by Niki Mackay
‘Hello.’
‘Kate?’ And of course he has it too, because I included it in the message I sent.
‘Hi.’ It’s almost a strain to get the word out.
He says, ‘You’re out.’ His voice is a low rumble. Unchanged and familiar. I feel my stomach flip-flop.
‘I am,’ I tell him. My own voice sounds high, and is whipped away by the wind.
‘You sent me a message.’
I shrug and then realise he can’t see me. ‘How are you?’
‘Surprised to hear from you.’ His voice is low, tight and . . . annoyed? I can’t think of anything to say back. I’ve stopped walking now. Standing stock-still. My breath held in my chest.
He says, ‘You don’t have a picture.’
‘What?’
‘On LinkedIn, you don’t have a picture.’
‘Oh, no. I thought it probably wasn’t a good idea.’
He sighs. ‘Probably not. I saw the Comet.’
I laugh but it’s tinny and out of kilter. ‘Yeah, looks like I’m famous again.’
‘Hang on.’ His voice becomes muffled. He’s talking but not to me. I can’t make out what he’s saying. Before I can ask, he says, ‘I have to go.’
‘Okay.’
And he’s gone. I’m frozen to the spot, still. The phone pressed to my ear pointlessly. He phoned me. He made contact, it must mean something. I am waiting for my breathing to slow, for the assault of memories to pass. Lying pretty, listening to him read me poetry. Waiting for his call, his visit, redeemed by his attention, his touch.
I hear something behind me but when I turn there’s nothing there. I walk quickly anyway.
I order a large latte, add sugar and sit down, grabbing a copy of the paper as I go. I feel myself calm as I sip my drink and read news about other people. I have discussed my ex almost weekly with Dean for the past six years. I have agreed that it was an unhealthy relationship and one I should most definitely stay out of. I resisted the often overwhelming urge to look him up in prison, though it was easier with limited internet access and the knowledge that everything I did was monitored. I even managed a few days out in the world being free without doing it as well. I can hear Dean’s voice calmly warning me about the importance of surrounding yourself with people who treat you well.
That would not include Oliver. But what he did do was excite me and, more importantly, he made me feel part of something. The mere sight of him used to give me butterflies. He and Naomi had that same quality. When his attention was on you, you felt like you were the only person alive who mattered. I miss that. His absence after my arrest was a devastating blow. I think I may have taken it harder than my family’s abandonment, though I haven’t admitted that to anyone. Not even Dean.
I try and push this from my mind, my eyes wandering back to the paper. All of a sudden it is pulled from under my hands. My coffee slides, spilling slightly.
‘Oh!’ I say, sliding my chair back, standing as I do. A hand is on the paper. I follow it upwards and I am face-to-face with Anthea Andrews.
She’s aged. My God how she’s aged. More than six years would warrant. The death of her beloved only child is written in every line. And she is red-faced. I instinctively raise my hands.
‘Mrs Andrews . . .’
‘You! What the hell are you doing here?’ Her voice is low and dangerous, a whisper, but it travels and the people nearest to us have started to look.
‘Please, I don’t want any trouble.’
She leans over and grabs me. Her body is half on the table, knocking the coffee fully over now. Drops of it scald me as it goes down. Her hand grabs at my shoulder, fingers digging in. It hurts but I am standing, mute, unable to move.
‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Her voice is getting louder now. ‘Go away, go away, go away,’ and then she’s shouting. Spit is forming at the corners of her mouth, spraying towards me. I am held by her hands, transfixed by her face. Rage, pure unadulterated rage.
The waiter is coming over and he’s putting a hand on her shoulder, ‘Madam, please, what seems to be the problem?’
Her eyes don’t move from me; her hand doesn’t loosen its grip.
‘She killed my daughter.’ She speaks loudly, certain and unwavering.
Silence after her loudness, and a familiar voice goes through my head. It’s Janine whispering, mocking. Murderer, the scarlet letter, the brand that will never leave me. I can feel tears streaming down my face but I still don’t move. We stay locked in an awful embrace. Her hand pinning me physically, her eyes burning into my soul.
‘Holy shit, you’re Kate Reynolds,’ says the waiter. Now I can’t breathe and I see his stance change, the hand that was restraining her softens. His protection removed. Everything is still and the waiter’s hand now rests on her arm. Supportive.
She looks from me to him and the anger is gone. Now she is just forlorn. Her arm drops and tears stream down her face. I snatch my bag from the table and walk on Bambi legs to the door. It seems to take forever and I can still hear them whispering. Muttering.
I see Mrs Andrews through the window from outside. Crying. People coming to comfort her as they glare at me. I walk away quickly. I used to stay at that woman’s house all the time. She’d bring us tea in the mornings. Nothing was ever too much trouble. I used to tell Naomi how lucky she was to have a mother like Anthea. They didn’t get on though. Not really. We came home late one night when Naomi was very drunk. I apologised as soon as I saw that her mother was upset but Naomi laughed in her face. Anthea backed down, patted her daughter’s arm and murmured she was glad to have her home. Naomi had rolled her eyes at me over her head. I found her careless attitude obscene in light of my own mother, by now dead but absent long before.
I’m walking so fast I’m almost running. Speeding along the river now until I hit Surbiton, not taking in my surroundings, just wanting to get home, to put distance between myself and that wreck of a woman. I get in, slam the door and pick up the phone.
‘Hello?’ he answers.
‘Dean . . .’ And it all spills out. I hear him sigh into the silence as he says, ‘Oh, Kate.’
‘She’s angry at the wrong person, Dean. I have to show her. I have to show them all.’
‘Look, you’ve got my office address – why don’t you come in and see me?’
‘I will.’
‘When?’ he asks.
I think for a moment. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Fine, call in the interim if you need me.’
I smile despite the awfulness of it all and whisper, ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re doing okay.’ His soft voice shores me up and I’m still nodding silent agreement as I hang up. This will be over soon and when it is, I can go wherever I like. But for now I’ll have to take the knocks. I repeat his words to myself. I’m doing okay. I’m doing okay. I’m doing okay.
9.
Anthea Andrews
Damian is halfway through his tenth pull-up when I slam the front door. I can see his shadow through the frosted glass door leading into the kitchen. He pauses for a moment and I wonder if he’s contemplating going for more. Eventually he lowers himself and walks out into the hallway. I can feel my face screw up and tears start to flow. He’s immediately by my side, helping me shrug out of my coat. I’m silent until it’s off, resisting the urge to slap his hands away. I turn to face him. He looks concerned, but guarded. I figure he can probably feel the rage emanating from me in hot, cross waves.
He tries, ‘Are you okay?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I saw her.’ I feel my face contort even more. He frowns before trying for concern. I nearly don’t blame him. I know I must be a parody of the pretty, smiling woman I once was. I glare at him. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed. I can feel the anger tightening my face. I am all pinch
ed by bitterness. He doesn’t ask who, he knows full well. It’s been the main topic of conversation between us for months and months now. We were informed of Kate’s plans to return to Kingston by the powers that be. They do that as a matter of course. Damian says he wishes they hadn’t told us. But we have a right to know and it’s given me months to plan, and to stew. To refresh a new and more vehement rage.
He says, ‘Did you speak to her?’
I spit out, ‘Of course I bloody spoke to her.’ My husband’s stupidity in this matter never fails to amaze me. Like he expects me to just walk right on by the vile, bastard girl who took my only child.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters. I have no idea what exactly he’s apologising for and suspect he probably doesn’t either. I should probably feel sorry that he has to walk on eggshells and that he says sorry all the time. But I don’t. I hate him for the fact that he’s managed to make some kind of peace with it. That he has betrayed Naomi by allowing his grief to shrink. That he has betrayed me by leaving me in it on my own. An extra, raw slap in the face. Proof that he didn’t love our daughter half as much as I did.
I push past him and bash about the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher.
He says, ‘I’ll do that.’
‘Don’t bother, I’ve already started now.’
He stands uselessly, watching me, waiting for the onslaught.
I try for a few seconds to keep it in, but it’s no use. I tell him. ‘She was sitting drinking coffee. Without a care in the fucking world.’
I search him for a reaction and he nods. I carry on. ‘It’s not right. I’m not going to bloody stand for it either.’
He nods again and slides away to do I don’t know what. I don’t care. My mind is whirring, buzzing. Hatred beats around it like a thousand tiny moth wings, begging to be sated, fed and freed. I won’t stand for it, not at all. The little bitch. And things start to ping, little ideas fizzing into existence. My head starts to calm down and my breathing evens out. I don’t have to put up with this. Not at all.
10.
Kate Reynolds
I walk to Marcus’s but I’m still jumpy after the run-in with Anthea. I think I hear footsteps behind me, something that is becoming a regular occurrence, but when I turn, the street is empty. I head out of Surbiton into Kingston and towards Norbiton. I should have got a cab.
The house is big, exactly what I would have expected, and it’s on a private road. Not unlike the road I grew up on and not far from our childhood home on Kingston Hill. I bet he gets views of Richmond Park from upstairs. You wouldn’t have any reason to come down this cul-de-sac unless you lived here. The driveway is immaculate. Gravelled, with beautiful flowers on either side. Dimly lit so I can just make them out. Two cars, a big Audi and a little Audi. His and hers. Everything says my brother is doing all right. I ring the bell and it is answered almost immediately by a woman more beautiful in real life than her pictures suggest. She is spotless, smiling broadly and, yes, the absolute spitting image of my mother. So much so that for a few rude seconds I just look at her open mouthed.
‘You must be Kate?’ Her voice is deeper than I thought it would be, sexier. Not like my mother’s at all. I’m glad.
I nod.
‘I’m Claudia. Please do come in.’ I follow her and she expertly relieves me of my coat. There is an enormous picture hanging in the hallway. Clearly a professional shot of Claudia and my brother beaming, their hands on the shoulder of a small girl. A girl that is creeping down the stairs in front of me.
‘Bethany, darling, don’t skulk. This is your Aunt Kate.’
The girl remains frozen. Crouching near the bottom steps. She is like her mother, but pretty, not beautiful. Petite like myself and my sister. All arms and legs. I head over to her and bend down.
‘Hi.’ I smile. I should have brought something. Not that I have much idea what a three-year-old might like. I should have brought something for Claudia. Chocolates, wine, flowers. These are the done things. Manners I have to re-learn. There is time. Hopefully, now there is plenty of time.
She says ‘Hi’ back. Her voice is small and high-pitched. Intense eyes study my face. I stay low, letting her look, enjoying the scrutiny.
I say to her, ‘You have pretty hair.’
She smiles. ‘It’s like yours.’
‘So it is,’ I laugh. The dye is washing away as it always does.
Claudia places a hand on the child’s shoulder. ‘She’s fair like all you Reynolds, except for the eyes.’ We are fair skinned, fair haired but with dark eyes. Claudia’s are a vibrant green.
I say, ‘Yes, they’re all yours.’
She beams and a moment of peace seems to pass between us. My brother’s voice breaks it, slicing the air. I turn to say hi but realise he isn’t talking to us, he’s on the phone. He waves a hand at me. Claudia is smiling, watching her husband intently. He rubs a soft hand over her shoulder and she touches his fingers. He signals to his wife that he’ll be five minutes and heads upstairs, passing his hand over Bethany’s head on his way. The child giggles.
‘Probably work. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be rude.’
‘It’s no problem.’
She nods. ‘We’re having beef. I hope that’s okay? You’re not a vegetarian or anything, are you?’
‘Nope, beef sounds lovely.’
‘Oh, good. Bethany’s already eaten. She’ll go up for the evening shortly.’
I steal a glance at my watch. It’s barely six o’clock. I wonder if this is a normal bedtime. We never had one. She’s already in her pyjamas.
‘Didn’t fancy beef?’ I screw up my nose and she giggles. I ask her, ‘Who’s on your jimjams?’
‘Elsa, from Frozen.’
‘Oh, I don’t know that.’
Her eyes widen. ‘It’s a film,’ she says as though speaking to a hopelessly stupid person.
‘I see. It’s your favourite?’
She nods enthusiastically.
Claudia is smiling. ‘She’s completely obsessed. We even get to listen to the soundtrack in the car.’
‘Ah, I was like that about Annie. I suppose that’s out of date now?’
Bethany tells me, ‘Mummy loves that too. Not the new one either – the really, really old one. It’s not too bad I s’pose.’
Claudia and I laugh. The child looks from face to face, not getting the joke. My brother comes back down and scoops up Bethany.
He says, ‘Aren’t you in bed yet? And why are we all on the bloody stairs?’
Claudia tells him, ‘She’s just going up now.’ She smiles fondly at Marcus.
‘Well, why don’t you see to that? I’ll get Kate a drink, shall I?’
He gives his daughter a squeeze and passes her to Claudia. Bethany waves at me and I wave back.
I follow Marcus into the kitchen where he pours two large glasses of wine and hands me one. I take a sip. It’s cool and sharp. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted alcohol.
‘Kids.’ He’s grinning. ‘They need routine, even when we have visitors. I hope you understand?’ I nod. He goes on, ‘Claudia’s good at that. Not like Mum, she used to let us run wild.’
I’m taken back to dive-bombing my siblings from bunk-beds, paint on walls, chalk on floors, hair-pulling, my mother’s dejected sighs, a long stream of exasperated nannies. I see my dad coming home at the end of the day doing his best to contain it, us, tidying, whispering to Mum. Trying to keep us from being feral. There must be a middle ground. I suspect there is. I don’t know it though, and I guess Marcus doesn’t either.
‘Claudia seems to have it all sussed,’ I say, a compliment to his wife and an indirect compliment to him. He beams at me.
‘She does, she does, she’s ever so good.’ There are photos of the family everywhere, smiles from various surfaces. There’s even a calendar hanging on the wall that seems to be of
them. It’s open to January with a picture of Bethany beaming at the camera in full snow gear. Marcus sees me looking and smiles. ‘That was skiing last year.’
I tell him, ‘Bethany’s a lovely child.’
‘Ah yes, well that’s mainly Claudia’s doing, to be honest. I fund it all.’ He shrugs. ‘Some people might think we’re too traditional, but defined roles mean order.’
Claudia comes back into the room still neatly pressed, smiling at us both. She casually refills Marcus’s glass, I put a hand over mine. I remember now that I’ve never really liked alcohol, the taste or the effect.
He looks at his wife. ‘Did Bethany go to sleep okay?’
‘Yes, we read a little bit.’
‘But her light’s off now?’
She nods, still smiling. ‘Why don’t you two go and sit down – the first course is almost ready.’ I take in the smooth dance between husband and wife. Claudia is what you would call a good hostess.
I follow Marcus through, traipsing in his shadow, aware of an awkwardness between us. We sit and I can see his leg jiggling under the table. I haven’t made small talk for over a decade and there’s little point him asking what I’ve been up to of late. There are many other things, big things, we should discuss, but it feels too fragile a time for most of them.
‘I called Sandcross. Martha was sleeping but they said she’ll call me back.’
He nods, twisting his glass in a winding circle. ‘Oh.’
‘She’s not doing brilliantly?’
He keeps his eyes on the glass. ‘Yes. Well, I did say.’
‘How long has she been in hospital?’
‘Sandcross is nicer than some hotels – I’d hardly describe it as a hospital.’ He rubs a hand over his eyes, then says, ‘She freaked out when she heard you were coming home, actually.’ It’s a cruel thing to say though I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way.
‘Do you know why?’ I meet his gaze, unflinching.
His sigh both irritates and saddens me. ‘We used to get hate mail, and phone calls. Someone had her personal email address. Things went directly to her for a while. Before she told us.’ He’s watching me. I try to remain steady though guilt floods me. He goes on, ‘She was stopped on the street, and one woman followed her for almost half a mile shouting abuse.’