by Jo Jakeman
‘Okay,’ I said warily. ‘Okay. You’re right, but a home is important, yeah? A place where you can feel safe?’
I was beginning to see how I could win Naomi over.
‘This is the only home Alistair has ever known. Wouldn’t it be great if he never had to worry about having a roof over his head? To know that he always had his mum? You know what it feels like to be separated from your family and to be taken from your home. And I don’t think you’d want that for Alistair.’
She was nodding gently. I had to keep pushing, though I could hardly believe I was doing this.
‘I’d like to stay in this house, Naomi. And, if Phillip really is dying, I can’t see how kicking us out would benefit you. I know it seems harsh for us to be considering our financial security while there’s a dying man locked in my cellar, but me leaving the house isn’t going to help him. And yes, you might feel a little more secure if Phillip married you before he died, but I don’t think we can guarantee he’d live long enough to make that a reality, or that he’d even go ahead with it, once he’s got what he wants from me. Besides, you’re too young to be a widow.’
I cleared my throat. She was staring at the house, but her face didn’t betray her emotions.
‘I know we don’t have any reason to trust each other, but we both have reasons to distrust Phillip. Am I right?’
She shrugged. At least I knew she was listening.
‘You’ve worked hard on The Barn. It’s more than a house – it’s a home, isn’t it? That must be nice. But …’
I turned in my seat to face her, leaning back against the car door. I needed a different way to get through to her.
‘Do you know what’s in Phillip’s will?’
She shook her head briskly and took a deep breath. ‘Don’t know if he even has one.’
‘Right. Which means that he could screw you over; leave you with nothing. If he is dying, he might not have long left. And as he’s still legally married to me, it’s me who’ll get The Barn, Naomi. And his pension. Work with me, and I’ll make sure that we both benefit from his death. We can get paperwork drawn up to ensure that everything is divided equally between us. I won’t go after your home, if you don’t go after mine. Have you … have you any idea how big your mortgage is?’
‘Dunno. Big, I think. He’s always moaning that the deposit took all of his inheritance and the repayments are killing him.’
‘His life insurance will help then, won’t it? There might be enough to pay off both our mortgages. As long as we work together.’
Her lips grew thin and hard.
‘You’ve got nothing to fall back on, Naomi. No job. No family. And Phillip knows that. How much power are you willing to give him? Are you going to let him ruin your future too? After everything he’s done to you …’
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat; looked down at her hands. I was starting to get through to her. The heat from our bodies had begun to steam the car windows, and the house was an indistinct shape now.
‘You know what we should do?’ I continued. ‘We should take back control. We could use this to our advantage, Naomi. And you don’t have to do anything except leave him where he is.’
I let that sink in for a minute.
‘You deserve better. We both do. All I’m suggesting is that we take this opportunity to build a better life for ourselves; to make sure that his will benefits us all.’
She laid her head back against the headrest. I gave one last push.
‘All we have to do is make him see things our way. There’s a bed and a fridge and a telly down there; I’ve stayed in worse hotels. I’ll keep this house and my son, and you get to keep The Barn. We’ll split any money that’s left over after the debts are settled.’
‘And what will we do with him?’ she asked, nodding towards the house.
Good question.
‘We could look after him until he dies. If what you’re telling me is right, it shouldn’t be long. What could be more innocent than the two of us taking care of him?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘I don’t know,’ I groaned. ‘Are you sure he’s got cancer?’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, he’s always been a bit of a shit, but lately he’s taken it to a new level, you know? And you were right that he’s not been in work for weeks. I went into the station and they could barely look me in the eye. Said they couldn’t talk to me about Phillip without his express permission, or something. I knew something were on his mind, but I never guessed it were this.’
‘What about treatment?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t want it. Says it wouldn’t cure him, so what’s the point?’
A woman walked by, pushing a buggy. The wheels rumbled over the pavement. I glanced over my shoulder at her, but she didn’t seem to notice us sitting in the car scheming to keep someone in handcuffs.
I wasn’t the type of person to plot someone’s incarceration, I didn’t break laws, I didn’t even break the simplest of rules. And yet here I was, calmly talking about how to use a man’s death to my advantage. I could hardly believe I was in this situation but, unless I talked Naomi into joining me, the whole world would know what I’d done, and I would lose the only thing that mattered to me. Alistair.
‘He really is dying then,’ I said.
‘Looks like it. I mean, I thought he were talking rubbish at first. Just a way to get off the hook for trying to drown me. But for a while now he’s been hiding something. His mind’s always somewhere else. He said I could go with him for his next oncology appointment. He’d already cancelled it, said he didn’t want to know how far it’s spread, but he’d rearrange it just for me, so I could hear it for myself.’
‘And are you going to?’
‘No. Hate hospitals. I can see why he doesn’t want to go. It won’t make a blind bit of difference.’
Perhaps I should have felt sad, but nothing of what Naomi was telling me felt real. I found myself pleased that Phillip was dying, relieved that he wouldn’t be a problem for much longer. And then a lurch in my stomach as I was stung by guilt.
‘Well, it’s up to you, Naomi. What will it be? Are we going to leave him where he is, or are we going to walk back in there and set him free, so you can take him home with you to die?’
Naomi’s fingers touched her hairline, where the cut was still raw, and slowly followed the line towards her eye. She took a deep breath and sat up straight.
‘But if we’re not going to let him go, why would he sign anything we ask him to?’
‘Because,’ I said, ‘he’s not the only one who can keep a secret.’
Naomi drove Phillip’s car home and returned in a taxi with a large suitcase, a bottle of brandy and a second pair of handcuffs. She was unpacking Phillip’s bag when I walked into the kitchen.
‘Who else are you expecting to cuff?’ I asked.
‘You never know.’
I picked up a box of tablets and turned them over. Naomi pointed to the middle of her chest. ‘For his acid reflux.’
I nodded and put them down again, surprised by her simple act of tending to Phillip’s needs, despite what he’d done to her.
‘If we’ve got to convince people we’re looking after him proper,’ she said, ‘I thought we should at least pretend we care.’
I smiled.
‘Shall we get this done?’ I asked.
Naomi held a cheese sandwich and a glass of red wine. I picked up an armful of clothes and the second pair of cuffs. We’d need to cuff his wrists to the radiator before we undid the ones on his ankle, if he were to get changed. Though I was in no mood to dress him, it was important that he thought we cared.
I opened the cellar door and stood back to let Naomi descend to the cool, dimly lit room.
There was a faint musty smell in the cellar, which I hadn’t noticed before.
We rounded the corner cautiously and Phillip laughed unkindly when he saw Naomi.
‘I should have bloody known,’ he said.
‘Missed me?’
‘Like the fucking plague.’
She held the sandwich out to him.
‘Not hungry,’ he said.
‘Then starve,’ she said.
He took the wine, when offered. He made it swirl up the sides and settle, then swirl again. He looked like he was in a fine restaurant. He sniffed it.
‘Not that I’m complaining,’ he said. ‘But isn’t it a bit odd to tie a fella up, then bring him wine.’
‘Forgive us,’ I said curtly. ‘We’re new to this.’
I placed the folded-up bundle of clothes on the sofa next to him. Brown cord trousers, crisp white T-shirt and a navy-blue, round-necked jumper, underneath socks and boxer shorts. That was new. Phillip always wore briefs when he was with me.
‘This isn’t the way to go about kidnap,’ he said.
‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ I said. ‘You’ve not been kidnapped. We’re bringing you wine, for God’s sake. We want to talk to you about some important things, without you threatening us or walking away. For now, though, we’ve got some sorting out of our own to do, so we’ll all sit down and have a good talk tomorrow, okay?’
Naomi and I left the cellar without waiting for an answer.
‘Will you be all right?’ I asked Naomi quietly. ‘I need to dash, if I’m going to see Mother before I get Alistair.’
She let out a low whistle. ‘Yeah. Think so. That went better than I expected.’
‘He’s not as calm as he looks,’ I said. ‘He’ll be seething about being locked down there. Don’t get too close to him; don’t undo his cuffs, no matter what he says.’
‘What should I do if he kicks off?’ she asked.
‘Don’t worry, he won’t. Perhaps I should have said – I put a couple of sleeping tablets in his wine. He’ll be pretty docile for the rest of the afternoon. We’ll keep him drugged until I can get Alistair out of the house tomorrow, and then we can go to work. I’ll make sure we get everything we want from Phillip. He doesn’t need money, where he’s going.’
TWELVE
11 days before the funeral
Mother had refused to stay at my house when she was discharged from hospital. It was just as well.
She sat, cocooned by cushions, on a sagging dark-green leather sofa facing the French doors that opened onto the garden. The sofa didn’t suit her. Too soft, too inviting, too likely to have you stay a while – the exact opposite of her personality.
Her ground-floor apartment had a shared garden, which she never lifted a finger to weed. The residents paid Bill to come round and coax life into the garden, though he appeared to spend most of the winter weeks in Mother’s kitchen, inspecting the biscuit tin and talking of longer, sunnier days when the lasses would flock to him. Better days; long-gone days; the likes of which he’d never see again. He talked of the residents as ‘old folk’, but he was as timeworn as any of them – he just hadn’t realised it yet.
The flowerbeds were peppered with late snowdrops. They struggled to remain upright against the wind that side-swiped the space beyond the patio. Spring – like summer, and any hint of warmth – arrived later at Mother’s than anywhere else in the county. It would be unkind to suggest that it was her glacial temperament that caused the buds to seek solace underground.
Small birds wove and plaited their paths around the bird table in search of nuts, and discarded their unwanted seeds over the scarce grass. Food for the squirrels, Bill said.
For each of the three days since she’d come out of hospital I’d visited Mother after the morning school run, helped her to get dressed and wiped a duster over the figurines. Today I was late. Lunchtime had come and gone; and so, it seemed, had her patience.
‘Would it have hurt you to call?’ she snapped.
‘You look nice,’ I said, side-stepping her barb. ‘Is that a new blouse?’
‘Do I look like I’m in any fit state to go shopping? It took me an age to do up the buttons.’
‘It’s a shame you didn’t take advantage of that care package they offered, isn’t it? Someone could have come in to help you.’
‘The next time I let someone else dress me, I’ll be in a wooden box.’
‘But it’s okay for me to do it?’
‘You don’t count.’
‘Nope. I never have.’
‘Stop the self-pity, Imogen. It’s not your best look.’
I looked about the room for something to tidy or put away. Trying to find a way to make myself useful, before I had to leave. Fringed lamps sat atop dark wood tables. A magazine rack, like a Venus flytrap by her side, was stuffed with old copies of Derbyshire Life. There were no personal touches, no photographs of Alistair or me and none of my father. I knew that she bought herself flowers on their wedding anniversary every year, but my father’s name was never mentioned.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.
She shrugged.
‘When Father died …’
Her head snapped back to look at me.
‘… was there anything you wished you’d done differently. For me, that is?’
I couldn’t stop thinking about Phillip having cancer. When my dad had died, it had come as a shock; but with Phillip, we knew the end was coming, and I wondered how it could be managed to cause as little pain to Alistair as possible.
‘Do you do this just to hurt me, Imogen?’
‘No, Mother,’ I sighed. ‘There are other reasons too.’
Since my run-in with Phillip, it was as if I couldn’t stop speaking my mind, but I decided to let the subject of my father’s death drop. Mother never liked to talk about him and, seeing as I couldn’t explain to her why I was asking, I thought it safer to move on.
Whether I kept Phillip locked up or let him go, there was no denying that this time next year there would be little trace of Phillip Rochester. How would I recall him, when I talked to Alistair about his father? Would I give Phillip the same treatment as most of the deceased got? A eulogy fit for a saint? Or an honest account of a man who destroyed anyone who was stupid enough to love him?
‘I’ve put your milk and eggs in the fridge. You’ve got a couple of those M&S meals in there too. Are you going to be all right on your own? I need to dash to get Alistair.’
‘The eggs don’t need to be in the fridge.’
‘Still, that’s where they are, in case you were wondering.’
Mother shifted in her seat to look at me. She was no longer wearing her sling.
‘I am not an invalid, Imogen. It’s been nearly a week since I had a fall. They said I only had to rest for a few days.’
Older people always had a fall – they never fell. I wondered at what age falling became something that happened to you, rather than something you did.
‘Still, best not to rush things, eh?’ I said.
‘That’s become your motto in life, hasn’t it?’
Mother was adept at the verbal slap. And I was skilful at turning the other cheek. Until today.
‘Yep, getting it tattooed on my arse. Anyway, have you thought any more about going to Aunt Margaret’s?’
Aunt Margaret was the younger, prettier sister, and the apparent reason that I was spared any siblings. They had never seen eye-to-eye. Ever since she retired to Spain and picked lemons off her own tree for her pre-supper G&T, Margaret was to be actively despised. They bickered constantly, yet seemed to enjoy the sport.
‘I suppose it might be nice to get away for a while. Maybe next week.’
‘Let me know, and I’ll make sure I’m around to take you to the airport.’
‘It’s okay. Bill will take me.’
‘Bill? I didn’t realise you were close.’
Mother looked at me, affronted. ‘He’s the handyman.’
‘Yes, but how handy is he?’ I aimed a theatrical wink in her direction and she batted it away with a look that said I was deluded.
I kissed the top of her head, but she sat rigid. I breathed her in.
She smelled o
f Dove soap and washing day. All things clean and scrubbed. I associated Mother with cleanliness. Never a speck of dirt under her fingernails, never a hair out of place and never a stray emotion muddying the waters. If what they say is true – that cleanliness is next to godliness – then Mother was a shoo-in for heaven.
‘I won’t be able to pop round tomorrow. I’ve got this … this thing. Well, lots of things. I’m really busy. I’ll bring you over your lunch on Sunday, though. Yeah? Is that okay? And you’ll call if you need anything?’ I was already halfway to the door with the car keys in my hand. She didn’t reply.
I drove to the school, scrolling through radio stations for something to occupy my mind, but ended up switching it off and letting my thoughts roam. By the time I’d parked the car, an informal group stood by the gates, waiting for them to be unlocked. I hung back, not wanting to be pulled into conversations about homework and holiday plans.
Tristan was in front of me. His suit jacket was crumpled at the back, suggesting a long car journey or hours stuck in meetings. I imagined his tie rolled into a ball in his pocket and the top button of his blue-striped shirt open. His neck was tanned, except for half an inch below the hairline, which suggested a recent haircut. He was tall and slender, built like a cyclist but with pianist’s hands.
He was good-looking, with the right amount of stubble on his chin and enough flecks of grey at his temples to make him seem human. His glasses made him look intelligent and vulnerable at the same time. He had a gentle smile and kind eyes, but it was his broad shoulders that caught my eye, a split second before he caught me staring.
I blushed as if I had been caught doing something wrong.
‘Hi,’ he said, and stepped back a couple of paces so that we were level.
‘Hi.’
I smoothed my hair and combed it a little with my fingers at the same time.
‘Busy day?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Family stuff, errands and you know – I’ve been off today, so …’
‘All right for some,’ he said.
‘Yep. Life of Riley.’
He tilted his head on one side, but didn’t say anything. His hazel eyes were shining behind his thin-rimmed glasses. I wondered who Riley was, bemused that I had chosen this precise moment to use the phrase for the first time in my life.