by Jo Jakeman
“Lung. But it’s spread.”
The same as his father had. No, no, no. I still didn’t trust him, but Naomi, who wasn’t given to blind faith, did. I mentally gave him the once-over. He’d lost a little weight, hadn’t he? His skin looked slacker and duller than usual. He might—just might—be telling the truth.
“If that’s true, how long’s he got?”
“No one knows but he reckons he’s got weeks, not months.”
“Why didn’t he say something?”
Naomi raised her voice again. “Look, I came here to give you the chance to be honest wi’ me. I’m not gonna stand here to be made a fool of.”
“It’s not how it looks, Naomi.”
“Really? So tell me what’s going on, then.”
I wondered about letting her drive away; perhaps I should have. If she washed her hands of him, my rashness might not be discovered for a while longer. It would give me time to work out what I was going to do. Tempting, but I knew how it felt to be betrayed and I couldn’t let her leave believing that I would do that to her.
“You’re right—I do have something to tell you,” I said. “First, though, just so I understand—you’d agreed to stay with him until the end? Marry him?”
She nodded.
“And is that . . . I’m sorry to ask, but is that because you love him or because you want financial security?”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“Humor me.”
She screwed up her face. We both knew that the honest answer wouldn’t paint her in a good light or let her maintain the moral high ground.
“Right,” I said. “In that case, this situation can still be salvaged.”
I stepped closer to her and lowered my voice.
“I can promise you, on Alistair’s life, that Phillip and I are not having an affair.”
She nodded, a little unsure, but willing to listen.
“You see, it’s far, far worse than that,” I said.
I knew a fall was coming, felt the climb to the top of the roller coaster—once I told her, there was no going back.
“The thing is, Naomi—” I looked about me and listened for the sounds of neighbors. I didn’t want anyone else hearing what I had to say. I’d not even intended Naomi to hear it, but here we were and I was left with little choice.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “You see, the thing is, Naomi, I’ve locked Phillip in my cellar.”
CHAPTER 11
11 days before the funeral
Naomi and I sat in her blue Fiesta facing the house. I had a grave mistrust of blue cars since the night of the accident, but Naomi hadn’t even been old enough to drive when I’d lost the baby. The front door was slightly ajar. The house was waiting expectantly for us to go back in, as it knew we must.
Soft spots of rain appeared like teardrops on the windscreen. Naomi was silent as I told her about Phillip’s ultimatums and the threats. I explained how he went into the cellar of his own free will and all I did was close the door. The fight, and subsequent fall, was his fault, and really, did I have any choice but to subdue him?
If I’d known about the cancer, I might have done things differently. But I might not.
“He’s in the cellar right now. You can go and look if you like. If we were having an affair, would I lock him down there? Think about it. I’ve got no reason to lie about something like this.”
She didn’t take her eyes off the house and I didn’t take my eyes off her. I was trying to read her face, but it was emotionless. I was shaking with nerves. I couldn’t tell how she was going to react. Would she tell me I was crazy? Call the police? Demand I let him go?
“I didn’t plan it,” I continued desperately. “It’s not like I want him here. What am I going to do about Alistair?” I held my hands up. “It’s rash and stupid, but there’s no easy way to fix what I’ve done. If I let him go now, two things are likely to happen. One, he’s going to beat the shit out of me, and two, he’s going to report me to the police. If I’m charged, I could lose custody of my son.
“Best-case scenario is that he does neither of these things, and instead he holds it over me to make sure I’m out of the house by the end of the month. Which means me and my son will be homeless.”
She shifted in her seat to look at me and sneered.
“No, you won’t. You’ll live with your mum or your aunt or your next-door neighbor or whatever. You don’t know what it’s like to be homeless—like, actually living on the street, sleeping under a bridge. You haven’t the first idea.”
The way she spoke made me think that she had more than a theoretical grasp of homelessness.
“Okay,” I said warily. “Okay. You’re right, but a home is important, yeah? A place where you can feel safe?”
I was beginning to see how I could win Naomi over.
“This is the only home Alistair has ever known. Wouldn’t it be great if he never had to worry about having a roof over his head? To know that he always had his mum? You know what it feels like to be separated from your family and to be taken from your home. And I don’t think you’d want that for Alistair.”
She was nodding gently. I had to keep pushing, though I could hardly believe I was doing this.
“I’d like to stay in this house, Naomi. And if Phillip really is dying, I can’t see how kicking us out would benefit you. I know that it seems harsh for us to be considering our financial security while there’s a dying man locked in my cellar, but me leaving the house isn’t going to help him. And yes, you might feel a little more secure if he married you before he died, but I don’t think we can guarantee he’d live long enough to make that a reality, or that he’d even go ahead with it once he’s got what he wants from me. Besides, you’re too young to be a widow.”
I cleared my throat. She was staring at the house, but her face didn’t betray her emotions.
“I know we don’t have any reason to trust each other, but we both have reasons to distrust him. Am I right?”
She shrugged. At least I knew she was listening.
“You’ve worked hard on The Barn. It’s more than a house; it’s a home, isn’t it? That must be nice. But . . .”
I turned in my seat to face her, leaning back against the car door. I needed a different way to get through to her.
“Do you know what’s in Phillip’s will?”
She shook her head briskly and took a deep breath. “Don’t know if he even has one.”
“Right. Which means he could screw you over, leave you with nothing. If he is dying, he might not have long left. And as he’s still legally married to me, it’s me who’ll get The Barn, Naomi. And his pension. Work with me and I’ll make sure that we both benefit from his death. We can get paperwork drawn up to make sure that everything is divided equally between us. I won’t go after your home if you don’t go after mine. Have you . . . have you any idea how big your mortgage is?”
“Dunno. Big, I think. He’s always moaning that the deposit took all of his inheritance and the repayments are killing him.”
“His life insurance will help, then, won’t it? There might be enough to pay off both our mortgages. As long as we work together.”
Her lips grew thin and hard.
“You’ve got nothing to fall back on, Naomi. No job. No family. And he knows that. How much power are you willing to give him? Are you going to let him ruin your future too? After everything he’s done to you?”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looked down at her hands. I was starting to get through to her. The heat from our bodies had begun to steam the car windows, and the house was an indistinct shape now.
“You know what we should do?” I continued. “We should take back control. We could use this to our advantage, Naomi. And you don’t have to do anything except leave him where he is.”
I let that si
nk in for a minute.
“You deserve better. We both do. All I’m suggesting is we take this opportunity to build a better life for ourselves, to make sure that his will benefits us all.”
She laid her head back against the headrest. I gave one last push.
“All we have to do is make him see things our way. There’s a bed and a fridge and a telly down there; I’ve stayed in worse hotels. I’ll keep this house and my son, and you get to keep The Barn. We’ll split any money that’s left over after the debts are settled.”
“And what will we do with him?” she asked, nodding toward the house.
Good question.
“We could look after him until he dies. If what you’re telling me is right, it shouldn’t be long. What could be more innocent than the two of us taking care of him?”
“Are you serious?”
“I don’t know.” I groaned. “Are you sure he’s got cancer?”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, he’s always been a bit of a shit, but lately he’s taken it to a new level, you know? And you were right that he’s not been in work for weeks. I went into the station and they could barely look me in the eye. Said they couldn’t talk to me about Phillip without his express permission or something. I knew something were on his mind but I never guessed it were this.”
“What about treatment?” I asked.
“Doesn’t want it. Says it wouldn’t cure him, so what’s the point?”
A woman walked by pushing a stroller. The wheels rumbled over the sidewalk. I glanced over my shoulder at her, but she didn’t seem to notice us sitting in the car scheming to keep someone in handcuffs.
I wasn’t the type of person to plot someone’s incarceration. I didn’t break laws—I didn’t even break the simplest of rules. And yet here I was, calmly talking about how to use a man’s death to my advantage. I could hardly believe I was in this situation, but unless I talked Naomi into joining me, the whole world would know what I’d done and I would lose the only thing that mattered to me. Alistair.
“He really is dying, then,” I said.
“Looks like it. I mean, I thought he were talking rubbish at first. Just a way to get off the hook for trying to drown me. But for a while now he’s been hiding something. His mind’s always somewhere else. He said I could go with him for his next oncology appointment. He’d already canceled it, said he didn’t want to know how far it’s spread, but he’d rearrange it just for me so I could hear it for myself.”
“And are you going to?”
“No. Hate hospitals. I can see why he doesn’t want to go. It won’t make a blind bit of difference.”
Perhaps I should have felt sad, but none of what Naomi was telling me felt real. I found myself pleased that he was dying, relieved that he wouldn’t be a problem for much longer, and then my stomach lurched as I was stung by guilt.
“Well, it’s up to you, Naomi. What will it be? Are we going to leave him where he is, or are we going to walk back in there and set him free so you can take him home with you to die?”
Naomi’s fingers touched her hairline, where the cut was still raw, and slowly followed the line toward her eye. She took a deep breath and sat up straight.
“But if we’re not going to let him go, why would he sign anything we ask him to?”
“Because,” I said, “he’s not the only one who can keep a secret.”
* * *
• • •
Naomi drove Phillip’s car home and returned in a taxi with a large suitcase, a bottle of brandy, and a second pair of handcuffs. She was unpacking Phillip’s bag when I walked into the kitchen.
“Who else are you expecting to cuff?” I asked.
“You never know.”
I picked up a box of tablets and turned them over. Naomi pointed to the middle of her chest. “For his acid reflux.”
I nodded and put them down, surprised by her simple act of tending to his needs despite what he’d done to her.
“If we’ve got to convince people we’re looking after him proper,” she said, “I thought we should at least pretend we care.”
I smiled.
“Shall we get this done?” I asked.
Naomi held the cheese sandwich and a glass of red wine. I picked up an armful of clothes and the second pair of cuffs. We’d need to cuff his wrists to the radiator before we undid the ones for his ankle if he were to get changed. Though I was in no mood to dress him, it was important that he thought we were looking after him.
I opened the cellar door and stood back to let Naomi descend to the cool, dimly lit room.
There was a faint musty smell in the cellar that I hadn’t noticed before.
We rounded the corner cautiously and Phillip laughed unkindly when he saw Naomi.
“I should have bloody known,” he said.
“Missed me?”
“Like the fucking plague.”
She held the sandwich out to him.
“Not hungry,” he said.
“Then starve,” she said.
He took the wine when offered. He made it swirl up the sides and settle, then swirled again. He looked like he was in a fine restaurant. He sniffed it.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he said, “but isn’t it a bit odd to tie a fella up, then bring him wine?”
“Forgive us,” I said curtly. “We’re new to this.”
I placed the folded-up bundle of clothes on the sofa next to him. Brown cord trousers, crisp white T-shirt, and a navy blue round-necked jumper, over socks and boxer shorts. That was new. He’d always worn briefs when he was with me.
“This isn’t the way to go about kidnapping,” he said.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” I said. “You’ve not been kidnapped. We’re bringing you wine, for God’s sake. We want to talk to you about some important things without you threatening us or walking away. For now, though, we’ve got some sorting out of our own to do, so we’ll all sit down and have a good talk tomorrow, okay?”
Naomi and I left the cellar without waiting for an answer.
“Will you be all right?” I asked Naomi quietly. “I need to dash if I’m going to see Mother before I get Alistair.”
She let out a low whistle. “Yeah. Think so. That went better than I expected.”
“He’s not as calm as he looks,” I said. “He’ll be seething about being locked down there. Don’t get too close to him, don’t undo his cuffs, no matter what he says.”
“What should I do if he kicks off?” she asked.
“Don’t worry—he won’t. Perhaps I should have said, I put a couple of sleeping tablets in his wine. He’ll be pretty docile for the rest of the afternoon. We’ll keep him drugged until I can get Alistair out of the house tomorrow, and then we can go to work. I’ll make sure we get everything we want from Phillip. He doesn’t need money where he’s going.”
CHAPTER 12
11 days before the funeral
Mother refused to stay at my house when she was discharged from the hospital. It was just as well.
She sat, cocooned by cushions, on a sagging dark green leather sofa facing the French doors that opened onto the garden. The sofa didn’t suit her. Too soft, too inviting, too likely to have you stay a while—the exact opposite of her personality.
Her ground-floor apartment had a shared garden, which she never lifted a finger to weed. The residents paid Bill to come around and coax life into the garden, though he appeared to spend most of the winter weeks in Mother’s kitchen inspecting the biscuit tin and talking of longer, sunnier days when the lasses would flock to him. Better days, long-gone days, the likes of which he’d never see again. He talked of the residents as “old folk,” but he was as timeworn as any of them—he just hadn’t realized it yet.
The flower beds were peppered with daffodils. They struggled to remain upright against the wind
that sideswiped the space beyond the patio. Spring, like summer, and any hint of warmth, arrived later at Mother’s than anywhere else in the county. It would be unkind to suggest that it was her glacial temperament that caused buds to seek solace underground.
Small birds wove and plaited their paths around the bird table in search of nuts, and discarded their unwanted seeds over the scarce grass. “Food for the squirrels,” Bill would say.
For each of the three days since she’d come out of the hospital I’d visited her after the morning school run, helped her get dressed, and wiped a duster over the figurines. Today I was late. Lunchtime had come and gone—and so, it seemed, had her patience.
“Would it have hurt you to call?” she snapped.
“You look nice,” I said, sidestepping her barb. “Is that a new blouse?”
“Do I look like I’m in any fit state to go shopping? It took me an age to do up the buttons.”
“It’s a shame you didn’t take advantage of that care package they offered, isn’t it? Someone could have come in to help you.”
“The next time I let someone else dress me, I’ll be in a wooden box.”
“But it’s okay for me to do it?”
“You don’t count.”
“Nope. I never have.”
“Stop the self-pity, Imogen. It’s not your best look.”
I looked about the room for something to tidy or put away. Trying to find a way to make myself useful before I had to leave. Fringed lamps sat atop dark wood tables. A magazine rack, like a Venus flytrap by her side, was stuffed with old copies of Derbyshire Life. There were no personal touches, no photographs of Alistair or me, and none of my father. I knew that she bought herself flowers on their wedding anniversary every year, but my father’s name was never mentioned.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
She shrugged.
“When Father died—”
Her head snapped back to look at me.
“—was there anything you wish you’d have done differently? For me, that is?”