by Jo Jakeman
“Bloody cold,” he said. “You got another blanket anywhere?”
Naomi had helped him turn the sofa into a bed and he looked almost comfortable. I coaxed the tea light into a small cream tea glow and went behind the partition to where we kept the camping equipment. I found a flashlight, clicked it on, and handed it to him. Then I pulled a sleeping bag out of its cocoon and unzipped it so it lay flat. I placed it over him. It smelled fusty, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Cheers,” he said. “You forget how dark it gets down here. And cold.”
“You’re welcome.”
“How long till the power’s back up?”
“Don’t know. Soon, I hope.”
I sat on the bottom step so I wasn’t quite in the same room as him. I watched as he put the flashlight on the arm of the sofa bed and tucked the sleeping bag around and under his legs. He shivered and coughed twice. I wondered whether the cancer was announcing its presence.
“Naomi and I have been talking,” I said.
“And?”
“I know about the cancer. Why didn’t you tell me?”
There was a moment’s hesitation, a pause as he carefully chose his words.
“I’m not sure it’s any of your business.”
“Not my business? What about Alistair? When were you going to tell him?”
“When it became difficult for me to hide it anymore.”
The weak light from the flashlights and tea light highlighted his heavy brow and the bags under his eyes. Shadows crept between the creases on his forehead. The light tricked his face into looking older than it would ever be.
“Naomi says you’ve refused all treatment.”
His mouth drooped at the sides, bottom lip slightly protruding. He cocked his head from side to side as if he were weighing up the validity of the statement.
“‘Refused’ is a bit strong.” He pushed himself up the bed. He raised his chin and peered down his nose at me, a sad smile lifting one side of his mouth.
“They caught it too late. Doesn’t matter that I’ve not smoked in twenty years. The damage is already done. Any treatment at this point would just make me sick for the time I’ve got left. You know me, Immie—if I’m gonna go, I’ve got to do it on my terms.” He waved his hand in a flourish, like a magician announcing his final trick.
I stared at his chest as if I could see through his rib cage to the dark mass that was killing him from the inside out. Incurable. Terminal.
“Tell me about it.”
He sighed. I thought he wasn’t going to speak, but then he took a deep breath and told me everything, or at least everything he wanted me to know. He told me about the routine checkup that led to nonroutine scans and the discovery of masses and lesions. He told me about ignoring the signs, putting it down to old age and discovering that he wasn’t immortal after all. He told me he was beyond the point of recovery. He used words like “metastasized” and “stage four” and he dismissed my replies of “chemotherapy” and “hospice.” In forty years he’d never gone to the doctor’s for anything more serious than tennis elbow brought on by a dodgy golf swing. It had taken him by surprise that his body had let him down.
“How long do you have left?” I asked.
“How long’s a piece of string? And what does it matter anyway? The best days of my life are finished. Over the next few weeks my lungs’ll shut down and I’ll choke to death. That’s it, Immie. That’s it. It’s over.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Phillip.”
“Save it,” he said. “We both know you’re not. Couldn’t have come at a better time for you, could it?”
“No, I really am sorry. I know what it’s like to lose your father at a young age, and I wouldn’t wish that on Alistair.”
He coughed out a laugh. “At least that’s honest. I’d not want you to pretend that you were sorry for me anyway. Just Alistair. Always Alistair.”
“No, it’s not that,” I muttered. “It’s just that I . . .” My words dried up.
“So now you know,” he said, “why I’ve been trying to tie everything up as quickly as possible. I didn’t want you to find out like this, but now that you have, you’re surely going to let me go. Right?”
I studied my knees, picking at the pilled material. It was impossible to explain my thoughts when I didn’t understand them myself. I wondered whether I was a monster for locking him up. Did this make me as bad as him? Faced with Phillip at his most reasonable, I began to wonder about my own motivation for keeping him down here. I had to keep reminding myself that this had only happened because of him. Because he’d tried to kick us out of the only home Alistair had ever known, because he’d threatened to take my son away, because he’d attacked me. None of this was my fault, but I was so used to being made to feel guilty that I was finding it difficult to remember that.
“I don’t trust you,” I said quietly. “Naomi and I have agreed to get one of those do-it-yourself wills. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but you don’t exactly need money or property where you’re going. This way we can make sure that we have some security.”
He shrugged and looked at the ceiling.
“Let me go and I’ll make an appointment with my solicitor first thing on Monday. Get that will and divorce sorted at the same time.”
The candle fluttered and went out.
The light from the flashlight was harsh and cold.
“It’s not just about what I want. It’s what’s best for all of us,” I said.
He clicked off his flashlight. On again. Off again. The only light came from the flashlight I was holding, which was trained on the floor at my feet.
“Are you not sick of trying to save me yet?”
And that was half the problem. I used to think that if I walked away from him, no one else would care enough to help him become a better version of himself. If I gave up on him, who would stand by him? How would he ever change? He would never show love if he didn’t know love. Funny how we all think that we have the power to save.
It was difficult to be angry with someone who was terminally ill. I felt guilty for hating him when his life was due to be cut short.
I could hear running water outside; the rain had come and it was hitting the ground hard. I lay my head against the cold wall. Phillip was silent. We both were. We watched the shadows dance across the walls. There wasn’t enough light to reach into the corners, and it was getting colder.
“I should go in case Alistair wakes up. It’s late. Can we talk about this later?”
“I’d like to see him.”
“I know you would. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.”
“Sure. Whatever you think is best.”
He was being so reasonable that I further doubted my own motives for having him there. I’d made him out to be a monster, and yet all I had to do was sit down and talk to him. A person can’t get the news that he is terminally ill without changing on a fundamental level. His cancer could be the best thing that had ever happened to us.
I raised my hand good night and left the cellar. This time, though I shut the door, I didn’t lock it. What danger could he possibly be to us now?
I went up to the bedroom, opened the window, and leaned out into the dark night. The rain had slowed to a steady patter and the air smelled like freshly dug earth. It smelled like the grave.
CHAPTER 14
10 days before the funeral
Rachel’s three-story house clung to the side of a hill so steep that I had to check, and double-check, my handbrake before Alistair and I got out of the car. There were black iron railings out front and a glossy black door. The stern facade was more like a solicitor’s office than a home. It was in a nice neighborhood and in walking distance from some swanky bars. There was no yard to tend to, just a courtyard; there was no driveway, just a parking permit. In what was largely a child-free su
burb such as this one, bedroom curtains were still drawn at nine thirty in the morning. I both envied and pitied them.
I’d never left Alistair overnight at Rachel’s before. He’d only rarely slept at The Barn. If he wasn’t under the same roof as me, I couldn’t sleep.
Rachel answered the door with oven gloves over her shoulder. Her hair was pinned in a messy bun that would have taken me hours to re-create. Even in shorts and a hoodie, she looked stylish.
“Bloody hell. What time do you call this? When you said midmorning, I thought you meant elevenish.”
“Since when is eleven ‘midmorning’?”
“When you don’t get out of bed until ten, eleven is very much midmorning. You’re lucky I’m even bloody dressed.”
She swore more in an hour than I did in a year. Motherhood had placed a permanent hold on my tongue. Aggressive drivers had become “wallies” instead of “wankers” and I had been known to mutter such rich obscenities as “flip off” to the judgmental “balatard” who worked in my office.
When my son was only two and in the process of expanding his vocabulary, I managed to enrich it further by reversing into a lamppost and saying “bugger.” Every time he dropped a toy or the wooden blocks tumbled down, he would use his newfound word. It took weeks for toddlers to recognize the difference between a cat and a dog, but only a split second to remember the only time Mummy had sworn in front of them. If anything, I was to be congratulated. If there was a role that invited profanity more than motherhood, I was yet to find it.
Rachel gave me a brief squeeze and high-fived Alistair. With a wave of her hand, she signaled that Alistair should go through to the kitchen and she proffered a parking permit for the dashboard of my car.
“I’m not staying.”
“Bollocks you’re not. I’m not letting you leave until I hear every last drop of gossip. Our film doesn’t start until two. Bags of time.”
I did as she said, then joined them in the kitchen.
“I’m making cupcakes,” she said.
“You bake?”
“I do now.”
The kitchen looked more like a Jackson Pollock canvas than the high-gloss minimalist gallery it had previously been. Alistair ran straight outside to the courtyard and jumped on Rachel’s mini trampoline.
“Do you really use that thing?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely. Best exercise you can get, apart from the obvious.”
She moved closer to me and spoke quietly so that Alistair couldn’t hear.
“So Naomi’s at the house? Your house? Shit. Forget the cinema. Give me a bag of popcorn and I’m there. So the two of you are going to . . . what? I don’t understand why the hell either of you care what happens to Phillip anyway.”
“I don’t. Well, I do, for Alistair’s sake.”
“Does Alistair know about the cancer?” asked Rachel.
“Not yet. We need to decide how to break it to him. But first we have to agree on who gets what when Phillip dies. If he was left to his own devices, I wouldn’t put it past him to spend the last weeks of his life spending every penny he’s got or leaving it all to the dogs’ home. It’s best that Alistair’s here in case it gets . . . heated.”
“D’you think that’s why he wanted you out of the house? So he could take the money and scarper?”
“I don’t know. Something still doesn’t feel right about all this. Naomi says it’s so they can get married. Easier to sort the financial side if we’re dealing with actual cash rather than assets and policies.”
“And you don’t believe her?”
“It’s not her I doubt—it’s him. I can’t imagine him wanting to get married again, or caring whether Naomi is financially comfortable after he’s dead. He’s not mentioned how this will affect Alistair at all, so why would he provide for Naomi and not his son? I don’t know. Do you think I’m being paranoid?”
“Yes, but for once, it’s justified. If he’s thinking about anyone, it’s himself. If it didn’t benefit him, he wouldn’t do it. Whatever’s behind it, though, I can’t see why he’d listen to you and Naomi about the will.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said carefully. “I think we’ve got him in a position where he can’t really walk away.”
I wanted to tell her what I’d done, but I dreaded how she would look at me. I was scared that her eyes would tell me that I had finally lost the plot. She wouldn’t hold back on her judgment—it was one of the reasons I loved her. I was more than aware of the legal ramifications of locking someone up. If Rachel knew the truth about why I needed Alistair out of the house, she could be an accomplice to a crime, and I could never do that to her.
“Thanks for this, Rach.”
“No probs. We’re going to eat our body weight in popcorn while watching animals sing and dance. It’s how I always spend my Saturday afternoons. Actually, it’s a while since I’ve been to the movies, and for once I won’t have to worry about my date trying to touch my breasts. Besides, I told you, it’s a pleasure having Alistair around.”
“His pj’s, teddy, change of clothes, and toothbrush are in the rucksack.”
“Right.”
“He needs to be in bed by seven thirty at the latest, so I’d start the bedtime routine at six thirty?”
“You know I’ve done this before, right?”
“Sorry. I’m a bit—”
“You’re being a bit of a mum.”
“Yes, I am. I’ll be round at ten tomorrow to pick him up. Alistair? Kisses!” He held on to me until Rachel told him about the planned trip to the movies, and then he couldn’t wait to usher me out of the house.
* * *
• • •
Once outside Rachel’s, I didn’t drive away immediately. I looked at her house and wondered what I was becoming. Was I a bad mother for leaving my son, or a good one for making sacrifices to ensure we had a safe future?
As I drove slowly away from Rachel’s house, I wondered about going to the police. I toyed with the idea that justice would be done, but there was no getting around the fact that Phillip was a popular and valuable member of CID. There was only one man in that station who saw past Phillip’s facade, and that was Chris Miller, who’d caught his wife in bed with my husband.
Did I have any choice but to get Phillip to agree to our demands and nurse him until his dying day? I couldn’t compete on a physical level with him, and I was an amateur in comparison when it came to being deceitful and devious. I knew he couldn’t make a case for full custody of Alistair now, but I wasn’t so convinced that he couldn’t get me arrested for locking him up, and who would look after Alistair then?
The petrol gauge on my car was showing I was cutting it fine. The amber light was blinking. I would never usually let the level fall under a quarter of a tank, but today I almost wished for the car to break down so I wouldn’t have to go home and face what was in my cellar. I had enough petrol to get home, but I would have to fill the car up before I went to get Alistair.
I pulled onto my drive to find Naomi waiting at the front door, smoking a cigarette. I turned off the engine and pretended to be looking for something in my handbag. Toy dinosaur, wet wipes, migraine tablets, lipstick, unposted birthday card, receipts. Whatever I was looking for, it wasn’t there.
I sank back against the headrest with one hand on the door, not quite ready to face the music.
Naomi dropped her cigarette butt on the ground and leaned against the doorframe, looking past me into the far distance, where the unknown was loitering and our futures were yet to be set.
Naomi looked ready for a night out. Her long hair had been curled about her shoulders, and her lipstick was bright pink to match her nails. She was wearing a white vest top, with purple bra straps showing, over jeans that looked like they’d been painted on.
“You took your time,” she said as I got out of the car.
&
nbsp; “Have you heard much from him?”
“He gave me some agro when I took him his breakfast, but apart from that, not a peep.”
I turned sideways to pass her and she didn’t try to move out of my way. Before I’d kicked off my shoes, she called, “Hello, you expecting someone?”
A rattling old red Volkswagen Beetle pulled onto the drive next to mine, but seeing as there wasn’t enough room, it bumped over my sparse flower bed. Music was shaking the rust-dipped car. The sound of Simon and Garfunkel singing over panpipes was abruptly cut and a heavyset woman flung the car door open.
When she got out of the car, I could see that she was barefoot under a long blue dress that was edged with mud and the skeletons of crushed leaves. A long cream chiffon scarf hung over her shoulders and the fringe shook as she slammed the door behind her.
Bangles rang and clanged all the way past her wrists and spun in the light as she adjusted her scarf. Her hair curled past her ears in softly graying waves.
“Shit,” Naomi said.
The woman waved. I remembered that smile, all crooked teeth and thin lips. It was Phillip’s first wife, Ruby.
It had been two years since I’d last seen her, but apart from a few more gray hairs, she hadn’t changed. Since Phillip and I had separated, she’d become Naomi’s problem, not mine. I’d been able to drop the pretense that I could stand her.
“How lovely to see you,” I lied without a smile. “What are you doing here?”
Ruby was the ex-wife who had become the perpetual friend. It had caused arguments between us, but I never understood why Phillip kept seeing her. They shared jokes and remember-whens that I couldn’t be part of. I wondered whether she just hung around so that she could pick up on my faults and show him what a mistake he’d made by leaving her. As for Phillip, he would never say no to someone hanging on his every word and looking at him like he could walk on water, and perhaps it suited him to remind me that nothing was forever.