“You should have talked to me Paul. Why didn’t you? Why have you been going through it all on your own?”
“Ah, you know … I thought I could handle it.”
“You know I’ll do everything in my power to help you, don’t you? No matter what it takes, or costs. Whatever’s happened and whatever you have or haven’t done, I’m here for you.”
“I know. Thanks. But I need you to believe I haven’t done anything.”
“Hurry up, will you!” A voice demands behind him.
Paul ignores it. “You do believe me, don’t…”
Paul swings around to face the owner of the fist that has thumped the end call button. “What the-?” He stops short. Towering over Paul’s six-foot frame is a man with a face as brutal as his fist.
Paul retreats to his cell and tries to read a book from the prison library. Stephen’s asleep. Lucky sod. Days of nothingness yawn in front. Tomorrow is Monday, when he should be at work. In his normal life. What he wouldn’t give to be back there. He allows his thoughts to recollect the last day he spent there and Alana’s face creeps into his mind.
“Morning Alana. How are you doing?” Paul had dumped his bag on the desk as though it were a sack of potatoes.
“Better than you by the look of it. Are you OK?”
“Fine. A bit knackered.” He pulled files from his bag that he would have worked on at home if he’d had the chance.
“It’s more than that.” Her perfume wafted in the air as she glided towards him. “You look done in.”
“Do you want a coffee?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She clasped her papers closer against her chest. “Is it Michelle? Have you two been rowing again?”
“Kind of.” He had confided in Alana several weeks previously but kept regretting it. From then on, Alana was constantly checking in with him.
“That looks like more than a row.” She looked at his arm.
“My own fault … I was late home and I’d ignored her calls.” Paul perched on the edge of his desk. “I guess she thinks I have something to hide.”
Alana came towards him, took hold of his arm and inspected the nail wounds. “That looks sore.” Her touch was gentle.
“It’s fine.” Paul pulled his arm away, berating himself for wearing a shirt with short sleeves. “I’ll go and make that coffee.”
With trembling hands, he tried to transfer a spoon of coffee from the jar to the cup.
She emerged in the doorway. “Blimey. You’re a bag of nerves!” She passed him the milk. “You sure you don’t want to talk?”
“I’m fine. I need to plod on with some work. Hold my calls will you? No matter who it is.”
“You should leave her you know.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t want to meet her eye.
Slopping coffee, he sank into his office chair. Waiting for his PC to fire up, he tried to concentrate. E-mails would be a sensible place to start. A couple of personal messages nestled amongst the work ones.
A reminder about golf! Paul thought how he would like to spend the day on the golf course with Nick, however, it wasn’t worth the hassle he would have, before and after from Michelle? Especially after last night. If your possessive wife can’t spare you for a day – I will bloody well come and drag you away from her.
Hey bro! It was good to see you the other day! David had messaged him too. He had only seen him a couple of times since the wedding. I’m coming over at the weekend. Gone were the days when he could make sure he saw him every week. His last remaining family member and Michelle was jealous of him. How could a woman be jealous of time spent with his brother? He thought again of Nick’s wife and how she would encourage him to be ‘out of her way,’ then she could crack on with her own thing too.
He now gave out his work e-mail address as a contact. He and Michelle had been using a joint email address. It seemed a nice thing when they were keeping in touch with everyone about wedding preparations, but it meant that she could delete messages without him knowing he had ever received them.
He’d told them to stop texting him too – that made her suspicious. One text could ruin an entire evening. Nowadays, when he remembered, he would turn his phone off when he was at home.
Paul slid a notepad across the desk. Perhaps if he made a list, it might help him do something useful. After scribbling a few things down, he remembered a call he needed to make. As he waited for an answer, the words ‘Keep calm and carry on’ bellowed from the back of his office door. An overused slogan that had become his mantra.
“Oh hello. Is that the agent handling the sale of Seven Sycamore Court? I’m ringing to request a document so we can progress to completion? Yes, I’ll hold.”
Paul’s brow relaxed as his gaze fell upon a drawing from Emily. Me and my daddy. Her face smiled out from a photo, next to it. He had to sort things. For her sake. For all their sakes.
“Yes thanks, if you could email it to me. No. That’s all for now. I’ll be in touch.” Putting the phone down, he picked up his pen and crossed the first item off his list.
His mobile phone sprang into life. Michelle. He couldn’t be bothered with her at that moment. It rang again. He switched it into silent mode. In his chair, he wheeled himself to his filing cabinet. Opening a file, he attempted to read its contents then picked up his dictaphone. “Alana,” he mumbled into it. “Can you type a letter to Mr Brookes of Brookes, Lawson and Smeaton? Date it last Friday. Dear James. I am writing regarding the exchange of contracts in the matter of Spalding Farm. Alana, can you look up the rest of the address on the database?”
Paul glanced at the clock. It was nine thirty and he was worn out; as though he had worked a complete day already. Sighing, he pressed the record button on his dictaphone and continued.
“There’s a few call-backs from the answer-phone.” Alana marched into his office and thrust a handful of paper at him. “And a certain person keeps ringing. I’ve told her you’re busy but to say she isn’t happy is an understatement.” She flicked her hair over one shoulder. “You should sort it. She’s clogging up the switchboard.”
He began flicking through his messages. “I’ll give her a call later. I’m no letting her hold me to ransom.”
RING ME ordered the text message, flashing on the desk.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” Alana rolled her eyes as he picked his phone up. She retreated towards the door.
Knowing he would be unable to achieve anything until he had pacified Michelle, he dialled their landline number. It was answered before the first ring.
“It’s me.”
“Paul. Why are you ignoring me again? I can’t take it. We need to sort this out.”
Paul stayed quiet as she ranted. Holding the phone away from his ear, he could still hear her clearly.
“Ring me when you’ve calmed down,” he said at last, ending the call, empowered. This became anxiety as he considered how upset she was likely to be. Perhaps he should ring her. No, sod it. It was time to fight fire with fire.
“Fancy some fresh air? We could grab some lunch?” Paul had returned his calls and e-mails and was glad of the distraction when Alana poked her head around his door. What harm could a bit of lunch do?
“Yep.” he peeled his jacket from his chair. “A break from here is what I could do with. I haven’t much cash on me though.” He felt like an idiot. “I’ve left my bank card with Michelle. I’m not sure if I’ll have enough on me for lunch for both of us.” Hell, how embarrassing.
“My treat this time,” she replied. “Lee was paid a bonus this month.”
“It’s a relief to be outside for a bit,” Paul exhaled as they settled on a bench overlooking the museum gardens. “The walls start to close in on you.”
“Try working in admin.” Alana passed him a sandwich. “At least you spend time in court and go out doing valuations and things. I’m stuck in there all the time!”
“Ta.” He tore off the wrapper. “I’m ready for this. M
y treat next time.”
Basking in the early spring sun, Paul and Alana sat in silence.
“What’s going on at home now then?” She clicked open her pop.
“Nowt much.”
“It doesn’t seem like nothing to me. You’re not on your own with this, you know. Maybe I can help you.”
“I doubt it. It’s fine.” He wrenched the top of his crisp packet apart. “Let’s talk about you for once. How’s Lee doing?”
“Oh, same as ever.” Paul thought a bored expression crossed her face. “We’re like we always were. An old pair of slippers.” She looked down at her hands. “Not a right lot to talk about.”
“Do you argue?” Is such desolation normal after marriage, was what he wanted to ask?
“When you’ve been with someone as long as I’ve been with Lee; you kind of run out of things to row about.” She fiddled with the corner of her sandwich wrapper. “The fire goes, after a while.”
“Michelle and I definitely have fire.” He brushed a crumb from the side of her face. “It’s just always me who gets burned.”
“She’s lucky to have you. If I…”
“I know. But we’d better change the subject. Oh no!”
“What’s up?”
Paul felt the sickening thud in his belly as he observed the parked car through the gates of the gardens. Yes, it was their Ford Focus. He was not close enough to distinctly pick out the features of his wife but could certainly imagine her expression. “It’s her.” He wrestled with the option of going over but quickly decided that would make things worse. Especially in front of Alana. No, he thought. I’ll ring her this afternoon. Let her hopefully calm down first.
“So what. You’re not doing anything wrong.” Alana too, stared at the car. “I thought she’d be less jealous now you’re married.”
“It’s fine.” She was going to go mental. He’d better think, quickly, of some reason why they could possibly be sat outside eating lunch.
“Shall I have a word with her?” offered Alana.
“Er, best not. She’ll not be friendly.”
“Do I look like I care? I’m your friend, not hers.” Alana rose to her feet, smoothing down the folds in her skirt. She glanced in the direction of the car. “God Paul. You could do much better than this.”
Chapter Sixteen
Paul sits upright in the gloom of his prison cell. The thin bed creaks as he shivers. Unfolding the blanket at the bottom of the bed, he tugs it towards his chin, scuffing it against his skin as he remembers where he is. For a second, he wonders what time it is. His eyes leap to the overhead barred window, searching for signs of dawn. Then he realises he no longer cares about time. It makes no difference.
He shrinks back onto the lump masquerading as a pillow, then realises silent tears are sliding down the sides of his head, into his ears, into his hair. Trembling with the force of them, he takes care to ensure he stays silent, not wanting to draw attention to his state of mind or wake Stephen up. Men don’t cry, do they? But this is all threatening to break him. The guilt and despair are too much to live with.
Stephen has already warned him if he is ever judged to be a ‘suicide risk,’ he will be taken to ‘healthcare;’ a wing apparently so dire, everybody does all they can to avoid ending up there. Although he cannot imagine anywhere could be worse than here.
Closing his eyes, he wills sleep to rescue him. Instead, he goes over what might have happened to Michelle a million times. He keeps trying to recall the actual night but it’s as though something in his mind is blocking it out. He’s heard about blackouts and worries what his brain might be concealing from him. He hadn’t had that much to drink, had he?
He should have foreseen the decline in her mental health long before. But he hadn’t, and he knows he has failed them all. He tried but clearly not hard enough. He recalls the conversation when she agreed to see someone.
His phone had shrilled in the darkness as he lay on the sofa in Nick’s lounge. She had locked him out for being late home from work.
“Hello,” he had whispered.
“It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Michelle was crying. “I don’t know what’s got into me lately. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Well you’ve a funny way of showing it!” He sat up as he spoke. “You’re acting like you hate me!” His voice inadvertently escalated. “Why else would you lock me out? And threaten to have me arrested? Again!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I haven’t been thinking straight. I think I need some tablets or something.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not right Paul. I’m not myself. Please don’t leave me!”
Paul rubbed his eyes, now able to make out the shadowy shapes of the living room furniture. “You have to learn to bloody trust me. And you must sort your temper out. I hate to see you like this!”
“Will you come to the doctors with me? Will you help me?”
“Of course I will.”
“Will you come home? Now, I mean? I need you here!”
“I can’t. I can’t wake Nick up at this time. I’ll be over first thing in the morning. I’m on his sofa.”
“Are you sure you’re not with someone else?”
He sighed into the silence. “I’m not going to answer that.”
Without giving her the opportunity to change her mind, that same day, he made her an appointment with the doctor. He sat, sandwiched between Michelle and Emily in a waiting room as crammed as a bar during the World Cup. After twenty minutes, Michelle rose from her seat and stomped around. The agitation buzzed from her like electricity from a pylon.
“How long’s it going to be? My appointment should have been ages ago!”
“Try and read a magazine or something. Relax, for God’ sake.” He passed her a copy of Hello, which she flicked through, before slamming it onto the table. Several people peered curiously at her across the confined room.
Another fifteen minutes elapsed until Michelle stormed out of the surgery. “Call this a service?” she blustered at the startled receptionist, the waft of her departure causing papers on the reception desk to flutter.
Paul and Emily tore after her. “Just a bit longer,” he pleaded. He was unable to contemplate the consequences if they continued as they had been doing. “I’m sure the doctor will be able to give you something. Let’s wait a little longer.”
“No. I’ll come back next week while you’re at work. Which is what I should’ve done in the first place. I’m perfectly capable of bringing myself to an appointment.”
“I need to have a word with you Paul.” His heart lurches with the abrupt voice. He realises he must have fallen back asleep. Stephen stirs and turns over in the other bed. The vision of the prison chaplain framed in the cell doorway can be likened to answering the doorbell to find a policeman standing there. If he was at home. But for once, the dreadful realisation of his location isn’t the first thing that hits him upon awakening. What they’re going to tell him is.
“What time is it?” Maybe he can deter the inevitable if he keeps him talking.
“A little after three.” The chaplain sits beside Paul on his bed.
“I already know what you’re going to tell me.” Paul feels sick. “It’s Michelle, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. We took the call about an hour ago. I’m sorry to have to tell you she passed away shortly after midnight.”
Paul sits motionless as the words swim through his brain, gulping down the rising vomit. She’s died. He nods slowly. “My daughter. Has anyone …”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, but I imagine it will be the morning when she’s told. Is she with family?”
“Her gran. Oh my God. Isn’t there any way I can be the one who tells her? She should hear this from me.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. But I will see what I can do to organise a phone call, then at least you can comfort her a bit.”
“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Paul’s whisper is a ghost in the silence of the nigh
t. Yet he is strangely calm. Part of him expected to be hysterical. Michelle is gone. Forever. What does he feel? Anger she’s given in? Sadness? Relief? Fear about the fact he’s now on a murder charge? No. Nothing. Numb. Absolutely nothing. “Will I be allowed to go to the funeral?” An image of being handcuffed to an officer in front of family and friends emerges in his mind. Then, he’s angry at himself. She’s barely cold and he’s thinking of her funeral.
“Given the circumstances,” the chaplain places a hand on Paul’s shoulder, “that probably won’t be an option. But we can have a service here in the prison chapel. Light a candle and say a few words for her. Say a prayer.”
“A prayer.” Paul snorts. “What good’s that going to do? A bloody prayer. I’m totally screwed.”
“You’re allowed to be angry.” the chaplain squeezes his shoulder. “It’s a natural response at a time like this.”
“Angry?” Paul is surprised at the shaking within his own voice. “I’m more than angry, let me tell you! At least she’s out of it but she’s left me to face all this. It was all her fault.”
“Easy mate.” Stephen’s voice sounds into the darkness.
“She didn’t choose to die.” The chaplain’s voice is gentle. “I’m sure she fought for life as hard as she could.”
“She chose to stab herself, though didn’t she? What sort of a mother slices at her own arms and sticks a knife in her own chest when things are rough?”
“Shut up dickhead!” Another inmate’s voice echoes along the landing.
“We don’t know what happened yet.” The chaplain’s voice echoes in the stillness. “But you need to keep your voice down. You’re waking everybody up.”
“Look, I need to be on my own. Get my head around things. She could have told them I didn’t do it. But she can’t now, which changes everything. I have a bit of thinking to do.”
“Of course.” The chaplain rises to his feet. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you. And I’ll be back in the morning to see how you’re doing. It’ll probably take some time to sink in.”
The Man Behind Closed Doors Page 9