by Jess Ryder
I didn’t bother to deny it. Dad liked Eliot at first and was really impressed when he was selected for the High Potential Development Scheme – only sixty a year out of the whole country, he kept telling people, like a proud parent. But when things fell apart, he naturally took my side. He couldn’t bear to see me hurting – wanted to make it all better, to pick me up, sit me on his knee and rub the pain away like he used to do when I fell off my bike. He’ll loathe being questioned by Eliot, but it can’t be helped. As I started this whole business, the least I can do is warn him first.
As the taxi scoots around the twisting lanes, barely braking for the bends, I fix my gaze on the landscape. Billowy clouds hang over the undulating fields, the pale blue sky streaked with liquid morning gold, like a Turner painting. I’m glad now that Dad didn’t take any notice when I tried to dissuade him from moving to Suffolk. His heart was set on it, and it’s his heart that calls the shots these days. After twenty years teaching maths to the unteachable – stressed, overweight, with dangerously high cholesterol – he was a cardiac arrest waiting to happen. Now, at fifty-eight, he’s the relieved owner of two drug-eluting stents, has lost two stone and swallows a daily cocktail of beta blockers, aspirin and statins. Dad was offered early-retirement and he decided enough was enough.
I thought he was mad at the time, but now I understand. This is the perfect place for him – he can eat healthily, go for long walks, buy his newspaper and his semi-skimmed milk from the village shop, be part of the local community, meet new people, ‘for friendship, maybe love’. The last thing I want to do is disturb his new-found peace, but it’s going to be disturbed anyway, so I’ve no choice.
We pass under a railway bridge and turn sharp right onto Berryfield High Street. ‘What number?’ the driver asks.
‘It’s just called North End Cottage. I think it’s at the end, on the left.’
I’ve only been to Dad’s new home once before, when it still belonged to someone else. We went up to Suffolk for a few days for viewings and blitzed the area, seeing every two- or three-bedroom cottage for sale within a ten-mile radius of Ipswich. That was months ago now, the tail end of summer, and I remember it rained constantly, so much empty grey sky, like a band of depression round my head, that it made me long for the crowded London horizon.
‘That’s the one,’ I say, leaning forward. ‘With the blue front door.’
I ring the bell and Dad opens almost straight away, as if he was expecting a parcel. His face flushes when he sees me.
‘Meri! What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt out. He holds out his arms and I fall into them, instantly warmed by his body.
‘It’s okay, love, it’s okay,’ he murmurs, stroking my back a couple of times before pulling away. ‘You should have told me you were coming.’ He removes his glasses and cleans them with the corner of his shirt. ‘You haven’t lost your job, have you?’
‘No, no… I just had to see you.’ We go through the tiny hallway and into the living room. He nods at me to sit down.
‘I’ll make some tea. Are you hungry? I bet you didn’t have breakfast this morning.’
‘I did, actually. On the train. But I wouldn’t mind a biscuit,’ I call out as he shuffles off to the kitchen in his old man’s sheepskin slippers.
I look around at the familiar furniture, strangely revived by its new surroundings. His books are already on the shelves, his pictures on the walls, and a wood-burning stove is glowing in the fireplace. I take a couple of small logs from the wicker basket, open the door and shove them in, not because it’s cold, just for the pleasure of seeing them flame. Dad loves his fires. All those Sunday afternoons in the old garden, the dead leaves crackling, the choking smoke. Saving up bits of wood and cardboard for Bonfire Night, inviting my friends round for hot dogs and his humble firework display. He was burning things the last time I saw him. An image of him sprawled among dead flowers instantly pops up before my inner eye, and I will it to pop down again.
‘What do you think?’ he asks from the kitchen.
‘It’s great. You’ve made it really homely, Dad.’ I stand up, restless, and hover in the kitchen doorway. ‘I wish you’d let me help, though. It was silly, doing the move all on your own.’
‘I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.’
‘You know that’s not true. I left loads of messages. It was more like the other way round.’
‘Well, let’s forget about all that now,’ he says, giving me a warning smile. I wish I could forget about it, but I can’t. It’s out of my control. Eliot’s sitting in some Birmingham police station reading through statements, studying grisly photos of the murder victim and booking witness interviews; the past is alive and kicking and it’s about to come and grab Dad by the throat.
Walking past me with a laden tray, he puts it down on the coffee table we used to have in the old lounge and hands me a mug I’ve not seen before. It’s from a National Trust property – a good sign that he’s getting out and about. He flops into his armchair and reaches over for his own mug, dunking his ginger nut into his tea and lifting it, dripping, into his mouth. Every sound seems amplified by our silence. The seconds are passing. If I don’t say something now, I never will.
‘So to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ he asks, searching my face for clues.
I take a long, deep breath. ‘I watched the tape.’
No reply.
‘You obviously know what’s on it,’ I continue. ‘I mean, I understand completely why you didn’t want me to see it, but… well, I have now, so we need to talk about it.’ I try to catch his eye. ‘Don’t we?’
‘She told me she’d destroyed it.’ He looks past me, staring into the middle distance. ‘I shouldn’t have believed her; I should have stood and watched while she did it.’
‘Well, maybe, but the thing is, I’ve watched it now. I did a bit of research… I know who Cara Travers was, I know Becca was a witness. I know what happened at the trial.’
‘I see…’ There’s a long, heavy pause.
‘And now I’d like to hear your side of the story.’
He sighs deeply, putting down his mug. ‘There’s not much to say. Your mother was a very sick woman when she made that tape. I’m sorry you watched it, but now you understand the hell we went through – why I had to get her away from you. My advice is to try to forget about it and move on.’
Okay, this is it. This. Is. It.
‘The thing is, Dad, we can’t forget about it. The tape undermines Becca’s original evidence at the trial. The case has never been closed, you see, and now there’s this review called Operation—’
He lets his mouth fall open. ‘What? You mean you took the tape to the police? For God’s sake, Meri! I can’t believe…’ He gets up and walks towards the conservatory doors, turning around to face me, his body tensing with anger. ‘You idiot… you stupid, stupid girl! I told you not to watch it. Why didn’t you let me put it on the fire where it belonged?’
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry, I was just trying to find out some background. But it’s not only because of the tape. The case was being reviewed anyway, as part of Operation Honeysuckle. Forces all over the country are looking at pre-DNA cases now they’ve got this new technology, Eliot says a lot of—’
‘Eliot?’ He presses his fingers against his chest and winces. I redden, cursing myself inwardly. I was supposed to lead in gently to Eliot, once I’d explained everything else. That’s how I rehearsed it on the train this morning, but my plan has totally fallen apart. Dad is behaving really oddly, screwing up his eyes and breathing in rapidly through his nose. Is it anger or is something wrong?
‘Why are you still in touch with Eliot? I thought it was… all over with that… bastard…’
‘It is. We’re just friends now. Dad, calm down!’
‘Friends? After he gave you a nervous breakdown?’
‘It wasn’t a breakdown. Are you okay?’
‘Why cou
ldn’t you… leave well… alone?’ he says, gasping as he reaches out to steady himself on the back of a dining chair. ‘Raking up the past… I’m warning you… you’ll be sorry. No good… will come of it.’
‘But if the police can finally convict Christopher Jay…’
‘I don’t care about that little shit,’ he mutters. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. Us!’
‘Dad – you look awful. Please sit down.’ I try to take his arm, but he bats me off.
‘I’ve always tried… my best… to give you what you needed… but it’s never enough for you, is it? Never… enough…’ He lets out a small cry and starts to crumple.
‘Dad!’ I leap forward. ‘What is it?’
‘My chest. Pain. Can’t breathe…’ I catch him as he sinks down, breaking his fall. Oh God, what’s going on? He rolls sideways onto the rug, folding in on himself. His skin has gone grey and when I touch his forehead it feels cold and clammy, like a rubber toy.
‘What is it? A heart attack? Dad? Talk to me! Are you having a heart attack?’
‘Don’t know,’ he murmurs. ‘Can’t breathe.’
‘Should I call an ambulance?’
He nods.
I grab the house phone and dial 999. ‘What’s the postcode?’ the operator asks patiently. I look across the room to Dad, his eyes closed, hand pressed against his chest, as if feeling for his own heartbeat. ‘No idea. All I know is North End Cottage, High Street, Berryfield… It’s at the end of the village, there’s no number.’
I run to the front door and look out onto the street, half expecting to see the ambulance already careering towards us, siren blaring, blue light flashing. But the road is empty and quiet. I don’t know where the nearest doctor’s surgery is; I don’t know anything about this place. I prop the door open with one of Dad’s walking boots, then rush back to his side.
‘They’re coming as fast as they can, Dad. Can I get you anything?’
‘Blanket…’ he whispers faintly. I hurtle up the stairs and drag the duvet off his bed, putting it over my shoulder and bounding down again. He’s looking greyer and clammier than ever, but opens his eyes and smiles when I cover him up. It’s a weak smile, the corners of his mouth only lifting slightly, but it’s something. I hold his damp, limp hand and tell him I love him; that everything’s going to be all right. What else can I say? I can’t bear the thought that we might have had our last proper conversation.
The ambulance arrives within ten minutes. Two jolly paramedics, one fat and chatty, one thin and quiet, swathed in bright green overalls and padded vests, run into the room and almost push me out of the way.
‘Hello, I’m Mark,’ the fat one says. ‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Graeme Banks,’ I reply, but he ignores me. ‘Who am I talking to, sir?’ What does it matter? Just take him to the hospital! ‘Where’s the pain worst? In your arm?’ He shakes his head. ‘Not in your arm. Where, sir? In your chest?’
‘It’s not so bad now… I just feel so cold.’
‘Okay, I’m just going to take your blood pressure.’ He takes out the machine and nods at the result. ‘Yes, it’s extremely low.’ He turns to me. ‘I don’t think it’s a heart attack, but we’ll get him in the ambulance and do some tests, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Not a heart attack? Are you sure?’
‘Most likely just a vasovagal episode.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a posh word for fainting, basically. What some people call a funny turn.’ He sends the thin paramedic back to the ambulance, who then returns with a small chair on wheels.
‘So nothing to do with his heart problems?’
‘Not as such. Vasovagal episodes can be brought on by severe stress or a traumatic incident. His chest started tightening and he panicked; that’s what I suspect happened. He’ll be fine, honest.’ Mark lowers his voice. ‘Do you know what brought the attack on?’
‘Not really,’ I lie. I can’t go into all that now, not with these people.
‘Strange… It was quite a bad one.’
The paramedics help Dad to his feet, removing the cumbersome duvet and putting a thin hospital blanket around his shoulders instead. They lower him into the little chair and trundle him out of the house. He’s speaking more clearly now, apologising for putting them to so much bother, making self-deprecating jokes. This is what he does when he’s embarrassed. I watch as they load him into the back of the ambulance.
‘We’re going to do an ECG. Saves him sitting in A & E for four hours. You can sit in with him, if you like.’
‘No, it’s okay.’ I can’t sit there being all matey. I have to think.
I walk into the kitchen and fill the kettle for another cup of tea. Funny turn. I feel vaguely offended on Dad’s behalf. I can’t remember what the paramedic called it – vaso something. A posh word for fainting? I nearly fainted when I had my ears pierced, and it was nothing like that. Was it panic, because I mentioned the police? Or did he do it deliberately, so that I’d stop asking him questions? I don’t understand why this news has upset him so much.
The kettle comes to the boil, but I leave it. I go into the conservatory and sit on the sofa, its cushions slightly damp. Beyond the tiny garden and the small chicken-wire fence a large muddy field stretches all the way to the horizon, a mass of sticky brown clay squatting under the huge cornflower sky.
What’s he hiding? I wonder.
Chapter Eleven
Me
It’s a relief to be back in the city: navigating my way through irritable commuters, tired mothers pushing laden buggies and people shouting down their phones in languages I can’t recognise, let alone understand. As I wait on the underground platform, looking over dozens of expectant shoulders towards the tunnel, I am comforted by the lack of interest in my existence. It means I can concentrate on reorganising my universe.
There’s been a seismic shift in my relationship with Dad. On the surface, the changes are barely discernible, small enough to ignore. But deep down at the core, we no longer trust each other.
When the paramedics left, he shuffled back indoors, sank into his favourite armchair, pointing the remote control at the telly and switching on Cash in the Attic, as casual as you like, and started telling me some humorous story about next door’s dog. It was as if the paramedics had wiped his memory banks inside the ambulance, only we both knew full well they hadn’t. Whenever he thought I was about to speak, he put his hand against his chest in a protective gesture – subtly warning me of the risk I’d be taking if I brought up the subject again. I glared at the television, silently fuming. Then he announced he was hungry and sent me to the kitchen with an order for cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.
‘Thanks, love,’ he said, picking up his spoon immediately and slurping the too-hot soup into his mouth. I put my own tray on the coffee table and knelt on the floor. We ate in silence, our spoons clinking the sides of the bowls, an unsteady metronome. Once he’d finished and I’d made another cup of tea, I called a taxi to take me back to the station. He tried to guilt-trip me into staying overnight, saying he was worried he might have another attack and would need me to call 999. I told him I had to get back to work tomorrow. Not true. I’ve actually booked three days off.
So here I am. Back home. If you can call this shabby room in a crappy shared house with damp home. I can smell it as soon as I walk into the kitchen; I’m sure it’s getting worse. God, I miss our flat above the greengrocer’s: just me and Eliot, with only our food in the fridge, our books on the shelves, our discarded socks in the sitting room. Growing pots of parsley and coriander on the kitchen windowsill, inviting friends round for Sunday brunch, talking about saving for a deposit. That was a grown-up kind of life. And although I moaned about Eliot’s shifts, and worried that he might be shot or stabbed, I realise I was happy then. Happier than I am now, anyway. I hate this single girlie sharing, this throwback to my student days. I should not have to live with someone who puts Post-it notes on their food, or t
exts me from their bedroom to complain that their bottle of wine has ‘mysteriously gone down’. I’m flailing about in the pit of post-long-term-relationship hell. I’m nearly thirty; I need to sort myself out.
But there’s no way I can do the sorting – get a new job, meet a new guy, find somewhere decent to live – while all this stuff is going on with Becca. Something is wrong. I can’t believe Dad is lying to me, but I don’t think he’s telling the whole truth. The truth about what, though? Becca’s disappearance, the murder, or both? The more I think about it, the more the two events seem to be linked, even though they took place several years apart. Yet if Dad had had his way, I would never have known. He wrote the official narrative of her life, and for all those years I believed it without question. Until now, that is.
It’s evening when Eliot calls me from his flat. ‘Did you manage to speak to Graeme?’ he asks, cheerfully, as if it’s no big deal. I tell him about Dad’s ‘funny turn’.
‘You think he faked it?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But he panicked, that’s for sure. I’ve no idea why. I think he’s hiding something from me.’
‘Hmm… I definitely need to speak to him.’ He starts stacking plates noisily into the dishwasher.
‘Best of luck with that,’ I say. ‘If he’s managed to keep a secret for over thirty years, he’s not going to talk now.’
‘You never know. Sometimes people want to get things off their chest, especially as they get older.’
I hear the dishwasher door slamming shut, the rush of water as the machine whirrs into life. We never had such a luxury at the flat above the greengrocer’s. Whoever didn’t cook did the washing-up; an unspoken rule in the easy ebb and flow of our existence. I think of the full greasy sink downstairs and shudder.
‘So what have you been doing? Found out anything interesting?’ I say, picking up my pen and adjusting the phone under my chin.