A Wayward Game
Page 22
“It’s not like you to be so compliant. What’s got into you?”
“Things have changed, Neil.”
“Not everything, surely,” he says, and there’s a wicked light in his eyes. I laugh.
“No, not quite everything.”
“Good. That’s one thing we’ve always done very well, and I’d like it to continue. That’s if we trust each other.”
“I trust you.” I squeeze his fingers, hard. “We haven’t always been honest with each other. We’ve played all kinds of silly games and hurt each other. But from now on, we’re going to be playing by different rules, and we’re going to stick to them. Is that understood?”
Neil laughs, and squeezes my hand in return.
“Yes, Mistress,” he says.
~
We’ll never know exactly what happened to Diane. Without a body, we can’t even say for certain that she’s dead. This is one of those cases in which there’ll never be justice, at least in the usual sense of the word. Diane’s disappearance remains unexplained, and Sallow never stood in a court of law. Legally, he is innocent. The legal truth and the actual truth, as Neil is fond of saying, are often two different things; only in fortunate cases do they coincide.
Sometimes, then, I dream up little scenarios in which Diane ran away from a life that was becoming unbearable, and instead created her own life. I imagine her living in a quiet part of the country, finally cured of her ambition, and bringing up her child in peace. That child would be eight by now, and sometimes I try to visualise it – boy or girl? Headstrong, or placid? Academic or sporty? I can drift for hours in these comforting fantasies, conjuring up a happy afterlife for Diane, in which all worked out well and everything – eventually – made sense.
They are just dreams, of course. I know, deep down, that Diane would never have walked away without a passport or money, without even telling her own mother. And the fact that Sallow tried to kill me lays any remaining doubts to rest. I suppose that Diane must lie in some quiet part of the country, in an unmarked grave, in a sleep so profound that there are no dreams, good or bad. And eventually all our dreams of her will come to an end too, and we will all be forgotten, and absolute peace will be restored.
For now, though, the darkness lingers. Two months after Sallow tried to kill me, I still suffer from nightmares about Tidesend. I imagine my body drifting in the estuary, being washed out towards the North Sea and oblivion. At least, though, I don’t have to face these horrors alone anymore. Neil is often beside me now, and when I wake up sobbing and sweating he comforts me. It is soothing, I find, to rely on another person, to accept their care. To submit, if you will. Dominance, submission: we all carry those two tendencies within. If we express them in harmless ways, there shouldn’t be a problem. The danger comes, perhaps, when we attempt to dominate another person in earnest, or when we submit in anything other than fantasy. Sallow and Diane found that out the hard way.
Frieda is in prison, of course. Just as the justice system and public opinion are generally sympathetic toward her, so too are the prison staff and the other inmates. She is treated well and, given the circumstances, will hopefully be freed before too many years have passed. Then, I hope, she’ll be able to live out the rest of her life in peace – or such peace, at least, as she can reasonably hope to find.
I go to visit her when I can. The prison is out in the countryside, surrounded by woods and farmland; driving there, you can almost imagine that you’re going on a picnic or day trip to a castle or country park. That illusion is shattered, of course, when you drive up to the grim periphery wall, with its constantly-guarded, mechanical gates, and see the large rectangular building and barred windows beyond. Venturing inside, you are accompanied by a chorus of jangling keys and opening and closing doors. But the prison is far from being the worst of its kind. Cells are clean and modern. Prisoners have access to a library, paid work, training schemes and education. The focus seems to be on rehabilitation rather than revenge.
“It’s not too bad,” Frieda tells me one day, sitting across the table from me in the visitors’ room. “I have a cell to myself, and everything I need. The other women are pretty good, on the whole. I wouldn’t say I liked it, but it’s bearable.”
“I wish you weren’t here, Frieda,” I say, holding her hand across the table.
“So do I. But I don’t regret what I did, not for a moment.” She shakes her head, sadly. “People say you shouldn’t take the law into your own hands, but what happens when the law can’t help you? What choice do you have? What choice did I have? To watch him living in that penthouse of his, earning more money in a year than most people ever see in their lives, snorting coke and partying with his rich friends, while my Diane lay somewhere out in the cold, all alone, without justice? So I killed him, and I don’t regret it.”
“Hardly anyone blames you. Personally, I think they should just let you go free.”
“Ah, well. It can’t make that much difference, you know.” Frieda glances around with calm, uncomplaining eyes. “I’ve been in prison since the day Sallow took my girl away from me. I’ll always be in that prison, and it’s a life sentence. No release, no parole.”
“You can’t live like that.”
“I don’t have a choice. My life was over years ago.” Frieda sighs and pats my hand in an almost maternal way. “You, though, Katherine – you’ve got to move on, girl. The whole world’s out there waiting for you. If Diane loved you, then you’re someone special, and you deserve everything that life’s got to offer.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“I do. And Diane’d want me to tell you so, too. You’ve got so much life in you, and so much love. So go out there and put them to the best use you can. Live and love and be happy, the best way you know how, every day of your life. And then you’ll honour Diane’s memory.”
Later, after I’ve left the prison and am walking back to my car, I remember Frieda’s words. I stand on the edge of the car park for a while, looking out over the quiet, wintry countryside. Miles of bare fields and thick woods stretch out before me, punctured by church spires and threaded with silver rivers, and I feel my soul soar.
Frieda said she’d been in prison since Diane vanished. There’s a sense in which I have been a prisoner, too. I’ve been trapped by my own past and my own memories, and by my bitterness and suspicion. I’ve been held by bars and locks that I couldn’t even see. Now, I feel free. My life stands in front of me like the quiet countryside: incalculable, unknown, but there to be explored and experienced to the full. I smile, get into the car, and begin my journey back to London, and Neil.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pandora Witzmann was born in London, and is of English, Austrian, Dutch, Portuguese and Jewish descent. She has lived in New York, Amsterdam and Rome, and has degrees in Philosophy and Psychology. She currently lives in West London. She may be contacted at pandorawitzmann@gmail.com.
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Table of Contents
Start
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author