by Maria Savva
By the time his meeting with Peter was over, he’d made the conscious decision to tell Claire everything. Surely she would understand his reasons for being unwilling to reveal the truth about his life with Margaret.
On the drive from Huddlesea along the endless stretches of motorway, he found himself wondering how to explain his past life and behaviour to Claire. During his therapy sessions, many of his problems had been linked back to his childhood.
As a child, Benjamin always felt different. Both his parents were redheads and both his siblings were too. His father told him he’d inherited his grandmother’s hair colour. Benjamin had seen photographs of his grandmother, a beautiful woman with dark hair and brown eyes, but he did not want to look different; he wanted to look like Catherine and James.
The problems began as soon as Catherine started school, when Benjamin stepped in to defend her after someone in his class called her a name because she had ginger hair.
‘Is she your sister, Ben?’ a friend asked quite innocently after Benjamin told the other boy to leave Catherine alone.
This sparked a debate amongst the pupils.
‘How come she’s got ginger hair?’ asked one.
‘His mum’s got ginger hair,’ said another. ‘I saw her bring Cat to school.’
‘Yeah,’ said Edward King, the school bully. He walked up to Benjamin and glared at him with his piercing grey eyes. ‘Your dad’s got ginger hair too, ain’t he?’
‘Ben takes after our gran,’ said Catherine in a small voice.
‘You’re adopted, aren’t you?’ said Edward.
The whispers persisted and things only got worse when James started school a year later. Benjamin had by then been ostracised by his classmates as they were afraid of Edward King and did not want to be seen talking to Benjamin for fear of being the next target.
It was common for Benjamin to end up in a fight with Edward or one of his cronies after school, and this gave him the reputation of being a bad boy. Although his parents were often called to the school to see the headmaster about his behaviour, he never told them why he constantly got into trouble, so everyone came to see him as a “problem child”. He resented the fact that Catherine and James fitted in well and were not subjected to the abuse he suffered.
His envy of Catherine and James meant he preferred not to spend much time with them. He drifted further and further into his own world. He would spend weekends alone at the local park or arcade. There he met a gang of boys who liked to go shoplifting and joyriding. Benjamin desperately needed to fit in somewhere, so he became one of the gang. He would do whatever they asked him to do. It was a miracle he did not end up in front of a magistrate or in jail.
Not long after he joined the gang, he started drinking. The boys in the gang would take it in turns to steal alcoholic drinks from a local off-licence. J.J.—the gang leader—would initiate the group’s activities. He decided where they should go and what they would do. J.J. was a tall skinny boy with a face full of acne scars and a shaved head. He wore earrings and said he had a tattoo but didn’t show it to any of them. As gang leader no one interrogated him further. He behaved a lot like Edward King and he even resembled him, with similar piercing grey eyes. This made Benjamin even more proud to be part of the gang, because he reasoned that if someone like Edward could accept him, he must be okay.
One night J.J. decided to steal a car…
‘I’ll get the car and bring it round here, then we’ll go for a ride.’ J.J. laughed, holding up the empty bottle of whisky they’d just drunk between them.
It was dark. The others (Benjamin and two other boys, Reg and Donald) waited for him behind a garden wall.
They watched J.J. zigzag his way along the avenue towards a row of parked cars.
‘He’s had quite a lot to drink,’ said Reg, an unlikely member of the gang: he looked like a little boy with his bowl-cut shaped blond hair and thick spectacles. He constantly queried what they were doing as if his role was that of the group’s conscience.
They all stooped down behind the wall.
‘He shouldn’t be driving,’ said Reg.
‘He didn’t drink that much,’ countered Donald, a tall West Indian boy with large muscular arms, who appeared older than his eighteen years. ‘Anyway, he always drinks and drives, he’s used to it.’
Benjamin, a man of few words, merely nodded.
A few minutes passed by and the boys heard the sound of a racing car.
‘That’ll be J.J.,’ said Donald, laughing.
Reg and Benjamin joined in with the laughter. Their fun came to an abrupt halt when they heard a loud scream—a woman’s scream—and the sound of a car’s screeching brakes.
The laughter stopped and fear took its place.
Donald stood up slowly and peeked over the wall. When he turned back to Reg and Benjamin, his eyes were bulging, his mouth wide open.
The two boys dared to look over the wall and saw a group of people surrounding a white car; a young woman’s body lay lifeless on the ground in front of the car, lit up by the headlights. The sound of police sirens filled the air. Donald, Benjamin, and Reg ran as fast as their legs could carry them, away from the scene.
J.J. was arrested and charged with multiple offences, including drunk driving and manslaughter.
When J.J. went to prison, the gang split up, and Benjamin—ashamed of his behaviour—tried his best to lead a blameless life. He met Margaret at the age of nineteen, and within a year he married her because she wanted to get married and he thought it would be the right thing to do. He still harboured a deep-rooted need to feel he belonged somewhere.
Benjamin soon found himself trying to control what Margaret could and could not do. His possessiveness became worse after the birth of their second daughter. Penelope, their first child, was born with his black hair, but Jemima’s hair was mousy brown. He accused Margaret of having an affair. Even with no real basis for his suspicion—Margaret had given him no reason to mistrust her—the doubt lingered.
It was at around this time in their relationship that he began hitting her. Whenever they argued, even over the slightest thing, he lashed out. He always regretted it but did not want to admit he’d done wrong. Each time, he felt sure it wouldn’t happen again. But it did.
His drinking habit resumed, and whilst out drinking one night he met up with J.J., who had by then been released from prison. J.J. still retained a lust for rebellion, and his spell in prison only served to connect him with more like-minded criminals.
Soon Benjamin began associating with another gang, a more sophisticated team of hardened thugs. He often arrived home drunk, late at night, and if Margaret ever took out her frustration on him, he resorted to hitting her. This downwards spiral led to him nearly killing Margaret by pushing her down the stairs.
The shock of what might have happened made him realise he needed to change his behaviour. Seeing Margaret lying at the foot of the stairs, made him think of the young girl lying in front of the stolen car J.J. had been driving. He’d lived with a guilty conscience nagging him ever since.
When he moved to Huddlesea and changed his name, it was a way of letting go of his old self. He attended anger management classes and sessions with a psychologist, out of town.
As Benjamin tried to make sense of everything on the drive from Huddlesea, he thought over his mother’s words: he’d made a concerted effort to change and truly never intended to go back to his old ways, so why not tell Claire everything? Then he could be a part of his family again. He owed it to his daughters, and to his estranged wife, as much as to himself.
‘Paul! I wasn’t expecting you home tonight. Weren’t you supposed to be staying in Huddlesea for another couple of days?’ Claire smiled at him. She was standing at the foot of the stairs in her pink dressing gown, holding a mug of hot chocolate, when he arrived home. ‘I was just about to go up to bed.’
He walked towards her, leaving his bag at the door. ‘I wanted to see you,’ he said, taking her in his arms
.
‘Watch out, I’ll spill my cocoa.’ She giggled.
He stood back. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘In bed.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Where else would they be at eleven-thirty at night?’ A stray lock of blonde hair fell onto her cheek and she tucked it behind her ear.
Shrugging, he went into the living room and sat on the soft white leather sofa.
Claire followed him. ‘Paul, are you okay?’
He loosened his tie. ‘Sit down, honey, we need to talk.’
‘Has something happened?’ Placing her mug on the coffee table, she sat beside him.
‘No.’ He took her hand. ‘Nothing’s happened, I just need to talk to you.’ Looking into her eyes he almost lost his nerve, but he thought of Penelope and his feelings of inadequacy resurfaced: she’d suffered, and he’d not been there for her as a father. He’d been selfish, cutting them all out of his life. Somehow he felt now was the time to tell the truth and face up to what he had done. ‘I saw my mum today.’
Claire’s brow furrowed. ‘Your mum?’
‘Yes, in Huddlesea.’
‘B-but… didn’t you tell me your mum died?’ She drew away from him.
‘Yes… Sorry, I haven’t really told you everything about my past.’
‘Why would you say your mum’s dead if she isn’t?’
‘I don’t know where to start. There’s so much I haven’t told you because I thought it would be better if you didn’t know the truth.’
‘Why?’ She shuffled along the sofa, putting distance between them.
There was silence.
‘Paul… If you don’t explain soon, I’m going to think you’ve gone mad, or I’ve gone mad… or—’ She stopped and stood up. ‘Tell me this is some sort of joke and then we can go to bed and forget about it.’
‘It’s not a joke,’ he said glumly. ‘But perhaps we should go to bed. We’re both tired. We can talk about this in the morning.’ Yawning, he got up from the sofa.
‘What?’ The word exploded from her mouth as she glared at him. ‘How am I supposed to get any sleep now?’
‘Keep your voice down, you’ll wake the girls,’ he said.
‘Okay, okay.’ Returning to her seat, she took a deep breath. ‘Look, sit down and start from the beginning. I want to know everything.’
Closing his eyes, he said, ‘Promise me it won’t change the way you feel about me.’ He sat next to her.
‘Just tell me,’ she said anxiously.
‘Right.’ He looked at the floor. ‘Sixteen years ago, I left London and moved to Huddlesea when me and Maggie broke up.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Yes, but you don’t know the truth about what happened between me and Maggie.’ He glanced at her then turned away. ‘This isn’t easy for me.’
‘W-well, it’s not easy hearing you’ve been lying to me for over nine years.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Just tell me what happened.’
‘Oh God.’ He stood up.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Standing up, Claire put a hand on his arm. ‘Look, Paul, we’ve been through a lot together. I’m sure that whatever this is, we can get through it.’
He turned around slowly. ‘My real name’s not even Paul.’
She pulled her hand away from him as quickly as if he’d given her an electric shock.
‘I changed my name.’
She took a few steps backwards. ‘Why?’
He shrugged.
‘What is your name?’
‘It’s Paul, I changed it by deed poll, but it was Benjamin.’
‘Benjamin? Wh-why did you change it?’
‘I didn’t want to remember the past. I hated who I used to be.’
‘Did you commit a crime? Did you change your name because you didn’t want to be traced?’ She moved further away from him as she spoke.
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Why go as far as to change your name?’
‘I used to drink a lot.’
‘Drink?’
‘Yes, alcohol.’
‘You were an alcoholic?’
‘No, I used to drink a lot. I used to hit Maggie.’
Claire placed a hand over her mouth.
‘I didn’t know what I was doing at the time, Claire, I was drunk.’
‘So, she threw you out?’ she asked, averting her eyes from his gaze.
‘Not exactly.’ He sat on the sofa. ‘One night, we had a row and I pushed her. She fell down the stairs and I thought I’d killed her. I didn’t know what to do, so I left London and went to Huddlesea.’
‘You thought you’d killed your wife, so you ran away? What about your daughters? Didn’t you think about them?’
‘I didn’t think about anything. I needed to get away. I ran.’
‘You were thinking… You knew you’d be sent to prison if she was dead.’
‘Claire, you look frightened. This is me.’ He stood and approached her.
She backed away from him and bashed into the sideboard, toppling a photograph of Mandy, which then sent a brass ornament flying to the floor. It landed on her toes. She grabbed her foot and cursed at the pain.
‘This is stupid,’ he said. ‘Have I ever laid a hand on you in nearly ten years?’
Ignoring his question, she asked, ‘Is Maggie dead?’
‘What?’
‘Did you kill her? Is that why you changed your name?’
‘No, thankfully, I didn’t kill her.’
The relief was plain on her face as her features relaxed and colour filled her cheeks.
‘We’re talking about stuff that happened sixteen years ago, Claire.’
‘Why did you keep it from me?’
‘Because I knew you’d react like this.’
‘Well, why tell me now?’
‘Because I saw my mum today for the first time since I left London, and she wants to stay in touch. She’s old, and—’
‘What else haven’t you told me?’
‘Nothing. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything before, but it’s because I didn’t want to lose you. I was out of control back then. I’d never do that again.’ He reached out to her, but she walked towards the door.
‘How come you were so “out of control”?’
He looked at the carpet. ‘I’ve had therapy since, and the therapist said it all stems from my childhood.’ His cheeks reddened. ‘After being bullied at school, I tried to appear tough. I fought back and got in with the wrong crowd. When Maggie complained, we’d end up rowing. I had a lot of pent-up anger about a lot of things. But Claire, it’s in the past and if I could turn back time—’
‘You can’t change what you did. Do you ever consider the effect of what you did to her? The effect on her life, or your daughters’ lives?’
He thought of Penelope and her violent husband and felt a sadness envelop him.
‘I’d like you to leave, please,’ said Claire.
‘What?’
‘I need time to think.’
‘But, Claire…’
Her eyes were distant.
‘Please, sweetheart, let’s go to bed, we’ll talk about this in the morning. You’re tired. We’re both tired.’
‘Please don’t make this more difficult than it is,’ she said.
He walked over to the unit in the corner of the room and, opening the glass cabinet, took out a bottle of whisky.
‘What are you doing?’
He picked up a tumbler. ‘I need a drink.’ He saw fear in her eyes. ‘How many times have you seen me pour myself a drink over the years?’
‘You said you were an alcoholic once.’
‘I’ve already told you: I wasn’t an alcoholic, I just drank a lot; there’s a difference. I chose to drink a lot. I’m in control now.’ He took a sip from the glass.
‘I have to think of Amy and Mandy,’ said Claire.
‘What?’
‘I want you to l
eave.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Please go!’ she said.
‘But—’
‘Get out!’
‘Okay, I’m going, but I’ll be back. This is my home.’ He walked out of the door and as he stood on the doorstep, stunned, heard Claire securing the double bolt and turning the key in the Chubb lock.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cara sat eating her breakfast the next morning when a loud knock on the front door shook the foundations of the old house. After a few seconds the knock came again. Her first thought was of David. She’d slept fitfully, waking up at intervals throughout the night, her mind full of anxiety as she anticipated him coming to Huddlesea in search of Penelope.
She heard Gloria shout, ‘All right, I’m coming!’
The knocking persisted and became louder. Eventually she heard Gloria open the front door and could make out a man’s voice. The next thing she knew, her bedroom door flew open and a man approached her at great speed. The breakfast tray and all its contents landed on the floor. Everything happened so fast, she couldn’t focus.
The man grabbed her arms, and his face came into view. Cara held her breath.
David looked as though he had been living rough. His baggy beige jacket was too warm for the weather and he reeked of sweat. At least a week’s worth of stubble peppered his chin, and his hair—usually cropped short—was unruly and messy, as though it had not been combed or washed in weeks.
‘Where is she?’ he shouted into Cara’s face.
She smelt the stale alcohol on his breath and had to turn away.
‘I’ll call the police,’ said Gloria, leaving the room.
He ran after her. ‘You won’t call the fuckin’ police, you old bat! You’ll stay right here where I can see you.’ As he dragged her forcibly back into the bedroom, he warned, ‘I’ve got a gun,’ then glaring at Cara, said, ‘I’ll use it if I have to.’ He pushed Gloria onto the chair.
‘Right, Cara.’ He caught his breath. ‘Look, tell me where Penny is, and I’ll go. I don’t want to hurt anyone.’ He sat on her bed.