How I Lost You (24 page)

38

Jack: 16 December 1992

Keep it together, Jack. You’ve come this far, don’t fuck it up now.

He could see things were getting worse and he’d had to do something. Shakes wasn’t coming back to Durham – the situation with Beth had sent him completely over the edge and his father had pulled some strings to have him finish his degree from home. Now Jack was sitting in the police station, ready to be questioned about the murder, God, the filth really were clutching at straws.

I’m not here as a suspect. I’m here of my own accord.

The mantra made him feel calmer, more in control. The detective leading the case had offered to interview him at the university, given the family he came from, but he’d been insistent: no, he’d come to the station, he didn’t want special treatment. Now he was sitting next to his father’s best friend and lawyer – unnecessary, the detective had said, but his father would never allow him to cross the threshold of a police station without Jeremy present.

‘So you knew Bethany Connors well?’

Jack looked at Jeremy, who nodded. ‘Not really. I mean, she was my friend’s girlfriend . . .’

‘Fiancée,’ the detective corrected. Fucking imbecile, what difference did that make?

‘Yes.’ Jack allowed a terse smile. ‘Of course. But I’d only met her a very few times.’

The detective smiled back. His podgy stomach rubbed the edge of the table, pushing it closer to Jack every time he leaned forward slightly. His dark hair was slicked with the grease of a few days without washing and his face was darkened with stubble. This man was working overtime, but he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Jack. Jack would wager his own life on that.

‘Some of Beth’s friends mentioned you had a crush on her.’

Jack sighed. You could always rely on hysterical females to over-fucking-dramatise things.

‘I thought she was attractive, yes. I mean, you’ve seen her, right? She had that tiny little waist and tits you could balance a bowl of cereal . . .’ Jeremy cleared his throat. ‘Sorry,’ Jack apologised, allowing himself to look chastised and trying not to grin at the detective’s look of disgust. ‘Yes, I found her attractive.’

‘So it must have annoyed you when she began dating your best friend.’

Dating? Who did this guy think he was, the Fonz? Screwing was more appropriate; she was screwing Billy and it never would have lasted. Jack could see the look in those gold-digging green eyes whenever she looked at him; it was him she really wanted.

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Girls like Beth are commonplace at Durham. I’m hardly short of
dates.
’ He emphasised the last word, mocking the detective for being so out of touch.

‘So you didn’t send her presents?’

There was no point in lying. Jennifer would have told the filth all about his gifts to Beth. ‘Yes, when I first met her she mentioned she liked some artwork and I had it sent to her. Unbeknownst to me at the time she was already seeing my best friend; when I found out, I immediately apologised to Beth and suggested she keep the presents as a gesture of my sincere remorse. He’s like a brother to me; I would never knowingly pursue a girlfriend of his.’ He hated having to sound so pathetic, but it was working: this idiot was eating up the ‘my brother my friend’ act. Jack glanced at Jeremy, who nodded again. Jesus, how much was his father paying him to sit there and nod?

‘OK, so—’ There was a knock at the door and a young police officer entered the room. His eyes were wide, as though he still couldn’t believe someone had allowed him into a police station unsupervised. His hands fidgeted as he addressed the detective at the table.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, it’s just, well, we got him.’

The fat man at the table scowled. ‘Fuck’s sake, David, can you not see we’re in the middle of an interview?’

The young man at the door reddened at the dressing-down. ‘Sorry, sir, but Chief Inspector Barnes wants you in there now. He said—’

The detective turned back to Jack. ‘I’m sorry, you’re going to have to excuse me. Can I just get you to wait here for a minute?’

Jack’s heart began to pump. Had they found the tramp? The door closed behind the detective, but not all the way. Jack got up and opened it a crack more. He couldn’t hear anything.

‘I need the john,’ he told Jeremy. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

Jeremy didn’t have the balls to argue and Jack pushed open the door and made his way in the direction of the two officers. Raised voices made him stop short. Fuck, this was it. This could end it all.

39

After an hour Nick still hasn’t made a reappearance, so I refill my wine glass and go back to my notes. According to the investigating officer’s statement at the trial, Mark found me and Dylan and rushed us both to hospital. When the police got to our house, they found the offending cushion on the floor – where Mark had thrown it after finding it clutched in my hands – along with an empty bottle of aspirin and a pool of blood where I’d hit my head when I passed out. Mark accosted Dr Riley in the hospital car park and it was he who pronounced both me and my son dead. As they rushed us in, another paramedic noticed I was breathing, shocking the life out of them all. Once the police psychiatrist had confirmed that the blackout had probably been caused by puerperal psychosis as a direct result of the trauma of killing my son, it really was an open and shut case. I was admitted to hospital, where I woke up the next day.

I realise with some surprise that my glass is empty, and when I turn to refill it so is the bottle. How did that happen? I remember a time when you could get at least three glasses out of a bottle of wine. Uncorking a second bottle, I return to the sofa and put my feet up. I’ve only taken a couple of sips when I decide to lay my head down and rest my eyes, just for a second.

40

‘Susan! Susan, wake up!’ Something is wrong, someone is shouting, shaking my shoulders frantically. Where’s Dylan? Is he OK? As I slowly take in my surroundings, I remember. Dylan is gone, I am not in my home, and the man shaking my shoulders isn’t my husband, it’s Nick.

‘Nick, what the hell?’ I sit up groggily, my head pounding and my mouth dry. ‘Where’s the fire?’

That’s when I see what’s wrong. The living room around me looks like a piñata has been battered to death above us. The floor is covered in ripped-up paper and it takes me a second to realise that every last page of jottings, trial minutes, medical notes and articles has been shredded.

‘What have you done?’ I shout, jumping to my feet. When Nick doesn’t speak, I take in the rest of the scene. Three empty wine bottles lie on the floor next to an overturned glass, and my packet of aspirin sits on the arm of the sofa, empty but for two pills. ‘Did you do this?’

The look on his face tells me he didn’t.

‘Well it wasn’t me. Someone else—’

‘How the hell did someone get in here while you were asleep, drink three bottles of wine, empty out a packet of aspirin and rip up all this paper without you noticing?’

I know how. The wine. ‘I drank some of the wine. One bottle, not three.’

‘Well that explains a bit more,’ Nick snorts. ‘Like why on earth you left my front door unlocked while you went to sleep.’

‘I thought you’d locked it when you left! And I didn’t plan on sleeping, I only closed my eyes for a minute.’

Nick lets out a breath and sits down heavily on the sofa. ‘For a second I thought you’d . . .’ He lets the words trail off, but the end of the sentence is clear. He thought I’d overdosed on aspirin. He thought I’d killed myself.

‘That’s what they wanted you to think! That I’m a crazy drunk. Why else would they empty two bottles of wine and the aspirin? To make it look like I’m crazy. Do you think I should call the police?’

‘And tell them someone came into my house while you were asleep . . .’

‘Drank two bottles of wine, emptied out a packet of aspirin and ripped up all this paper without me noticing,’ I finish dully. ‘No, I don’t suppose I will. They’ll think the same as you did. But we’ve lost all our evidence, just when I thought we were getting somewhere.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ Nick replies. ‘I made copies of all this stuff before I gave it to you. Except . . .’

Except the DNA results, which I opened myself and had had on me ever since. Which had been on the table when I fell asleep.

‘They’re gone,’ I confirm bleakly. ‘Gone. My only evidence . . .’

‘Don’t worry.’ Nick pulls me close into a hug. ‘We can get copies from Tim at the lab. I’m just glad you’re OK.’

‘Am I? Are we safe here? Should we check into a hotel?’ Now that the initial shock and the urgency of having to assure him I haven’t tried to top myself has worn off, I am feeling severely freaked out by the idea of someone being in the house again, this time while I’m asleep in it. I realise I’m pretty lucky it’s just the paper shredded all over the floor.

‘I don’t really want to spend more time in a hotel.’ Nick looks as though he’s nervous enough to consider it, which freaks me out a bit more. ‘I think as long as we keep the door locked,’ a pointed look at me, ‘and I stay by your side from now on, we should be OK.’ He must see how much I disagree. ‘At the first sign of any more trouble, I promise we’ll ship out.’

I do feel safe with him. Despite the fact that whoever wants me to leave the past alone has followed me here to scare the spit out of me, I feel safe with Nick.

41

Sundays have long been my favourite day of the week, even before the days of dreading the postman. Back when I was married, we never worked weekends, so we’d spend a lazy morning in bed before dragging ourselves outside to go for a leisurely walk or a drive in the countryside. I was particularly fond of car-boot sales and could spend hours just strolling around surrounded by other people’s junk. After we had Dylan, we’d often take him to the local park to feed what few ducks still found a home there. He was too young to appreciate it, but it cemented our belief in ourselves as a family, complete with family days out.

At Oakdale, Sundays meant an extra hour in bed – a real treat in a place where simple pleasures were rare – and then on to the chapel for service. I’d never been particularly religious, but it seemed such an ordinary, normal thing to do on a Sunday that I relished every visit, clung on to them as proof that I was still a real person. And the idea that God might grant me forgiveness for what I’d done kept me going week after week. Since my release I’ve swapped Sunday service for volunteering at the shelter and I figure God will be OK with that.

This Sunday the smell of breakfast pulls me downstairs. When Nick sees me standing in the doorway wearing his fluffy navy blue dressing gown, he grins.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. I made you breakfast.’

‘Well I was kind of hoping it wasn’t for the other woman you keep in the basement.’ It’s meant to be a funny remark but Nick doesn’t smile; his eyes hit the floor and he quickly turns away. Something’s wrong. I don’t have the guts to ask what it is. I don’t want bad news, I don’t want to hear he’s having second thoughts or he wants me out. I’d rather not ask; if he’s going to say it, I’m not going to make it easy for him.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Nick serves my breakfast and before I know it I’m tucking into the bacon like I haven’t eaten for weeks. I laugh when Nick teasingly offers me a tablespoon instead of my fork. I haven’t laughed properly in so long, the sound is alien to me.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

Uh oh. Here it comes. He doesn’t need me complicating his nice life, he has to get back to his job.

‘Have you thought any more about Mark’s involvement in all this?’

Oh. Paranoia, you little devil. Relieved, I swallow my pride and answer truthfully. Of course I’ve thought about it – practically every minute. ‘I thought I knew everything about him. We talked about everything, not just at the start of the relationship either; sometimes when I was pregnant and I couldn’t sleep he’d sit up with me and rub my back and we’d just talk for hours.’ Nick is listening intently. ‘He told me about his relationship with his father, which had always been strained, his childhood, and his fears that we’d never have a baby. He even told me how he thought God was punishing him for something he’d done in the past.’

Nick looks up from his forkful of beans at this revelation. Quickly I realise how it sounds and begin to backtrack.

‘I don’t think he actually meant he’d done something awful,’ I explain. ‘Just that all the bad things people do come back to haunt them.’ I think of the girl in the photographs and the hidden money. ‘Then again, it might be that I never really knew my husband at all, mightn’t it?’ The thought makes me sad, like everything we had together is spoiled with the bitter taste of lies.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot about the girl in the photos,’ I admit after a long silence. ‘Who was she? Why didn’t Mark ever mention her to me?’

‘Maybe she didn’t mean anything, just a university fling. Maybe she wasn’t even worth mentioning.’ It looks like the words leave an unwanted taste in his mouth.

That certainly wasn’t the impression I had. Just the way they’d looked together, and the places they’d been. I’d heard millions of university stories but never met one of his university pals, or any of his friends from the past. It had never seemed strange before – they had probably all moved away to lead their grown-up lives – but now I desperately want to know what Mark’s life was like before me. Even if this girl has nothing to do with Dylan’s disappearance – and I don’t see why she would have – I know I won’t let this go until I find out why Mark ‘forgot’ to mention her to me. I tell Nick all this and I’m surprised to see him nodding.

‘I expected you to want to find out who she is,’ he admits. ‘I was a bit surprised when you dropped it so easily. If she knew Mark at university, maybe she knows something about the money he hid from you too.’