The Carrier (27 page)

‘
Police
station?’ Sean says in a put-upon voice, as if it’s a huge inconvenience for him to have to hear about it. At times like this, I feel the presence of his selfishness as if it were a third person in the room with us, hulking and invisible: twice Sean’s size, sitting next to him on the sofa, refusing to budge.

Some people might expect a reference to murder to be followed by a reference to the police. If I relayed this conversation to an impartial witness, I’m fairly sure he or she would be astonished to hear that Sean asked no questions about the violent crime I’d referred to in passing. ‘None at
all
?’ they would say, and I’d have to explain that Sean walks around – or, rather, lies around – wrapped in a thick cloak of No Concern Of Mine. It repels any kind of experience that isn’t the sort of thing that happens to sensible people like him, or that doesn’t affect him personally.

Except this murder does. If Francine Breary were still alive, Lauren Cookson wouldn’t have followed me to Germany. If I hadn’t met Lauren, I wouldn’t know that Tim was in trouble and I wouldn’t be thinking about leaving home.

‘That’s right,’ I say breezily, taking off my coat. ‘I’ve been
daahn the nick
,’ I put on a cockney accent. ‘Where else would I go to sort out the whole innocent-man-charged-with-murder palaver?’ I drop my bag on the floor by mistake and find I’m too wiped out to bend and pick it up.

There’s no way I can get out of here tonight. Sean would find me in the morning collapsed on the doorstep, comatose. My eyelids start to slide closed as I imagine my blacked-out self.

‘That’s it, pretend you’re too tired to talk,’ he says bitterly. I forgot: I’m not allowed to be too tired when I get home from a business trip – for anything. It’s the price I pay for having been away. Sean expects me to come back full of energy for reunion sex and fighting, one after the other. I never know what the order will be.

‘You couldn’t have made a quick phone call, let me know you were okay?’ he persists.

My fingers itch to dig into him and gouge out chunks of flesh. I sink down into an armchair. ‘You don’t care if I’m okay, so why would I bother?’

‘I don’t
care
?’ Sean holds up his hands as if to say,
Then why am I sulking and yelling?

‘You care about a malfunction in your remote surveillance system, and you confuse that with caring about me,’ I tell him.

‘What the
fuck
are you talking about?’

I’m experimenting with telling you how I really feel. I’ll probably regret it. I should stop.

‘Remote surveillance system?’ He shakes his head. At least he doesn’t mind that his food’s going cold – that’s a point in his favour. ‘Put yourself in my position for two seconds, Gaby.’

‘If you want me to do that, you’ll have to shift your arse off the sofa.’

‘I miss you when you’re away,’ he says quietly. ‘I look forward to you coming back. Is that so terrible?’

I should tell him not to waste his time, that it’s impossible for the Affectionate Pitch Antidote to work at this late stage; my resentment is too far gone. The way I feel at the moment, I’d prefer almost any other man to Sean. A stranger would be nice – he wouldn’t expect too much in the way of conversation. I wouldn’t care what characteristics he had as long as the first thing he always said when I got in from a gruelling work trip was, ‘You look shattered. I’ll stick the kettle on. Earl Grey with milk?’

Perhaps my next work project should be inventing my ideal man. I’d make sure every last design flaw was eliminated before I let him move in. If I hadn’t been so obsessed with work when I met Sean, I’d have noticed that physical attraction wasn’t a good enough reason to get stuck in a long-term relationship with someone.

And Tim? What about the design flaws there? A man who wouldn’t leave the wife he didn’t love for you, even though you begged him to?
I force the thought from my mind.

‘We’ve been through this before,’ I say to Sean. ‘The me you miss isn’t real. It’s a different me from the one that has to travel a lot for work – you don’t like that me at all, do you? If you did, you’d be nicer to her.’

‘Gaby, there’s travelling a lot and there’s being a fanatical workaholic who allows no room for a personal life. Even when you’re here, you’re planning your next foreign jolly: looking at hotel websites, booking plane tickets . . .’

Foreign jolly.
That’s a new one.

‘I’ve been away an average of three nights a week for the past six months,’ I trot out. I did my diary statistics on the plane on the way home, anticipating that I’d need to have them to hand. ‘That means an average of four nights a week at home in the same period.’ I rub the back of my neck, which aches from the strain of holding my head up. ‘What else can I do, Sean?’

Why do I never point out to him that my work-related gallivanting – and he’s right, I do a lot of it – led to the creation of a company that eventually sold for 48.3 million dollars and enabled us to buy this house outright as well as a house for my parents, one for my brother and his family, and a flat in London for Sean’s sister?

Sean never mentions it either. When I told him that my new company might end up selling for as much or more if all goes according to plan, he said, ‘If it does, will you stop starting businesses and spend more time at home?’

Sean’s work doesn’t involve any out-of-hours swanning. He adheres to a classic routine: leaves the house at seven thirty every morning, spends the day teaching secondary school pupils in Rawndesley how to play football and tennis and hockey, and returns home between four thirty and five. His job has the good manners to confine itself to regular working hours; he doesn’t see why mine can’t do the same.

‘Meanwhile, I’m missing the football,’ he says, holding out his hand for the remote control.

I think of the choirgirl who sat behind me on the coach, the one with a brother called Silas. ‘Let’s say I’d been pregnant, and it was a boy,’ I say to Sean. ‘Let’s say he grew up to be a famous footballer.’

‘Are you going to give me the remote?’

If Silas played for Manchester United, would you support them, or would you still support Stoke City?
I never heard what Silas’s dad said in response; Lauren distracted me.

‘If he played for Liverpool, would you still support Chelsea?’ I ask Sean. ‘Or would you support the team your son played for, because he’d matter more to you than football?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Sean opens a beer and his mouth and pours. I’ve seen petrol pumps approach the transfer of liquid with more finesse. ‘You know the answer.’

‘The answer being . . .?’

‘Are you winding me up? No one who cares about football stops supporting his team just because his son ends up playing for a different one.’

‘That can’t be true,’ I say, but Sean’s scornful laughter makes me doubt myself mid-sentence. Could he be right? Is the world really so crazy that millions of men would prioritise . . . what? A shirt and shorts in a particular combination of colours over their own sons? Female football fans wouldn’t, surely. I like to think women are saner.

‘If we had a son and he played for Liverpool, or for anyone, I’d support Chelsea, till I drew my last breath.’

‘Right.’
How pathetic.
‘So, it’s Chelsea v Liverpool in the FA Cup Final and your son’s about to take a penalty kick for Liverpool and possibly score the winning goal. You’d know it was one of the most important moments of his life . . .’

‘I’d support my team. Chelsea. More to the point, so would he,’ Sean adds as an afterthought.

What?
I must have misheard, or misunderstood. I’m Lauren-lagged, that’s my problem. ‘So would who?’ I ask.

Sean rolls his eyes. ‘My son. Plenty of players play for one team and support another – it’s no big deal, just . . . your team’s your team. Once a Chelsea fan, always a Chelsea fan.’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Your son, the famous footballer, taking a penalty kick for Liverpool, would want to
miss
?’

‘Much as his professional pride would want to score the winning goal, Chelsea winning’d mean more to him,’ Sean says with authority.

‘Because . . . he’ll be such a devoted Chelsea supporter?’ I think I’m up to speed, but I’d better check.

Sean’s nodding.

‘How do you know?’ I ask. ‘What if he supports Arsenal?’

‘For fuck’s sake! What’s the point of all this? Give me the remote. He’ll support Chelsea because he’ll be my son, and I’ll bring him up to support Chelsea.’

Thank you for telling me everything I need to know.
This might be the most useful conversation I’ve ever had in my life. ‘Sean,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to be with you any more. Sorry to spring this on you with no warning.’ I stand up and nearly lose my balance, lightheaded with fatigue. ‘I don’t love you any more. I don’t want to live with you, or have children with you, and even if I did, I wouldn’t stand by and let you tell those children what they are and what they’d better turn out to be.’ I pick up my bag and hold it against my body, forgetting for a second that it isn’t a baby I’m protecting from its father’s mind control. ‘I’m going upstairs to pack some things,’ I say. ‘Don’t follow me.’

That’s when my life explodes in tears and swearing, and I realise that, having done nothing about my relationship crisis for years, I now have to move fast. Very. Seconds later we’re both running up the stairs, Sean reaching out to grab hold of my hair and my clothes. I sting and burn in different places; it’s hard to predict where the next pain will come from and whether it will throb or pierce, especially against a soundtrack of bitch and whore and evil and monster. I keep my mouth shut so that I can concentrate on moving, slip out of Sean’s grasp twice on the landing and manage to get to the bedroom. He’s too close behind for me to slam the door, and then I’m not in our room any more because he’s pulled me back onto the landing, and the only way I can think to stop him from really hurting me is to surprise him with words. ‘There’s someone else,’ I scream into the arm that’s pressing against my face. ‘I’m leaving you because of another man.’

It works.

Sean slumps in a heap outside the bathroom door. He’s crying. Irrelevantly, I notice that it’s not sad crying; it’s angry, like Lauren’s at Dusseldorf airport. Like all the moisture being squeezed out of a bloated grudge.

I sink down to my haunches, panting. I need to explain properly. Once Sean understands, he might not be so upset – once he realises I’m going mad and screwing up my life rather than riding off into the sunset with a new soul mate. ‘Do you remember Tim Breary?’

‘Who?’

‘He used to be my accountant, years ago. You never met him.’
And I didn’t mention him unless I absolutely had to.
‘Nothing happened between us, nothing physical, but—’

‘So something did happen!’

‘I fell in love with him. I think he fell in love with me too. Maybe he didn’t, but at the time that was the impression I had. But . . . he ended it. Not that there was anything to end, really.’

‘He dumped you?’

I nod.

‘Good.’ Sean spits the word in my face. ‘I hope you suffered.’

‘I did.’

I want to tell him more about my suffering. I’ll try taking all the blame and judgement out of it, as I was once taught to do on a course for company directors that one of my investors suggested I attend, one whose suggestions I couldn’t afford to ignore. ‘You didn’t notice that I was discreetly falling apart. I hid it as best I could, but I couldn’t hide all of it. I worked out that I was safe as long as there was football on telly. I could sit across the room from you, lean my elbow on the arm of the blue chair and cry behind my hand.’
And you never noticed.

Sean wipes his eyes. ‘I don’t need to listen to this shit,’ he says.

The course didn’t cover what to do if you attempt non-judgemental communication and get an abusive response. Or perhaps it did after lunch; I had to leave at midday to fly to San Diego.

‘Why don’t you go, if you’re going?’ Sean says. ‘I doubt I’ll notice the difference – you’re never here anyway. Sex is a joke these days. You lie there like a dead woman, wishing I was him, probably.’

‘Silently going over my to-do list for work the next day, more likely. Sean, I’m not leaving you to start a relationship with Tim.’

Hope flares in his eyes. ‘You just said . . .’

‘Yes, it’s because of him that I’m going, but it’s not how it sounds. I love him, yes, but I’ve no reason to think he’s interested in a relationship with me. He didn’t want me before, so why should he want me now?’

‘Then what the fuck . . .?’

‘He’s in prison. He’s confessed to the murder of his wife.’

‘The murder of his wife,’ Sean repeats quietly. ‘Have you gone mad, Gaby?’ I’ve not heard this tone before. Ever. For the first time in eight years, is he genuinely concerned for me?

‘He didn’t do it. Tim’s not a murderer. I don’t understand it, but . . . all I know is, until he’s free and everyone knows he’s innocent, this is what my life’s going to be about: helping him, doing everything I can for him. Until I know he’s safe, I can’t think about anything else, I can’t
be
with anyone else. I can’t even work. I know that probably makes no sense . . .’

Sean laughs. ‘You’re a fucking crackpot. I’ve no idea who you are, do you know that?’

I nod. Of course he doesn’t know me; I’ve been hiding from him for years – me and my St Christopher together.

‘Good riddance to you.’ He hauls himself to his feet. ‘Get out of my life, sooner the better, and stay away, because I can promise you one thing: I won’t be having you back when it all goes tits-up for you.’

‘It already has,’ I say. ‘Tim behind bars for a murder he didn’t commit is the worst thing that could happen to me, so there’s no need to put your gloating on hold. You can start now.’

‘Go and waste the rest of your life on a murderer, be my guest! You and this Tim guy sound perfectly matched. Every killer deserves a callous bitch like you! Hoping you can persuade him he wants you this time round, are you?’

‘I’m hoping to save his life.’ As I hear myself say it, my mission suddenly becomes real, a tangible thing in my mind. I’ve made my first official statement, declared my aim. I feel better for it. ‘I don’t trust anyone else to get it right.’