The Split

by Sharon Bolton

  ‘Which you have caught a mere glimpse of and cannot possibly verify.’

  ‘Granted, but let’s assume for now it happened. Because of abuse she suffered as a child, at the hands of someone she should have been able to trust, i.e. her own father, she’s conditioned to think it’s what she deserves. She tolerates her husband’s abusive treatment because it feels normal.’

  ‘It’s a pattern we’ve both seen before.’

  ‘Also, and here’s the bit I’m struggling with, she’s successfully wiping the encounters with her husband from her mind because she’s terrified of him. These fugue states she’s been experiencing – they mark times when she’s encountered him and fled. Afterwards, she makes herself forget, because it’s too much to deal with.’

  Torquil is looking doubtful. ‘She’s hearing voices. She’s suffering recurring episodes of amnesia. Felicity Lloyd’s problems are in her head.’

  ‘Some of them, I agree. But what if they’re not all? What if she’s really in danger?’

  ‘She’s an interesting case, I’ll give you that. But not your case any more.’

  ‘I can’t just do nothing.’

  ‘You’re not going to like what I say next,’ says Torquil.

  Joe waits.

  ‘Make your final report to her GP, then do nothing.’

  59

  Joe

  The house where Felicity lived as a young child is a large Edwardian semi on a wide tree-lined street about a mile from Salisbury city centre. Joe parks and stands for several minutes at the bottom of the shared drive. He has no idea why he is here or what he thinks he can achieve, and he is fighting off a sense of being in the wrong place.

  A voice inside him is telling him he shouldn’t have left Cambridge. Even putting aside his anxiety about Felicity, who still hasn’t been in touch, Dora Hardwick didn’t keep her appointment the previous evening.

  A car horn startles him and he jumps round to see a blue Astra trying to enter the driveway. He raises a hand in apology and steps to one side. The car draws level and the driver window lowers.

  ‘Help you?’ The man behind the wheel is older than Joe, tall and thin, wearing a tweed jacket and green tie.

  ‘Sorry.’ Joe has nothing prepared.

  ‘You don’t look like you’re casing the joint, but we’ve had a spate of break-ins recently and we’re at the point of calling the police first, asking questions later. If we’re really worried, we activate neighbourhood watch. There’s a signal on the roof.’

  Joe glances towards the roof of the house and can see nothing but a satellite dish. When he looks back, the driver’s face has the pleased-with-himself look of someone who has cracked a good joke.

  Joe takes his hospital ID from an inner pocket. ‘My name’s Joe Grant,’ he says. ‘A patient of mine lived in number twenty-two some years ago and frankly, I’m not sure why I’m here. Sorry to have bothered you.’ He turns to walk back to his own car.

  ‘How many years?’ the man calls after him.

  Joe hesitates.

  ‘Twenty-five, by any chance?’

  Joe says nothing.

  ‘Come on up,’ the car driver invites. ‘I’m twiddling my thumbs right now and not about to turn down a chance to talk about the murder house.’

  * * *

  The car driver, whose name is Elwin Black, lives at number 24.

  ‘The houses are twins,’ he tells Joe, as they enter through a rear door. ‘I can show you round, if you like. You’ll get the idea of the layout. Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Joe says.

  Black is an academic. His kitchen is piled high with books and files and papers. Maps and charts are pinned onto every available stretch of wall and Post-it notes are scattered across the room as though a paper machine has exploded. Joe steps closer to a series of photographs and starts back. The crime scenes depicted are lurid and explicit.

  On the kitchen table is an old-fashioned manual typewriter. An ashtray overflows with cigarette stubs. There are sticky rings and two unwashed glass tumblers.

  ‘I have three rooms in this house that I’ve tried to use as studies,’ Black says. ‘And this is the only place I can work.’

  As his new friend pours water and ground coffee into a machine, Joe sees a long narrow garden beyond the window. The door to the rest of the house is open and Joe can see a hallway with black and white square tiles, a wide staircase and a wood-panelled, under-stairs cupboard.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ he asks, when the coffee arrives.

  ‘Twelve years. Three different families have lived in number twenty-two in that time. No one ever stays long. Splash of bourbon in that?’

  Joe declines. ‘I can’t talk about my patient,’ he says. ‘You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘’Course.’ Black invites him to sit and takes the stool opposite. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why do you call it the “murder house”?’

  ‘Bloke went mad and killed his family. Cut his wife to pieces and then did the same thing to his little girl. Then he killed himself.’

  Joe feels his breakfast churning in his stomach. He thinks he might, actually, be about to throw up on a stranger’s kitchen floor.

  ‘Actually,’ he says. ‘I will have a splash of bourbon. Thanks.’

  ‘Thought you might.’ Grinning, Black sloshes some amber liquid into Joe’s cup. Joe drinks. The burning liquor has an instant, calming effect. ‘That’s quite a story,’ Joe says, when the immediate threat of vomiting has passed. ‘Is this common knowledge?’

  ‘Absolutely. There are ghost tours of old Salisbury. Tourist things, and they usually include a visit here. Nice little earner for me.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the family?’

  ‘Lloyd. Struck a chord with me because my mother’s maiden name was Lloyd. Her family came from the valleys.’

  ‘And they all died? No survivors?’

  Black shakes his head, and the tiny smile doesn’t leave his face. ‘Bodies all found in the under-stairs cupboard.’

  * * *

  It is pouring with rain when Joe arrives back in Cambridge and he is soaked to the skin by the time he reaches Torquil’s boat. The cabin smells of the river and of fried onions.

  ‘Well, that can’t be right,’ Torquil says, when Joe has finished his story. ‘Felicity’s still alive. Was there a sibling?’

  ‘Who knows? To be honest, I suspect a combination of Chinese whispers, overactive imagination and love of an audience,’ Joe says. ‘The guy gets money from showing people around his house so it’s in his interests to make it as lurid as possible. But there must be some truth in it. Felicity has a thing about under-stairs cupboards. And there was some major trauma involving her parents when she was about three years old, so the timing’s right. She talked about “bad men” though, as in “Don’t give me to the bad men, Daddy”. In Felicity’s subconscious, her father is an abuser.’

  His supervisor looks thoughtful.

  ‘And she definitely told me her parents are dead.’

  ‘Maybe she witnessed her father killing her mother,’ Torquil suggests. ‘Maybe she hid in the under-stairs cupboard, which is how she survived.’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘If murder was committed, there’ll be a record. Have you done a search?’

  Joe shakes his head. ‘Nothing on the internet, but it was over twenty years ago. Mum should be able to dig it all up, so to speak. She won’t like it, but I can twist her arm.’

  Torquil drops his eyes.

  ‘What?’ Joe says.

  ‘I don’t doubt you can find out exactly what went on twenty-five years ago, which will probably bear some resemblance, but not much, to the story you were told today. What I’m less sure about is what you’d gain.’

  This takes Joe by surprise. ‘How about the truth?’

  ‘Felicity told you, in no uncertain terms, that she doesn’t want to find out anything more about her past life,’ Torquil says. ‘She c
an’t cope with it right now. And you cannot force a patient into therapy she isn’t ready for. You’re not going to like this, Joe, but—’

  Joe gets to his feet. ‘I know,’ he agrees. ‘Back away, stay away, she’s not my problem any more.’

  He has never seen his supervisor looking so worried. ‘You won’t, will you?’ he says.

  ‘No.’

  * * *

  At lunchtime the next day, Joe drives to the offices of the British Antarctic Survey on Cambridge’s west campus. Two women are behind the reception desk, one staring at a computer screen, the other on her knees packing boxes.

  ‘Hi,’ Joe says, when the woman at the computer looks up. ‘I was hoping to catch Felicity. Has she left for lunch yet?’

  Turning up at her office will surprise her, maybe even embarrass her, but it still feels more professional than going to her house.

  ‘Felicity isn’t here.’ The woman has a puzzled look on her face. ‘Can anyone else help you?’

  Joe forces a cheery smile. ‘No, she’s a mate. I hoped she might have time for some lunch.’

  The receptionist frowns. ‘Felicity doesn’t work here any more.’

  ‘Oh, she does work here.’ The other woman has looked up from her box-packing. ‘She just doesn’t work here. She’s on assignment.’

  ‘She’s finished already?’ Joe says. ‘I thought that was a couple of weeks away.’

  ‘No, she finished on Friday,’ the other woman says. ‘We had a drinks party for her. I’m not sure if she’s left the city yet. Do you know, Lucy?’

  ‘I don’t think she mentioned when she was flying out,’ the woman called Lucy says. ‘She talked about spending some time in South America though. You may catch her at home. We can’t give out her address, but if you’re a friend…’

  ‘I know where she lives,’ Joe says. ‘Thanks.’

  He has his hand on the door before he thinks of something.

  ‘I’ve got some stuff of hers,’ he says. ‘If she’s gone already, can you help me get in touch with her husband? I could pass it on to him.’

  Both women look at him blankly.

  ‘Her husband, Freddie?’ he prompts.

  The two women look at each other. ‘Did you know Felicity was married?’ the one called Lucy says.

  The other shakes her head

  ‘Sorry,’ Lucy says. ‘She never mentioned a husband.’

  * * *

  Joe is on the ground floor, ready to leave the building, when the other lift opens and a pair of heels clicks out.

  ‘Wait a sec!’

  He turns to see that Lucy has followed him down. Now that she is away from the reception desk he can see that she is heavily pregnant.

  ‘I don’t want you to think we’re being unhelpful,’ she says. ‘You took us a bit by surprise. But I remembered when you’d gone, there was someone else asking after Felicity. He came in a couple of times. He never left his name, but I did press him once on what he wanted.’ She puts her hand to her stomach and takes a deep breath. ‘We get a lot of reps trying to get meetings with our scientists,’ she goes on. ‘Anyway, he said he was family. So, it could have been him, couldn’t it? Tall guy? Blonde? Good looking? A bit older than she is?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joe says, thinking back to the wedding photograph. ‘That sounds like Freddie.’

  He waits for Lucy to turn back towards the lift. She doesn’t.

  ‘Thanks,’ Joe says. Still she doesn’t move.

  ‘Is there something else?’ Joe tries.

  Lucy looks deeply uncomfortable. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this, but—’

  ‘I’m worried about Felicity,’ Joe says quickly. ‘Looks like you are too.’

  His words seem to give Lucy the permission she needs. ‘She received letters,’ she says. ‘From prison. I see all the incoming mail, and obviously I don’t open anything personal, but the postmark was obvious. HMP Durham.’

  ‘How many?’ Joe asks.

  Lucy makes a thinking face. ‘I can remember three,’ she says. ‘Could have been more.’

  ‘Can you remember when they started?’

  She nods. ‘In March. I know that for a fact because she left the office the minute I gave it to her. I was a bit worried, I’d never seen her like that before, she looked – I don’t know whether it was angry or scared but it was weird. Anyway, I watched her from the window and she opened the letter when she was standing near some daffodils. That’s how I know it was March.’

  Joe is thinking March. Felicity’s problems began in March. That’s when she experienced her first fugue state.

  ‘Each time a letter came she changed,’ Lucy says. ‘It was a bit freaky to be honest. But what I’m trying to say is, maybe they were from her husband. Maybe her husband is in prison and that’s why she never mentioned him.’

  Joe nods.

  ‘So this man who turned up here looking for her could also have been her husband, released from prison,’ Lucy says. ‘That would be pretty scary, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly would,’ Joe agrees.

  * * *

  He drives to her house but he knows, even before he gets out of his car, that she has gone. He walks to the front door all the same and peers through into the hallway. The internal doors are all closed. At the back he lets himself into her courtyard. The back door is locked. The kitchen beyond looks spotless. He glances down and sees the basement window has been repaired with what looks like reinforced glass.

  The lid on the recycling bin doesn’t quite close. Joe wanders over and sees it is full of cardboard boxes, bubble wrap, the stuff people leave behind when they move house.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  Joe starts round to see a man’s face peering at him over the fence from the courtyard next door.

  ‘Already?’ Joe asks. ‘I thought she had at least another week here.’

  ‘Left the day before yesterday. Evening flight to Chile from Heathrow. I’ve to put the bins out on Wednesday.’

  Knowing the neighbour is still watching him, and not caring, Joe lifts the dustbin lid on an impulse. On top of the bubble wrap and cardboard lies a slim white envelope. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket as he’s seen his mother do he wraps it over his hand and tips out the contents. Inside are four photographs of Felicity, taken at night or in the early evening, almost certainly without her knowledge.

  They have been lying on an upturned photograph in a silver frame. Joe picks it up, still using the handkerchief and sees the black-and-white wedding picture. Felicity’s face is hidden behind the gossamer mist of a bridal veil but the groom is shiningly handsome, tall and fair as a Viking prince. The runaway bridesmaid is cute as a button. Joe takes both the envelope and the wedding photograph and leaves Felicity’s property.

  Part Three

  CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND

  Seven Months Later

  ‘Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too?’

  Gustave Flaubert, November

  60

  Joe

  Winters are rarely mild on the English Fens and this one is no exception. In January, snow falls early and often. Layer upon layer coats the city’s roofs, piling high on gable ends and window ledges, until the rooms beyond take on a twilight cast, and even the college porters fear their ancient halls might not hold. From time to time, the old buildings groan, as though the burden is indeed too heavy, but the sound is only that of a thick wedge of snow breaking away and falling to the ground. Joe Grant walks the white streets of his city and thinks of tumbling icebergs, of silver-blue glaciers and biting blizzards, and wonders if his heart has frozen over.

  Warmer days at the beginning of February turn the snow and ice into a rushing torrent of meltwater. The Cam overtops its banks and those who live close carry their valuables to upper floors. Towards the end of the month the snow returns, thicker and faster this time. Street signs, public benches and cycles are lost completely. Heraldic badges at the college gateways lose all distinction, and the great s
tatue of Henry VIII doffs his hat, doublet and hose for a heavy-hooded mantle of white. Joe’s hair and coat turn the colour of cobwebs as the snowflakes land and melt, land and melt.

  The temperature drops again, and the willow trees along the riverbanks are claimed by frost. Tendrils of white lace droop into the water and the bridges turn silver. The water surface crinkles and its movement slows. The Cam is starting to freeze over. Snow slides down its banks and finds purchase on the ice. The Cam, too, is taken.

  The council works hard to keep the main roads clear, but soiled, salt-strewn snow piles up at the roadside, and the Environment Agency worries about the already flooded groundwater system. Schools are closed more than they are open, the elderly keep to their homes, and the rough sleepers, those who can be found, are taken indoors, because when all is said and done, Cambridge is a kind city. Knowing his homeless are safe from the cold is a small comfort to Joe.

  The weather turns once more, the snow melts and low-lying fields become shallow lakes. Swans glide proprietorially over the Backs and the water meadows. The Environment Agency opens all the floodgates but the run-off can’t escape. Roads turn to rivers, cellars begin to stink and in an old drain not far from Peterhouse College, the body of Dora Hardwick is found at last.

  Joe gets the call halfway through the morning and clears his afternoon appointments. He arrives at the hospital mortuary at three o’clock, when the sky outside is already darkening, and a minute or two before his mother. The pink hair of last summer has gone. Delilah is looking older and more tired, thinner but not healthier. The unsolved murder, possibly about to become two unsolved murders, has taken its toll. Since the start of the new year, she has been talking about retirement.