Artemis turned sharply, the colour rising in her cheeks.
May?
The word repeated in her mind as she moved back down the hall, reaching for the bannister to lighten her impression on the floorboards which creaked below the emerald-green carpet. Clive’s voice suddenly fell silent and Artemis picked up speed.
She was halfway back down the landing when she heard Clive coming out of the study.
‘Artemis?’
His voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly towards him.
‘What are you doing?’ His tone was suspicious.
‘I was getting David some clothes. He wet himself.’ As if on cue, she heard their child call for her from downstairs.
‘Who were you talking to?’ she managed after a moment.
Clive didn’t miss a beat. ‘Jeff. Why, is everything OK?’
She remained still for a moment, letting his lie sink in, and then she looked up, meeting his eye. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘You look pale.’
‘I’m tired, I didn’t sleep much last night … David was upset just now,’ she said tightly. ‘He was soaking. I came upstairs to get him a clean outfit.’
Clive paused, not mentioning how she’d avoided answering his question. ‘Where are the clothes?’ he asked after a beat.
Artemis tensed, looking down at her empty hands, before lifting her eyes to meet his.
‘I just remembered there’s something for him outside on the line.’ She turned away, feeling his eyes following her as she moved back downstairs to their son.
She was standing over the chopping board, slowly lifting a kitchen knife and piercing it through the flesh of the onion, occasionally tuning into the voices on the radio discussing the election of a new leader of the Labour party, when the doorbell rang later that evening.
‘Will you get that?’ Clive called out to her over the sizzling of fat, as if addressing a member of staff who was neglecting their duty.
Artemis pushed the blade firmly until she felt it lodge in the chopping board. She was inclined to argue. Since overhearing his call to May a few hours earlier, her shock had turned to despair and finally to quiet anger, which came and went in nauseating waves. When she looked up, Clive was grappling with a hot pan, finally getting to grips with domestic chores once an audience was expected. She thought briefly of the foundation he and Jeff had mooted, which would no doubt dominate conversation this evening. How much, she wondered, was it about doing good, and how much about being seen to be doing good?
‘Artemis?’ Clive said as the doorbell rang again. Losing the will to retort, Artemis left what she was doing, wiping her hands on her apron as she walked towards the hall.
The hallway was silent and she took a moment to observe the outline of two figures through the stained glass, enjoying making them wait, the swaying branches of the trees above their heads like dangling tentacles reminding her of the squid that lay splayed out on the port floor amidst the dead fish.
‘Good evening,’ Artemis said as she opened the door, an air of impatience hovering above the couple on the step.
‘Gosh, I thought we were going to be left to die out here,’ May replied, with a strained tone of joviality, her perfume thick and sweet as she passed, leaning in to kiss Artemis on the cheek. ‘Something smells divine,’ she added loudly for Clive’s benefit, taking off her coat and moving past a gallery of framed photographs as though she owned the place. ‘Sorry we’re late, the babysitter is useless. Is Clive through here?’
‘Artemis, you look beautiful as always,’ Jeff beamed. Artemis smiled thinly back at him, his arm moving unnecessarily to her hip as he kissed her hello.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Jeff said, perhaps reading the energy coming off Artemis. ‘She’s just grumpy because she hasn’t had a drink yet.’
‘Right,’ Artemis said, though Jeff wasn’t listening, following his wife along the hall.
In the kitchen, May was taking a glass of wine from Clive. Turning, her sharp heels made impressions in the carpet as she moved from the kitchen through to the adjoining living room.
‘Now where is David?’ Her words trailed behind her and Artemis had a fleeting urge to run after her and grab her by the hair. How dare she say his name so casually?
‘He’s in bed,’ she heard herself say, gripping the counter as she turned back towards the chopping board.
‘She loves that boy as if he were her own,’ Jeff said, to himself as much as to Artemis. As much as the children she loves so much we never see them, left as they always are with one of a fleet of staff to whom the duties of motherhood are delegated, Artemis let the thoughts form in her mind.
She heard the click of the glass Clive had been holding out in a private toast between the men.
‘Yes, well, David loves her, too,’ Clive said.
The thought dissolved into silence, the tears stinging her eyes nothing to do with the onions she was slicing into, her fingers gripped tight around the handle of the knife.
Artemis rang Athena the next day. Clive had offered to take David with him to have the car cleaned while Artemis tended to chores at the house. It was one of David’s favourite things, to sit in the front passenger seat while the vehicle moved through the rotating foamy cylinders. She tried to suppress the jealousy that clawed through her as she watched him and Clive leave, through the living room window. But it hurt, how willingly he reached for his father’s hand, how merrily he tried to move into step as they made their way towards the car. What little Clive did with David, he was always met with the sort of gratitude she couldn’t help but feel he didn’t deserve.
Shaking away her thoughts, she watched the Mercedes disappear at the end of the street before picking up the receiver and dialling Athena’s number. Artemis was already mentally immersed in the conversation she was preparing to have with her oldest friend, confiding in her about the phone call she had overheard between Clive and May, and what it meant. But the moment Athena answered, Artemis could hear the distraction in her voice, baby Maria crying out in the background.
‘Is everything OK?’ Artemis asked. ‘Shall I call another time?’
Athena shouted to Panos to close the door, muttering to herself irritably as she returned her attention to the phone.
‘It’s fine, she just won’t stop bloody crying – all the time! I feed her, she cries, I put her outside, she cries, I bring her inside, she cries … How are you?’
‘I’m OK,’ Artemis replied hesitantly, put off her stride by the chaos at the other end of the line. ‘Something strange happened, with Clive …’ she started cautiously.
‘Yes?’ She heard Athena’s interest pick up.
Artemis hesitated. ‘Yesterday he was on a call to May – you know, that awful wife of his business part—’
‘You do it!’ Athena suddenly cried out, muffling the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘Panos, I’m on the phone …’
‘Listen, I’ll call you back,’ Artemis said, suddenly unsure of her words, her reserve exacerbated by the tension in Athena’s voice, and the slight delay on the phone line. Besides, was Athena really the person to tell? Resentment lingered from the time she had tried to tell her about the rape. Artemis could ignore it most of the time, bury the hurt and the anger and the shame beneath the love she felt for her friend. But she felt its presence again now, crouched in the corner of the room, like a ghost. She had tried to tell her that afternoon, in the immediate aftermath, with the bruises at the tops of her legs newly-formed. The memory of his hands holding her down while she wrestled against him was still fresh – and yet after that conversation with Athena she came away asking herself if it had partly been her own fault, doubting herself rather than the boy who had been prepared to destroy her. She had agreed to go with him, hadn’t she? How hard had she tried to resist? How firmly had she said no?
Hard enough, she reminded herself – more than she should have needed to.
And yet, even with that lucidity, the same sense of d
oubt crept up on her again now as she hung up the phone, muttering to Athena that she would call again later.
What had she actually heard Clive say, that day in the office? Perhaps she had imagined the word May, or, more likely, heard it out of context. Besides, that woman, with her too-orange perma-tan and grating manner, was hardly a romantic threat, was she?
Of course she wasn’t, she told herself, silencing the voice that told her she wasn’t a fool. She was simply being paranoid. Besides, she and Clive had a child together. Whatever she had or hadn’t heard, they were a family and that was all that mattered. No one, certainly not May, would ruin that.
Madeleine
London, the inquest
‘I would like to offer on behalf of the court my sincerest condolences to Ms Witherall’s family, not least her mother and her daughters, Stella and Rose. The inquest is now closed.’
Death by suicide.
The words rattle through Madeleine’s mind as the journalists move out of court ahead of the family and friends, each reporter desperate to be the first to file their piece.
Harry’s face drops as she walks towards him, his fingers fidgeting with a cigarette outside the court. He has lost weight since the last time she saw him.
‘Madeleine?’ When he leans forward to kiss her on the cheek, his skin is sharp with stubble. ‘Good to see you,’ he says unconvincingly, his attention moving to the door.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
‘I knew Anna.’ He inhales, looking away, releasing the smoke in a controlled line.
‘Really? How—’
Harry interrupts, his voice urgent, as if the thought has been sitting there waiting to tumble out. ‘I just can’t believe it. Those children. Sadie, Callum … I wondered at first if it was staged—’ He scratches his chest with his free hand, visibly upset. ‘Do you suspect anyone?’
‘Who do you think?’
He bites his lip, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Fuck. I should have stayed with them longer. The girl, the older one, she asked me to stay. She …’
‘There was nothing you could have done,’ Madeleine says, more abruptly than she intends.
Harry looks over her shoulder, spotting someone out of the corner of his eye. His expression changes. ‘Look, I have to go. It was good seeing you. You take care.’ He pats her distractedly on the arm and moves quickly away, past the entrance to the court.
Madeleine turns and watches him moving towards the stairs leading to Granary Street and King’s Cross station, beyond. She waits a few moments before following.
At the bottom of the stairs the road veers left towards Camden Road on one side, and to the other, sweeps under a small bridge towards the newly developed Coal Drops Yard and Granary Square.
She has barely taken a step onto the pavement when she spots a flicker of movement under the footbridge twenty or so metres away, followed by raised voices. Stopping, she instinctively takes a step back so that she is partially obscured by the wall. From here she watches the arguing figures. She can see them both clearly – Harry, and the red-headed woman from the family table at the front of the court. She is the one attendee Madeleine hasn’t been able to identify in the nights she has spent trawling the internet for clues about the case.
There was Anna’s mother, her father-in-law, Clive Witherall, and Anna’s former boss, Clarissa Marceaux. But this woman, she could find no trace of.
After a moment, Harry disappears. Madeleine moves slowly towards the footbridge, and when she gets closer the woman leans against the wall and lights a cigarette.
‘Are you OK?’ Madeleine asks as she gets closer.
The eyes that look up at her are at once alert and remote, as if she has been disturbed in the deepest of thoughts.
‘Hmm? Oh,’ she says, realising Madeleine must have seen the argument. ‘I’m fine. Thanks. Just having a catch-up with an old friend.’
‘Right,’ Madeleine says without moving, watching the woman’s expression shift into vague recognition.
The woman inhales deeply, exhaling the smoke in a controlled line. ‘When I say friend I mean total fucking arsehole.’
‘It’s an important distinction,’ Madeleine nods.
‘You were in court, weren’t you?’
Madeleine nods.
‘You’re not a journalist?’
‘No,’ Madeleine replies, hesitating. ‘I’m police.’
It’s not strictly true, she reminds herself, but NCA officers often identify as such given the majority of the public wouldn’t know what the National Crime Agency is, let alone what they do. Besides, they have the same policing powers – even if the old sweat officers would scoff at someone from the NCA calling themselves cops, not least someone like Madeleine.
‘Police?’ The woman lifts the cigarette to her lips and inhales again, looking away. ‘Bit late, aren’t you?’
‘My name’s Madeleine,’ she says, ignoring the woman’s tone.
‘Meg,’ the woman replies after a moment. ‘So why were you in court, if Anna’s death isn’t being treated as a crime?’
Ignoring the question, Madeleine asks, ‘What did you mean when you said we were a bit late?’
‘Anna’s already dead, isn’t she?’ Meg waits a moment. ‘Is there a suggestion that Anna’s death wasn’t suicide?’
Madeleine’s eyes narrow. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Why else would you be here?’
Madeleine pauses, ignoring the question once again. ‘The man you were arguing with just then …’
Meg exhales sharply, flicking away her cigarette and crossing her arms over herself, laughing sardonically. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
Madeleine doesn’t flinch. ‘Try me.’
Artemis
London, the Nineties
The day David started school, Artemis felt like someone had pulled the rug from under her world.
‘He’s in excellent hands,’ the reception teacher assured her as they stood in the playground that first morning, her fingers gripped around his.
It was September and the trees swayed unsteadily above their heads. Artemis felt a flutter of nerves as she looked up. When was the last time those branches had been felled? People were killed by falling trees; even a smaller branch could damage a child if it landed on them from a height.
‘I’m just not sure that he’s ready,’ Artemis replied, refusing to let go of her son’s hand as the other children filed into the red-brick building where Clive had been educated, decades earlier.
The finest boys’ school in London, Clive had said proudly once they received the letter to confirm his place, for which they would be paying more each month than Artemis could fathom. She thought back to her own school, the lessons held in the dusty playground, desks shared between pupils. The taunting.
This place, by contrast, with its cricket grounds and computer room, was not so much a school as an establishment. Another institution to which she somehow found herself inadvertently attached.
She should be happy for her son. It was a blessing to be able to afford such privilege. Unlike her, David would not have to scramble for books to learn another language; he wouldn’t find himself derided for wanting to know more than the teacher had means to tell. But would he be happy?
She laughed at herself for that one. You can be happy anywhere, she had once heard Athena’s mother tell her when she complained of being bored on the island, of wanting to get away, of wanting a more satisfying life. Yes, Artemis thought now. You could be happy anywhere, and you could be miserable anywhere, too. But how could she be sure David would be happy here? How would she know what went on behind closed doors? Her parents had never known what she endured each day when they sent her off to school.
‘David will be absolutely fine,’ the teacher said firmly, as if reading Artemis’ thoughts.
She hadn’t allowed herself to watch as he moved away from her, towards the next stage of his l
ife, the doors closing behind him, stealing her son away in a world to which she had only the most limited access. As she walked home, the familiar streets of Hampstead contracted around her, squeezing her out, so that by the time she reached the bottom of her street, she felt like an outsider again.
She spent the morning on the Heath, trying to sketch to help pass the time before collecting David. But as she looked out at the birds sweeping in and out of the willow tree that hung resignedly over the pond, she felt her hand freeze up.
How long had it been since she had last taken pencil to paper? Something that was once second nature now jarred. It felt like another lifetime that Clive had promised her the gallery, once they were in London. She had never pushed the point, not even when he suggested she wait until she was further along in her pregnancy and then revisit the idea. She had lost her nerve; any faith she had in herself and her identity had drained away. She had lost whatever voice she’d had, and what was an artist with nothing to say?
She had better get home, she told herself, in case someone called from the school. David might need her. How had she not thought of it sooner? She ran the short distance, heading straight to the answerphone. When she found it blank she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
As the months passed and Clive’s business gathered momentum, the ratio of time he was spending in London to that which he spent abroad, at various meetings and conferences and heavens knows what else, diminished so that often Artemis felt like she was raising David alone. Not that she would have minded if David was actually there for her to look after – she might have relished it if that had been the case. But in the months since he had started school, everything had changed. Even though she knew it was selfish, she dreaded the time between dropping him off and picking him up again, pink-cheeked and full of all the exciting things they had done in class. It was an affront, of sorts, how easily he fell into his routine; while other children clung to their mothers, David would run into school happily.
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