I said it and I meant it, but even as I spoke the words, my heart was plummeting because I knew that wasn’t it.
No, he said. Don’t you see, that can’t happen? It’s you. It’s all your fault. I wish I’d never met you. I wish I’d never lain down under that tree and I wish I’d never listened to you and watched your pretty face and kissed you and—
What? I was wild now, shaking all over, I was beginning to think he was quite mad—What are you saying? I don’t understand you, James. I’ve done nothing. What in God’s name have I done?
I held my hands out to him but, as if he was afraid of what he might do, he was already backing away from me.
Don’t come near me, he said. Don’t come anywhere near me. I’m telling you, Eliza, this is over now. I’ve had a lucky run of it but my luck has run out. It is over now.
And he backed away and went toward the other tools. The sharp tools that were there to be used on the crops and on the animals—the blades and the castrating knives, the sickles, the weedhooks, the spikes.
I stood and watched him and I felt hopelessness wash over me. I was drowning in it. I knew there was nothing I could do. I was gasping for air.
What are you doing? I said.
You know what I’m doing.
But I don’t know anything.
That’s right. You don’t know anything. Let’s keep it that way.
I took a step away.
I’ve done nothing but love you, I said again, my voice hardly more than a whisper now.
He looked at me as if he’d never seen me before, but also as if he could never see me well enough.
That’s it, Eliza. That’s exactly it. Listen to yourself. That’s what you’ve done.
Is there nothing I can do to stop you? I cried.
But it was pointless to ask. I already knew the answer. The answer had been there all along.
THINGS THAT MARY DID NOT SEE COMING: THE DAY WHEN, TAKING the girls to nursery, going around to get Flo out of the car, she stepped into the road holding Ella’s hand just seconds after a heavy truck had thundered by. Standing there in its ripe, diesel backdraft, a cold and sickening realization passing through her.
Or, the time with Flo as a baby, in their old kitchen with the flagstone floor. Handing her to a friend because the soup was about to boil over. Realizing in less than two seconds that the friend—a young man not used to babies—hadn’t quite got her. Even though he reacted just in time, pulling her awkwardly into his lap and balancing her there.
Mary doesn’t remember what she said, what she did. All she remembers is the fragile eggshell curve of that moment: Flo’s small head, its skin so thin that a pale blue vein shone through her temple—and all that cold stone beneath her.
Did she snatch her baby back? She doesn’t think so. She thinks she was polite, that she just got on with stirring the soup, her hand trembling. And the young man—it was clear that he had no idea what had just happened. “Hasn’t she got the most amazing eyes?” he said.
Twelve or thirteen days into the trial, he—the defendant—finally broke down. He admitted taking the girls to the ditch. He even admitted pouring petrol on their bodies, to attempt to set light to them. But it was because he had panicked, he said. It had all been a terrible accident. He had never meant to kill them.
He said that he wished that he could turn the clock back. He really was very sorry now. It was pure chance, he said, that he happened to be passing the leisure center on that day—“I was on my way to see my mother. She’s in a nursing home near there.” It had happened in a moment, their deaths, an instant. He did not remember anything—did not know how it had happened. All he knows is he had not intended it. Afterward he had been in a state of shock, of disbelief.
“What did you do?” his QC asked him. “After you had killed them and left them there half-burned in that ditch. What did you do?”
A pause. The court was very still. Mary found herself looking up, away, at the high, colorless walls of the courtroom. A long way above them, light—sunshine—poured in through a window.
“I went home and I think I had a shower, then I played on the PlayStation and I made myself a sandwich,” he said.
“A sandwich?”
“That’s right.” He allowed himself a quick, careful glance at his questioner. “I was hungry. I always eat like a horse when I’m stressed.”
A pause. The QC’s face did not change.
“And is it true that you also put some sheets in the washing machine? That you washed some sheets?”
“I don’t know,” the man said.
“Think about it. Did you wash some sheets?”
“I might have,” said the man—and yet again he wept.
IN THE MORNING, RUBY COMES DOWN EARLIER THAN USUAL, while Mary is still clearing away the breakfast things. She has on a plaid shirt that Mary’s never seen before. Tracksuit bottoms. Dirty, thick socks slopping off her feet.
She opens the fridge and takes out a Diet Coke. Goes into the sitting room, shutting the door. After a moment or two, Mary hears the crackle of the TV coming to life. Loud voices. Music. The volume being ratcheted up.
She goes in and starts to open the curtains.
“Hey!” Ruby says.
“What?”
“I wanted those closed.”
Mary hesitates, trying to decide whether she has the energy for a fight. She twitches them back halfway across.
“We need a little bit of light in here,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because it’s depressing otherwise.”
“But I can’t see the TV.”
“You can. You can see it well enough.”
“I can’t. I’m not joking,” Ruby adds in a milder voice. “It’s my eyes. I really can’t.”
Mary turns and looks at her.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?”
Ruby blinks.
“I don’t know. Just they always hurt in the mornings, that’s all. I think I might have some kind of infection or something. I looked in the mirror just now and they were bright red.”
Mary looks at her.
“Have you been smoking?”
“Fuck’s sake. Why would I be smoking?”
“Have you been smoking weed?”
Ruby shifts on the sofa.
“I don’t really do that anymore, if you really want to know.”
“Why not?”
“What?”
“Why wouldn’t you do it?”
Ruby gazes at the TV.
“What is this? Some kind of Spanish fucking Inquisition?”
Mary looks at her.
“Where’s Lisa, anyway?” she says, only just realizing.
Ruby tilts the Diet Coke can to her mouth.
“Oh, she went.”
“What? Went where?”
“Dunno. Back to London, I suppose.”
Mary stares at her.
“Lisa’s gone? But when? How did she get to the station?”
Ruby looks at her.
“How do I know? Maybe she got a ride or something.”
Mary comes and sits down on the sofa. She picks up the remote and pauses the TV.
“Ruby. Look at me.” Slowly, Ruby turns her head. “I need to know right now where Lisa is and if she’s safe.”
“Why?”
“You bloody well know why.”
Ruby sighs.
“She’s fine. Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad. I think she’d just had enough, that’s all. She suddenly wanted to get back.”
“Suddenly? So—what? She just got up and walked out of the house without telling anyone. What time did she go?”
“How do I know? I was asleep.”
“Then how did you know she was going?”
“She told me she might. Last night. She said I could have her things. She gave me this.” Ruby plucks at the collar of the shirt.
Mary lets out a breath.
“But why?”
“Why what?”
<
br /> “Why on earth would she give you her things?”
“What do you mean, why would she?”
“Well, why didn’t she want them?”
Ruby looks at the paused TV and yawns.
“For God’s sake. How am I meant to know?”
“You didn’t ask her?”
“Not really.”
Mary hesitates.
“Seriously, Ruby, why didn’t she tell us she wanted to go? Dad would have given her a lift to the station. Should I call him? Do you think we should go looking for her?”
Ruby sighs.
“For fuck’s sake. Just calm it, will you? Stop overreacting to everything. She’ll be fine. She’s not a child.”
“She’s sixteen years old.”
“That’s not a child.”
Mary looks at Ruby.
“Can you phone her please? I want to know exactly where she is.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because she left her phone.”
“She what? No one leaves their phone.”
“She did. She said I could have it. She said she didn’t need it anymore. That phone is a piece of shit anyway. Someone’s getting her a proper one.”
AT FIRST, WHEN MARY HEARS THE SHARP KNOCK ON THE door, she jumps. Her first thought—entirely, almost frighteningly irrational—is that it’s the odd girl in the brown clothes and the floppy hat, come back down the lane and standing there wanting to come in. But when she goes over and pulls it open, she sees that Deborah is standing there.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know who else to go to.”
Mary sees that her shirt is only half done-up, the strap of a pink bra showing. Her eyes are red from crying. Her hair twisted into a clip but falling out of it, down her back. Mary brings her in and pulls out a chair and offers her tea. But she says she doesn’t want anything and, after standing for a moment clasping her hands and staring around the room, begins to cry again.
“It’s Eddie,” she says. “He’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean, he’s gone? Gone where?”
“I don’t know. I’ve absolutely no idea. I was actually hoping you might know something.”
“Me?”
Mary feels her blood jump. Deborah looks at her.
“All I know is this time it’s for real. He’s not messing around. This time he means it, I know he does. Oh, Mary, I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“This time?” Mary stares at her.
Deborah shuts her eyes.
“Let’s just say it’s not the first time.”
“Then he’ll be back.” Mary struggles to take this in. “Surely? That’s reassuring, isn’t it? If he’s done it before? It means he’ll be back.”
Deborah shakes her head.
“It’s different this time. He’s not answering his phone—but he sent me this text. It was horrible. It just felt like—”
She begins to sob. Mary puts a hand on her arm, her shoulder.
“Felt like what?”
“It felt so final—I don’t know—like he was saying good-bye.” She looks at Mary. “Oh God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like I might faint.”
Mary goes to the tap and runs it for a few seconds. Brings Deborah a glass of water. Watches while she drinks it.
“You’re saying you think he’s left you? Properly left you? But why on earth would he do that?”
Deborah looks straight through her.
“That’s right. That’s it. Yes, that is what I think. He’s left me. Oh God.” She begins to sob again.
“Breathe,” Mary tells her. “Deborah, I mean it. You need to calm down. Just sit for a moment and try to take some breaths. There.” Deborah breathes, but her chin wobbles. Mary touches her arm. “You’ve tried calling him?”
“Lots of times. It just goes straight to voice mail.”
Deborah looks at her. Tearing a piece of paper towel from the roll that Mary hands her. Blowing her nose.
“He said to forgive him. In the text. That’s all. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. Nothing else. Just that. But forgive him for what? What does he mean? What am I supposed to forgive him for this time? Honestly, Mary, I didn’t know what to do—who to go to. Then I realized: I had to talk to you.”
“Me?”
“Well, obviously. Because you and he are so close. It’s all right—he’s told me all about it. These past few weeks. I know all about how amazing you’ve been.”
Mary looks at her, her insides growing hot.
“I don’t know what he’s told you, but I really haven’t done anything. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Amazing about what?”
Deborah stares at her.
“But I thought—he’s spoken to you, hasn’t he? All those long talks you’ve had. He said he’d told you everything.”
“Everything?”
“About his problems?”
Mary catches her breath.
“What problems?”
Now Deborah’s mouth drops open.
“You mean he hasn’t told you? About his illness?”
“What?”
Deborah tears off another sheet of paper towel. Holding it in her hands and seeming to want to steady herself, then looking out the window.
“These last few months have been very hard. The whole summer, really. Ever since he went on medical leave—”
“What? He hasn’t been working?”
Deborah makes a face.
“Oh God, no. Not in months.”
Mary thinks about this.
“I thought he had a lot of days off? Holiday? I thought he was owed—”
“Holiday?” Deborah laughs. “Really? Is that what he told you? He went on leave ages ago.” She blows her nose again, then she gives Mary a long look. “So he’s been lying to you too?”
Mary stares at Deborah, feeling the room tilt. Grabbing on to the table, lowering herself into a chair.
“I don’t know,” she says.
Deborah sighs.
“The first time I met him, he told me a load of lies. He said he’d never been married, can you believe it? That he’d been alone all his life. That I was the first woman he’d ever loved and wanted to commit to.”
Mary stares at her.
“And it wasn’t true?”
Deborah shakes her head.
“He’d been married three times before. Three times! Married and divorced. Three ex-wives. Can you believe it? He’s a serial marrier, if that’s the right term. But they call it something else now, don’t they? Love addict or something?”
Mary says nothing.
“Funny thing is, he’s actually not that keen on sex. Love’s what he likes, the thing he does really well. Being in love. Falling for people. Head over heels. The whole romantic rigmarole of it. He’s a fantasist, you see. But he’s so convincing. I think he even convinces himself. He just lets himself fall in love.”
“He does?”
“Oh, yes. Over and over and over.”
Mary looks down at her wrists in her lap. Suddenly cold, the world tightening around her. She looks at Deborah.
“But you?”
“Me?”
“Well, but you fell in love with him?”
Deborah sighs.
“I did. Oh God, yes. I was crazy about him. He knew exactly what he was doing, of course—he gave me so much attention, you see. Knew exactly how to reel me in, get me to respond to him. And yes, I thought he was wonderful—so sensitive and caring, asking me all these questions and—well, he just seemed really interested, in a way that no one had been interested in me before. Stuff about losing my mother, all of that. He was so kind. He listened. He made me feel so—understood. And by the time I found out about all the lies, well, it was too late, I suppose.”
“Too late?”
Deborah makes a face.
“Well, I wasn’t going to abandon him, was I? And I suppose by then I really did love him—I do love him. An
d we had all these honest, searching talks. And he agreed to have some help. And I think he did mean it, at the time, anyway. And for a while it actually was fine, or I thought it was. A new beginning and all that. I suppose I thought I’d cured him.”
She laughs and then she looks at Mary. “I know he really likes you. He never stops talking about you. I could see it was doing him good, the friendship with you, and I encouraged him to see you. Funnily enough, I thought he was being completely honest with you. It didn’t ever occur to me that he would lie to you. What a stupid bloody idiot I am.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“All the same. It should have occurred to me, shouldn’t it? That’s the problem with me. Again and again, I put it all behind me and I trust him and—”
Mary watches as Deborah puts her head in her hands.
“But has he ever seen a doctor?” she says.
Deborah lifts her head, shuts her eyes.
“Oh God. So many doctors. They did put him on something for a while that seemed to be helping. Or at least, I thought so. At first it felt like he’d turned a bit of a corner. But, you know, he’s not a child. I can’t watch over him all the time.” She lifts her head. “Anyway, the point is, I don’t think he’s been taking it at all.
“And then recently he’s been a lot worse—more unstable. Sleeping all day. Missing doctors’ appointments. But he said you were helping him—because of everything you’ve been through, you and Graham, that you’d changed things for him. And I knew there wasn’t anything funny going on between you, obviously. Not that I wouldn’t put it past him, and not that you’re not a very attractive woman, but I suppose—well, I suppose I just trusted you.” She blows her nose again, looks at her. “Oh, Mary. I’m so sorry. I feel terrible. I honestly thought you knew all this.”
Mary is trembling. She tries to say something but finds that she can’t speak. Deborah goes on: “And then it all got a lot more serious when we found we couldn’t have children. That he couldn’t, I mean. I honestly think he was doing all right until then. But that just seemed to tip him over the edge. It’s so important to him, having kids—kids of his own. I’d have been very happy to look into adoption but he wouldn’t even consider it. In fact, he’s been more and more obsessed with the whole thing—being a parent, a father—and he just went to pieces, couldn’t cope with it at all—”
Mary is staring at Deborah. She feels her stomach tighten.
The Stopped Heart Page 39