by Jo Jakeman
Tristan had set the PTFA hearts a-flutter since he became chief carer for his two children. It was only rumour, but there were whispers on the playground grapevine that Sally had left Tristan for her female gym instructor. Tristan didn’t court the sympathy they bestowed on him. He challenged the stereotype that children should stay with their mothers after a break-up, and won countless hearts in the process. He was the opposite of Phillip in looks and temperament, but the fact that he had sole custody of his children used to make me fearful that Phillip’s threats of taking Alistair away from me might be realised. Was it wrong to be thankful that Phillip was dying and would never get his hands on my son?
‘Anything planned this weekend?’Tristan asked.
‘Me? I’ve got … people staying.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘In that case, I’ve oversold it. You?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Anything planned?’
‘Oh. No. Sally’s turn to have Ethan and Freya, so I’m home alone. I’ll probably catch up on some reading, maybe paint the kitchen, watch a bit of telly.’
I nodded. I knew the emptiness of a child-free weekend. There’d been days I’d have given anything for some alone-time and yet, when Alistair was at his dad’s, I couldn’t remember how I used to fill my hours. Without him, I lost my purpose. I tried taking up hobbies, but the half-finished watercolours ended up in the bin; the knitted scarf never reached longer than four inches; and the new trainers I’d purchased for early-morning runs in the park still hadn’t made it out of the box. With my mind elsewhere, it took me a moment to realise that Tristan was saying something.
‘Sorry?’ I said. ‘Didn’t catch that.’
‘I said, I can’t remember what I did before the kids came along.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing.’
The gates clanged open and we filed across the hopscotch and the painted snakes.
‘Well, if you’re ever at a loose end one weekend – if your ex has the kids at the same time as Sally – then we’ll have to grab a coffee or something.’
‘Phillip doesn’t really have Alistair much. Well, not any more.’
‘Okay. Never mind then.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Not a problem. Have a good weekend.’
‘You too.’
We filed round to our different doors to await our children, and I cursed myself for passing up the opportunity to spend time with an attractive single dad. Rachel would have known what to do.
When Alistair noticed me, he pulled on the sleeve of Miss Hambly. She looked up and searched the crowd until she caught my eyes and nodded. Alistair ran to me with his shirt untucked and his tie at an angle.
‘Hey, buddy!’
I picked up his school bag, sports bag, lunch box and artwork.
‘So, guess who wants to take you to the cinema tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Daddy?’ His eyes shone with excitement. Even though, or perhaps because, Phillip treated him with indifference, Alistair craved his dad’s attention. I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t that long since I’d been the same.
‘No, not Daddy. Rachel has invited you for a sleepover and she’s going to take you to see a film. How cool is that?’
He nodded. He loved Rachel. She was the closest thing he had to an aunty and the closest thing I had to a sister, but, try as she might, she was no substitute for a father’s love.
FOURTEEN
10 days before the funeral
Saturday rumbled in on the back of whip-crack lightning that split the sky in two and illuminated the room as if it was setting the scene for a film noir.
My bedroom door sprang open and Alistair tumbled on top of me, as reverberations of thunder shook the house. We lay in bed, counting the seconds that kept the flashes and the rumbles apart, like a referee at a boxing match. Alistair’s heart hammered beneath my hand and he shrank into the crook of my arm. He still believed in that special kind of magic – a parent’s touch that could keep fear at bay; kisses that could heal a scraped knee, and hugs that would mend a broken heart.
I’d let Alistair spend the previous evening watching telly in bed with a tray of treats, in order to keep him as far away from Phillip as possible. Once he was asleep, Naomi and I checked on Phillip from time to time, but otherwise we sat staring into space, drinking vodka and waiting for Phillip to wake up. By eleven, we gave up waiting and went to bed. I agreed to stop giving him any more sleeping tablets.
Another flash lit up the corners of my room now, but disappeared before I could identify the shadows and dark shapes that had been illuminated. The cracks were beginning to show, but the storm was yet to break.
Naomi was sleeping or, at least, lying in the spare room with its rosebud curtains and matching bedspread. I’d decorated it with Mother in mind, thinking she’d be the only one to sleep there. Each Sunday after swimming she would retire to the rosebud room, so that she could help with the Monday-morning school run while I dashed to the early-morning team meeting.
Phillip hadn’t encouraged visitors, and we hadn’t any friends who would visit from afar or come round for a dinner party and stay the night after one-too-many. We weren’t those kind of people.
Like everyone who had secrets to hide, we kept ourselves to ourselves. Barriers up. Distances maintained. Mr and Mrs Rochester, friendly folk who always asked after your ailing father and remembered your birthday, but had to dash off the moment the conversation turned to them.
I wasn’t comfortable with Naomi sleeping under my roof, and even less so with Phillip under my floor. I didn’t sleep. Sleeping tablets wouldn’t help, because I didn’t want to lengthen the distance between me and consciousness. With Phillip in my house, home was no longer a place of safety. His presence made me desperate to stay alert. It was the beginning of an earthquake. He was the tremor beneath me that unsettled my foundations and promised more disruption to come. There was a tsunami coming, and it was only made possible by my rashness. I had put us all in danger by taking on someone I couldn’t beat. He was only a man, but he was the only man who knew how to destroy me. One smirk, one look, one comment. That was all it took. He might be dying, but he was showing no signs of weakness.
As long as Phillip was locked up, then I was in control. I got to say when he ate, what he ate, if he ate at all. I might be deluding myself, but for once it felt good to have the upper hand.
Alistair flopped into sleep and I moved my arm, flexing my fingers against pins and needles. A house alarm was whining down the road. I knew it would be number twenty-seven. Their alarm went off every time the wind blew. I looked at the clock to note, with indignity, the time at which my peaceless night of non-slumber had been interrupted, but the radio-alarm was in complete darkness. I glanced at the door, where the orange glow of the bathroom acted as a nightlight for Alistair, but there was only the solid, immovable certainty of darkness. Phillip?
I snatched my arm from underneath Alistair’s neck and he murmured and turned over. The fusebox was in the cellar, but Phillip’s chain shouldn’t be long enough for him to reach it. Unless he’d ripped the radiator off the wall. Unless he’d picked the lock. Unless someone had freed him.
I slid out of bed and picked up the bedside lamp, holding it like a baseball bat. The door was still open from when Alistair had flung it open. A flash of lightning bleached the landing and I saw an empty staircase. I struggled to hear any sound above my own beating heart.
Thunder boomed overhead and I ducked, pulling the lamp with me and yanking the plug from the wall. I stayed crouched on the floor – less of a target to hit. I mentally scrolled through our escape routes. We could lock ourselves in the en suite and wait for help to come. Which was fine, as long as Phillip hadn’t already slipped past me and was waiting for me there.
A floorboard creaked on the landing. I could picture stealthy footsteps edging towards my door. Even if we could get past him on the stairs and reach the front door, the chain, the bolt and lock would
delay our escape. I stayed crouched, but slid towards the door, waiting for the next flash and rumble so that I could dart out and surprise him. I got to one knee and held the lamp firmly in both hands. The flash came more quickly this time and flickered for two, maybe three seconds. I sprang up and rounded the door. The landing was empty. I let the lamp fall by my side and gripped the doorframe.
I glanced to the bedroom window, which was little more than a faint grey shape on an already-grey wall. The bay window of the living room was beneath us. Where it jutted out there was a small sloping roof, a parapet, but the drop was still a long one. Without taking my eyes off the door, I edged around the bed to the window, to see for myself whether this was our best escape option.
I looked cautiously round the curtain, measuring the drop to the driveway beneath. I almost didn’t notice what was odd about the night. The colours were wrong. I couldn’t see the bottom of the driveway. The bushes and shrubs of my front garden were smudged.
I could see that some of my neighbours were at their windows too. A few had wrapped themselves in curtains, while others had opened their windows and were leaning brazenly over the ledge in their pyjamas. There was only the slimmest of moons and the whole street was without electricity. Starved of glowing orange street lights, my once-familiar road had become alien and frightening.
Darkness. The whole street was without power. After first wondering how Phillip could have caused such a thing, I realised that this power cut was nature flexing its muscles, not man. Phillip was still where I had left him, and he was not coming for me. I laughed aloud, some of the tension leaving my body. I was shaking as I sat down on the end of the bed and knotted my fingers in the duvet cover.
Lack of sleep was to blame for the sudden jump to an extreme conclusion. Phillip was cruel, but he wasn’t superhuman. He was probably still groggy from sleeping tablets, if he was awake at all. His old handcuffs that served as his restraints had been used on stronger men than him. I didn’t need to worry.
If it hadn’t been for Alistair, I would have curled up under the duvet and waited for morning, but the dark scared him. Landing lights had to be left on, nightlights positioned in his room. More than once, Phillip had made Alistair walk up the stairs in the blackness in order, he said, to prove that there was nothing to be afraid of. It didn’t work. Any mother could have told him that, but not me – I was too scared of him to disagree; Phillip was my darkness.
I didn’t believe Alistair would wake until the first shafts of sunlight hammered gold leaf over the room; but, just in case, I fumbled into my dressing gown and brushed my way downstairs to get emergency lighting. I gripped the bannister as a lifeline. I felt the stairs beneath my toes, and when the carpet turned to tile I knew I was at the bottom. I groped my way into the kitchen, eyes wide, though there was no light to be had. Though the cellar door was locked and bolted, I pushed myself against the opposite wall as I went past, fearing that Phillip’s malevolence would hook me from beneath the door. The distress of thinking he was free in the house was yet to leave me. I felt skittish and confused. I quickened my pace and knocked into a chair, which screeched my presence and caused me to swear.
I fumbled for tea-lights, matches and a torch under the sink in an old ice-cream tub. I clicked on the torch and put everything else in my pocket. I had to take a moment to calm myself before I left the kitchen. I opened the vodka bottle, poured myself two inches of composure and knocked it back. I left the glass on the side and stopped by the cellar door to listen.
Just as I knew he would, Phillip called my name.
I wondered about walking on by, ignoring him. I didn’t have to answer to him any more. What’s the worst he could do, if I didn’t answer?
I opened the door.
‘Yes?’
‘What’s happened?’ He sounded sleepy. His voice was soft and warm.
‘Power cut. The whole street’s out.’
‘I can’t see a bloody thing. Bring me a candle.’ There was a moment’s pause, just long enough for it to be noticeable before he added, ‘Please.’
‘You’ll have to wait a minute.’
I walked, without haste, back to my bedroom. The ceilings looked higher by torchlight and the corners sharper. The light didn’t go far enough to illuminate my path and succeeded only in making the darkness blacker. I lit a tea-light on the top of the dresser and kissed Alistair’s downy head. I sat on the side of the bed, watching him sleep; the firelight glow stroked his face each time a breeze pushed through the rotting window frames. I knew I wouldn’t be able to protect him from everything, but I would do my best.
I brushed my hair into a ponytail and pulled on some leggings. I listened outside Naomi’s room, but there was no sound. Enough time had passed to make Phillip think he was way down on my list of priorities, so I made my way to the cellar. The torch’s orb bounced ahead of me down the stairs and cut across the cellar steps. When it alighted on Phillip, he blinked and sat up. He was wearing his jumper in bed and rubbed his hands together to bring warmth to his fingers.
‘Bloody cold,’ he said. ‘You got another blanket anywhere?’
Naomi had helped him turn the sofa into a bed and he looked almost comfortable. I coaxed the tea-light into a small cream-tea glow and went behind the partition to where we kept the camping equipment. I found a torch, clicked it on and handed it to him. Then I pulled a sleeping bag out of its cocoon and unzipped it, so that it lay flat. I placed it over Phillip. It smelled fusty, but beggars can’t be choosers.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘You forget how dark it gets down here. And cold.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘How long till the power’s back up?’
‘Don’t know. Soon, I hope.’
I sat on the bottom step so I wasn’t quite in the same room as him. I watched as he put the torch on the arm of the sofa-bed and tucked the sleeping bag around and under his legs. He shivered. Phillip coughed twice. I wondered whether the cancer was announcing its presence.
‘Naomi and I have been talking,’ I said.
‘And?’
‘I know about the cancer. Why didn’t you tell me?’
There was a moment’s hesitation, a pause as he chose his words carefully.
‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business.’
‘Not my business? What about Alistair? When were you going to tell him?’
‘When it became difficult for me to hide it any more.’
The weak light from the torches and tea-light highlighted his heavy brow and the bags under his eyes. Shadows crept between the creases on his forehead. The light tricked his face into looking older than it would ever be.
‘Naomi says you’ve refused all treatment.’
His mouth drooped at the sides, bottom lip slightly protruding. He cocked his head from side to side, as if he were weighing up the validity of the statement.
‘“Refused” is a bit strong.’ He pushed himself up the bed. He raised his chin and peered down his nose at me, a sad smile lifting one side of his mouth. ‘They caught it too late. Doesn’t matter that I’ve not smoked in twenty years. The damage is already done. Any treatment at this point would just make me sick for the time I’ve got left. You know me, Immie, if I’m gonna go, I’ve got to do it on my terms.’ He waved his hand in a flourish like a magician announcing his final trick.
I stared at his chest as if I could see through his ribcage to the dark mass that was killing him from the inside out. Incurable. Terminal.
‘Tell me about it.’
He sighed, and I thought he wasn’t going to speak, but then he took a deep breath and told me everything – or, at least, everything that he wanted me to know. He told me about the routine check-up that led to non-routine scans and the discovery of masses and lesions. He told me about ignoring the signs, putting it down to old age and discovering that he wasn’t immortal after all. He told me he was beyond the point of recovery. He used words like ‘metastasised’ and ‘stage four’ and he dismisse
d my replies of ‘chemotherapy’ and ‘hospice’. In forty years he’d never gone to the doctor’s for anything more serious than tennis elbow brought on by a dodgy golf swing. It had taken him by surprise that his body had let him down.
‘How long do you have left?’ I asked.
‘How long’s a piece of string? And what does it matter anyway? The best days of my life are finished. Over the next few weeks my lungs’ll shut down and I’ll choke to death. That’s it, Immie, that’s it. It’s over.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Phillip.’
‘Save it,’ he said. ‘We both know you’re not. Couldn’t have come at a better time for you, could it?’
‘No, I really am sorry. I know what it’s like to lose your father at a young age and I wouldn’t wish that on Alistair.’
He coughed out a laugh. ‘At least that’s honest. I’d not want you to pretend that you were sorry for me anyway. Just Alistair. Always Alistair.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I muttered. ‘It’s just that I …’ My words dried up.
‘So now you know,’ he said, ‘why I’ve been trying to tie everything up as quickly as possible. I didn’t want you to find out like this, but, now that you have, you’re surely going to let me go. Right?’
I studied my knees, picking up the pilled material. It was impossible to explain my thoughts when I didn’t understand them myself. I wondered whether I was a monster for locking him up. Did this make me as bad as him? Faced with Phillip at his most reasonable, I began to wonder about my own motivation for keeping him down here. I had to keep reminding myself this had only happened because of him. Because he tried to kick us out of the only home Alistair had ever known; because he’d threatened to take my son away; because he’d attacked me. None of this was my fault, but I was so used to being made to feel guilty that I was finding it difficult to remember that.
‘I don’t trust you,’ I said quietly. ‘Naomi and I have agreed to get one of those do-it-yourself wills. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but you don’t exactly need money or property where you’re going. This way, we can make sure that we have some security.’