Seven Days

by Alex Lake

  The problem was that work – the constant hustling for new jobs and hiring new people and visiting new sites – was what kept him sane. It gave him the sense he was moving forward. At night he would still wake up, suddenly and completely, and think, She’s gone. My little girl is gone.

  And then he would lie awake and imagine her working alongside him and wonder what kind of a person she would have become, who she would have married, the grandchildren she might have given him and Sandra.

  And the sense of loss and grief would be as strong as ever.

  Sandra was the same, but she found her distraction in exercise. Yoga, spinning, training for marathons and triathlons. She read magazines about diets and training programmes, went to clinics to work on her swimming, researched new bike technologies.

  She was in remission from cancer and focused on living life to the full.

  And maybe it was time for him to do the same. Maybe it was time to let go of work and move on, spend time with his wife, try to sort James out.

  Melinda Jameson closed the folder.

  ‘Do you have an initial position? I assume from the fact you’re here that you have some interest?’

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ Martin said. ‘I think I should accept.’

  2

  So,’ Sandra said. ‘How was it?’

  She had come in from the gym and was drinking a glass of water. She was wearing running shorts and a T-shirt from a triathlon in Chester. Her arms and legs were lean, the muscles defined and visible.

  ‘They want to buy the firm,’ Martin said. ‘For three million pounds.’

  Sandra put the glass down.

  ‘Three million?’

  ‘The lawyer suggested negotiating. We might get four.’

  ‘Holy shit. Then why do you sound so morose?’

  ‘Because I can’t decide if I’m doing the right thing.’

  ‘I can think of three – or four – million reasons you are.’

  ‘I know, but I had no intention of selling until the offer came in. I don’t want to sell. I enjoy it.’

  ‘You could enjoy something else. Set up a new business.’

  ‘I suppose. And it is a lot of cash. A fortune.’ He gestured around the room. ‘But the thing is, I’m happy with what we have.’

  ‘Me too. But it’ll be nice to have the money. We can travel. See some of the world. And you can get a sports car. Really go for it with your midlife crisis.’

  Martin pursed his lips as though considering it. ‘And maybe a younger wife. Now you’re talking.’

  ‘You better be joking, Cooper,’ Sandra said.

  ‘About the sports car, yes. The wife – maybe not.’ He put his arms around her. ‘Of course I’m joking. You know I love you. More and more the older we get. I can’t imagine life without you.’

  ‘Then sell up,’ Sandra said. ‘Work for them for a while, maybe go part-time, and we can spend some time together. Let’s live life.’

  He kissed her head. ‘OK. We’ll sell. Travel. I just wish we could do it with Maggie and James. Go to Asia, New Zealand, the Rockies. It’d be perfect. I still miss her, Sandy.’

  Sandra sipped her water. ‘Me too. I often imagine Maggie watching me. If I’m running and I feel like giving up, I imagine her there, telling me to carry on. And if she was here now, she’d be telling us to take the money and enjoy ourselves.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Martin said. ‘That’s what she would say. But I’d give every one of those three million pounds and more for one chance to hug her again.’

  Four Years Earlier: July 2014

  Maggie

  1

  Leo was a slow waker. She watched him every day – he slept later than her, unlike Seb, who had been her alarm clock – so she was used to watching his body start to jerk and move, his feet kick and his lips twitch, his eyes open and focus as a new day began.

  Today he was three. She had been thinking about it for weeks, the memory of Seb’s third birthday still an agonizing, raw wound.

  The only thing worse was the fear it might happen again.

  But it might not.

  ‘Happy birthday, Leo,’ she said.

  He looked at her for a while, then climbed off the bed. He was wearing his Batman underpants and a faded blue T-shirt. His legs, longer and leaner than Seb’s, were bare.

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ he said. ‘Water?’

  He was very different to his brother. Seb had smiled often, and, for a toddler, was very even-tempered. He rarely got upset, rarely flew off the handle.

  Leo, though, had tantrums. Maggie remembered the first one. After breakfast, she had asked if he wanted to hear a story.

  No, Mummy.

  He folded his arms and stared at her.

  I do not want a story.

  OK. What do you want to do? Draw? The man had brought some paper and crayons, and Maggie had drawn pictures for Leo to colour in. She picked up one – a dragon – and offered it to him.

  He slapped it down.

  ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘No, no. NO.’ She tried to pick him up and comfort him, but he twisted in her arms and kicked and scratched her, hitting her with his fists. When she put him down, he ran from wall to wall, banging into them so hard she was worried he would hurt himself. She called to him, sang to him, shouted at him to stop, but none of it made any difference. While it lasted, he was totally unreachable.

  Eventually – like a storm – it faded. She picked him up and held him for a long time. He said nothing. He lay motionless, eyes closed, in her lap.

  It had happened a few times since. She wondered whether it was something she was doing, but she couldn’t think what. She never shouted at him – there was enough misery in here without her adding to it – and constantly told him how much she loved him. It was simply his temperament.

  Same mum, same situation, two totally different children.

  And she loved them both the same. For different things and in different ways, but she loved them with the same terrifying intensity.

  Leo frowned. ‘I’m thirsty,’ he said again.

  Maggie reached for the jug and poured some water into one of the plastic cups. She handed it to Leo and he drank it.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘My little boy is three years old. I can’t believe it. You’re growing up so fast.’

  She didn’t have a present. With Seb, she had begged the man for something to give him. He had given nothing; instead he had taken him away. She had often wondered if her begging had brought it about in some way – for a time she had been sure it had, and the guilt had tortured her – maybe, if she’d kept quiet, he would not have even known it was Seb’s birthday.

  So this time, she said nothing. In the last few weeks she had acted as though everything was normal. The man came with breakfast and dinner. Sometimes he came in his blue bathrobe and sometimes he left her alone.

  She never mentioned Leo’s birthday.

  He never mentioned Leo’s birthday.

  And she thought, maybe, hopefully, that he had forgotten. And if having no present for her son was the price of that? Well, it was a price she would happily pay. And when she got out of here she would make it up to Leo with all the presents money could buy.

  2

  She heard the scraping noise. She beckoned to Leo and he came and sat on her lap. The door opened and the man came in.

  He put a tray on the floor. Two bowls of cornflakes. A new jug of water.

  He gestured at the old one. ‘Leave that by the door later,’ he said.

  Maggie watched him, waiting for him to say, Happy birthday, Leo or Give him to me, but he said nothing. Her heart skipped; the weight in her stomach lifted.

  He backed out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

  ‘Leo,’ she said. ‘Let’s have breakfast.’

  3

  ‘Hands out,’ she said. ‘Watch the socks.’

  Leo stood in front of her, his hands cupped in front of his chest. She sat cross-legged, a balled-up pair
of white socks in her hand.

  ‘Ready?’

  Leo nodded.

  ‘One, two, three … catch!’

  She threw the socks in a gentle arc. They hit his hands and his fingers closed around them.

  ‘Well done! What a great catcher you are! You throw to me.’

  Leo launched the socks into the air. They flew to Maggie’s right; she dived to catch them.

  As she landed on the carpet, she heard the scraping sound.

  It wasn’t time for the man to come. It was only an hour since breakfast. It was still morning.

  She stared up at the door, the socks in her outstretched hand. The handle turned, and it opened.

  The man walked in. He looked at her and frowned, then shook his head dismissively. His hands hung by his side. They were empty. He was not bringing food or cleaning equipment or anything that explained why he was here.

  He pointed at Leo.

  ‘Come here, Leo,’ he said.

  Maggie sprang upright and grabbed Leo’s hands. She pulled him tight to her.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s not going with you.’

  The man’s face was expressionless. ‘Give him to me.’

  ‘No.’ She backed up and climbed on to the bed. ‘He’s staying with me.’

  ‘Don’t make this worse than it needs to be. Give him to me.’

  ‘Why? Why do you want to take him?’

  ‘Because he’s three. It’s time.’

  So he did know it was Leo’s birthday and this was happening again. Well, so be it. The first time she’d been taken by surprise. Not again. This time, she wasn’t going to let it happen.

  She had a plan. She’d thought this through. She’d keep him talking then, as soon as he made any move towards her, she’d attack him. Hit him in the balls, scratch his eyes: whatever it took. And then she’d get out of here.

  ‘What’s so special about him being three?’

  He didn’t answer. Without warning he darted towards her, hands outstretched, and grabbed her shoulders. He was very quick; she was surprised by his speed.

  And his strength. He threw her on to the floor with a flick of his wrist. Leo was on the mattress and she reached out for him, but the man pinned her to the floor with his knees. With his hands free, he leaned over and picked up Leo.

  ‘No!’ Leo screamed, his face red. ‘No! No! No!’ He started to scratch the man’s face, leaving red lines on his cheeks.

  The man watched him. ‘What’s he doing? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Leo,’ she said, her shoulders agony under the weight of the man’s knees. ‘Leo, it’s OK.’

  It made no difference. Leo screamed, banging his fists against the man’s chest.

  The man slapped him, hard. For a moment, Leo was silent, then he started to howl. The tantrum was over; now he was just a frightened little boy.

  ‘Shut up,’ the man growled. ‘Shut up, you stupid child.’

  Maggie was about to tell him to leave Leo alone when the man threw Leo on to the mattress. He clamped a hand over her mouth, and pinched her nose, hard. She tried to bite him and tasted the salt on the man’s hand, before the pressure increased and her jaw was forced shut.

  Panic flared.

  Her breathing stopped.

  And then, darkness.

  Four Years Earlier: July 2014

  Sandra

  1

  Sandra slipped her hand into Martin’s. His fingers squeezed hers, then he let go and put his arm around her waist. They walked in silence for a while. The air was warm, although the sun struggled to make it through the thick branches of the trees overhead.

  The path through the trees – one of many in Delamere Forest – was dusty and firm. In the spring and autumn – and summer too – the forest paths could be muddy, but it had not rained much and all the paths were dry, even the one they had taken, which went deep into the trees. Some of the paths were for horses and bikes and were busy; she and Martin preferred the narrower, less well-trodden ones.

  Martin let go of her waist. ‘Do you want to eat?’ he said. ‘I packed sandwiches. Or drink? I made a flask of tea.’

  Sandra wasn’t hungry; she’d not had much of an appetite for a while, but she nodded. ‘Sure.’ She pointed to a fallen tree-trunk a yard or so off the path. ‘We can sit there.’

  They sat on the rough bark. Martin opened his rucksack and pulled out a large Stanley flask and two tin mugs. He filled them and handed one to her.

  ‘Sandwich? They’re ham and mustard.’

  ‘I’m OK for now,’ Sandra said. ‘Tea’s fine.’

  Martin unwrapped a sandwich and took a bite. ‘What time’s James coming?’

  ‘Six. I’ll make a fish pie.’

  ‘OK.’ Martin put his hand on her knee. She was wearing shorts, and his palm was warm against her bare skin. ‘We’ll be back around four, so we’ll have to wait until after he leaves.’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  He slid his hand up her thigh and under the hem of her shorts.

  ‘Maybe we can do it now.’ He pushed his hand higher. ‘There’s no one around.’

  ‘Martin!’ She put her hand on his arm to stop it going any further. ‘I’m going to spill my tea!’

  ‘Put it down,’ he said. ‘And there’s plenty more in the flask.’

  For a moment – a brief moment, there was no way she was really going to have sex with him in the forest, and she doubted he would either – she considered it, and then she caught a glimpse of some movement further up the path.

  She slid away from him. ‘Stop it! There’s someone coming.’

  He turned to look. There was the sound of twigs breaking, and then a man came around the corner.

  Sandra stared at him.

  ‘My God,’ she said. She felt herself flush. ‘That’s Mr Best! Imagine if he’d caught us.’

  He took a few more steps before he saw them, then he jerked to a stop. He was carrying a large rucksack, and was pale and out of breath.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sandra. Martin.’ He blinked a few times, looking around. He seemed on edge, almost startled. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you,’ Martin said. ‘Out for a walk.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Out for a walk. That’s right.’

  ‘How are you?’ Sandra said. She stood up. ‘It’s been a while since we saw you last.’

  ‘I’m well.’ He hefted the rucksack. ‘Although I’ve been a little under the weather recently. You probably don’t want to get too close!’

  ‘I’m sure it’s OK,’ Sandra said. ‘You look fine.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m feeling a little warm. A little dizzy.’

  ‘Probably that big bag you’re carrying,’ Martin said. ‘Do you want me to take it? We can accompany you back to your car?’

  ‘No, no,’ Best said. He shook his head. ‘It’d ruin your walk. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘It’s no problem.’ Martin got to his feet. ‘Here. I’ll take it.’

  Best took a step backwards. ‘Please. No. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ Martin said. ‘But we’re more than happy to help.’

  ‘That’s very kind. But you needn’t worry.’ Best took a mobile phone from his pocket. It was an old flip phone. Sandra hadn’t seen one for a while. ‘I’ve got this. If I need to, I can call someone.’

  He started to walk away from them.

  ‘Anyway, it was lovely to see you. Enjoy your day out.’

  Sandra watched him walk away.

  ‘I feel for him,’ she said. ‘Living alone. You can see it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s taking care of himself.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Did you see his hands?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘What about them?’

  ‘They were filthy. Dirt under the fingernails. And his trousers looked like they needed washing. They had mud on the knees and the hems.’

  M
artin shrugged. ‘Maybe he’d been foraging in the forest. Looking for mushrooms, or digging up roots. That might be what he had in his bag.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sandra said. ‘But he’s getting older, and he needs someone to look out for him. And he was so good to me when I was ill. I’ll go round and see him. Take a look at his house. We need to take care of him.’

  ‘Sure,’ Martin said. ‘It’s very neighbourly of you.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.’

  She returned the kiss, then put her hand on his lower back and pulled him against her.

  ‘I won’t forget,’ she said. ‘I’ll be looking forward to it.’

  2

  Sandra glanced at her watch. On the countertop the fish pie she’d made was cooling. It was James’s favourite – had been since he was young – so when she had texted to say We’re selling the business, come over to celebrate, she’d followed it up with I’ll make fish pie, C U at 6?

  Yum, he replied. See you there.

  Now, though, it was six thirty and he wasn’t here. She picked up her phone.

  Are you coming?

  She half expected a text saying Sorry, went to the pub and lost track of time. Maybe save me some pie for tomorrow, which would have been fine. She understood he didn’t want to waste his Saturday night with his parents. But he had said he was coming, and she had made a meal and it would have been nice for him to let her know if his plans had changed, and it—

  She stopped herself. She could hear the hectoring tone in her thoughts. If he wasn’t coming, he wasn’t coming. It didn’t matter. Let him have fun. One thing she’d learned from Maggie’s disappearance was that life was too short to get upset about stuff like your twenty-two-year-old son not showing up for the dinner you made. What mattered was that he was happy.

  Or as happy as he could be. When Maggie went, it wasn’t only her they lost. For a while, James had disappeared. He’d become someone different. Quieter, more thoughtful. Wounded. She wasn’t sure he’d ever fully recovered. She’d discussed it with her therapist, who had told her that he probably was changed forever, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Everything changed us, one way or another, everything left its mark. Everyone had to deal with grief and loss and pain. So, yes, maybe he wasn’t fully recovered, but that was who he was now, and the best he – and her and Martin – could do was to help him be the best version of that person he could be.