He nods. ‘Do you have kids?’
She shifts in her seat, debating whether to answer his question. Eventually she shrugs. ‘Yes. A daughter. And if you tell anyone any of this, I’ll arrest you.’
John smiles sadly, wondering why she risks it on him. ‘How old?’
‘Fifteen. Her name’s Rosie.’ Alice waves over the barman and orders them two cottage pies; then she rummages in her bag and withdraws a small photograph. She is posing beside a girl with thick blonde hair and a face full of dense freckles. John takes the picture and, in what has become a habit, turns it over. There is no writing. No message. ‘She’s sweet.’
Alice takes the photo back. ‘I always wanted a daughter. Since I was a little girl. I promised myself if I ever had one, I’d call her Rosie. When I was pregnant with her, I just sat on the sofa for what seemed like hours wondering how I ever got so lucky.’ She smiles, running her finger across the photo. ‘And then when she was born, I didn’t feel lucky anymore. I felt afraid. Afraid I might drop her, afraid I might not be able to prevent her getting poorly, afraid I might not be able to keep her safe from the creeps out there. I was just a ball of fear rolling through the days.’
John smiles. He’d felt the same when Bonnie was born, when even just a chill in the air was a dangerous foe. ‘Go on.’
‘I think what I was most afraid of, though, was her getting cancer.’ She tucks the photo back in her bag and rubs her little finger. ‘My father passed away when I was little, and a year after Rosie was born my husband died. Lung cancer and prostate cancer. It runs in the family. I got so suspicious of every little thing it became a bit of a problem for me. I watched her so closely for signs. If she coughed, I was afraid. If she got a stomachache, I was afraid. I took her to hospital for check-ups when I didn’t need to. I only ever fed her healthy food. She didn’t consume any chemicals when she was young – I was that careful. I know that probably sounds a little bit over-the-top but when the sound of people saying “they fought valiantly” is ringing in your ears and you can still remember your husband coughing up blood… well, believe me, it didn’t seem like it at the time.’
‘I hate it when people say someone has lost their battle with cancer. I think it implies that the person was weak. No one who dies from cancer is ever weak.’
Alice looks at him, surprised. ‘You’re the only one who’s ever said that to me. And you can imagine how many people I’ve had unwanted remarks from over the years.’
He nods. ‘Your daughter hasn’t had cancer, has she?’
‘No. Thank God. I had counselling after Jerry passed away and it helped, but even now, I go to bed every night praying she never will.’
‘What about you?’
‘No. I’m not so worried about me, though. The only reason I’d be upset about dying is because I wouldn’t be able to take care of Rosie. That’s all.’
‘You know, when I first met you I thought you were really cold. Professional but lacking on the humanity side.’
She laughs, a big, rumbling laugh deep in her chest. ‘I have to be, John. If I got caught up in the emotional side of it, I wouldn’t be able to think clearly.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘So, you’re an author. If you ask me, what you do – projecting yourself into your characters’ heads – is a little like what I do. I try to get into the heads of creeps, try to predict their next move and catch them out before they can do it. So, tell me, John, from what you know about this person, what would your next move be if you were them?’
‘They’re obviously wanting to hurt me, get a reaction, so I’d probably draw this out for as long as I could. I’d send photo after photo, the injuries bloodier each time, building suspense for the climax.’
She leans forward, eyes concerned, lips pursed. ‘What would the climax be, John?’
He looks at his feet. ‘I’d kill her.’
Chapter 21
Maisie
Wednesday 20 January, 2016
Grief is a peculiar thing. When you least expect it, having been lulled into believing it was gone and that you could move on, it announces its arrival back into your life, out of the blue, with a sickening punch to your gut. A throe that makes your chest ache and your eyes smart. Maisie has been through the tedious cat and mouse game of it for months. She has tried to fight it, failed miserably, then decided to give herself a set amount of time to give rein to what lurked in the back of her mind. She has learnt that ten minutes is the perfect measure. Five is too short and she inevitably slips over, but twenty is too long because the lure of the darkness grew too strong. Ten is perfect.
She remembers sitting on the floor and crossing her legs, one hand resting on the door of the spare bedroom as if trying to feel movement on the other side. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she had felt something. Maybe the memories and emotions tucked away in that room would start knocking on the door, wanting to be let out. And she wonders if she will ever be strong enough to open the door and face her demons head-on. Face the blood-splattered clothes and heartbreaking mistakes that set her teeth on edge. She has never been a liar, someone who hurt others, but now she wonders if perhaps this new version of herself has lurked beneath for years. Her mother always told her that to be good you had to be a little bit bad. After all, how would anyone be able to differentiate good from bad if there wasn’t a contrast? But now she wonders if there is only bad in her.
Her mother is the only one she has ever told. Not Ben, not Lailah. Only her mother. If she closes her eyes, she can feel Janet’s soft, warm fingers on her hair, brushing it off her face, making her laugh with tales of myths and legends, safe, worry-free. But above all happy.
*
Tim sighs deeply, his eyes drooping to a close. She gathers up the cotton wool and bunches it up in her hand. Bathing the inside of his mouth to prevent sores is one of the nicer things to do. Especially in comparison to checking his catheter.
‘He’s always done that.’
‘What?’
‘Sighed before he goes to sleep.’
‘Oh.’
Heidi nods and kisses Tim’s knuckles. Today she clutches her bag to her chest, fiddling with the strap until Maisie thinks it might break. Fear and dread pulse through Heidi. Her eyes flick from Tim to her hands, which are just beginning to shake. She stuffs them under her legs and bites her lip. Maisie pretends not to have noticed, then walks out into the corridor, rubbing her eyes. Her mind flits from thoughts of her mother to thoughts of Ben.
She’s kept it from him for over a year now, hiding her mistake and guarding it with lie after lie. Now she is beginning to wonder if she should tell him. Heidi would tell Tim if it was her. They tell each other everything. There are no lies between them. But can she? He will never forgive her. He’ll look at her with disgust and hatred and she will have to relive it all over again. But isn’t that what she’s doing every day anyway?
*
His hand trails a line down Tim’s arm, carefully, delicately, as if Tim is a china doll and his touch could shuttle a web of cracks down his skin. You won’t hurt him, Maisie wants to say to the man in the Armani suit, but she doesn’t because somehow this moment means something for him. For them. She sensed an atmosphere in the way he and Watson reacted to one another. A disagreement, perhaps? An argument in the past? Friction that has left behind a smudge of something poisonous. But it has not affected the friendship he has with Tim; this she can see in the way he touches his hand.
‘So how did you and Tim meet?’ Maisie offers him a chair, then gently holds Tim’s eyelids apart as she administers his drops. A clear film coats his eyes and he blinks rapidly.
Maisie sinks into a chair herself, glancing at his Armani suit.
The man smiles at her, jumping when Tim moans through clenched teeth. ‘Er… is he OK?’
‘He’s fine, I promise. It’s natural for someone in this condition.’
‘OK.’ He nods, tapping his head with his finger as if filing away the in
formation to study later on. ‘Our mothers arranged a bit of a playdate when we were two years old, I think. That’s the first time we met, I suppose. It wasn’t a friendship straight away. Mainly, I just wanted Tim’s packet of crisps…’ He smiles at this, shooting a glance at Tim, as if he expects him to smile back. ‘But in no time at all we were inseparable.’ He sits deeper into the chair, a patch of skin peeping through the buttons on his shirt, his suit jacket creasing into a fine map of lines on his lap.
‘You’ve known each other a long time then.’
‘We have.’ He smiles, and Maisie can see the past sitting like smoke in his eyes. Something that still clouds his days, even as an adult. She wonders what it is, but shoves her questions to the back of her mind. Their past is private.
‘It must have come as a shock to read about the attack in the newspaper. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.’
‘It was… I almost thought someone was playing some sort of trick on me. How could this have happened to Tim?’
‘Have you talked to Heidi yet?’
‘No, not yet. I need to speak to her. How does she seem to you?’
‘She’s coping really well. Were the two of you friends when you were youngsters as well?’
He smiles fondly. ‘Yes, we were all really close. But especially Tim and I. You know, when I was about eight I fell off my bike and broke my leg. It hurt like hell. I think I must have blacked out because when I opened my eyes again, I was back at my house and my dad was carrying me up the garden. And when I looked over his shoulder I saw Tim standing by this massive piece of cardboard. His hands were shaking really badly and his whole body was soaked in sweat. It didn’t hit me until the next day that he’d pulled me all the way home. This was the Eighties; kids didn’t have mobiles like they do now. And most of the neighbourhood was on holiday or at the shops so he couldn’t use a landline. I just remember thinking, wow, I wish I was as brave as him. I never would have thought of doing that.’
‘It must have been frightening for you, though.’
‘It was. It was. But you know what? I quite enjoyed it in the end.’ He chuckles. ‘Tim came round every day and he always brought something new with him to cheer me up. A game, a book, a snack we hadn’t tried before. Sometimes we did experiments in the kitchen, or Tim did while I watched from the chair. Other times we challenged each other to come up with stories and characters like the ones in our books. On a Friday one week we decided we were both going to be bestselling authors of fantasy and science fiction. Saturday we were both going to be like Buzz Aldrin and fly to the stars in a rocket. Sunday we rubbished those ideas like leftover pizza and made up our minds to become international spies.’
‘I dread to think what Monday brought!’ Maisie says, and he laughs, his crow’s feet curling like squashed bookends beside his eyes. His presence is a tonic to Maisie, a welcome break from thinking about the lies she has told.
‘By Monday we wanted to be Batman and Robin. And Tim made me be Batman because he said he would have the most battle scars. My broken leg became the subject of many conversations, as you can probably imagine.’
‘How long did it take to heal?’
‘It took all summer. But it wasn’t as bad as you probably think. Tim was great company. And he made sure he was with me every day to help me along.’
‘Had you not met Watson yet?’ As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she wishes she could take them back.
He bites his lip and shakes his head, worrying the fabric of his jacket with his middle finger. His nail digs deep into the stitching, burrowing a hole into the thick cloth. ‘No… no, he came later.’
Chapter 22
Miller
Tuesday 21 July, 1987
We look at one another across the street, and I feel this is more of an ending than the night she was meant to die. Perhaps it is because she no longer looks at me with the fondness she does the other girls and boys. Perhaps it is because now her house is a pile of charred rubble, smoke billowing across the sky, filling the town with a stomach-churning smell.
People press handkerchiefs to their noses, walking as quickly as their legs can carry them, heads bowed, following a path to and from the shops. They don’t look up and they don’t see us stop and face each other across the street. They don’t see me smile, or her hands begin to shake. They don’t see me glance at her bump and slowly run my fingers down to my stomach, lingering, as if I am caressing something precious. They do see her run.
Wednesday 22 July, 1987
Sarah leaves our small town, shooting across the road like an animal being chased away – a rabbit. I take pride in the fact that I am the fox.
The man leaves with her. I hear through the town grapevine that she is going to stay with her mother and father. And I think how clever she is still, despite her no longer being the special person she was before. I wonder if she has told the man – Jack – about me. About my visits to her in the night. I doubt it. He wouldn’t believe her. I’m not angry she didn’t die that night. I nearly find it funny. Funny that she has to run from me.
When she is gone, I go home to find letters strewn across the dining table, Mother staring at them with glazed eyes. I peer over her head and grin. Divorce papers.
Father hasn’t returned since I gave Mother those photos. Nobody knows where he is but I’ve seen him sneaking in and out of Tanya’s house, hands stuck deep into his pockets, eyes cast to the ground. He isn’t ashamed, though. Or guilty. He’s embarrassed his wife kicked him out of his own home, regardless of his betrayal.
There isn’t even a flicker of love between my parents now, only love of the memories they have of Mary. I pick up the letters, proud of my feat. Mother will be so much easier to mould now Father is gone. The backbone in the relationship has splintered and turned to dust.
I put the letter on the table and rest my hand on Mother’s bare shoulder. A soft tremble meets my touch, as if my finger is a bug running across her skin. She bites her lip as I squeeze. And when her lip begins to bleed, I squeeze harder. Just like when I pulled and pulled Angel Mary’s hair and she had to rip me from her head like a plaster from a cut.
She cringes. And I say, ‘Oh, sorry, Mummy. Didn’t mean to catch you.’ I kneel down and kiss the coldness of her cheek.
Chapter 23
John
Tuesday 8 December, 2015
She loops the laces between her fingers, brow furrowing in concentration, muttering under her breath, ‘The jet plane does a loop the loop, then flies under the bridge and out the other side.’ She pulls the laces tight and smiles up at him. ‘Ta dah! I did it, Daddy!’
He bundles her into his arms and bounces her up and down. ‘You definitely did. Well done! Do you want to try again?’
She nods determinedly. He unravels the laces and sits back for her to retie them.
‘Bon-Bon? John?’
‘In here!’
John rushes to Don’s aid and quickly snatches the takeaway bags before he drops them, tripping over his laces as he goes. ‘Are you showing her Molly’s way?’
He nods. ‘I think it’s starting to stick.’
Don grins. ‘Bon-Bon, you know Grandma Molly taught me to tie my laces too when I was your age?’
‘Really?’
‘Yep!’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “taught you”, mate. You still can’t tie your laces.’
Don glares at him, sweeping Bonnie into his arms. ‘Cover your ears, Bon! It’s a lie. A lie, I tell you!’ He swings her onto his back and spreads his arms, positioning his feet apart. ‘OK. Are you ready?’
‘Ready.’ Bonnie wraps her arms round his neck and giggles.
‘Set?’
‘Go!’
Don peels through the room, rocking the furniture and making the pictures wobble on the walls, a deep rumble bubbling up his throat.
‘Careful! I don’t want any broken vases! Or bones for that matter!’
Don comes to a grinding halt
in front of him and tuts, rolling his eyes theatrically. ‘We’re jet planes, John. We can’t help it if we lose control and crash into things.’ He whips his head round, grinning at Bonnie. ‘Can you believe this guy?!’ Bonnie laughs, tears streaking down her face. ‘I think Daddy’s a bit jealous, Bon. I think he wishes he was a jet plane too.’
Bonnie hops off Don’s back. ‘Daddy, can we watch cartoons, please?’
‘OK, then.’ John smiles, watching her speed off upstairs. When it comes to watching cartoons, Don is her companion. The daft voices he can conjure are a constant source of amusement to her.
Don follows him into the kitchen, smoothing down his shirt. ‘I’ve lost count of the times I’ve watched those cartoons.’ He groans. ‘Oh, and that one where Donald Duck gets stuck in that hot-air balloon…’ He puts his head in his hands.
‘Don, you love that cartoon.’
He sits a little straighter, pursing his lips. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘You do. More so than Bonnie.’
Don flicks his head to the side, clutching his heart. ‘Sometimes it’s like you don’t know me at all.’
John laughs, throwing a packet of crisps into his hands. ‘Catch.’
‘Thanks.’ Don shuffles round to the cupboard and distributes plates on the worktop. ‘So, anyway, is Jules on her way yet?’
‘Should be back from the gallery in a few minutes. Busy day today apparently. She sold the cottage painting she did, remember? Said on the phone some tall guy bought it.’
‘Oh, that was Marcus. We got chatting and I recommended Jules’s gallery to him. I told you, didn’t I?’
‘Oh, yeah! I forgot. Thanks for that. Tell her when she gets home. She’ll be delighted.’
Don pushes the chicken chow mein onto the plates. ‘So how’s the new book coming? Figured the plot flaw out yet?’
‘It’s getting there. I worked out the kinks this morning. Fingers crossed Penny likes it.’ He cringes at the thought of his revision letter. Edit after edit after edit.
Lies Between Us Page 10