John can see Bonnie in the way a woman’s hair flutters across her shoulders. He can see her in the smile of a girl who cycles past, red-faced and sweating; in the frown of a distressed waitress who huffs and puffs when no one is looking; in the chipped fingernails of a boy who nods his head in time to a scrap of music. He can hear Bonnie’s soft voice in the voices of a group of children touring the town; he can see flashes of her in all of them. The eyes, the nose, the hair, the smile. She is there, or facets that resemble her. And each one is a crippling stab to his heart.
John thrusts the photo into hands and in front of eyes. No response, no recognition.
As he turns to make his way home, he glimpses a girl walking in the opposite direction. Her hair is tied up, freckles spotting her skin, a blush creeping up her neck. John hurries towards her, hoping and hoping and hoping. He stops a few steps away and watches.
It’s her.
But it isn’t.
John turns and continues home, under the weight of yet another trick his mind has played on him. It isn’t her.
She is none of those strangers.
Chapter 42
Maisie
Wednesday 27 January, 2016
His fingers stretch across the skin of her neck, slowly, as if memorising every inch of it, as if he is savouring it somehow. She watches the path his hand makes, her stomach churning. Heidi does not seem to notice; her eyes are trained on Tim. Or perhaps she is just used to it? Maisie doesn’t know, but what she does know is she doesn’t like the way he is touching her. There is something… odd about it.
Her eyes travel from his feet to his head, studying him more closely. He is tall, well-dressed, beard trimmed, eyes red-rimmed. When he smiles, it is a warm one, one she guesses has disarmed many women in the past. When he jokes, she thinks they have been designed for maximum effect, ones to break the ice, ones to comfort, ones to silence. He is trying to lift the atmosphere and, in another situation, perhaps it would work. But not here. Not now.
She smiles at something he says. If it wasn’t for the feeling in the pit of her stomach, she would chat with him. But now she can’t. She wants him to leave. Her feelings have nearly always been right and now she can’t marry this feeling with the man she thought he was.
It is the way he touches her: a loving way, a tender way. As if he is her husband, her lover. Maisie hasn’t seen it before now and it bothers her that she might have missed it. Watching his fingers graze Heidi’s skin, Maisie has to stop herself from swatting him away.
‘I keep telling myself, “He’s going to recover, he’s going to recover.” Like a mantra.’ Heidi runs her fingers across Tim’s hand, the haunted look in her eyes expanding across her face. Maisie hasn’t mentioned what happened between them before, the way she sobbed in Maisie’s arms and then abruptly left. She’s unsure whether to bring it up.
‘Are you doing that too?’ Heidi asks.
He kisses her head. It lingers too long. ‘All day, every day.’
Maisie knows no positive signs at this stage are in fact a bad sign, so she steers the conversation onto a lighter track. ‘What will you do if he recovers? What were your life plans before he was attacked?’
Heidi glances at her. ‘We were planning to move to Spain. Start a new life in the sun. The move had been on the back burner for a while, then a few months ago we just thought, why not? We only live once. If he recovers, once he’s better, we’ll probably carry on with those plans.’
Maisie nods. ‘That’s good.’
He shifts from foot to foot. ‘Yeah… yeah, but… but not straight away, of course?’
‘No, he’d need time and lots of it, but we’d go eventually. He was so excited about the move before…’
He drops his hand from her neck, fiddling with the seam of his jacket behind his back; Maisie can see in the reflection of the window.
She ventures a question. ‘That would be hard for you, wouldn’t it? You’d miss them?’
‘Oh, God, yeah! I’d miss them every day!’
Heidi pats his arms. ‘You’d be over all the time.’
He smiles at her warmly. Maisie studies him, thoughtfully. Is he sad? Is he distraught at the prospect of his friends leaving him behind? She knows she’d hate it. Does he feel bad because he wants to go with them but can’t? Or is he jealous? Does he want a fresh start? A new life in the sun?
Watson casts his gaze to the floor, biting his lip. When he looks up, she sees fear streaked across his face like red paint across a white wall.
Chapter 43
Miller
Thursday 12 March, 1992
Music blasts from your bedroom. The crash of drums and peel of guitar strings. This particular flavour of music is a phase I know you will abandon eventually. And your parents will be thankful when you do. As will I. Although I think I will miss the way you bop your head in time with the rhythm and the way you close your eyes and pretend you are playing the guitar.
Today you are cross about your homework, frustrated at the maths equations that block your path to good grades. I offer to help you but you turn me down with a mumbled ‘no thanks’, jutting out your bottom lip.
‘I don’t mind. Really. We could go through it now?’
‘No. I don’t want to.’
I know I am pushing you but I can’t help it. I want you to have a good education. I don’t want to see you struggle later when there are no excuses and being ridiculed is just another part of the day. I don’t want that, John. I want you to be respected, admired, loved for what makes you special. The world is going to swipe at someone as good as you; please don’t give them a reason to.
‘Oh, come on.’
‘No!’ You put a hand to your face, tears threatening. I take a step back. Just one because I know you like to feel space around, otherwise you feel trapped.
‘OK.’ I turn and leave, knowing later you will come to apologise, to ask if we’re still friends. Of course we are, I’ll tell you. Do you think anything you do or say will ever scare me away?
Friday 13 March, 1992
I take the teddy bear with me on my jaunts to the tree now. And I hold it so tight, I worry the stitching will come apart. Bessie was mortified when she realised she’d lost it; you were heartbroken, wondering how you could ever replace it with the pocket money left over. I want to tell you it is not being wasted. It is being loved and stroked and played with. In a way, when I stick it under my arm at night, I feel as if you are there. It’s a comfort, John.
You kiss Bessie goodnight, then, when she points beneath her bed, a look of fear on her face, you fetch a ball of wool and wind it round the bed’s legs, saying the pesky monster will trip and fall flat on his face if he visits tonight. She laughs, nods, comforted. And with one simple action, you have rubbed away the childish fears that haunt your sister. This is why I love you, John. I love the kindness of your beautiful mind.
When you turn the lights off and climb into bed, I lean my head back and smile to myself, thinking how sweet you were earlier munching on your apple.
We were sitting on the pavement, you, Chubby and I, talking about the latest adventures of Elaine and Rupert at school. ‘They kissed,’ you said, eyes widening at the prospect of being so close to a girl. I found it hard not to laugh.
‘I kissed a girl ages ago,’ Chubby said, smirking.
Your head swivelled round. ‘What?! You kissed a girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really?’
‘No!’
You both burst out laughing and I followed suit, wondering what the joke was. Although maybe a joke isn’t even needed. You are only young after all.
You took another bite out of your apple, and I watched a drop of juice slide down to your chin. I swiped my finger across it and hid my hand behind my back. When you and Chubby turned to watch a cat across the road, I stuck my finger into my mouth and sucked. Sucked and sucked until my finger went numb.
And I can still taste it now.
Sunday 15 March, 199
2
Last night I dreamt Bessie and I stood either side of you, hands outstretched, a plea in our eyes: save me. The world was burning and bodies – your mother and father and Chubby included – were in piles, expressions vacant, staring up at the smoky sky. You had a choice. Save the one person you loved the most.
And you picked her.
You and she walk hand in hand down the street, as you have done so many times before. And yet this time feels different. The chorus of tyres rolling along the road and the chatter of neighbours discussing the latest episode of Emmerdale all ring with a note I can’t put my finger on. But I know I haven’t heard it before.
The world we live in, John, is different today. Subtle things. Only subtle things. Well, perhaps not to you and Bessie. Perhaps not even to the people who talk and smoke and laugh, idling in doorways, on benches.
It is now I realise. It’s not the world. It’s in my mind. The domain has shifted and suddenly the path I have been on these past few years is different. A new one lies before me. One with her out of the picture.
I think it is because of the dream, the way you took Bessie’s hand with barely a thought for me. I know you love me, John – as a friend. But not as much as you love her. You love her in a way I can never hope to compete with. Certainly not while she laughs at your jokes and nestles her head into your chest. Not while she is walking and smiling and breathing.
Chapter 44
John
Sunday 20 December, 2015
The sixth message is short. It reads simply:
She has your nose, John.
It isn’t the message that troubles him, it is the photograph. Bonnie is sitting with her back to a stone wall, her eyes vacant, empty. This is the second close-up photograph of her face and the contrast to the first is stark. Now she looks as if she is just a shell, empty. She looks as if she has already been broken.
His beautiful little girl is gone. She doesn’t even look like herself anymore. The six years of life he and Jules tried to make special are just a single brushstroke in a whole portrait of grief and pain. Nothing against the backdrop of her life now. She’s been gone for three weeks. He wishes it could have been him. Why couldn’t it have been? Because taking Bonnie has hurt him a thousand times more than any torture ever could.
In the mornings John opens his eyes, then immediately closes them again, thinking if he goes back to sleep, he’ll forget. Everything. A slate wiped clean. And then he wonders, what if he never woke up? What if he slept for the rest of his life?
Thoughts of Bonnie, Bertie, Jules and Don are what pull him from that worrying stupor. And they will keep doing so, anchoring him to his life.
The sixth photograph was found in Alison’s handbag at the gallery. He’d suspected she would be next. Alice had watched the gallery’s CCTV but so far turned up nothing, which led them to believe it had been slipped into her bag when she left for lunch. She was questioned and questioned over and over again, teary-eyed and distraught, but her answers were the same each time. She noticed no one. No, no one followed her. Yes, she was sure. She only put her bag down for a moment as she was ordering her food.
John has known Alison for years. She is one of Jules’s closest friends and yet he can’t help but feel suspicious. What if it is her? What if this is all a ploy to make them think she is a victim? No, it can’t be. She doesn’t have a grudge against him, doesn’t want revenge. She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body.
But who does that leave? Maybe it is Alice. It can’t be her either. He is getting paranoid.
John rubs his neck as his head spins. Jules is sitting beside him, picking at a scab on her wrist as if it is the reason behind all their worries. Don paces with his hands tucked into his pockets, wild eyes roaming the room and feet beating out a rhythm which matches the sharp tones of their heartbeats.
And it is then he realises the problem. They aren’t behaving like something bad has just happened, they are behaving like something bad is about to.
Chapter 45
Maisie
Thursday 28 January, 2016
He holds her in his arms like she is his daughter. Lovingly, tenderly. The way she looks at him and the way he looks at her. Maisie wonders for a moment if he is her real father. If Tim is no relation. She feels guilty for thinking Heidi would cheat on Tim but there is something in the way Watson looks at her. Something that shouldn’t be there.
Watson kisses Heidi’s daughter on the cheek and cups his mouth, speaking into his hand. The girl giggles. He winks. A joke, then. But what?
Heidi smiles. His influence, Maisie supposes. They walk down the hall to Tim’s room, and they look as if they are a family. Watson throws his head back and laughs. She learnt a long time ago to trust her instincts but she can’t help but wonder if she is wrong about him. Heidi loves him, the little girl loves him, Tim loves him. Even she herself believed him a kind, compassionate friend. Or more, even. Perhaps that is the reason for Heidi’s behaviour. Are they having an affair? Were they together when Tim was attacked? Does she feel guilty? Is that what she’s hiding? Maisie feels her heart thump faster in her chest. A flush of concern sinks down her spine. Is that it?
‘Lailah, what was your first impression of Watson?’ She gestures to him.
She follows her gaze and grins. ‘Oh, him. I think he seems sweet. Cute too. He’s pretty torn up about Tim. Nice, though, that he’s looking after Heidi and her daughter. Why?’
Maisie shrugs. ‘No reason. Just wondering.’
He collects admirers like her mother collects dirty looks for her wacky dress sense. The only person who hasn’t been susceptible to his charm is the man in the Armani suit. Now Maisie is beginning to wonder if it had been more than a tiff. More than a few mean words thrown in an argument. Does the man in the Armani suit know about them? Did he catch them together? Are they really having an affair?
How could he want to be with Heidi when Tim is in such a terrible state? It is a betrayal. One that is almost too much to comprehend. And what about Heidi? Would she really cheat on Tim?
‘Do you think Watson likes Heidi?’
‘Well, of course. They’re friends.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Oh, you mean like likes?’ Lailah shakes her head. ‘No, I think he loves her as a friend. Only a friend.’
Just her then.
‘Why all the weird questions? I thought you liked him.’
‘No reason.’
‘Mae, I can see something’s bugging you. What is it?’
‘I think there’s something going on between them.’
Lailah puts down the box of surgical gloves and looks at her. ‘Is that a hunch?’
‘No,’ Maisie says, meeting her gaze. ‘A concern.’
Chapter 46
Miller
Wednesday 18 March, 1992
It was me.
Why, you ask.
Are you sure you really want to know?
OK.
You. Everything is for you. Even the death of her.
You and Chubby are out with your mother, fetching the shopping, sneaking sweets and crisps into the trolley. We plan to walk to the park and play catch when you get back. But by then, I will have changed your life drastically. I almost wanted to tell you to savour that trip to the shop, the ease, the happiness, because soon all you will feel is pain beyond belief. I’m doing this for you and I. If we are ever going to be one, we must take away the person separating us. It’s going to hurt for a while but in the end you will be better for it. I can make you happy, John. I can give you a life that will make you smile the moment before death slips you away, times that will make you laugh and jump for joy. I can give you so much more than she can.
I hear her giggling now, you know. That soft, light voice drifting down the stairs. Your father is talking to her, telling her not to splash, laughing with her when she does it anyway. You’d be smiling right now. If you heard her voice, you wouldn’t be able to help it.
Mother rings t
he landline at the appointed time, and your father leaves Bessie in the bathtub to get it, muttering ‘I’ll be back in a minute, sweetie’. Mother doesn’t know my plan; she simply thinks I’m trying to get you to myself, away from your father. If she knew the truth, she would have never made that call.
I take the steps two at a time, springing up to the top floor as lightly as I can. I used to make Mother jump, used to tiptoe up behind her and blow on her neck. I remember it well, the flush of adrenalin as I watched the hairs on her skin rise up, the thrill of making her quiver.
She calls out when she sees me, arms opening for a cuddle. I put my finger to my lips. You’d think my heart would be hammering in my chest by now. But it isn’t – it’s calm. I’m calm. The calmest I’ve ever been.
She looks as me with eyes as big as saucers and for a moment I wonder if she knows. I wonder if that little heart just stopped in that little chest. I wonder if those little eyes are looking at me with a plea, a fear, a little inkling of what comes next.
She mutters my name again, hushed, hesitant. I walk to the side of the bath and smile… at you. At the thought of you, John.
Your father is arguing with Mother in the other room, distracted, cross, confused.
I run my hands along her bare shoulders, and she shivers, pushing my hands away. Her nail digs into my left forearm, peeling back the skin. Blood buds along the cut, dripping down my arm. Shaking her head, she shifts onto her knees and pulls herself up with the handrail. I push her back down and tears brim over in her eyes. I lean in close and whisper, ‘Would you like to meet some angels?’
Lies Between Us Page 18