by C. L. Taylor
“You should,” says a voice I recognize as Mr. Anderson.
“The MSN conversation you read, Sue. They weren’t really scared that Mr. Evans was going to kill them,” Brian says. “It was just a figure of speech.”
I remove my hands from my face and look at the four faces hovering over me.
“If they didn’t go on a school trip with Mr. Evans that weekend,” I say, “and they weren’t at home with us, where were they?”
Brian shakes his head. “We don’t know.”
Saturday, April 6, 1991
I’ve been a mess all week. I haven’t been able to sew or sleep and I’ve barely eaten. Every time the phone’s rung, I’ve jumped, certain it was James, terrified he’d found out what I was about to do. As it was, he only rang me once this week, and then it was just a brief call midweek to check where we were meeting on Friday.
I didn’t want to go. I kept telling myself James wasn’t that bad, that there were a lot of men out there who were worse than him, but then, almost as if she could sense my resolve wavering, Hels called me at 5 p.m.
“I’ll be there for you,” she said. “We both will. Rupert and I will help you through this. Be strong, Susan. Remember all the times he’s made you cry.”
Typical then that James, sitting alone at a wooden table by the bar, jumped out of his seat the minute he spotted me walking into the Heart in Hand, wrapped me in his arms, and told me how beautiful I looked. He was in a fantastic mood, buzzing about a television role he’d seen advertised in The Stage, and apologizing profusely for not ringing me because he’d been so busy preparing for his audition.
“It went well, really well,” he said, squeezing my hands between his. “And if I get this, I’ll be able to afford somewhere big enough for you and me to live with a granny flat on the side for Mum. We’ll have our privacy and she’ll have the reassurance that I’m close by. And, and”—he practically jumped out of his seat—“you can have your own sewing room, maybe start up a business rather than do it for free for the Abberley lot. It’ll be perfect.”
We stayed in the pub—him gushing and fantasizing—me nodding and playing the supportive girlfriend for a good two hours until, unable to bear it a second longer, I suggested we grab a takeaway and go back to my place. James was surprised—he’d expected to go on to a restaurant—but I said I was tired and he acquiesced. The walk home was horrible. I was too preoccupied to talk, and we lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, James glancing at me every couple of seconds while I avoided his eyes.
He wrapped his arms around me as I unlocked the front door and nuzzled his face into my neck.
“Maybe coming home wasn’t such a bad idea after all. You just wanted to lure me into your bed, didn’t you, you little minx?”
I stiffened at his touch and slipped out of his arms. He followed me into the kitchen and watched from the doorway as I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. I could feel his eyes boring into my back as I unscrewed the lid and poured myself a large glass.
“Want one, James?”
He didn’t reply.
I put the bottle back in the fridge, then, noticing how messy it had become, set about rearranging packets of ham, cartons of milk, and half-empty tins of baked beans.
“What are you doing?” His voice cut through me.
I murmured something inane about a tidy fridge and a tidy mind, unwrapped the cling film from a chunk of cheese then rewrapped it, tighter, and placed it in the top drawer of the fridge door.
“Sue, stop fucking about with the fridge and look at me.”
I turned slowly, my eyes fixed on the tiled floor.
“Look at me.”
I tightened my grip on my glass of wine and forced my gaze upward. A jolt of fear flashed through me as our eyes met. There was no warmth in James’s eyes, no humor, no love. He was looking at me dispassionately like he’d never seen me before.
“Let’s go through to the living room.” My voice came out as a whisper. “We need to talk.”
James turned on his heel and left the kitchen. I followed behind, pausing in the corridor to gulp my wine as he disappeared into the living room. I’d barely taken a step through the door when a hand gripped my neck and I was shoved up against the wall.
“I knew you’d cheat on me. You dirty, little slut.”
“James.” The wine glass tumbled from my hand as my fingers flew to my neck. I pulled at his hand but he was too strong. “James, I can’t breathe.”
“No one will ever love you as much as I do.” His top lip was curled back, his nostrils flared. “No one.”
“Please.” I pulled at his hand again, my heels dancing against the skirting as I tried to find my footing. Only my toes were touching the floor. “Please, James. Please, you’re hurting me.”
“Good.” He pressed his face against mine, his breath hot against my cheek, his skin damp with sweat. “Because you’re hurting me.”
“I didn’t cheat on you. I swear. I swear on my mum’s life. On my dad’s grave.”
James pulled back and looked at me through narrowed eyes and then smiled. For a second, I thought he was going to head-butt me, but then he kissed me full on the lips, pressing so hard I lost all sensation in my mouth. His hand grasped for my breast and then, just as I thought it was over, he threw me across the room. My foot hit the coffee table and I stumbled forward, landing face-first on the sofa.
“James.” I twisted onto my side. He moved across the living room toward me, the same dead expression in his eyes that I’d seen in the kitchen. “James, stop it. I didn’t cheat on you. I swear. I—”
He stopped walking and laughed. He laughed so hard he gripped his stomach and gasped, reaching for the arm of the sofa as he doubled over.
“You?” He snorted. “Cheat on me? As if.” He pointed and laughed again. “Have you looked in the mirror recently? Have you? Who’d sleep with you, you fat bitch? I’m glad that you wanted to talk tonight.” The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started as James pulled himself up to his full height and smoothed down his clothes. “Because I wanted a little chat of my own. Things aren’t working, Suzy-Sue, and I think we should split up.”
He stopped talking.
He was waiting for a reaction, but I couldn’t work out what he wanted me to do. To cry? To beg him not to finish with me? To agree? Too scared to make the wrong decision, I said nothing at all.
“Ah,” he said after what felt like an age. “No reaction. No reaction to the man you claim you love more than life telling you he wants to leave you. How strange. That’s not the behavior I’d expect of a woman in love.”
“I…I do love you James but—”
“LIAR!” He spat the word in my face, and I covered my face with my arms, cowering into a ball. “Filthy liar!”
I felt his fingers on my left wrist and, for a horrible moment, thought he was going to break my hand, but then I felt a sharp tugging on my ring finger and I realized what he was doing. I peered through my arms as he crossed the living room and opened the window. The traffic outside roared in response.
“Oh, Granny.” He held the ring aloft, between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “I’m so sorry. I really thought I’d met the one. I thought I’d met my soul mate. But she didn’t love me, Granny, not as much as she claimed.” He stifled a sob. “So now it’s time to say bye-bye. Not just to her, but to your ring too. Sorry to let you down, Granny. I tried. I really did.”
I watched, horrified, as he pulled back his arm. He was going to throw the ring—a family heirloom—out of the window, and it was all my fault.
“No!” I jumped off the sofa and hobbled toward him, my hands outstretched. “James, don’t. Your granny wouldn’t have wanted—”
But it was too late. The ring flew through the window, arched over the road, and landed in the path of an oncoming car.
“It’s n
ot too late.” I grabbed James’s arm. “We can still get it. It might not be damaged.”
“You money-grabbing bitch.” He swiped at me, and unstable on my injured foot, I tumbled onto the carpet. “You don’t give a shit about me but you want to keep your precious ring, do you? Well, I’ve got news for you, my darling gold digger.” He stooped down and cupped my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “It’s not a fucking diamond and sapphire family heirloom. It’s a cheap piece of shit I picked up from Camden Market. You should have seen your face, lapping up that Great Granny shit like an alley cat with its nose in a bowl of cream. And you claim to be intelligent? Honestly.”
He pushed me away from him.
“Mother said I was worth more than you—some bar scrubber with a sewing machine—and she was right.” He shook his head. “Poor Mother. And to think I almost abandoned her to spend time with you. You! Jesus. Still, it’s true what they say about fat girls being easy.” He crouched down again and ran a finger along the side of my jaw, then pinched the small deposit of fat under my chin. “You might want to keep your legs crossed a bit longer with your next boyfriend. He might respect you a bit more.”
Chapter
Eighteen
“Where did you go, darling? It’s okay, you can tell Mummy.” I speak a little louder than a whisper. It’s 5:00 a.m., and save for a couple of patients being woken for observations, most of the ward is asleep. I can hear the nurses chatting quietly at their station, and every now and then, I hear the creaking of gurney wheels or the squeak of shoes as a member of staff crosses the corridor outside Charlotte’s room. The nurse who answered the intercom was surprised by my request to be let in to see Charlotte, but when I told her I’d had a terrible dream that my daughter’s life was in danger, she relented and buzzed me in. I’m sure I’m not the first parent who’s turned up in the middle of the night to check that their child is okay and I’m sure I won’t be the last.
The dream was a lie though. I haven’t actually been to sleep yet. How could I when my mind is so full of questions? We talked for a long time after we returned from the school, but at 1:00 a.m., Brian insists we go to bed. I lay next to him, listening to his snores and snuffles for four hours before I slipped out from beneath the duvet, gathered up my clothes from the chair beside the bed, and got dressed in the bathroom.
“Mr. Evans said you didn’t go on the school trip…” I watch Charlotte’s face, sure there will be a reaction. This—this secret excursion with Ella—it’s part of the reason she stepped in front of a bus, I feel sure of it. “He said you pretended you had a bad tummy from a trip to Nando’s. I know that was a lie, Charlotte.”
Nothing. No twitch, no tightening, no tension. If anything, her face seems to relax a tiny bit, as though she’s just slipped into a deeper sleep. The nurses don’t believe me when I say I can tell when Charlotte is asleep. It’s a common misconception that comatose patients are always asleep. They’re not. They have sleep and wake states like the rest of us, only it’s not always obvious when they’re in a wake state. I can tell by the heaviness of her eyelids, the shape of her jaw, and the looseness of her lips, but I can also tell if she’s asleep, even in darkness. One of the nurses, Kimberley, gave me a kindly smile when I told her that Charlotte smells different when she’s asleep, but I knew she thought it was a strange thing to say. It’s true though. I know Charlotte’s scent better than anyone else’s. I know the scent of her skin, the uniqueness that lies beyond her deodorant, her perfume, and her hair spray. Sitting by her cot in the dark, when she was a baby, I’d know without touching or listening to her if she was asleep or not. The salty-sweet scent of sleep was all I needed to be sure. Even now, if I hold Charlotte’s hand to my face, I know from the scent of her wrist if she’s awake or asleep.
“Sue?” I jump at the hand on my shoulder and know instantly that Brian is standing behind me.
“Yes, darling?” There are dark bags under his eyes and a gray pallor to his skin. His shirt, the same one he wore yesterday, is crumpled with yellow sweat stains under the armpits. His hair is sticking up at angles. He looks like a scarecrow on night shift.
“What are you doing?” He glances meaningfully at the clock.
“Visiting Charlotte.”
He squeezes my shoulder so hard I wonder if he’s holding onto me because he’s too exhausted to stand unaided.
“Come home, Sue.” His voice is loud in the quiet room. “You need to come home now.”
***
“So you see, doctor, she hasn’t been well for a while.”
We are sitting in the Western Road surgery, in Dr. Turner’s office—Brian on the left, me on the right, and the doctor behind the desk, her red hair tied back in a ponytail, a string of multicolored beads around her neck.
“I see.” She nods, her eyes still on me. They haven’t left my face since Brian started speaking. He’s been telling her about the way I’ve been acting recently, the things I’ve been saying, the things I’ve been doing.
“I’m only here because of the fainting fits,” I say.
Dr. Turner tilts her head to one side. “Just the fainting fits?”
I feel like she wants me to admit to more than that, that she’ll be disappointed if I don’t, but I nod anyway. “Yes. And I wouldn’t even have come in for them if the paramedic hadn’t suggested I get checked over.”
“I see.” She looks away and types something into her computer. “So you’re not worried about the way you’ve been feeling recently? Everything’s been fine…emotionally…as far as you’re concerned?”
“Well yes. No. Well, I’m obviously very emotional at the moment. My daughter’s in a coma.”
“Our daughter.”
I glance at Brian. The last time he took me to the doctor, he held my hand all the way through the appointment. He hasn’t so much as touched me today—not that I blame him, not after everything I’ve put him through recently.
“Our daughter.” I correct myself.
“I see.” Dr. Turner raises her eyebrows. “How long has she been like that?”
“Seven weeks,” I say. “Five days and…” I look at my watch but catch Brian shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, and the words dry in my mouth.
“So you’ve been under stress for nearly two months then, Sue?”
I nod.
“And all these symptoms…they’ve only presented themselves since your daughter became unwell?”
“Yes,” Brian says before I can object to the term “unwell.” “Sue was absolutely fine prior to Charlotte’s accident.” He glances at me. “Well, since 2006 anyway.”
The doctor makes a low hmmm sound and consults her screen. “Two thousand six.” Her eyes flick from left to right and then back at me. “Which is when you were diagnosed with posttraumatic stress disorder, Sue?”
“That’s right.”
“And how did that present itself?”
“Delusions,” Brian says. “Jumpiness. Paranoia. Heart palpitations. Difficulty sleeping.”
“Sue.” Dr. Turner stresses my name. “Do you agree with your husband’s description of your symptoms?”
I stare at my hands. I don’t want to think about 2006. It’s too painful, what I put Brian and Charlotte through, particularly Charlotte. “Yes.”
“And the treatment you were prescribed was—”
“Bloody ineffective!” Brian snorts. “Talk therapy. Jesus! She may as well have gone down to the Women’s Institute and had a nice chat with—”
“Please.” I put a hand on his knee. “Please, Brian, don’t.”
“But it didn’t work, did it, Sue? It might have seemed like it did at the time but”—he looks at the doctor and holds his hands wide in exasperation—“it obviously didn’t cure her long-term or she wouldn’t be suffering now, would she?”
I want to tell him that I’m not having delusions, that James
Evans knows where we live and that it’s dangerous for us to stay in the house, but if I do that, he’ll think I’m mad—more mad than he already does. After what happened at the school yesterday, I couldn’t refuse when he insisted that I see the doctor, especially when the paramedic chimed in about my fainting fit. Saying that I thought my PTSD could come back was the only way I could explain why I’d run through the corridors of our daughter’s school, screaming that the business studies teacher was dangerous. I had to agree to see Dr. Turner—for Brian’s reputation, if nothing else.
“Sue.” She angles her body in my direction so Brian knows the question is meant for me and me alone. “How do you feel? Day to day. Hour by hour. Now?”
I blink several times, trying to absorb the question. It’s huge.
“Don’t think too hard. Just tell me the first words that come into your head.”
“Scared,” I say. “Nervous. Worried. Jittery. Worried? Did I say that already?” I try to block out Brian’s nodding head. “Frightened. Tired. Anxious.”
The doctor nods, her eyes never leaving my face. I feel like she understands me, that if Brian would only leave the room, I could tell her all about my worries for Charlotte and my fear of James, and she’d calm me with just a single nod of her all-knowing head.
“Do these feelings…are they overwhelming sometimes, Sue?”
“Yes.”
She nods. “And how would you like to feel?”
“Calmer. Unafraid. Happy. Content. Whole.”
“Whole?” A frown crosses her brow.
“Yes,” I say. “Whole. I feel split into scattered parts. My heart is with Charlotte, sitting by her bed, holding her hand, even when I’m not actually there. But my head is preoccupied with my ex-boyfriend”—Brian flinches—“trying to work out what his next move might be and how best I can protect my family.”
“I see.” More nodding but this time she taps something into her computer. When she looks back at me, her expression has changed. The compassion has morphed into professionalism, a bland, nonsmiling mask meant, I am sure, to calm and reassure.