Mark hurtled down the stairs and saw his briefcase in the hallway beneath the telephone table. Damn it, he thought, what a stupid place to leave it. Tom must have seen it. He paused briefly at the hallway mirror and brushed his hair back into place, rearranged his collar, and gave himself a pitiful look. Taking a deep breath, he opened the front door, looked up and down the street, and walked hurriedly up towards the end of the road where he’d parked his car. The visitor’s parking permit had run out barely fifteen minutes ago, and already stuck to his windscreen of his Ford Fiesta was the familiar yellow penalty notice. Mark cursed – what a crap way to end a crap day.
*
Meanwhile, Julie, realising she might have little time before either Tom or Charlotte returned, suddenly snapped out of her state of self-pity. She began by hunting for a clean, nondescript bra and knickers, placing the more alluring set neatly in her drawer. With a pang of guilt, she realised how her sexy underwear saw the light of day more for Mark’s benefit than Tom’s. She desperately wanted a shower to remove the smell of sex and sweat but she knew time could be against her; a quick wash would have to suffice. Once fully dressed, she began maniacally making the bed, stuffing the crumpled sheets into the laundry basket, replacing them with ironed duplicates and puffing-up the pillows. Half an hour later, both she and the spare bedroom looked as they should in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Only the faint aroma of sweat remained. She opened the window and then cruised around the house picking up dirty mugs and plates and stuffed them willy-nilly into the dishwater. Tom would have a seizure. He liked the dishwasher to be loaded properly to his exacting standards. The main plates went here, the bowls there, the mugs at ninety bloody degrees from the sodding side-plates. One of the mugs slipped, fell to the floor and broke. Julie swore; her nerves were on edge. To her horror, it was Tom’s favourite mug, his Arsenal football mug, celebrating the ‘Double’ of 2002, a Christmas present from Charlotte. Fortunately, only the handle had snapped off, the mug itself was still intact. She put the handle in the mug, and hid the evidence behind the tins in the food cupboard.
Still feeling jittery, Julie made herself a coffee and went outside into the garden to try and enjoy the sun. Sitting in the sun-lounger beneath the shade of the laurel hedge, she closed her eyes, breathed deeply through her nose and tried to compose herself. She promised, to whatever greater being might have been eavesdropping, that she had learnt her lesson. From now on, she was going to be the perfect mother and the model wife. Things were going to change.
Chapter 2: The Library
Tom had seen them all right.
From the moment he saw the briefcase he knew something was amiss. Aware of the stilted silence, he had begun climbing the stairs, conscious of the slightest sound, the tiniest creak. As he trod carefully across the carpeted landing, his heart pounding, he told himself he was being irrational. What did he expect to find – a burglar? But burglars don’t leave briefcases in the hallway. Having checked his and Julie’s bedroom, and then Charlotte’s, he relaxed slightly. But perhaps he should check the bedroom at the back of the house as well. He placed his hand on the doorknob – white and shiny with a small floral pattern on it but with a crack straight down the middle he hadn’t noticed before – and slowly turned. He thought he heard a small sharp intake of breath from within. He paused. Angus was yapping outside in the garden. He opened the door a fraction, barely an inch or two, and then stopped. Tom peered through the gap between the edge of the door and the doorframe. There, through the slither of view, he could clearly see her lying on the bed. Between her legs, the crouching knees of a man, a tee shirt on his lap, and the dark hairs on his painfully pale legs. What should he do? Burst in and confront them in their humiliation? Instead, fearing his own humiliation, Tom did nothing. He gently closed the door, wondered momentarily where he could find replacement doorknobs with the same pattern, walked slowly back along the landing and down the stairs.
He stood in the hallway and tried to control his breathing. His throat felt dry, his head spun. The familiar surroundings seemed oddly out of place. The hallway mirror seemed too big for the limited amount of space within its reflection, the rug seemed too dark, its triangular pattern too fussy, the small crack in the ceiling looked menacingly large. He needed to get out and get some air. He whistled for Angus and remembered the dog was still outside in the garden. Letting him back in, Angus ran straight past him, headed for his basket in the corner of the kitchen, and dived into the comfort of the chewed blanket, looking somewhat put out that Tom had forgotten him for so long. Tom picked up the dog lead and all was forgiven in an instant.
‘Come on, let’s go for a walk,’ he said, trying to make his voice sound as natural as possible. Grappling with Angus’s lead, he fumbled as he tried to attach the metal loop onto the dog collar. Every action seemed unnatural and clumsy, as if he was critically watching himself from the outside. He saw the briefcase again. He glanced upstairs and guiltily lifted the unlocked flap to see what was within. Inside, he saw a book, various files and The Guardian newspaper. Angus barked with impatience, making Tom jump. Without thinking, he swiped the book as Angus pulled on the lead and stretched for the front door.
The heat outside was as oppressive as the surreal tension inside. Someone said hello, a neighbour. Tom grunted an acknowledgement. Angus tried to scramble ahead as his master brusquely yanked him back. Tom strode forwards, his mind incapable of taking in the vision of his wife in bed with another man. Actually in bed. Should he take comfort that it was only the spare bed, and not theirs? Perhaps he’d imagined it; it seemed too unreal. He felt like going back to check he hadn’t been mistaken. But the knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach told him it was real all right.
Angus saw a pigeon and lurched violently towards it, twisting mid-lunge as the lead snapped him back. A few minutes later, they were in the park. Tom let Angus off the lead and the little dog charged off chasing an invisible prey. Being a sunny day during the half-term week, the park was predictably busy with children shrieking, boys playing football, grown-ups playing Frisbee. An ice cream van played its shrill tune; an elderly lady with a Yorkshire terrier tried to shoo Angus away. He wandered along the tarmac path and alongside the green wicker fence behind which was a café and an ankle-high paddling pool. He paused and watched the small children splashing in the sun-reflected water. He remembered Charlotte as a toddler doing exactly the same, while he and Julie sat sipping coffee wearing sunglasses to shield their eyes from the painfully white plastic tables. From the path, Tom cut across the grounds and breathed in the smell of the freshly cut grass. He headed for the large ancient oak tree that dominated the middle of the park, now in its full glory; its huge branches casting long shadows across the large expanse of neat grass. Only the scattering of litter spoilt the effect. It was, apparently, a red oak, not that Tom knew one oak tree from another, but he’d always loved the gritty lines of the bark, the twisted and gnarled branches.
Over the years, it’d become their tree, the Searight tree. Charlotte still used it as a reference point when taking Angus out for a walk. When she was a toddler, Tom used to hide round the sturdy trunk and play peek-a-boo with her while Julie lay on the grass watching them, smiling with maternal contentment. In the days before Charlotte, Julie and he often used to take an early evening stroll during the summer weekends. Hand in hand, they’d wander up to the tree and lie within its shadows and idle away the time. Tom had always been tempted to carve his and Julie’s initials into the bark. He smiled at the memory, stopped a few yards short of the tree, and sat down cross-legged within its looming shadow.
He looked at the book he’d taken from the briefcase. A strange little coincidence: it was a book on the First World War. Well, at least they had more than just his wife in common. Flinging the book to one side, he lay back, closed his eyes, and listened to the gentle breeze wafting through the leaves high above him. Meanwhile, Angus busied himself in his olfactory pursuits, occasionally checking back with his maste
r, making sure it wasn’t time to go yet.
Tom tried to think, but his mind was still a blank, his senses devoid of any comprehensible feeling. A strange numbness covered him like a lethargic blanket denying him any semblance of emotion or reaction. She was having an affair; he had failed her. Why was she doing this? He sighed; he’d failed her. The enormity of it suddenly hit him as his heart squeezed inside, leaving him gasping for breath, his eyes pricking on the brink of crying. Burying his face in his hands, he tried to hold back the tears.
‘Tom? Are you all right?’
Angus barked. Tom opened his eyes to see a pair of feet in sandals with a ring around the left middle toe. Recognising the high-pitched voice, he looked up. ‘What?’ It was Rachel, Abigail’s mother, looking resplendent in a pink top and pale trousers. ‘I’m s-sorry,’ he stuttered, sitting up.
‘My God, Tom, what on earth’s wrong?’
‘It’s nothing, it’s... Just some bad news, that’s all.’
‘Are you crying?’ Uninvited, she kneeled down facing him.
‘No, no. It’s fine, really.’
He’d known Rachel for years but it had been a few months since he last saw her. He vaguely recognised a smartly dressed man hovering nearby, in neatly pressed chinos, polished brown leather shoes and an expensive shirt masquerading as casual wear. Seemingly overdressed for the park, his attire appeared at odds with his earrings and his beard dyed blue. Rachel looked embarrassed and twirled a long slender finger around a strand of her shoulder-length hair coloured different shades of red. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have disturbed you.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Tom, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. She looked thinner than ever and as attractive as always with her bright lipstick and huge smile. Coughing to clear his throat, he asked whether Charlotte was behaving herself.
‘You’re asking me?’ She looked genuinely puzzled.
‘Yes, isn’t she with Abigail?’
‘No, why? Should she be?’
‘Yes, she said she was seeing Abigail this afternoon. She left about an hour ago.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ she said softly, ‘but Abigail’s out for the day. She’s visiting her granny in Lewisham. And I certainly haven’t seen Charlotte; Adrian and I only left the house a few minutes ago. Oh, by the way, this is Adrian.’
The man with the blue beard was stroking Angus. Yes, thought Tom, he’d seen him once at Tom’s place of work; he’d come to see his boss. The man stood up and briefly acknowledged Tom before announcing, ‘I’m off to get us an ice cream. Do you fancy one, mate?’
‘No, you’re all right, thanks,’ said Tom.
Bluebeard sauntered off, hands in pockets, jangling his loose change.
‘So tell me, how’s Julie?’ asked Rachel. Tom grimaced at the question as the slithered vision of his wife with some strange man flashed across his mind. He tried to cover it up with a smile, but she’d spotted it. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t there?’ she asked softly, her head tilted earnestly to one side.
‘Nothing. Really,’ he replied, too quickly, avoiding eye contact.
She glanced around, as if making sure Bluebeard was out of earshot. ‘Come on, Tom Searight, I’ve known you long enough and well enough to know when something’s not right. Tell me, what’s up?’
He could feel his eyes pricking again. He couldn’t cry; not in front of Rachel; not in front of her. He didn’t want to tell her but he knew that she, of all people, would understand and he knew one way or another, she would winkle it out of him. He always used to tell her everything. And right now, he needed someone to take his side, to sympathise.
‘Tom?’ He could tell she was dying to know, desperately trying not to appear too eager.
He could feel his heart pounding within. ‘I think she’s seeing someone.’ The words came quickly as if trying to deny their existence. And why, he wondered, had he said, “I think”, as if implying there was still room for doubt? What clearer evidence did a man need?
He caught her immediate reaction, the gleeful glint in those hazel eyes, the suppressed smile. ‘Oh dear, I am sorry.’ She didn’t mean it; he could tell. ‘I knew something was wrong. You poor thing, how long have you known?’
There was no room for doubt in Rachel’s mind, no acknowledgement of his “I think”. Tom looked at his watch in mock seriousness. ‘About half an hour,’ he said, sardonically.
‘Oh my word, how did you find out?’
‘I... I just did.’ He couldn’t tell her, not that; it was too humiliating. ‘I’m still in shock, I suppose. I don’t know what to do.’ He rubbed his eyes again, taking a deep breath. ‘I just don’t know what to do,’ he repeated to himself with a sigh.
Rachel put on that familiar half-smile of sympathy. ‘I understand,’ she said, nodding earnestly. ‘Look, later on, why don’t you come back to mine and–’
‘No, no, it’s all right, I just... you know.’
She nodded again. ‘Look, I can see you need some space, but I’m still at the same place. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten my number.’ No, thought Tom, he hadn’t forgotten, it was still there, embedded in his memory. She ran her hand over his sleeve. ‘If you ever want to talk about it, give me a ring.’
‘Yeah, thanks, Rach.’
She lowered her head and peered up at him. ‘I mean it. Anytime, OK?’
‘I ought to go,’ he said, although he had no idea where to or why he ought to. Calling for Angus, he struggled to his feet, his whole body feeling suddenly rather heavy and awkward.
‘Lovely to see you again,’ said Rachel, with that huge painted smile of hers.
‘Yeah. You too.’ He turned to leave, conscious she was watching him as he strolled away, Angus bounding nearby.
‘Tom!’ shouted Rachel after him. ‘Your book.’ She scooped the book off the ground and looked at the title. ‘Reading about the First World War, are you? Isn’t that the history project they’re doing at school at the moment?’
‘It’s his.’
‘His?’
Tom nodded. ‘I found it in the house.’
‘He was inside your...’ She stopped herself. ‘Oh dear.’ Opening the cover, she noticed the date label inside. ‘It’s a library book, from Valentine Road library. Do you know who he is?’ Tom shook his head. ‘Why don’t you use this to find out? Just take it back to the library, it’s only up the road.’
He looked at her. ‘Really?’
Bluebeard reappeared clutching two ice cream cones. ‘Here you are,’ he said gruffly, handing one to Rachel. ‘One pound, twenty.’
‘I think, Adrian, you’re meant to say “my treat”.’ She looked at Tom, smiling sympathetically at him. ‘Nice to see you again,’ she said softly.
Tom returned the smile and wondered whether she was also thinking about that time all those years ago.
Bluebeard licked his ice-cream, looking from one to the other. He seemed slightly ill at ease, thought Tom.
As Tom walked away from the oak tree with Angus at his side, he looked again at the book cover. The picture showed a soldier, rifle at the ready, leaning against a sloping muddy trench wall, gingerly peering into No Man’s Land. Tom hadn’t given a moment’s thought to the First World War for years, probably since he left school, and yet the subject seemed to be dominating the day, following him around like an unwanted companion. He glanced at the contents page: there was a chapter on the art and literature of the Great War, including, of course, the war poets. He flipped to the page and saw the familiar names: Brooke, Owen, Graves, Sassoon, and others he didn’t recognise. His eyes settled on a poem by Sassoon, one he knew bits of by heart. For some strange reason, he’d never forgotten the final stanza. Perhaps Charlotte could use it in her recital. He closed the book and muttered the words to himself: ‘“Have you forgotten yet? Look up and swear by the green of the spring that you’ll never forget”.’
He looked at his watch; it was only a matter of four hours since he was standing in
the mock trench in the museum. Four small hours. And in that time, his life had inexplicably changed. Four hours ago, he’d been a normal dad taking his daughter out to a museum, with a wife who loved him, or so he thought, and a happy, normal home to return to. In a matter of an afternoon, everything had been turned on its head. To what was he returning now? A manipulative, conniving daughter and a deceitful, adulterous wife. As he approached the library, Angus pulled on his lead and wagged his tail enthusiastically. At least someone seemed happy.
Presumably, thought Tom, if the man frequented Valentine Road library, it meant he was local. Looking at the date label again, Tom noticed the book was almost a fortnight overdue. He felt in his pocket and found a fifty pence piece. That should cover the overdue fine, he thought. He hadn’t been to a library for years and did not possess a library card. He tied Angus up to a wooden bench outside, promising the dog he’d only be a few moments, and went inside. It was a small, dark library with heavy wooden shelves and peeling notices; a typical municipal affair opened only a few hours per week. As he entered, he noticed a small display of books and pictures on football, a rack of videos and DVDs, and a sign with a large X over a picture of a mobile phone. The place was almost empty. A few users congregated around the shelves marked ‘Returned Books’. He approached the deserted counter. Behind it stood a young, tall, black girl, her white blouse neatly pressed, her hair tied tightly back. She smiled politely at him. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes, I’m just returning this book.’
She opened the front cover, scanned the barcode with a light-pen and peered into the computer screen in front of her. ‘It’s a few days’ overdue, I’m afraid, and there’s another nine books due on the same day, I might as well renew all of them for you.’ She pressed a few buttons and the computer bleeped. ‘There,’ she said, ‘all due now on the twenty-third of June, that’s three weeks’ time. That’ll be nine pounds, please.’
The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3) Page 2