He looked so tired, so care-worn. I hadn’t seen him since that night at the cinema. I felt my shoulders drop, all bark and no bite. ‘I’m OK. I just need to talk to you.’
He looked at me, his face serious. ‘All right, come on then. I’ll need to lock up here, but come down with me to the car.’
I waited while he set the alarms and turned the keys in the inner and outer doors. We headed down to the car park together. When we got into the car, it was like a sauna. I clambered into the passenger side, but I didn’t put my seatbelt on and when Dad got in, he didn’t start the engine. We sat there, doors closed, windows up, in the heat.
‘We’ve been missing you, Munchkin. The house feels kind of strange without you.’
I didn’t say anything to that.
‘Go on then,’ said Dad. ‘What is it?’
But I hardly knew where to start. It was all so confused: what I knew and what I didn’t. What I had witnessed and what I was never supposed to have seen. ‘I’ve heard you arguing. You and Mum …’ I tried to put my words together, speak about these things I’d blocked out for so long. ‘And Mum and Auntie Anne, too.’
Dad pressed his palms to the steering wheel. His hands looked swollen from the heat and I could see where his wedding ring made a dent in his finger. ‘Grown-ups argue, Jess. They just do.’
‘I know but—’ It wasn’t just that. ‘There’s something … something happened, didn’t it? Back then, before, to do with Abigail. I found something – a message.’ My throat closed up, like it wouldn’t let me go on. I wanted to know and at the same time I so didn’t.
‘A message?’ Dad’s voice was confused. So my aunt never sent it. I pushed myself to name my worst fears, the worst thing I could think of.
‘Was it an affair? Was that it? You and Auntie Anne, or Mum and—?’ My words were coming out now in a rush. ‘I’m old enough, you know. You can tell me.’ Surely it had to be better to know.
‘An affair?’ Dad gave a laugh that sounded like a bark. He leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition. The windscreen wipers made a sudden leap across the dry glass. ‘No, Jess. It was never anything like that.’
‘What then?’ My voice was high. ‘What is it? I know there’s something nobody’s telling me.’
Dad stilled the wipers and gripped the steering wheel, hard and tight. I noticed suddenly the smudged circles under his eyes, the deeper lines across his forehead. He didn’t answer. And at that my chest went very, very tight.
‘Why can’t you talk to me?’ I said, my voice a small whisper. It had never been like this with Dad. He was the one always prepared to tell me everything. Always so keen to tell me everything.
Dad’s voice was muffled. ‘Because I agreed. Because I promised. Jess, please would you let it alone?’
I stared at him. I felt so hollow, so helpless. Before he could say anything else, I reached out and pushed open the passenger door.
‘Jess—’ Dad’s hand pressed my arm. I stopped, one foot already touching the hot ground. ‘You’re right, you really are. We should be able to talk about this. But not yet, will you give me some time? I’m sorry about the arguments. Sorry we’ve upset you. But I’ll speak to her, I will. I’ll sort this out.’
I turned back. ‘Speak to who? To Auntie Anne?’
A strange expression crossed Dad’s face. ‘No,’ he replied slowly. ‘To your mum. It’s only ever been her—’ He broke off, passed a hand across his eyes. ‘Look, I will. About … everything. I’ll sort it.’
I wanted to believe him, wanted to stop worrying and trust that he would fix this, whatever it was, the way once upon a time he’d fixed my jumbled smile. Can you though? I thought. Can you? And a picture flashed through my mind – a memory. Sitting at the kitchen table, knife and fork clutched in my eight-year-old hands. Mum lifting the telephone out of Dad’s grasp, Auntie Anne hysterical on the other end. Dad stepping aside. Saying nothing. Doing nothing. Turning away.
The sun was scorching my arm and leg as I balanced there, half in, half out of the car. Dad’s hand on my arm felt so heavy, yet strangely frail, like all the grip had gone out of him.
I got out of the car. I was going back to Abigail’s. And despite the heat, I ran the whole way.
Four days later, I hugged Abigail goodbye. My bag was packed: my clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush, everything. We’d arranged this with my parents weeks ago. I was to return home this Monday evening, a week before school restarted.
‘You’ll be all right, won’t you?’ I said to Abigail. ‘You’ll be okay?’ These last few weeks together had remained full of sunshine – warm, lazy sunny mornings. But that shadow was still there across our relationship. Like a faint dark shape in the corner of your eye.
‘It’s fine,’ she said.
Was it though? Was it really? Me leaving her like this.
‘You can text me, call me whenever.’ I held her hands tight and was sure I felt her squeeze my hands back. ‘And it’s hardly any time till we’ll be together at school.’
Outside, Uncle Robert loaded my bags into the back of his van, then I clambered up into the high passenger seat beside him. I waved at them through the smudgy window: Auntie Anne, the twins, and Abigail.
‘Got your seatbelt on?’
I nodded. As my uncle pulled away, I rested my head back in the seat, suddenly exhausted. I was glad of his solid presence beside me as we drove. It was only with him, I realized, that I didn’t feel the sense of undercurrent. There was a straightforwardness to him that I drank in like water.
‘Uncle Robert?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it? School and the trial and everything after?’
‘Yes, Jess,’ he said and his voice was so steady. ‘Eventually, it will.’
We pulled up outside and Uncle Robert helped me carry my bags up the path. The house seemed strangely dark – no lights, and when we got to the front door, it was locked.
‘They must both be out,’ I said, digging for my spare key at the bottom of my bag, trying not to show the dragging shock in my chest. ‘They must have just forgotten. Dad has an evening clinic on a Monday and Mum is probably out at the gym. I should have called. I should have reminded them.’
Uncle Robert stood on the step, uncertain. ‘Do you want me to come in, keep you company till they’re home?’
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll text them now. I’m sure they definitely won’t be long.’ I was pretending to him, shrugging it off, but standing there in front of the dark, empty house I couldn’t help thinking – what if it had been me? What if I’d been the one to go missing? Would I have come home and found myself forgotten, like this?
‘All right then. If you’re sure.’ Uncle Robert squeezed my shoulder. ‘Let us know if they’re not back soon. And thanks again for all you’ve done for Abigail. I’ve seen how she is with you. You’re patient with her and I know that helps.’
I looked up at him. ‘Do you think?’
He smiled back. ‘I know it.’ Those three words meant everything to me.
I watched the tail-lights of his van disappear, then closed the front door quietly behind me. The house felt so hollow, as if these past few weeks no one had been living here at all. I turned the lights on in the sitting room and kitchen and stairs.
In the kitchen, a yellow Post-it note was stuck to the worktop by the sink, printed with Mum’s neat capitals, left there for Dad.
There’s lasagne in the fridge. Back 9.30 approx.
L.
Her initial was thick where she’d gone back and forth over it with the biro, its lines heavy, its corner sharp. Underneath, in small letters like an afterthought, she’d added PTO. I peeled the paper square off the worktop and turned it over.
The bathroom tap is working now, thank you.
I stared at those words. It was like a note between passing flat mates, distant colleagues. The Post-it sat there, its edges curling up. I pressed my hand down on top of it, flattening it o
ut as if I could push it right into the wood.
I shouldered my bag and climbed the stairs, homesick even though I was home. From the landing, my parents’ door stood ajar and I could see into their bedroom, just enough to make out in the gloom the ruck of covers at the end of the bed. Opposite, our spare room door was a little way open too. On some strange instinct, I pushed the door wide. Inside, the bed was rumpled, the covers turned back. One of Mum’s work blouses hung from the wardrobe door and a pair of tights dangled over the back of a chair.
She was sleeping in there; it was clear as day. It felt like the floor was caving in under me.
While I had been living entangled with Abigail, my parents’ marriage had fallen apart.
Chapter 23
Saturday 31st August:
Day 97
ANNE
Three weeks before the trial, we took the train from Lincolnshire down to London. We were going to visit the courthouse, meet a woman from the Witness Support Service, all steps in preparing Abigail. On the direct train, only an hour, I watched as my daughter leaned her head against the window, letting it rattle against the glass. It amazed me that she could do that and not mind the juddering against her temple. But then I was learning that there were things that didn’t affect Abigail in the way I’d expected, and other things – things we couldn’t always predict – that did. Robert sat next to her, in the aisle seat, and I sat opposite them both. While Abigail stared out into the cloud-heaped sky, Robert and I found ourselves looking at each other.
For both of us, this journey felt like a test, forcing us to return to where everything once went so wrong. Abigail sat with us, but the ghosts of the past sat with us too. She had been worse since Jess left, I could say that for sure. She had withdrawn into herself again, like now, sitting with her head turned away. I had so often envied that bond of theirs that no one else could penetrate. I was Abigail’s mother, but when my daughter came home, it hadn’t been me that she turned to. There could have been a thousand reasons why. Or there could have been just one.
I was glad it was the fast train. I don’t think I could have managed with the stops: Peterborough, Stevenage. We were running straight to King’s Cross, and from there we would take the Tube to Tower Hill, where there was a station walking distance from the courts. Soon our train was rushing through the north of London: Alexandra Palace, Finsbury Park. I stood up to pull our coats down from the rack, and Abigail turned her gaze to follow me. All this that we were doing now was designed to help her. I knew we were asking a lot of her, but what choice did we have? Tonia’s case had fallen apart. It was down to Abigail now. Main witness. Main victim. I handed her her jacket and she hugged it to her, like a blanket. She looked as though she wasn’t sleeping properly again, or barely sleeping at all; dark circles under her eyes alongside a jitteriness, the energy of adrenaline or caffeine. Now her eyes were closing again and her head tilted back towards the glass pillow of the window.
‘Abigail? We’re almost there,’ I said.
King’s Cross wasn’t as crowded as I’d expected and I was gratefully relieved at that. I had planned this journey far in advance, finding a way to avoid the Northern Line, because even if the courthouse was right next to London Bridge, how could I ever bear to go back there? We’d take the Circle Line and then walk across the river from Tower Hill and arrive that way. But this yellow line was running jam-packed and that was enough to get me remembering. No buggy, I had to keep on reminding myself, no hospital and Robert is here. This is not history repeating. Still, that didn’t stop me reaching out for Abigail as we pushed our way on board. I wanted to take hold of her, grip her tight but she slipped her hand away from my grasp, reaching up instead for the yellow pole above her head.
We rode through one tunnel after another and I watched Robert’s eyes, scanning every platform. He was getting it, I knew: the needles of what if, what if. He was looking for her: a blonde-haired, bewildered eight-year-old girl, and he was needling himself: I should have been there. He had lifted the weight off me in saying that; slung it heavily onto his own back. Now he kept scanning the platforms, but there was no point because she hadn’t stayed on the platform, that was the problem. She had burrowed her way away through the crowds, turning heel, disappearing and I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t know why.
I made myself reach out and touch Robert’s arm. No words, but I was saying, Not your fault.
Caroline met us at the entrance to the Crown Court and introduced herself with her Witness Service badge. She smiled at Abigail the way everyone did: sympathetic, admiring, kind.
Because it was a Saturday, the courthouse was empty, all the cases wrapped up for the week. Its hallways and spaces were free for us to view; she would show us the witness waiting rooms first. As we made our way through that sombre building, the feeling crept up on me again. In a matter of weeks, everything would converge in this courthouse. I should have felt glad that he would be put on trial and held accountable for what he had done. Instead, it was a low sickening sensation I felt, beginning as a chill in my hands and a hollowness in my legs.
The witness waiting rooms were nondescript. ‘You’ll be in here until it’s your turn to give evidence,’ she told Abigail. My daughter took in the soft chairs, the low coffee table, the efforts made to put victims at ease. ‘You shouldn’t have to wait too long and straight afterwards, you can leave as soon as the judge agrees.’
The waiting room seemed like a safe place. It would be all right if Abigail was in here.
‘And not see him?’ she said.
Caroline hesitated. Instead of answering, she beckoned us to follow her. The door of the waiting area closed behind us, shutting us out of that protected space. She led us back along the corridor to the courtrooms. At number three she opened the door wide. ‘This might not be the one that your case takes place in; in fact the chances are that it won’t, but all the rooms are similar and this is just to give you an idea.’
It was smaller than I’d imagined. Much more intimate. The chill in my hands rose up through my arms.
‘He’ll be in here?’ I said.
‘The defendant?’ Caroline nodded. ‘Or in one just like it.’ She leaned towards my daughter, pointing for her sake. ‘He’ll be in the dock – do you see this area here? The judge will sit here, the jury over there. And people can watch from the gallery here.’
I saw again the tension in Abigail’s face. ‘Who will be watching?’ she asked.
‘We will,’ I said quickly. ‘Me and Robert. We’ll be here for everything.’
‘And Auntie Lillian and Uncle Fraser?’
‘If you want them. We can ask them to come.’
She answered almost before the end of my phrase, her words clipping the heels of mine. ‘Yes.’
‘There will be reporters too,’ said Caroline, ‘and members of the public.’
‘And Jess.’ It was a statement, not a question.
I looked around the courtroom again. Dock, judge, jury, gallery. ‘And when Abigail testifies, where will she sit?’
Caroline was taking a leaflet from her bag. ‘That’s what I wanted to confirm with you now.’ She held out the shiny fold of paper. The leaflet explained the special measures – the screen, the TV link, the recorded testimony – all of which were available to Abigail. As Caroline pointed out each one, guiding Abigail along the words with a neat finger, the chill in my arms and legs eased. It wasn’t going to be how I’d imagined, her and him pressed together under one roof. We could keep her well away from him.
Abigail had that scraping restlessness again in her fingers, cravings still, at times, for nicotine.
‘Yes. Thank you,’ I said, speaking over Caroline, indicating the leaflet she held. ‘Of course she must have something like that in place.’
Caroline nodded. ‘Although ultimately, it remains up to Abigail,’ she said, as though it wasn’t obvious from every element of my daughter’s stance what she needed. Abigail took hold of the wooden bench-back in front
of her. She was breathing so hard all of a sudden that I was afraid she might faint.
‘Abigail?’
‘I don’t want to do any of it.’
Caroline’s face became a well of empathy. She would know, it must happen all the time – a witness overwhelmed; it was what she was here for. Robert stepped forwards to lay an arm around Abigail’s shoulders. He let Caroline murmur gently to her, telling her how important her testimony would be, how he might get away with everything he had done without the evidence she could provide. ‘… And listen. The judge has already agreed to these measures, given these circumstances, and your age and everything. Don’t worry, you’re going to have all the support you need.’
Before Abigail could say no again – and I swear that’s what it looked like she was about to say – Robert pulled her close and hugged her. Just like that, straightforward. He could do that for Abigail, ignoring all the complications, all the mess of things in between. He had always been able to overlook all of that, such a straightforward person, my husband. It was one of the greatest reasons I loved him. Abigail let him hold her to him, as she always did, as she so rarely did with me, but this time I could see her fingers, held down against the side of her thighs, plucking a loose thread on the hem of her jeans as though trying to trigger her own escape.
When we got home Abigail said that she didn’t want tea. Just a sandwich would be fine. But I knew she needed to eat, and the twins were starving; staying at Lillian’s they probably hadn’t been allowed any snacks. We were going to sit down, as a family, and eat a proper meal. The boys needed it and whatever she said, so did Abigail. In the beginning, anyone might have said she’d had weight to lose. But not now. Now she was looking far too thin.
I gave them each a packet of crisps to keep them going while I prepared a tray of sausages. We were back to using the oven again, now that the worst of the summer heat was fading. Robert scrubbed potatoes while I prepared broccoli, the one vegetable Sam and Laurie would eat without fuss.
Little White Lies Page 18