by Helen Cox
‘Weak?’ The reverend shook his head. ‘Do you know how many people I’ve counselled over the years who’ve just given up?’
‘I’m not sure that’s the most comforting statistic you could throw at me right now,’ I said, gasping for air. His lips twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile but it was a distant relative. He squeezed my hand tighter.
‘But you haven’t given up. Look where you are? You’ve come back to face your fears. Whatever Michael did…’ I gave Quinn a sharp look and he corrected himself. ‘Whatever it is you’ve been through, it’s only made you stronger. You’re a fighter, Esther. A survivor. Like me.’
‘I don’t feel like a fighter. I can’t see a way forward,’ I said, wondering what happened to all those people he’d counselled who’d ‘given up’.
‘If you’re looking for miracles you’re in the wrong place,’ said Quinn.
‘You know, sometimes you don’t talk like a reverend.’ I eyed him with mock suspicion.
‘There’s one way things get better and that’s through living. Even when it’s hard. Even when you want to give up, don’t. Life won’t always look the way you want it to. It will test you but you’re tough. You were even as a kid when we buried your father. I watched you brave that and a lot more since.’
I took in a deep breath and nodded.
‘Now,’ he said, picking up the daffodils. ‘I assume these aren’t for me?’ He held the flowers out to me and I took them.
‘Michael,’ I said.
‘Accept it,’ he said.
I nodded again. I rubbed my hand along his forearm – a weird gesture but it was the only way I could think of showing him I wouldn’t forget what he’d shared. He squeezed my hand in acknowledgement, and then I stood, taking a few steps towards the door.
‘She told you, didn’t she? Mum. She told you what I did,’ I said with my back to him. I was starting to wonder if there was anyone in Finchley who didn’t know my ‘secret’.
‘Esther.’
I turned.
‘You didn’t do anything. Your husband died.’ Quinn’s eyes were locked in a frown.
‘I didn’t…’ I trailed off, the rest of the sentence sticking at the back of my throat.
‘You didn’t do anything,’ Quinn repeated. It didn’t feel like it but it was the truth. And it was his way of conveying he’d keep whatever Mother had told him to himself.
‘Thank you.’ I gave him one last, frail smile. He nodded and I turned back towards the doorway.
Though it had been over two years since I was last in the churchyard, I remembered with ease where Michael was buried. The stone looked dusty so I polished it up with my sleeve, watching the grime turn the pink material grey. I took out the old, dead flowers sitting in the pot, probably left by Michael’s mother, and replaced them with the daffodils. Their sunny, yellow faces brightened the scene.
I stared hard at the large slab of marble engraved with Michael’s name. “1955 – 1988”, it read. “Beloved husband and son.”
‘Like everything else when it comes to us,’ I said to his grave, ‘a half-truth.’ I sighed and brushed the hair out of my face. ‘Michael, there are so many things I should’ve said to you when you were alive. And I didn’t because I was scared of you.’ I paused. Tears threatened. I fought them back. ‘But the truth is, you’re gone now. And you can only hurt me if I let you. And I won’t.’ I shook my head. ‘Michael, if you can see me, or hear me, you should know I’m not coming back. And I’m not looking back either. Only forward. Because you hurt me. But you didn’t kill me. And I’m strong enough…’ I faltered but forced out the words. ‘I’m strong enough to keep going. To live.’
I looked down at his name carved into the marble. ‘Goodbye, Michael.’
And with that I turned and walked back towards the church gate, refusing to look back. Quinn was right; my past had made me who I was. I could’ve drank myself to death like Quinn’s father, taken some pills or just found a convenient bridge to fall off. God knows I came close. But I was still here. I was a fighter; I was a survivor, and I was strong.
Chapter Twenty-eight
‘Esther!’ Mum shook me, repeating my name like a mantra over and over. My eyes shot open and I realised where I was, i.e. not in bed as I should’ve been but slumped in the armchair in the lounge. What had…? Oh, yes. I’d been up late, painting and must’ve fallen asleep. I was still clutching my paintbrush and the TV was on in the background, blaring out the news. Had I forgotten to switch it off last night? I didn’t even remember feeling tired, let alone falling asleep.
‘What time is it?’ I stretched in an attempt to feel more human.
‘Almost eleven,’ Mum said. ‘Esther.’ Her eyes were wide and full of tears. She cocked her head and looked towards the TV set.
I followed her gaze and, as I did so, the newsreader said a familiar name. I started and frowned at the TV set. The reporter on screen was a woman in her late twenties with an ill-advised brown bob, cheery pink lipstick and a clashing lime blazer. She completed the look with a most inappropriate smile, considering the news she was delivering. Behind her, on the back screen of the set, was a photo of Jack and underneath were the words ‘British Actor Stabbed’.
‘What?’ I jumped up and stumbled a few steps closer to the TV. ‘Stabbed? By who? Is he alright? What happened?’ I looked at Jack’s picture. It was a press shot from the Without You poster. It’d been nearly three weeks since I’d last seen his face and, on seeing it again, a strange ache wrestled with itself somewhere in the pit of my stomach.
‘Nobody seems to know for sure. He was found in the street outside his flat by a passer-by from what I’ve heard so far,’ said Mum.
In the street? Bleeding. All alone.
‘Oh my God.’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Jack. Is he going to be OK?’
‘They haven’t mentioned anything about that yet. Just that he’s in a critical condition,’ said Mum. ‘I’m so sorry, Esther.’
I ran a hand through my hair, then slumped to the floor.
‘Oh, God,’ I said again, my throat growing sore with the threat of tears, my bleary eyes glued to the on-screen photo of my lover’s face. Or, I guess, my ex-lover’s face. How long had he lain in that side street, bleeding, before somebody found him? Would I ever see him again? These and a thousand other questions circled in my mind. I had no straight answers, except perhaps to one of them. When it came to the question of who would do this to Jack, I did have a theory. With her history of mental illness and threatening Jack’s one-time girlfriend with a knife, Laura seemed like the obvious suspect. But would she really take things this far?
Looking at Jack’s picture again, a muted voice in some dark part of my soul, was telling me that this was the ultimate punishment for what I’d done to Michael. That when you’re responsible for the death of somebody else, a price must be paid. I scrunched my eyes shut in an attempt to block out those thoughts. That wasn’t what this was. It was an attack.
Attempted murder.
A knock came to the door. Mum and I looked at each other. I clambered to my feet and hurried out of the lounge to answer it.
Ryan stood in the doorway in jeans and a Hugo Boss T-shirt he’d thrown on. It was obvious he’d come over in a rush as he hadn’t even taken the time to gel his hair before leaving the house – a sacred ritual of his.
‘Ryan! I take it you’ve heard?’
‘Yeah.’ He stepped over the threshold and gave me a hug. ‘Thought you might be freaking out so I came over.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said, returning the hug and walking him back through to the lounge. He sat on our old, oatmeal sofa, which Mum had bought before I was even born, and I slumped back into the armchair, chewing on my nails.
‘Tea, Ryan?’
Drying my eyes on the back of my sleeve, I took a moment to scowl at Mum. She was a robot programmed to stuff visitors full of food and drink regardless of the circumstance but now was hardly the time for her to slide into Guest Mode
.
‘I’m alright I think, Edith,’ Ryan replied.
‘Lovely, I’ll go put the kettle on.’ Mother disappeared into the kitchen.
She must’ve been in shock or something. I shook my head at Ryan and he smiled.
‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ I said. ‘What if he doesn’t pull through? I can’t lose him. I can’t. I don’t want to go through this again.’
‘You won’t. Trust me. The news always says people are in a “critical condition”. It’s their way of making it sound dramatic even though nobody died,’ Ryan tried. I nodded but he could see I wasn’t convinced. ‘They don’t seem to have any suspects,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘But most violent crimes are committed by people who know the victim.’
‘How do you know that?’ I asked, squinting at him in mock-suspicion.
‘Arson cases. Most of the time if someone’s setting your house on fire it’s a family member or friend.’ Ryan’s voice had a nervous edge I wasn’t used to but he was doing his best to keep things light.
‘Comforting.’ I managed a fraction of a smirk to humour him.
‘Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt Jack? Someone he knows. What about that reporter bloke you mentioned?’ he asked, looking at our beige carpet instead of at me.
‘Boyle? No. That’s not his style. The worst he could do is headline Jack to death.’
‘I know you’re distraught but I don’t think that’s scientifically possible.’ The opportunity to taunt me had rekindled the light in Ryan’s eyes. I hung my head on one side, knowing that was just the reaction he was hoping for.
‘There is someone, one person I can think of who’d do something like this to Jack. But I’m not even sure she would actually go through with it.’ I crossed my arms.
‘Who?’
‘His ex-wife, Laura,’ I said.
‘What, that woman on the chat show? The one in the sparkly dress and the red lipstick?’ Ryan shook his head.
‘Jack said she had a history of mental problems. He said he was dating a girl and that Laura held a knife to her throat. Maybe she took the next step.’ I pressed my lips together at the thought of Jack, lying in some New York hospital bed, alone and in pain. ‘I can’t just sit here, I… oh God.’ Tears filled my eyes again as I thought about the last words I ever said to Jack. ‘I told him I never wanted to see him again.’ I looked over at Ryan, and the tears rippled out. He came over, sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. How could I be so stupid as to push Jack away like that? I had to find a way to tell him I loved him, despite everything. I needed him to know that.
‘What do you want to do?’ Ryan asked in a quiet voice, kissing me on the head.
‘I want to go to New York to see him. But isn’t that insane? It’s a long way and I don’t really have the money.’
‘Oh, Esther, please don’t tell me you’re pleading poverty again. This is an emergency,’ said Mum. She’d returned with Ryan’s unwanted tea and set it down on the coffee table.
‘What are you on about?’
She clicked her tongue against her teeth at my tone but I wasn’t in the mood to look sorry about it.
‘You’ve the money from the flat sale just sitting there. How you have the audacity to say you’ve no money, I don’t know,’ she said.
My eyes widened. I crossed my arms, giving myself a hug. There was the small matter of £25,000 sitting in a savings account. After Michael died, I’d spent about six months selling off, piece by piece, the sham of a life we’d constructed. Any money I received from my belongings, I put towards my trip to America. Any profits from his possessions, however, including the flat he’d bought us, I’d stashed in that account, and still hadn’t been able to bring myself to spend a penny of it. There were only two things bought with his money I didn’t sell: our wedding rings, which were buried with him, and my wedding dress. I couldn’t pass that legacy onto someone else, so I built a small bonfire in the back yard of our old flat instead, and watched it burn.
‘Esther,’ said Mum, noticing I’d disappeared into my own thoughts. ‘It doesn’t make sense to have all that money sitting there. Not right now.’
‘Are you trying to make me throw up?’ I said. ‘Because I’ve already come close three times today and it’s only just after eleven. I have my limits.’
‘Moving forward, remember? That’s what you’re doing.’ She gave a firm nod, keen to impress on me this was the right thing to do.
‘Hang on a minute. Are you saying all this time I’ve been picking up the bill and she’s got thousands squirrelled away in the bank?’ said Ryan, trying yet again to be funny at an inappropriate juncture.
‘You know I sold the flat, and all of Michael’s things,’ I said.
‘Yeah. But knowing what a crazy you lifestyle you lead I thought you’d have spent all that on leather-bound first editions by now.’ He chuckled, but not for long. I shoved him and he fell off the arm of the chair onto the floor. Mother tutted and grimaced at me. Ryan, lacking the enthusiasm to move, sat where he was.
‘I could use that money but then what? Am I supposed to waltz into the hospital and tell him since he got stabbed I’ll overlook the fact he’s still married?’ I said.
‘He has been separated for almost a decade now, maybe it’s not that big a deal,’ Ryan said.
‘And I suppose you’d be alright going out with someone with that kind of thing hanging over you, would you? What if someday you wanted to get married to them? I certainly wouldn’t want to be bound in any way to Michael, were he still alive, and I feel the same about Laura. If she really is in the past, I want the paperwork to prove it.’
‘Alright, well, you’ve got a seven-hour flight to work out what you’ll say to him. I wouldn’t waste time dithering over that now,’ said Ryan, crossing his legs on the floor.
‘I agree,’ said Mum. No surprise there. These two were always banding together. They’d mapped out some secret self-improvement plan for me I wasn’t privy to. I suppose I shouldn’t begrudge it too much. They did talk sense most of the time. ‘And surely the important thing is that you’re just there for him.’
I looked first at Mum and then down at Ryan slumped on the floor. Smiling, I held out my hand and helped him up.
‘I don’t want to go alone,’ I said to him.
‘Well, I’ve got a bake sale at the WI tomorrow,’ Mum interjected. ‘Swanning off to New York again is out of the question.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said, injecting as much sarcasm into my voice as I could. Mum was about to open her mouth to scold me but I was saved by the telephone ringing in the hall. She glowered instead and then darted into the passage to answer it.
I looked at Ryan, and tilted my head to one side. ‘Fancy a trip to New York?’
‘If you’re paying, money bags,’ he replied with a grin.
I rolled my eyes and looked back at the TV screen. Jack’s face stared back at me for a few more seconds before the newsreader did what I had failed to in the last few weeks, and moved on.
‘Esther,’ Mum’s voice called through from the hall. ‘Mona’s on the phone for you.’
‘Guess New York’s woken up to the news,’ I said, shaking my head at Ryan. And with that I scurried out into the hallway to take the call.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Alan escorted me and Ryan down the hospital corridor. It smelt of alcohol and latex and the strip lighting emitted a queasy, yellow beam. Stewing over what I was going to say to Jack turned out to be irrelevant. I had something far worse to worry about. Jack had yet to regain consciousness and, according to the doctor, the longer it took him to come around the less likely it was he ever would. Hearing those words, I felt it was me who’d been stabbed in the stomach rather than the man I still loved. I was doing all I could to be logical about the worst-case scenario but on the whole my brain just wouldn’t go there. It refused to accept the last words I’d ever say to Jack were that I never wanted to see him again. Jack had m
ade some mistakes, we all had, but he didn’t deserve to die for them.
With Jack’s attacker still at large, and with no concrete suspects, they’d put an officer on watch. Just a precaution until Jack regained consciousness, Alan had assured me. Once Jack woke up, if Jack woke up, they’d know more.
Given the security measures, Alan had agreed to take me to the hospital and barter entry into Jack’s room. I’d explained my suspicions about Laura to him. He listened with the typical patience and consideration I had come to love him for but his ultimate response was scepticism. There was no evidence at the crime scene pointing to Laura and with the city murder rate at an unusual high he said it could just as easily have been a random attack. Just like my mugging, which, Alan reminded me, had taken place only streets away.
‘So, er, that Angela …?’ said Ryan as we rounded yet another sterile corner.
‘Yes…’ I said. With the looks he and Angela had been giving each other in the diner earlier, I knew where this conversation was headed.
‘She’s nice,’ he added, in an odd, goofy manner.
‘I think so.’ I decided to make him squirm. Just a bit. Just to distract myself.
‘She, er…she got a boyfriend?’ He scratched his head and looked anywhere except at me.
‘Subtle,’ I teased. ‘As far as I know the last person she dated was Jack.’ I smiled, as though this was the most natural nugget of information I should impart.
‘What?’ Ryan’s face dropped. ‘Jack? Your Jack? Coma Jack?’
‘Don’t call him that. He’s not “Coma Jack”,’ I said, wounded. ‘He’s just resting.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ryan, though he didn’t sound that sorry. ‘But is there any girl I know this bloke hasn’t had a pop at?’
‘As far as I know there was no “popping” between Jack and Angela,’ I said.
‘Oh.’ A smile sneaked across Ryan’s lips.
‘Hey, Rhonda,’ Alan said to a nurse manning the desk at the intensive care unit. ‘Where’s Rudy? Ain’t he supposed to be on watch?’