How I Lost You (18 page)

Well that’s a shock. I might have been hoping for pity, sympathy, perhaps a little nostalgia. I even expected the anger, but not concern. I don’t really know what to do with concern. I mean, he has a point, but he’s about four years too late to be worrying about my safety.

‘I didn’t come here for a lecture,’ I find myself snapping.

‘Why did you come here then?’ Mark is almost yelling now. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at just turning up on my doorstep after four years? How did you think I’d feel, opening my front door and seeing your face again? I’ve spent years trying desperately to forget everything about you and yet here you are, looking like that and trying to drag up everything I’ve worked so hard to forget.’

‘Well I’m sorry.’ I stand up and cross the room, hand him my mug. ‘I’ll leave you to your cosy little life that you’ve managed to wipe us both from! If I find our son, would you like me to let you know?’

Mark’s face falls and I know I’ve gone a step too far.

‘Find our son?’ he whispers. ‘Susan, I already found our son. I found him with a cushion over his face, cold as ice, the breath sucked from him by the woman I thought was the love of my life. I don’t have the luxury of clinging on to some hope that he’s still alive. I remember holding him in my arms in the car park of the hospital begging him to breathe, screaming for someone to help, to save my beautiful little boy whose name you can barely say. His name was Dylan, Susan, Dylan Lucas Webster, and he’s dead. He’s dead because you killed him, and no amount of photographs of smiling little boys will change that. I think it’s time you went.’

28

I drive away as fast as my shaking body allows and pull over at the first opportunity. Leaning forward and resting my head on the steering wheel, I give in to the racking sobs that have threatened to overtake me since first seeing Mark. He knows more than he’s telling me. The conviction in his voice when he spoke of finding Dylan’s body certainly didn’t seem faked, but there is definitely something more, something I can’t for the life of me figure out yet.

When I manage to pull myself together, I take out my phone and dial Nick’s number.

‘Susan?’ He answers on the first ring. ‘Is everything OK? Did you speak to him?’

‘I spoke to him.’ I force back the tears and recount the entire visit. When I finish, Nick is silent. ‘Are you still there?’

‘I’m here,’ he answers. ‘I just don’t know what to make of it all.’

‘He knows something,’ I tell him with certainty. ‘And I intend to find out what. I’m going back.’

‘Do you think that’s wise?’ Nick sounds worried. It seems to be becoming a habit for the men in my life to adopt a concerned tone when they speak to me. ‘It sounds like you reopened some pretty raw wounds the first time. Maybe you should just let him be.’

‘I have no intention of upsetting him again,’ I reply, a bit stung that the concern this time is for my ex, not me. ‘I’m going back when he’s not there.’

‘No way. No way, Susan, come back here now. Please.’

‘What’s the problem? I don’t have to break in, I’ve got a key. I don’t think he’ll have thought to change the locks. Remember, the only danger in his life was behind bars.’ I’m not sure if I manage to sound glib or just bitter.

‘What if he catches you? You have no idea what he’s capable of.’

Huh? ‘What do you mean, what he’s capable of? Mark’s never done anything remotely scary in his life. He took back a belt once because the cashier forgot to put it through the till and he didn’t want to be a criminal.’

‘How much do you really know him, though, Susan? What do you know about his background?’

‘What are you talking about? Mark doesn’t have a
background
. You’re being ridiculous. If I have any chance of finding out what he knows, it’s now, before he remembers I still have a key to his house.’

‘I can see I’ve got no chance of stopping you,’ Nick concedes. Clearly he knows me better than I know him after such a short time. ‘Will you wait until I can get to you?’

‘No.’ I am adamant. ‘I need to do this on my own. I’ll wait until I see his car pass, then I’ll be in and out as fast as I can.’

‘And if he doesn’t leave?’ Nick asks, probably already knowing the answer.

‘Then I’ll wait. He can’t stay in there for ever.’

29

Maybe Nick was right. Mark could stay home for the rest of the night. What am I going to do, just sit here in the car? I can’t even sleep, in case I miss him leaving and I’m waiting here like an idiot while the house is empty. This is the only way he could pass that leads anywhere, the town, the supermarket, so unless he goes for a drive in the countryside at least I’ll definitely see him from here. If he leaves at all. What seemed like such a good idea ten minutes ago now seems ridiculous. What if Mark does catch me? And what did Nick mean about knowing his background? I wonder if he’s found something out about Mark that he’s not telling me, that he thinks I’d prefer not to know. I’m trying not to think about what the implications of that are, so I focus instead on the cars driving past the lay-by, making up stories about the people in them, what their lives might be like and where they might be on their way to.

It doesn’t take as long as I expected for Mark to leave his house. Just forty minutes after I drove away, I watch his silver Mercedes pass the lay-by I am hidden in, drive to the end of the road and turn right into the town. I wait a few minutes just to be sure he isn’t coming back, then start the car.

I park up in an industrial estate quarter of a mile from the house and walk the rest of the way in a nervous frenzy. If I’m found breaking into my ex-husband’s home – although I’m not intending to damage anything – I will be in a lot of trouble. I might even be sent back to Oakdale to finish my sentence. Can they do that? I should have asked Cassie.

It takes me ten minutes to get back to the house, checking around furtively the whole way there. If I’m seen, someone will be sure to mention it at the next Neighbourhood Watch meeting. I fleetingly imagine Mrs Taylor next door pinning up Wanted posters on the lampposts in her winceyette nightdress.

Despite my confidence that Mark won’t have changed the locks, I’m still slightly surprised when my key turns quite easily and the door swings open. I step inside quickly. That’s it then, I’m a criminal. Well, again, I mean.

The kitchen has changed the most out of the rooms I’ve seen so far. The worktops are the same, but instead of the beautiful sage green I spent hours in B&Q having mixed just right, the walls have been painted a hideous sickly yellow colour. All that’s missing are the chunks of carrot.

Now that the break-in part has gone so easily, I’m feeling overconfident. I’m going to infiltrate Mark’s office, where a brown folder sitting on the desk marked
TOP SECRET
will obviously contain all the information I need to find my son. ‘Wishful thinking,’ I mutter, the noise out of place in the silent house.

The office has changed little since I left. The layout is the same, with the desk in the corner to my right as I walk in and a well-worn red armchair – the only bit of Mark’s former life to seep through into ours – against the wall opposite. A few new pieces of art have replaced the family pictures, and for some reason he’s taken down his degree certificates. That seems strange; those A4 sheets of paper bearing the Durham University crest were his pride and joy. He’s probably having them specially cleaned or engraved or something.

The old locked filing cabinet still stands next to the desk, although where the key is I couldn’t say. I have no idea where to start. The desk drawers are neat and ordered but yield nothing helpful.

It never really struck me when we lived together just how little I knew about my husband’s work. Frankly, hearing about his job in IT bored the crap out of me, although I always managed to smile and nod politely at all his work parties. We were only there for the free drinks anyhow; Mark couldn’t stand his workmates either. He was the complete opposite of most of them; they were so wrapped up in their own little worlds that anything as moronic as a joke bypassed them completely. I didn’t understand any of it. In my world a cookie was something you ate with a cup of tea while you watched
Corrie
. I wish now I’d at least popped into his office occasionally, if only to see where everything was kept. The only time I remember coming in here was when Mark was working late and I wanted him to come to bed. I wandered in wearing his favourite negligee, which I casually let fall open as he stared at the computer screen. His resolve lasted all of three minutes and we ended up having sex right there on the desk. We laughed like teenagers when I kicked the cork board clean off the wall and Mark didn’t even break his stride to clear it up. I can still picture it lying on the floor, a small key attached to the back with a strip of Sellotape . . .

No, that would be too easy. Pulling the board from the wall a little too vigorously, I turn it over, still expecting to find nothing, expecting my memory to be clouded by nostalgia and hope, but there it is, the small silver key still taped to the back of the board. I might not be Sherlock Holmes, but my husband is no Jim Moriarty either.

I shove the key into the top drawer of the cabinet and turn it sharply, letting out my breath as it clicks. I yank the drawer all the way open to find dozens of files arranged in alphabetical order by last name. A quick scan proves I don’t recognise any of them; nothing as blatantly obvious as a Dylan file, or Dr Riley. My hopes of an easy find are looking bleaker. Taking out the first file, labelled ‘Andrews’, I hastily scan the contents. As expected, it is full of computer jargon and business details. I shove it back into its space, careful to leave nothing that might give away my presence. In the bottom of the drawer, underneath the files is a small blue leather book, the word ‘addresses’ printed across the front in gold. I shove it into my bag, certain it’s disappearance won’t give away my presence.

The second drawer down is clearly for accounts. Tabs marked ‘Utilities’ and ‘Phone’ contain little more than water bills and itemised phone bills. If I had all day I might be able to make use of the phone bills, but without knowing which numbers to look for, they’re no use to me. I could just as easily spend my time jotting down numbers for the local takeaway and Domino’s Pizza as anything helpful. I open up the file labelled ‘Bank’ and pull out a small brown ledger with ‘Accounts’ printed across it in black ink.

The book has three sections, one for bills, one for spending and one labelled ‘Misc’. It’s an account I’ve never heard of, not that that means a lot. Mark always took care of the money. He managed to train me well enough to balance my personal chequebook – my spending money – but beyond that I was clueless. Looking back now it seems pathetic; all I knew of our financial situation was what his lawyers offered me in the settlement, an offer I gladly took because in my eyes I deserved nothing. A fleeting look at the account book tells me I’ve been more than a little short-changed. I knew, of course, that my husband earned good money – we lived in a five-bedroomed house and I wore a different pair of designer shoes to every function we attended – but I had no idea he had these kinds of savings. Huge sums of money entered the account on a regular basis between 1990, when it appears Mark started keeping the ledger, and 1993. With what is stored away in there, Mark could have been living like a king. At the beginning of the ledger is a note of the money that was already in the account when the records began, and to all intents and purposes it looks like some kind of trust fund. I know Mark’s father was a wealthy man who had died of a heart attack before we met. They hadn’t spoken in years and Mark never wanted to discuss it, but I wonder now if the money was a legitimate inheritance, and why my husband never once mentioned it to me.

I don’t have time to figure out if Mark’s financial situation is important. I don’t want any more of his money. I do, however, presume that Nick will want to see this, so I snap off a couple of photos of the pages, including account numbers, on my Blackberry and replace the book carefully. I need to hurry: Mark might be back any second.

The last drawer is a mess, and so out of character for Mark that it surprises me more than the discovery of the money. There are just piles of papers thrown in, one on top of the other. My heart steps up a beat. If I’m going to find anything, surely it will be in amongst this crap? Scraps of paper scrawled with phone numbers are shoved in between letters, junk mail and bills. I dip my hand in randomly, hoping that the luck that’s got me this far won’t fail me now. It lands on a photo. Hoping desperately for a picture of Dylan, preferably with an address and a full explanation of how he isn’t dead written on the back, I pull it out.

What’s that old saying?
Be careful what you wish for.
I am indeed holding a picture of my son. He looks safe and cosy in the arms of a beaming woman who appears to love him very much. A woman who will, within twelve weeks of this photo being taken, pick up a cushion and hold it over his face until he stops breathing. I want to scream at her, to yell at her to get help before it’s too late, but maybe it was already too late. I can look at the past, I can hold it in my hands, but I can’t change it. I turn over the photograph: no address, no amazing discovery, nothing I don’t already know.

Susan and Dylan, 3 days old.

A lump in my throat threatens to choke me. It’s been so long since I allowed myself to look at photographs of my son, and in the last few days I’ve been confronted with his image more times than I can bear. Not just on paper, but in my mind constantly. The love I felt for him for three months hasn’t diminished, and I’d give anything I have now, or have ever had, to reach into this photo and brush my fingers across his soft skin, kiss his tiny lips.

I take a deep breath and tear my eyes away from the picture. Seeing it has drained the fight from me. I no longer want to find out what’s going on; I just want to go home. I put the photo back where I found it, careful not to leave any sign of me being here, then, pushing those hurtful images to the back of my mind, I lock the drawer, taping the key back behind the cork board. Out on the landing I avoid looking at Dylan’s door.