The Surrogate

by Tania Carver

  ‘They gave me everything I’d been lacking. A home. A sense of belonging, I don’t know… a purpose.’ He smiled, took a drink of wine. ‘Sorry. I’m not very good at talking about all this. It’s… I can’t express myself well.’

  Her hand was on his again. She smiled. ‘You’ve told me everything.’

  Their eyes locked once more. Different colours but the same in every sense that mattered. They went straight back to his flat.

  He hadn’t had time to fully take in her body before they began making love. The connection continued. Nerves evaporated as they quickly fell into rhythm with each other, complementing and second-guessing what the other enjoyed, linked almost by a carnal telepathy. It was hot, physical, intense. Connected by more than just bodily sensations.

  At one point, her legs wrapped round him, pulling him into her as deeply as he could go, he had opened his eyes to see her staring up at him. She had smiled. He had returned it. And in that moment he knew there was something between them stronger than lust or physical attraction. It was stronger than any bond he had ever experienced. It thrilled him beyond description.

  It scared him beyond imagining.

  He came.

  Later, lying spent and exhausted, their bodies intertwined, Phil tried to work out what had just happened. It was more than just a physical release. He glanced across at Marina. Knew without asking that she was experiencing the same thing. It was the biggest thing that had ever happened to him. Again he was thrilled. Again he was terrified.

  Early-morning sunlight eased round the curtains. They had barely slept. Phil pointed the remote at the CD; Elbow played gently in the background: ‘One Day Like This’. The euphoric love song establishing and nourishing the mood.

  ‘Aren’t you going to be in trouble when you get home?’

  Her face was half in shadow. ‘Leave that to me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I don’t do this normally, you know,’ said Marina.

  ‘What, you do it abnormally?’

  She gave him a shove. ‘You’re hysterical. I meant that. Jumping into bed with people.’

  ‘People? You want a threesome now? Foursome?’

  Another shove. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Phil laughed. ‘I know. Then why did you do it?’

  Their eyes connected. ‘Why did you ask me out?’

  Phil couldn’t bear to look at her; the intimacy was too naked, too knowing. ‘Felt right.’

  ‘More than right,’ she said.

  Phil couldn’t reply. He just held her tighter. Felt the damage and uncertainty slip away, to be replaced by the beautiful, terrible peace of a love that reached down to his soul.

  Held Marina like she was about to stop being real, turn into smoke. Knew she was experiencing similar emotions.

  Knew that, whatever happened, his life would never be the same again.

  Phil pointed the remote at the stereo, silencing Elbow before the album reached the track that reminded him of Marina. It wasn’t healthy: like picking a wound, stopping it from healing.

  He drained his bottle, put it down. Looked at the half-eaten takeaway before him. He couldn’t eat. There was another bottle in the fridge if he needed it. He felt the start of a headache. Forced it away. He couldn’t indulge himself. He had to work.

  Trying to push Marina out of his mind, he made himself re-examine the day he had just gone through. Close up his heart to her, compartmentalise his life and concentrate on finding a killer. And a baby.

  He played back the events of the day, starting with the discovery of Claire Fielding’s body. Went over everything once again, looking for something they might have missed, attempting to make hidden connections.

  Ignored the loneliness in his flat, his life.

  Focused on his job.

  Unaware that the song was still on his lips.

  30

  Marina stood at the window, glass of sparkling apple juice in hand, wishing it was something stronger. In front of her was a path, and beyond that the River Colne moved slowly past. Her house, a painted brick cottage with clematis climbing round the porch, was on the front at Wivenhoe, a quaint old fishing village now colonised primarily by academics working at the nearby university. The whole village had a relaxed, cultured ambience. A homely, safe place. But, putting the glass to her lips, Marina was feeling neither of those things.

  Tony was cooking a late dinner. Nothing special, pasta arrabiata. It should have been Marina’s turn but he had taken one look at her as she entered and, handing her a glass of juice and kissing her forehead, declared he would do it. She had made a half-hearted attempt to refuse.

  ‘No,’ he had said, fussing around her, his reading glasses still perched on the end of his nose, ‘my last seminar finished at five, and since then I’ve done nothing but read and drink wine, so…’ He sat her down in an armchair as if she was an invalid and handed her a newspaper, then, pleased with himself for being so solicitous, retreated into the kitchen. She had smiled at him, accepted it. He was good to her, she told herself.

  She had looked round the living room of their cottage, filled as it was with books, interesting one-off pieces of furniture, subdued lighting, unexpected pictures, plants and wall hangings. They had done that to show visitors and themselves that they were interesting people leading a full, rich life. The opposite of the house she had grown up in. But crossing to the window and looking out at the slow-moving, sluggish, dark river, Marina felt as if it all belonged to someone else and not her.

  Music wafted from the kitchen – some chilled Brazilian beats Tony had picked up somewhere – along with delicious cooking odours that any other night would have had her stomach rumbling in anticipation. But not tonight. She took a sip of her drink, grimaced, disappointed in herself that she had expected something that wasn’t there.

  She saw Claire Fielding’s dead body. Julie Simpson’s too. The other two women. Phil had been right about the murder scene. It felt like they shouldn’t have been there. Like life had passed on.

  Phil. She had planned what she was going to say to him the next time she saw him. Several times. But as the weeks had passed and life had ground on without him, she had resigned herself to never seeing him again. And perhaps, she had thought, that was for the best. She was back with Tony, pregnant, with a fledgling private practice. Her life had moved on. Or at least back. Back into her safety zone.

  But here they were, together again. And she hadn’t been able to say anything to him. Because every time she thought of him, she saw Martin Fletcher’s face. The locked door. She felt the cold fear bubble and boil inside her once more, and then she thought of Phil. And it all rendered her speechless.

  She hadn’t realised how much of a rut she had fallen into before the police called her in on the Gemma Hardy case. Routine had turned to drudgery without her noticing. Her safe job, her pension. And Tony, her safe man.

  But then she hadn’t wanted an exciting man. Before she met Tony she had been attracted to the kinds of men who reminded her of her father. She knew it was wrong, not to mention unhealthy, but nevertheless she kept going back, kept seeking them out. Until one day she had looked in the mirror and seriously questioned what she was doing. And found that she couldn’t do it any more.

  Tony had been there. A good man, solid, dependable. Thoughtful, pleasant, companionable. Old enough to be her father, but his diametric opposite in every other respect. He didn’t thrill her or excite her, but he made her feel comfortable. Safe. He was kind to her. And those, she told herself, were admirable qualities. He asked her out, she accepted. And that was that. He wanted her to move in with him, out of her town-centre flat, into his cottage in Wivenhoe. She had done so. And felt comfortable. Content. Or so she thought.

  By the time of the Gemma Hardy case she was ready for a new challenge. And she got one. It taxed her, stretched her. Being forced to turn something she only dealt with theoretically into a practical application, with a young woman’s life potentially at stake, terri
fied her. But it also pushed her, confronted her. And when she helped provide the team with a positive result, it gave her a thrill teaching never had. Never could.

  Not only that, but she met Phil.

  She knew as soon as she saw him. There was something about him, an immediate connection. At first she tried to deny it, claim it was a symptom of the case she was working on, confusing adrenalin and lust for something stronger and more profound, but the more time she spent with him, talked to him, the more she became convinced she was right and they connected on a much deeper level. A soul deep level. She recognised something in him. Something she had never encountered in anyone else in quite the same way. Something she had only ever seen in herself. She knew that if there was a man who could understand her – totally – it was him.

  So when he asked her out, she couldn’t say no. Despite having Tony. She slept with Phil. Repeatedly. And surprised herself: rather than feeling guilty about betraying Tony, she began to feel increasingly that her future lay with Phil.

  And then came Martin Fletcher.

  The Gemma Hardy case was finished. Martin Fletcher had been caught, the team had celebrated. Marina included. Her first foray into police work had been a resounding success. She had put her name forward for more. Everything was looking good for her.

  She had gone back to university after the case had concluded, and was in her office one evening, straightening out some of the paperwork that had accrued in her absence. She was meeting Phil later, happy to work until that time. He had arranged to pick her up from her office, said he wanted to see where she worked. She was pleased about that, looking forward to showing the place off to him. No qualms about being seen on campus with another man, because she had decided to tell Tony it was all over. Consequently, her mobile was switched off in case he phoned her.

  There was a knock on the door. Hesitant at first, then more self-assured. She shouted for the person to come in. He did. As she looked up, her heart seemed to stop. Her pen fell from her grasp. Martin Fletcher was standing in her office.

  ‘What… what d’you want?’

  He gazed around, as if searching for the answer to the question on the shelves of her office. Then looked directly at her.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘You.’

  Marina was terrified. She glanced to the door, calculated the distance, the obstacles in her way. Fletcher must have had the same idea. He turned, and before she could even rise from her chair, he had locked it and put his back against it.

  ‘Don’t scream,’ he said, menace in his voice. ‘Don’t.’

  She swallowed. It felt like there was a stone in her throat. ‘There’s someone… someone coming here in a minute. Very soon.’

  ‘No there’s not. They’ve all gone home.’

  ‘Yes, yes there is.’ She was breathing so hard, her heart felt like it was going to burst. ‘Phil… Phil Brennan. Detective Inspector. He’s meeting me here.’

  A wave of fear passed across Fletcher’s features at the mention of the police. Despite being terrified, Marina was thinking like a psychologist. He’s scared of the police but not of me. He’s angry but can’t take it out on them, so I’m the target. The thought was less than comforting.

  ‘What are you doing out?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were on remand.’

  He smiled then. It was eerie, like he was listening to a joke told by a ghost on a distant radio. ‘They let me go. On bail. Technicality.’ Then the anger returned. ‘You.You ruined my life.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes you did.’ He was starting to get angry now. He moved away from the door, started coming towards her. ‘You took away my life. Turned Gemma against me.You did that.’

  Marina looked round for a weapon, something she could use. Could see nothing. Phil, she thought, hurry up…

  She had to keep him talking, try to reason with him. ‘No, Martin, you’re wrong. I didn’t ruin your life.’

  ‘Yes you did!’

  She flinched at his anger. Forced herself to keep calm. Breathed deeply. ‘No. No I didn’t. And Gemma was never your girlfriend. That was Louisa, Gemma’s flatmate.’

  ‘No…’ He put his hands to his head, started hitting his temples. ‘No, no…’

  ‘Yes she was, Martin. Louisa was your girlfriend. Not Gemma.’

  ‘No, no…’

  ‘Gemma was her friend. But not your girlfriend. Let it go, Martin, you’ve got to let it go…’

  His next words were inaudible, just a shriek of pain as he kept hitting himself, eyes tight shut, seemingly trying to knock her words out of his head.

  Marina looked round once again for a weapon, anything. There was no time to turn her mobile on. She saw the phone on the table. If she could get to that, quickly make a call…

  She looked at Martin Fletcher, eyes closed, still hitting himself, then back to the phone. She could do it. Just reach out, grab it…

  As her hand wrapped round the receiver, he opened his eyes and, with a scream, lunged forward. She tried to punch in the numbers but he was on her, his hand over hers, pulling the receiver from her, wrenching the phone from the wall, flinging it on the floor.

  ‘Bitch! You’re going to pay…’

  She made a lunge for the door, knowing that she probably wouldn’t reach it. She was right. He was on her straight away, pulling her back by her hair. She put her hands up to her head, tried to prise his fingers away, but to no avail. He flung her to the floor. She felt hair being pulled out by the roots, thought parts of her scalp could have gone too.

  She landed hard and curled up into a ball, instinctively trying to protect herself while she got her breath back. She knew blows were coming and closed her eyes, placed her hands over her head and face.

  ‘Please, don’t hurt me… don’t hurt me…’

  He knelt on her, his weight pushing her down, making it hard for her to catch her breath, clamped a hand roughly over her mouth. ‘Shut up. Don’t say anything. Don’t scream, don’t… just don’t…’

  She kept her eyes screwed tightly shut. Said the same words over and over again like a prayer, a mantra: Phil will be here soon, Phil will be here soon…

  Then the slapping started. More startling than painful. She felt him attacking her around her face. She quickly moved her hands to ward off the stinging blows.

  ‘Bitch… bitch…’

  He was using the words to build himself up. The slaps were getting harder, more forceful. Then she felt a punch to her chest. She grunted. That hurt. Then another one. Then another.

  She had to do something, try to stop him before he lost control completely.

  She opened her eyes, squinting at the expected blow. She looked up, saw Fletcher, his face twisted ugly with anger and hatred, his eyes almost closed. She glanced to the side. Saw the phone lying there. That would have to do.

  She could move her left arm; he didn’t have any weight on that. Good. She snaked it out, groped for the phone. Found it. Flinching from the slaps and punches, she gripped it, hefted it in her hand and brought her arm round as fast and as hard as she could.

  The phone connected with the side of Martin Fletcher’s head.

  Not trusting to luck, she did it again.

  He opened his eyes, looked at her. The anger had gone, replaced by shock. She didn’t have time to think about his reaction now; she just had to capitalise on it. So for a third time, roaring as she did so, she hefted the phone, putting all her strength behind it, feeling it crunch once more against the side of his head.

  Martin Fletcher sat back, stunned. Marina used his confusion to wriggle her body free of his. She dashed to the door, tried to undo the lock, but her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get a grip on it. Instead she started banging.

  ‘Help! Help me! Somebody help me! Help!’

  ‘No… don’t… don’t do that… please…’ Martin Fletcher’s voice was small and fragile. He stayed where he was on the floor, rubbing his head where the phone had connected, from where blood was beginnin
g to trickle.

  Marina ignored him, kept shouting.

  ‘No, please don’t…’

  His anger was completely gone now; just that tremulous, fearful voice in its place. She turned to him, the psychologist in her ascendant once more.

  ‘Your power’s gone, Martin. I’m not scared of you any more…’

  He shuffled away from her, squashed himself into the corner of the room. Covered his head with his hands.

  Then came the sound of banging on the door.

  ‘Phil!’ Marina shouted. ‘I’m in here!’

  There was more than one voice, muffled by the heavy wood. Marina took strength from the voices, managed to turn the lock. The door opened. There were two overseas students standing there, along with a maintenance worker. But no Phil.

  She turned back to Martin Fletcher. He had stood up and was trying to get out of the window.

  She rushed forward but he shouted, stopping her.

  ‘Stay back or I’ll jump!’

  She stayed where she was. ‘Come on, Martin, don’t be stupid. You’ll break your neck if you jump from here. Kill yourself.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have come here…’ Martin Fletcher was crying. ‘It’s my fault. All my fault. I shouldn’t have come here…’

  ‘It’s not that bad, Martin, come on. Let’s talk about it…’ She tried to edge closer to him.

  He moved further out on to the ledge. ‘I said stay back!’

  Marina stayed where she was.

  ‘There’s nothing for me. Not now. Just prison, with the nonces and the paedos…’

  ‘Martin…’

  ‘Tell Gemma, tell Gemma… I loved her…’

  ‘Martin, no!’

  But her words fell on empty air. He had jumped.

  ‘Be about another five minutes.’

  Tony’s words called Marina back to the present. She gave a grunted reply, took another drink.

  And that had been that. Martin Fletcher had jumped, killing himself in the process. And Phil hadn’t been there to help her. To save her. He had tried to contact her afterwards, when he had heard what happened. But she wouldn’t take his calls. She also discovered that he had tried to contact her when her phone was switched off. He’d wanted to tell her that at best he would be late, and at worst he wouldn’t be able to make it. There had been a murder and he had been called out to attend.