by Maggie James
The next morning, Spencer acts on the decision he’s made. It’s imperative he appears calm and unruffled. To his cellmate, to the prison guards, to the woman who serves his breakfast. No one must detect what he’s planning.
So he smiles as Shirley slops scrambled eggs on his plate, makes small talk with the other inmates, whistles under his breath as he passes Riley, the prison chaplain. As he eats, he reflects that cold toast and rubbery eggs isn’t how one’s last meal should be. But it doesn’t matter, not anymore.
When lunchtime comes, Spencer pleads a dodgy stomach, flashing a weak smile at Townsend, one of the officers on duty that morning. ‘Bellyache,’ he tells the man, making his voice low and pain-racked. ‘Those eggs must have been off. Need to stay near the toilet.’ The guy’s sporting a harried expression; the prison’s short-staffed today through sickness, so it’s odds-on Townsend will believe Spencer’s story.
Once his floor falls quiet, he yanks his duvet from his bunk, pulling off the cover, tossing it onto the ground.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, although to whom he’s not sure.
The cell floor is cold beneath his knees as he crouches beside the radiator. So this is it, he thinks. This is how his life will end, at twenty-three years of age, dying by his own hand in a prison cell. The thought strikes him as unbearably sad.
‘Just do it,’ he mutters from behind clenched teeth. His fingers tear at the duvet, or at least they try. Nothing gives, though. He doubles his efforts, without success, cursing his skinny arms, his lack of muscle. Then he remembers. How prison-issue bedding has to be what’s dubbed ‘vandal-proof’, meaning it can’t be ripped. He won’t be dying here today, and at that thought he collapses, sobbing, beside the radiator, rocking back and forth on the hard floor, his head buried between his hands. A howl of despair rips from his throat, hot tears stinging his eyes, as the black dog sinks its teeth into his flesh once more.
The atmosphere in the Golden house is tense. Not surprising: Jake’s here, collecting more of his stuff. It hasn’t escaped Lori’s notice that he’s taking his time moving the rest of his possessions out, or that he’s dropping round more often than necessary to collect his post. She wishes to God the temping agency had found her work for today. Being here is beyond painful right now.
From inside Jake’s coat pocket, his mobile trills. His face turns as pale as putty as he listens to whoever’s on the other end. Seconds later, he’s yanking open the front door, running towards his car.
‘Probably one of his gambling buddies, summoning him to a poker game.’ Contempt sours Dana’s tone.
Lori doesn’t think so. Not given Jake’s stricken expression. The man looked like his whole world had imploded.
Lori scratches Oreo’s head as she gazes out of the window. Four o’clock; she needs to get going on tonight’s curry, so they can eat before Dana leaves for dialysis, but it’s too much effort. Across the living room, her mother stares into space, her fingers picking at the hem of her sweatshirt. Lori closes her eyes, shutting out Dana’s blank expression, because it terrifies her.
At that moment, Jake’s Subaru pulls into the drive. Dana’s not asked for his key back yet, Lori notes, as she hears him insert it in the lock. His face as he strides into the room is pale, sick-looking. He dispenses with preamble.
‘Spencer,’ he says. ‘He tried to kill himself in prison. They got to him in time, thank God.’ Emotion chokes his voice.
Lori drags in a breath, unsure what to say. Shit. Spencer, attempting suicide? Opposite her, Dana remains mute, unresponsive.
‘What happened?’ Her voice wavers as she collects her thoughts.
‘One of the prison officers had a feeling something was wrong. The guy checked on him, found him slumped on the floor. Seems he’d intended to choke himself. He’s in a pretty bad place mentally.’ Jake’s gaze falls on Dana, but she refuses to catch his eye. The hostility emanating from her is so great that Lori fears the air will shatter.
‘How did he mean to do it?’ she asks. ‘Don’t they remove shoelaces, belts, things like that?’ Straight away she regrets her insensitivity. Jake won’t want to linger over the details of his son’s suicide attempt.
To her surprise, he answers. It’s as if by talking about Spencer, his son will stay alive.
‘He tried to tear up his duvet cover to choke himself to death. Except he couldn’t. They’re made to withstand being ripped up.’ Jake swallows. ‘I can only imagine the despair he must have been in.’
Lori also tries to imagine what drove Spencer to such lengths. ‘Will he be all right?’ she asks.
‘For now. He’s in hospital under observation. When he’s discharged, he’ll be on suicide watch, subjected to psychiatric evaluations.’
‘Did he say’ – Lori swallows – ‘why he tried to kill himself?’
Jake’s eyes leave Lori’s as he looks at Dana. ‘Yes. Because he’s innocent, and can’t face spending his life in jail.’
Dana lifts her gaze then, the loathing in their depths shocking Lori.
‘Innocent, my arse.’ Venom flies from her mother’s words. ‘He’s guilty as hell. Why else would he attempt suicide? I’ll tell you why: because he’s too cowardly to face his punishment.’
‘Mum, please—’ Lori’s never been a fan of Jake Hamilton, but he doesn’t deserve this.
Dana ignores her, standing up and moving into Jake’s personal space. Her eyes stab his with hatred. When she speaks, her words drip ice. ‘It would have been better if the murdering bastard had never been born. I wish to God he’d succeeded in topping himself. Then you’d understand what it’s like to lose a child.’ She stops, claps her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, God. I’m sorry, Jake. That was insensitive of me.’
Silence in the room. Jake stares at Dana, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving. Lori realises she’s witnessing his relationship with Dana shatter into a thousand pieces, as he leaves the room without a further word. Within ten minutes, he’s packed the last of his possessions and gone.
After he leaves, Lori tries to speak to her mother, but Dana cuts her off with a muttered, ‘Don’t.’ Without another word, she heads upstairs.
Alone, Lori curls into a ball on the sofa. God, she wishes the evening was here, Ryan holding her in his arms. He’d pull her against him, she’d breathe in the scent of his aftershave, and the woes of the world would fade away. Murdered sisters, sick mothers and burning houses would cease to exist, leaving only the comfort of his embrace. How much longer can she carry on without falling apart?
Stay strong, she reminds herself. Things will get better. They have to.
She considers this latest turn of events, understanding why Spencer decided to kill himself. The quiet, mixed-up guy she once knew – she doubts he’d cope well with life in jail for a crime he didn’t commit, especially if he’s prone to depression. Self-doubt tortures her. Might her visit have contributed to Spencer’s disturbed frame of mind? Did she say something out of place? Her heart hurts at the notion she might have added to his angst, albeit unwittingly.
She asks herself the question again. If it wasn’t Spencer that murdered Jessie, then who did?
Not for the first time her thoughts turn to Damon Quinn.
St Philips, later that night. The area boasts several trading estates, containing motor dealers, builders’ yards and the like, all the buildings being in use. One might think such a place would hold little appeal for Bristol’s resident arsonist, given his preference for abandoned warehouses. Not so. Tonight the yard of a waste recycling depot will go up in flames.
He peers through the iron gates; before him are piled stacks of cardboard, old tyres, waste of all descriptions. Thanks to a dry week with little rain, it offers ideal kindling. The man sets his rucksack on the pavement, taking out the contents. He unscrews the cap from the can of petrol, before flinging the contents over everything his aim can reach through the gates. Next he lights the rags he’s brought, before stuffing them into the neck of an empty Coke bot
tle. The moment has arrived. He draws back his right arm, hurling the bottle towards the petrol-soaked waste.
Chapter 13
DESPAIR
Sunday afternoon, and the house is quiet, apart from the soft patter of rain against Dana’s bedroom window. Lori is at the cinema catching a matinee with Ryan, so Dana is alone. At times like this Jessie’s loss stabs her hard; she’s never liked her own company, and the silence is oppressive. A blanket of stillness, devoid of her youngest child, hangs over the house. She lies on her bed, gazing at the ceiling; taking action is beyond her. Impossible to summon the energy to prepare the evening meal, do the laundry or anything else.
The triple losses of Fraser, Jessie and Jake have ripped a gaping hole in her life. She reminds herself she still has Lori, but for how long? Her daughter seems keen on this Ryan guy; chances are she’ll soon move in with him. Followed by a wedding, perhaps. Dana pictures herself a grandmother, cradling Lori’s firstborn. Except her youngest daughter never had the chance to fall in love, get married, have children. Tears stab Dana’s eyes at the injustice of Jessie’s death.
‘I’m being punished,’ she tells the silence around her. She pictures little Kelly Somers, the child’s soft red curls, the dusting of freckles over her nose, her huge eyes, and stifles a sob. Fast-forward twelve years, and she’s attending Kelly’s funeral, unbeknown to the rest of the Golden family. From what she’s been told, Kelly’s body was little more than a skeleton wrapped in skin when the anorexia claimed her. A young life tragically wasted. If only she’d come straight home with her father that day, instead of going shopping.
‘I’m sorry, Kelly,’ she whispers into the stillness.
Her mind is hell-bent on torturing her, it seems. From its depths, a face surfaces. She suppresses it, shutting Michael McNally from her thoughts. The memory is too painful.
Yes, plenty exists for which she deserves to be punished.
Against the window, the rain lashes harder. Never has Dana felt so alone.
For a minute, she considers calling Jake, asking him to come over, but rejects the idea. Hasn’t she burned that particular bridge? Every time she looks at him, she sees his murdering bastard of a son. No. Whatever she and Jake once shared, it’s over.
Fraser, though – he’s a possibility.
She can’t hold her ex-husband’s hurtful words at Jessie’s funeral against him. He was right to be angry with her. She’s been guilty of everything he accused her of: bringing their daughter’s killer into their home, being a bad mother. Besides, despite their bitter divorce, her heart has never let go of the man. She pictures the soft aquamarine of his eyes, the way one corner of his mouth quirks upwards when he grins, the endearing grey creeping into his hair. Longing creeps over her. God, they almost set the sheets on fire at times, so strong was their mutual desire. Without thinking, she picks up her mobile from her bedside cabinet, her fingers typing a message, then hesitating. Panic sets in; she deletes what she’s written. Seconds later, she retypes the words, pressing ‘send’ before she has time to change her mind. A minute later, his reply pings through.
Is this wise? he texts back.
Please, she types. I need you.
Within half an hour her ex-husband is ringing the doorbell. ‘You look ill,’ he remarks, once they’re in the kitchen and she’s making them coffee. The aroma arising from the percolator is bitter, yet strangely sweet, evoking as it does their former domestic familiarity. She detects concern in his voice. Does he also consider their marriage unfinished business?
Dana shrugs off his comment. She never feels well these days, and at present she’s more concerned with her emotional needs. Fraser sits across from her, the way he’s done so often before, and it’s as though they’ve never divorced. Any minute now he’ll ask what’s for dinner, comment on the state of the garden, wonder whether they should redecorate. They’ll talk about Lori’s struggles to find work, Jessie’s maths grades, and the world will become whole again. With Fraser here, Jessie is still alive. In Dana’s head, her daughter’s laugh sounds out high and exuberant.
‘Dana?’ Concern in Fraser’s voice again. ‘Has something happened?’
A sob escapes her. ‘Lori’s told you about the arson attacks, right?’
Fraser nods. ‘Yes. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. They need to catch the bastard responsible. And quickly.’
‘She won’t have mentioned the cards, though. I asked her not to. Thought if I stuck my head in the sand, they’d go away, although I’ve had to tell the police. But they’re all part of this lunatic’s vendetta. Someone hates me, Fraser. I’m being targeted.’
He looks shocked. ‘Cards? What cards?’
Dana tells him about the hate mail she’s been getting, watching as his expression turns angry. ‘Another one arrived yesterday,’ she finishes. ‘It was vile, saying I caused Jessie’s death. What with the fires as well, I don’t know how much more I can take.’
‘Oh, my love.’ His tone is tender. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to suffer such shit. What can I do to help?’
When she doesn’t respond, he moves behind her to squeeze her shoulders. She closes her eyes at his touch. His fingers shift to her neck, sending shivers straight to her toes, and she prays he’ll never stop. Something inside her is coming alive again; she’s not willing to think beyond that right now.
‘I need you,’ she says. He releases his hands from her shoulders, the loss of contact causing an almost physical pain. Then he’s squatting before her, one hand caressing her cheek, and desire flares within her. She wonders why she hasn’t reached out to him before; it’s such an obvious solution. In an instant Dana’s loneliness melts away. In the blue of his eyes she sees her own grief mirrored, his gaze a lifeline leading back to Jessie.
His palm cups her face, his eyes never breaking contact with hers. ‘Is this a good idea?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ Her breath catches in her chest. If he rejects her now – but he won’t, she can tell. He stands up, his fingers lingering against her cheek, before he reaches for her hand. As if in slow motion, she rises from her chair. They walk into the hallway. Both of them are silent, the only sound being their feet ascending the stairs. Once they’re in the bedroom they shared for so many years, Fraser closes the door.
His fingers pull her T-shirt over her head, prompting hers to unbutton his jeans. Within seconds their hands become a blur as their clothing hits the floor. Fraser presses her back on the bed, and he’s no longer her ex-husband, but married to her again, and they’re doing what any couple might do on a dull Sunday afternoon, given an empty house. After so long, words are unnecessary; they tumble into their old comfortable rhythm, all the better for being familiar. Dana doesn’t want to think, but to be swept away. He slips inside her, and she cries with relief as she concentrates her entire being on Fraser. She clings to him as though he’s a life raft, until her orgasm thunders through her body.
Dana’s aware of his hand stroking her hair. They spoon together, their bodies slick with sweat, his breath hot against her neck. Oh, to lie here forever, lost in his arms. She drifts into a sweet doze.
At some point, his voice rouses her back to consciousness. Dana looks at her watch: it’s five o’clock. Without warning she’s catapulted into the real world, an existence in which her youngest child no longer lives and her eldest will soon leave home. One in which she’s suffered a bitter divorce and ended up living with her daughter’s killer. Not to mention some card-sending maniac setting fire to her properties. The despair rushes back, greater than before. She can’t bear to look at her ex-husband. If she does, those blue irises will surely burn her.
‘What did you say?’ Her words emerge with effort. Fraser reaches for his clothes.
‘I need to get home.’ His eyes refuse to meet hers, and understanding hits her. Same old, same old; no change in this leopard’s spots. A woman’s waiting for him somewhere, no doubt. Two hours ago she yearned for him; now she can’t wait for him to leave. She’s made a
hideous mistake, one doomed to failure. How could she ever have thought her philandering ex was the answer?
‘Dana?’ From outside the bubble of her self-loathing, Fraser’s voice reaches her. ‘I’ll see myself out, shall I?’
Too tired for words, all she can do is nod. She registers the bedroom door opening, his feet on the stairs, the click of the latch. Once his car drives away, she curls into a tight ball on the bed, shedding the hot tears she’s been repressing.
Before long, an idea surfaces, its lure becoming stronger the more she examines it in her head.
Later that evening, Dana’s aware of her daughter’s scrutiny across the dinner table. She’s made the effort to cook Thai green curry, which Lori loves; they’ve just finished eating.
‘You seem . . .’ Lori appears to be choosing her words with care. ‘Better. More chatty.’
Dana reaches over, grasping Lori’s hands. She smiles at her. ‘Yes. I guess I do feel better.’
‘And you cooked. Can’t remember when you last did that.’
‘High time I did something around here. Thought I’d surprise you with your favourite dish.’ Dana leaves it at that, getting up to clear the dirty plates into the dishwasher, aware her daughter’s eyes remain fixed on her.
‘We can watch that documentary about pandas later,’ Lori says at last.
Dana straightens up from bending over the dishwasher, guilt stabbing her, before she thrusts it aside. She’s unaccustomed to lying to her daughter, but has no choice.
‘I have to go out,’ she says. Curiosity flits across Lori’s face. Dana pulls in a deep breath before continuing. ‘I can’t find my mobile phone. I must have left it at the dialysis unit last night. Thought I’d drive over and check if anyone’s handed it in.’