by Niki Mackay
‘I’m doing okay.’ Not great, he doesn’t expect great. I have supervised visits with my child, for God’s sake.
‘How are your meetings going?’
I haven’t been to any since I last saw him. ‘Oh, yes, fine. I don’t even think about having a drink or anything any more.’
I do. But then I think about never seeing Molly again and it staves me. I try instead to think about everything but a drink. My favourite pastime at the moment is ‘What if?’ This can take many forms but is always a variation on the same theme. What if I hadn’t started drinking? What if my mother wasn’t an alcoholic? What if I’d never met Rob? What if I’d gone into a different career? And the biggie: what if I am my mother? But these things feel private. Not something to be shared with uber-shiny man.
‘How is work?’
‘Yes, going very well, actually. I have another new client.’
He beams. ‘That’s wonderful.’
It’s a formality, a box-ticking exercise. I often think it must be as dull for him as it is for me. We while away half an hour. I leave. I assume he ticks boxes. I hope they are the right ones.
*
I get in the car and drive. I hate the place I’m headed to and yet I make a weekly pilgrimage anyway. Dutiful and sad. It’s ironic after spending the morning comparing myself to her. When I get there the curtains are drawn shut. I put my key in the lock and a nauseating smell hits me as I open the door. It’s human flesh, piss, shit and sweat mixed with a hundred other things. I take shallow breaths and call out, though she never answers.
She is sitting on the sofa. Smaller than ever, drowned in a huge terry-cloth robe. I bought that for her last year. It was soft and fluffy then. White like cotton wool. It’s wretched now. Grey and worn. Long threads dangle from it. Her once slender, pretty legs hang out of the bottom. Paltry sticks punctuated by large postulating veins. She is a horrible colour, grey turning to yellow, and I think the same thing I always do. She doesn’t have long left. And if there is a god, why doesn’t he make it sooner rather than later?
The TV is on. News, turned down too low for anyone to hear. It doesn’t matter. She’s not watching it. There is an ashtray next to her. Butts leaning awkwardly, about to spill. Other debris is scattered around. Nothing of value or use. Packets of fast food, discarded clothing, underwear, bits of paper trampled underfoot. She shifts deep-set eyes on to me. She swigs from a bottle that rests between her legs. Cups and glasses were given up on long ago. She smiles, toothless, and pulls a cigarette out from a packet next to her. I sit down, forcing my body to ignore the filth and the dirt. I reach for my lighter, putting the flame to the end of her fag, then I reach for my own, hand shaking but feeling relief as I inhale.
‘Hello, Mum.’
She nods. ‘All right, Madison.’ Her once beautiful, liquid, warm voice now a rasping, wheezy sneer. I can smell the booze – whisky today, strong and tangy – and I know how it would feel. I think of my body warming up and my shoulders dropping, a letting go – the envy is there. Brutal and inappropriate. Still rising even as I look at Charlotte Attallee, my ruined mother. The promises the bottle makes. The peace it can give while it steals your life.
‘How are you?’ I ask her, trying to keep my eyes trained on her face.
She shrugs and sucks her lips in. It gives an odd effect. Skeletal. I picture her, here, dead for days before anyone knows, the flesh leaving her, exposing the bones underneath, the ones I see now, through thin papery skin. I shut my eyes for a second. We don’t say much. There’s no point. But I sit and we smoke. I ask if she needs anything, knowing what the answer will be, and I give her the £50 as she requests. I’ll do the same next week. Knowing the money will speed up her death. Not knowing if that’s right or wrong. She doesn’t ask how I am. She hasn’t done for years now. I don’t expect it. I used to try and clean up. Bring shopping, try and get her in the bath. I don’t do that now.
I leave feeling relief, guilt and shame. I’ll be back next week.
When I get home I stand in the shower for a long time thinking about Molly and my mother and myself. I try and will myself to cry but nothing comes. The hard stone in my stomach feels heavier though. It always does on these weekends. When I get out I prepare pasta which I pick at. I look at the files on my desk and open one. I have cobbled together Kate’s diary entries published by the press and I open one now.
27th January 2009
I don’t know what Naomi’s playing at. She’s supposed to be in love with Marcus. That’s what he thinks anyway. She’s been ignoring him for days and then I saw her talking to Oliver!! He was leaning in as well. The way he does when I tell him things. She was all doe-eyed and serious with her stupid black frizzy hair twisting on her fingers. If I see her do it again, I’d like to snap those fingers one by one. They both jumped when I came out of school. She’s such a div. I smiled and pretended I was happy to see them anyway. She was all hugs and so was he, but I bet they were talking about me.
1st Feb
Martha’s ill again. I can’t help. I want to shake her, make her wake up out of it but I don’t. I can’t. She needs to stop being such a pain but she doesn’t listen now anyway. Dad is away so I put her to bed and told her not to come downstairs again until I said. She gave me the look I don’t like. The one that makes me feel scared. I thought about locking her door. I have a key now, but last time she made a disgusting mess and I got into trouble! It’s so unfair.
Naomi’s been here for two days – her and Marcus made up. Her mum came around yesterday looking for her. Naomi used me as an excuse of course and made me lie and say my dad would be home later. She’s getting on my nerves to be honest. She was laughing because Oliver hasn’t phoned me and she knows I’m upset. It was all I could do not to grab my knife and put it in her. I think she’s jealous of me because Oliver likes me and not her.
I watched them last night. I was walking past Marcus’s room. It was pathetic. My stupid brother grinning like an idiot this morning, and Naomi grinning back. I suppose it’s better than when she’s ignoring him and he’s all fucked up about it. Martha stayed in bed at least.
I light a cigarette and try to imagine Kate’s adolescence. Not so different from mine after all. A lack of grown-ups. Something Naomi had taken full advantage of by the sounds of it. I stub out my fag, feed the cat and go back to the file.
17.
Claudia Reynolds
Marcus keeps whispering on the phone. He thinks I don’t know anything’s the matter but I always do. On the upside, he’s being extremely nice to Bethany and me. I’ve got my guard up though. I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security before. Bethany is a lovely girl, but so quiet. And I know why. Of course I know why. It’s the only thing I still feel – pain for her. I remember when I was bombarded by my own pain. Open, gashing wounds. Now I’m largely numb – which helps – but she’s my weak spot. If she wasn’t here I would just go. One way or another. I’m thinking about it though, in a distant way. What Kate said about prison has stayed with me. My prison may not be like hers but it’s no less real.
I don’t know who he’s talking to and I don’t care. A few years ago I would have. Once I drove myself mad wondering – trying to check his phone, read emails over his shoulder, looking for proof of what I knew to be true. Now I’m indifferent. There are other women. That takes the heat off me. I don’t even have the energy left to feel sad about it. As long as Bethany doesn’t find out what does it matter?
The morning passes in a blur of chores. Bethany sits at the kitchen table colouring in. She is diligent about it and I feel proud of how naturally bright she is. James is due over so I make sandwiches and snacks, which I cover and store. When he arrives I have a pot of coffee brewing. Bethany’s face lights up – she loves her granddad. And who can blame her? James is a nice man. Unlike other men with extreme wealth, his own son included, he has a quiet way. I open the door and h
e hugs me and then bends to swing Bethany up into the air. She squeals, delighted, not even quietening down when Marcus appears. The rules change when James is here.
They head into the living room after the usual chatter. James compliments the house, how well I’m looking, how Bethany has grown. When I bring in coffee Bethany is on his lap and he’s stroking her hair. Marcus is oblivious to his only child, busily discussing business. After half an hour or so Marcus says there are a few other bits he’d like to discuss, perhaps they could head to his office? I clean away cups and plates, ask if they’d like more coffee. James says yes so I put on a fresh pot. I put the TV on for Bethany.
I’m about to knock on Marcus’s office door to ask if they would like cake – I made a lemon drizzle this morning – but the door is slightly ajar and I can hear them. I don’t know why but I stop for a moment.
‘How did she look?’ James asks.
‘Older.’
‘Well, yes, she would I suppose. And this is definitely why she’s back?’
Marcus snorts. ‘We know why she’s back, Dad.’
‘Yes, but her mind is fuzzy, isn’t it? What does it matter? It’s all done and dusted.’
‘What if she remembers?’
There is a silence. I’m certain they can hear my heart hammering in my chest. I start walking away to the kitchen door with soft silent feet. I cut the cake with shaking hands and put it on the tray. I walk to the office noisily this time, balancing a tray, letting the spoons jingle a bit, and I knock loudly, waiting for Marcus’s response.
James grins at the cake. ‘Oh, aren’t you a clever thing, eh?’ But the smile stops at his lips and the atmosphere feels strange.
That night I can’t sleep, even though I go to bed early. Marcus doesn’t follow me until much later, by which time I am feigning slumber, keeping my breathing long and even. But under it my mind is whirring. I’m thinking about how brutal my husband can be. I’m thinking about James’s wife, so desperate she chose to die.
What if she remembers what?
18.
Madison Attallee
I am nervous enough this morning to want a drink. The want is bodily and all consuming. I think about the last time. Leaving Molly sitting alone at the breakfast table. Running to the nearest shop, desperate and thirsty. I think about pouring the liquid down me, unable to wait the short walk home. Of stopping just for a minute and waking up to paramedics. I think about Molly, small and scared. Not knowing what to do when I didn’t come back, eventually phoning her dad. Not today. I can probably make it through today.
I dress with extra care. The years are ticking on – sped up, I’m sure, by my poor lifestyle choices, but the mirror isn’t too bad, even if I’m shaking. I get in the car and I put Metallica on full blast, light a cigarette and focus only on the heavy riffs. I will see Peter. I haven’t seen him for nearly eighteen months. He was a constant presence in my life. Marianne’s older brother, the girl I’d beaten up at school. Marianne and I became friends after I apologised in Jessica’s office for punching her. I wasn’t good at it – friendship – and ours might have fizzled out sooner if I hadn’t met her brother. Peter. He made me laugh when I thought I’d never find anything funny again. Soon I was going round to see him instead and we’d hang out at lunchtimes at school. He became my best friend. My boss. And the man I cheated on my husband with.
I smoke two more cigarettes on the way with the window open for all the good it does. I spray myself with YSL and find a stick of gum. I am at the station and I feel even shakier. I sit in the car and all I can think about is him. Peter. The boy who loved me, who grew into the man who loved me. Nearly twenty years of friendship have passed and yet I could never explain to him how it was for me. He was the only person who knew about my mum, who knew what I went through. The only person I would ever let help. He was the only person I really loved.
We reached a point early on where we stopped being friends. I felt it just as much as he did, but we never became lovers. I never crossed that line. He was too precious to me to risk in that way. He was the only man I have ever been myself around. I have never wanted that from my lovers, never been able to manage it. His love was something I never felt I deserved. Surprisingly, he came to my wedding with Marianne, but to be honest I had hoped he wouldn’t.
Peter sent me a text that night and told me I looked beautiful. I didn’t tell Rob. I left him saying goodbye to our guests and I headed to our room. I locked myself in the bathroom at the fancy hotel that made me feel less than. I drank champagne from the bottle and I let myself feel my heart breaking just for a minute while I let it sink in that the wrong man would be waiting on the other side of the door. Then I showered, changed, made up my face and lay down next to my husband.
This is stupid. Sitting around thinking won’t change anything. I swing open the door and step out; I walk towards the place that used to feel like home.
Deanie Ockham is sitting at the front desk, halfway through a call. She raises an eyebrow at me but smiles at the same time. She waves for me to take a seat. I do. Awkwardly, unable to find where my legs should go. I cross them in the end, likely doing a good impression of a demented Bambi. She is on the phone for what feels like forever but is actually less than two minutes according to my watch.
‘DI Attallee.’
I stand and almost trip my sorry arse over in the process. ‘Hi, Deanie. Just Madison now, I’m afraid.’
I lean over the counter to shake her hand and I can see genuine warmth in her eyes.
She says, ‘You look great. You’re thin as a stick, what’s your secret?’
Deanie is on a constant diet. A curvy woman always appraising everyone else’s body mass as serial dieters tend to do.
I shrug. ‘Stress and cigarettes.’
She laughs. ‘Hey, I’ve got the first part down at least.’
‘I don’t recommend the second, they’re hard to get rid of.’
She nods and sighs. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘How’re things here?’
‘Oh, the usual.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘DI Malone’s busy micro-managing us all.’
‘And how’s that going for you?’
Her eyes narrow. ‘The same way it would have gone for you, I reckon.’
I nod, taking some satisfaction in my nemesis’s obvious lack of popularity. There are some things I don’t miss.
Her phone rings again, she presses a button and it stops. She says, ‘I don’t reckon you’re here for chit-chat?’
‘No. I want to see P—DCI Branning.’
She stares at me for a minute. I can hear a hundred questions churning around in her head. ‘You sure about that, hon?’
‘I am. It’s work related.’
‘Your PI business?’ So everyone knows.
I try and smile. ‘Good news travels fast.’
‘All news travels fast. How you finding it?’
I shrug.
She says, ‘Plenty of people here miss you.’
‘Maybe.’
She shakes her head at that. ‘Definitely.’
She looks at me intently. I stand awkwardly, suddenly aware of all my limbs again and unsure where to place them. I wonder if my face is red. I try to smile and grimace instead. Why is cheerfulness such an almighty fucking effort? I give up and let my face fall into its usual pissed off expression. Immediate comfort is my reward.
‘I’ll ring through for you, hon. He’s in most of the day.’
I listen to her end of the call, imagining I can hear his voice. I can’t, of course.
‘OK, he says he’ll be right down. Why don’t you take a seat?’
When I see him I feel faint, actually faint. It’s the effect he’s had on me in recent years. The one my husband never did. But now it’s something else too. Awkwardness. The sense of good stuff gone bad. Two decades of friends
hip ruined because I am what I am.
He smiles. I smile back and stand.
‘Madison.’ And I feel it again, the ache low down in my stomach.
‘Hi, Peter.’
He’s beaming. ‘I was about to head out for lunch – care to join me?’
I nod and wave at Deanie who raises an eyebrow.
No one here knows anything for sure about Peter and me. They suspect, but the only people who really know are us. And Rob. Rob knows. We walk around the corner in silence. I light a cigarette and offer him the pack. He takes one. He is an occasional smoker. Anathema to my own thirty-a-day greed. We walk to Rosie’s. A greasy spoon just far enough to avoid the rest of the team. I don’t look at him but I can feel his presence. My steps two for his one.
When we get in, Marcia smiles as if I was just here yesterday. She takes our coats and leads us to ‘our’ table. Everything is bittersweet, tangy with my regret. She drops menus and promises to be back in a minute. Although they are never busy in here, Marcia’s minutes can run into the tens. Peter looks at me. I look right back. I drink him in. He looks well, tanned. I wonder if he’s been away, perhaps he was on a nice beach somewhere while I was busily writing my life story in fucking rehab. It’s been over a year since I saw him, perhaps closer to fourteen. I haven’t counted the days without him. I had put him somewhere else but now the pain of his absence washes over me.
‘How are you?’ he asks. He’s looking at me, into me. The same intense eyes he had at fourteen, the same look of concern when he’d come and help me clean my mum up. When he’d come and hold me, back in the days when I still cried.
‘Better,’ I say too quickly. He waits. I sigh, ‘I’m okay.’
‘How’s Molly?’
‘I don’t really know. I see her for two hours every fortnight. She seems okay.’