the cold I felt myself start to sweat. I tried to call out for help but when I opened my mouth the faintest of noises came out. A pitiful, hoarse whisper of ‘Help’.

  The window seemed wider and the breeze was picking up. If I got up, if I could, would I be able to run? I calculated my escape routes – through the door, through the window? I was on the second floor – not likely to die from a fall but likely to hurt myself all the same. There was another shadow and the sound of breathing. I wasn’t sure any more if it was my breathing or someone else. There was a rattle to it. I tried to hold my breath to listen but even when I did all I could hear was the thumping of my own heart. Loud. Invasive – both a part of me and not.

  A cold hand – ice cold – on my leg. It was soft, damp. I felt cold fingers walk up to my knee then, a single icy cold, hard, bony finger ran back down to my ankle. I tried to call out again. But I still couldn’t make a noise. I started to cry – felt the sobs rise from my rib cage and stutter from my throat, the strength of them threatening to choke me.

  A voice. Soft. Singing. Gently. ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star …’ I knew whose voice that was and my chest contracted with fear until I could not fo
rce air into my lungs. Please, I begged my limbs, start working. Please, I begged my chest, relax and breathe. Please, I begged my voice, let me scream for help. I felt the weight shift as she sat on my bed, continuing with her song. ‘How I wonder what you are …’ She finished. She took a breath and it grew colder again.

  I felt that ice-cold hand on my face, followed by her other hand on the other side of my face as she turned me towards her. I forced my eyes closed. Felt her breath on my face, the gentle brush of her hair on my cheek. Her lips brushing my ear. ‘Look at me,’ she whispered, before pulling back.

  And I did – and it was Rose Grahame. Beautiful. Perfect. Dead. Her neck still twisted. Blood dried from where she had spluttered as her last breaths left her body. Her skin was grey now, mottled. I felt the power return to my limbs and I sat up, staring at her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her.

  She put her finger to my lips. Shushed me.

  ‘Don’t let it be you,’ she said.

  I reached out to hug her. I needed to hug her, but instead I woke. The room was warm, the window closed. I was lying just as I had been when I went to sleep. I spoke just to see if my voice worked. Sat up just to check that my limbs were not seized. And I sat, hugging my knees and crying for Rose and the happy ending she never got to have.

  When Cian rang in the morning, I ignored his call.

  *

  Everything had shifted, in just a matter of days. In a matter of hours. I didn’t know who I was any more – and I didn’t know what to believe. I would never be able to unknow what I now did about Cian – but I wanted to believe in some goodness in him. I clicked into Rose’s Facebook page, read over her posts, read over his letters to her. When I considered what Owen and Donna had told me, they all took on such a sinister tone. Even after she died, he still held onto her. Controlled how people grieved for her. Claimed her as his – and not as a person in her own right. True love or obsession? Where does one end and the other begin? Was the line blurred, or just so fine that the slightest nick would allow one to spill into the other?

  Cian tried calling again at 10am. At 11am he sent a text message asking me to call him back ASAP. I looked at it – considered, briefly, calling him – but decided I didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say to him.

  Donna texted just to check that I was okay and ask if I could call into the surgery after 5pm. I replied a very quick ‘Yes’ and then pushed my phone to the other side of the sofa as if the distance between me and it would protect me from whatever calls came on it. Of course, nosiness became too much for me and each time it beeped, or buzzed or rang I turned the phone face up to see who it was.

  When the name on the screen read ‘Detective Bradley’ I took a deep breath and answered.

  ‘DS Bradley,’ I answered.

  ‘Emily,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you. Things have been moving fast here.’

  My skin prickled. I almost laughed. A silly, hysterical laugh that screamed ‘not half as fast as they have moved here’.

  ‘So, how can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I have new information – about Cian and Rose.’

  ‘You think you have new information?’ He sounded wary. I didn’t blame him. It was dawning on me just what a sad case I must look in his eyes.

  ‘Can you meet me at Scott’s just after 5pm?’ I asked. ‘I have something to show you. You want information relevant to your inquiry about Cian?’

  DS Bradley took a deep breath. ‘I’ll send one of my officers.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please can you come? I trust you. All of this is scary to me.’

  ‘Emily, do you feel as if you are in danger?’ He sounded concerned.

  Was I in danger? I didn’t actually know any more. I had never felt more adrift. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll see you soon after 5pm,’ he said. ‘But if you feel in danger, at all, you call us. You have my number – but if you feel immediately threatened, call 999.’

  I could hardly speak – so I nodded, made a vaguely affirmative sound.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Emily,’ he said before he hung up.

  I pushed my phone back to the safe distance of the other side of the sofa and I lifted my laptop and switched it on. I clicked into my email and started sending an email to Maud – one that explained everything. One that apologised for everything. That said everything I had been too proud or blind or ashamed to say. I hovered over the send button – knowing that sending it would finally, completely confirm that I was once again a walking disaster. I closed my eyes and pressed send, then slammed my laptop lid down and leaving it and my phone exactly where they were I got up, pulled on a sweater and some trainers and went for a walk. Fresh air would help. It would give me some sense of clarity. If nothing else it would get me out of my flat and away from thinking about Rose and how I had dreamt of her sitting on my bed.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  By 5pm I had walked into the city centre. In town I had sat on a bench outside of the bottom entrance of the Foyleside Shopping Centre – watched the traffic drive up the one-way street towards the old two-decked Craigavon Bridge and away from the multi-storey car park that blocked the view of the river from the shopping centre. I watched the people walk in and out of the automatic doors, distracted by their plans, their families, their phones. There was a wilted bunch of flowers Sellotaped to a street light. It was only the obvious sign there had ever been a tragedy here. No one really paid any attention. They had moved on even though it hadn’t even been two months.

  I walked slowly back across Foyle Street, through the now quiet Waterloo Place and over along the Strand Road towards home to see I had missed another two calls from Cian, and three missed calls from Maud. Neither of them had left a voicemail but Maud had sent a text saying she hoped I was okay and if I could just call her as soon as possible so she could hear my actual voice to know if I was really fine.

  I got ready to walk to Scott’s, not that it took much effort. I simply didn’t have the energy to change my clothes, to fix my hair or to put make-up on. It was hard enough putting one foot in front of the other so Donna and Owen would have to take me just as they found me. The idea almost made me laugh – if only I believed anyone in the world would accept me just as I actually was, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Tori did her very best not to look shocked at my appearance when I arrived just as she was switching off her computer. ‘I don’t know what is going on but Owen has been like a cat on a hot tin roof all day,’ she said, her eyebrow raised as if she expected me to fill her in on everything. I just shrugged before asking if he was in.

  ‘In his office,’ she said, ‘along with Donna – who has been on edge too. It’s been a fun day.’ She rolled her eyes at the word fun.

  I nodded and walked towards the office, leaving Tori none the wiser – and definitely unimpressed by my reluctance to gossip.

  Owen and Donna were already sitting when I walked in, full cups of coffee in front of them along with an open storage box. Owen looked about as bad as I did. Tired, his eyes red rimmed. His hands were resting, palms down, on a floral, bound notebook. Donna’s face was serious, her hands clasped, her usually perfectly manicured red nails chipped, bitten down. The perfect façade of our perfect workplace was crumbling.

  ‘Can I see it?’ I asked. Owen sat up straight, lifted his hands away and I reached down and picked up the book. I wasn’t expecting to feel so strongly just holding it. But knowing it was something she would have held in her hand – a place she would feel safe to share her feelings – it made something in me contract. I almost didn’t want to read her words, it would make it all so real in a way it hadn’t been before, but I knew I had to. There was something so, so visceral about seeing the swirls and loops of her handwriting. The smudges. The crossed-out words – the notes hastily scrawled in the margins. I ran my hand over the soft indentations her pen had made on the page. This was the most real Rose Gra
hame would ever be to me.

  *

  I need to put this somewhere. Somewhere he can’t read it.

  Can’t control it.

  Can’t edit it.

  Somewhere where I can tell the truth. The real truth. Not his version of the truth. The first thing I’ve wanted to say for so long now is I’ve been acting a part. I’ve been playing the dutiful wife not because I wanted to but because I had no choice. He still says he loves me, but he has killed any love I had for him over the years. And I did love him once. I loved him with all my heart. I can’t believe I was ever so stupid.

  When everyone is jealous of me, I want to scream at them not to be. That it’s not what it seems. I wonder, sometimes, how they can’t see it. The way he controls everything. The way he grips my arm a little too tightly. The way he is always there. Always. He’ll pick me up from nights out – or worse still, invite himself along and everyone loves him. Of course they do. The charming, bestselling author. And he’s good looking. Although it’s true that the more you know a person the more it affects how you see them. I don’t see him as handsome any more. I don’t see him as sexy.

  I hate him.

  And I’m sorry, Jack, if some day you read this and you read that I hate your daddy – but I do. I hate that he lied to me. Told me he loved me. Made me believe love was his brand of love. Controlling me. Stripping away everything that made me me, until I don’t think I knew who I was any more. Not really.

  And everyone was jealous. That was the biggest joke of all.

  He is a good daddy to Jack, though. I can’t take that from him. Although I live in fear of Jack growing up and thinking how his daddy treats women is the right way to treat women. I don’t want Jack to treat any girlfriends like this. I don’t want him to control them. To make them change into what he wants rather than who they really are.