The Name I Call Myself (11 page)

I climbed over the stile that led to the shortcut through Top Woods, and politely declined once more.

This carried on for a couple of months until he finally got the message – or so I thought. Intrigued and spurred on by the rare resistance to his attention, Perry tried another strategy. He ceased the compliments, the flowers, and the dinner invitations, and instead took to sitting on a bar stool and making conversation.

A few more months went by and, so subtly I hadn't quite noticed it happening, we became friends.

Perry was interesting, and nice. He also made me laugh – not something I did often or easily. Gradually, over the weeks, he chipped away at my armour, so when he asked me to be his plus one at a wedding, making the very valid point that we would have a fun evening together, I accepted.

Three months later he proposed, in a fairly casual way during a moonlit walk along the River Trent.

I laughed it off and said no.

The next four times he asked me I said no.

The sixth time, nearly a year into our relationship, when he got down on one knee and produced the billion-carat diamond ring, I promised to think about it. I thought about it for all of half a day before deciding to decline once more.

Then I got the flu. And three days later Sam took a cocktail of killer substances strong enough to knock him into a coma.

Mid-October, at the end of my tether and worried sick about Sam, who seemed to be shrivelling before my eyes, I called the police station where Gwynne had been stationed all those years ago. The Inspector was in a meeting. Could she call me back?

I left my name and number. Shoving on a pair of trainers, my fingers barely managing to tie the laces, I snatched my rucksack from a peg by the front door and launched myself down the front path, automatically turning right towards the woods. I knew these footpaths well. HCC was situated two point two miles from my front door. Not being the kind of place whose customers use public transport, it was quicker (and cheaper) to walk cross-country than take the intermittent bus to the next village and hike the hill the rest of the way. And over the three years I had worked there, I had grown to love walking. I valued the peace, the openness, the beauty. Between long shifts and looking after Sam, the walk to work became my headspace, a chance to relieve pressure, burn up stress, or simply forget about everything but the hum of summer bees, the spring blossom decorating the hedgerows, the frost sparkling on bare branches, the crunch of nuts beneath my feet.

I became no one out here. Neutral and nameless. The robin who perched on the fence post by the sheep field didn't care who I was or what I had done. The squirrels dancing up the oak trees gave not a chestnut if I spent my last penny on my brother's counselling,
then ended up using the session myself when he failed to show up. No snail, butterfly, brown rabbit, or toad derided my lack of education, plans, prospects. Neither did they taunt me about the secrets I kept or the shame I carried. Nothing here had a name. Sometimes, on days when the loneliness threatened to crush my heart altogether, when the ache inside made it hard to breathe, I would walk, and walk, and for those long hours, the name I called myself was Rachel.

Today, I turned away from the usual route across the fields to HCC. Instead, I veered off towards the river, where a muddy path ran along the water's edge for a mile or so. The trees along the riverbank showed the first signs of an unseasonably late autumn, flecks of yellow and brown dancing among the canopy of green above my head. I shrugged off my jacket and wrapped it around my waist, pausing to drink from the bottle of water in my bag. As my feet paced the dry earth, I soaked up the sounds of the river splashing over rocks, the chirrups of the birds, the faint hum of a tractor sowing winter crops on the ridge. A large stick bounced in the current alongside me, bumping into rocks and spinning through patches of vegetation. I slowed to match its pace, waiting when it became temporarily snared on a fallen branch or caught in the weeds at the edge of the bank, hurrying when a stretch of faster current sent it careening smoothly downstream.

After a while, it disappeared under the shadow of a bridge and didn't come out the other side.

At the moment I had decided not to scramble down the treacherously slippery bank to set it free, my phone rang. Leaning on the wall of the bridge, I saw the unknown number and felt my heart accelerate.

“Hello?”

“Faith? It's Gwynne.”

I gripped the stone wall with my free hand.

“Hi. Thanks for calling me back.”

“No problem at all, Faith. How are you, kid?”

I thought about that. How was I?

“Kane is out.” That should answer her question.

“Ah. Are you still in Brooksby?” she asked.

“No. A few miles away. Sam's here, too.”

“How's he taken it?”

I sighed. “Not great.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Where he is. If he's looking for us. If our fear is justified. If we need to emigrate, or hire bodyguards. Or forget about him and move on.” I turned around and leaned with my hip on the wall.

“Did the VCS let you know the conditions of his release?”

“He's not allowed to contact us.”

“Give me a couple of days.”

“Thanks, Gwynne.”

“You are very welcome.” Her voice softened. “Take care of yourself.”

Phew. I was trying.

Sam was in bed when I called in later that day. He didn't want the tea I made, or the sandwich. April lay amongst the debris on the sofa, wearing Sam's tatty dressing gown.

I gave her his rejected tea, and switched off the television.

“What are you doing here, April?”

“I'm taking care of Sam. And the flat.”

I looked around. I hoped she was taking better care of Sam than the flat. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I love him.”

“How long have you known each other?”

“A few weeks. Long enough.” She flicked a dreadlock out of her face.

“So you met him when he was well.” I sat down on the seat opposite her.

“Yeah. But you don't just love someone when they're happy, do you? Love means being there when they need you.”

“Sam suffers from serious mental illness. He's also been an addict for fourteen years. This could go on for weeks, maybe months. Then he might get better for a while, before another crash. He will probably start drinking again, and smoking whatever he can find to numb the torture. It's going to get a lot worse before it gets better. He needs serious help, April. Major commitment that will grind you down, wear you out, and wring you dry. No one would ask or expect that from someone he's just met.”

She stared at me. “I don't care what anyone asks or expects. I want to be with Sam and I'm going to help him out of this. He'd do the same for me.”

“No. He wouldn't.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I'm not just another one of those slappers! He told me about them. He's changed since he went in that place. He's not going to do that no more.”

“Does it look like he's changed?” I waved my hand about at the mess.

“He told me what happened. Why he's like this.”

“
What?
” That stopped me dead. Sam had never, as far as I knew, told anyone about Kane.

“I want to help him.”

I sighed, running my hands through my hair. “How are you going to do that?”

“I'm making sure he eats, and takes his meds. I don't drink no more. I listen. I take his mind off it. I try to give him something to live for. You should be pleased you don't have to do it all by yourself.”

I nodded. “But you understand Sam is extremely vulnerable? Taking care of him is really tough.”

“I know that! I'm here doing it, aren't I?”

I raised my eyebrows. “You're sat watching television in a dressing gown in the middle of the afternoon. Look at this place. Did you live like this in your last house?”

She took a packet of cigarettes out of the dressing gown pocket and pulled one out, lighting it with shaking hands.

“April?”

She ignored me, taking a long drag.

“Where did you live before you met Sam? Do you have family round here?”

Her eyes flicked from one wall of the room to another. “My mum lives in Mansfield. We don't get on. I'd been sharing a house with a couple of mates but that didn't work out.”

“So what will you do if this doesn't work out?”

She took another long drag. “I don't know. I'll find something.”

“Sam said you were at the jobcentre last week.”

She shrugged. “I lost my job when the café closed. Can't find nothing round here since. I'm not proud though! I'm looking.”

“Don't let Sam get in the way of that.” I handed her an empty mug to catch the ash dropping off the end of her cigarette.

“What, like you?” She grimaced. I didn't hate April. She was way sharper than she looked. I wondered if she might end up being good for Sam. But would she stick around long enough to find out? Not without help. And a truckload of personal power.

“What are you doing next Wednesday afternoon?”

The following day was Friday, and at seven-twenty I knocked on Marilyn's door with more than a little Hester-induced trepidation.

“It's open!”

I stepped inside, to be engulfed in a haze of baking smells – vanilla, cinnamon, and coffee. Marilyn appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking as though she'd fallen into the flour shaker.

“Faith, thank goodness it's you. I need a pricker.”

“Excuse me?”

I followed her into the kitchen, where she shoved a fork into my hand and pointed me to a tray of raw shortbread.

“No time! Prick it! Then whack it in the oven.”

I had often been in Marilyn's kitchen while she baked – it was her therapy once the twins were asleep. It had never before looked as though she'd been the one sleeping while Nancy and Pete did the baking.

“What's going on? Did Hester tell you to do all this?” I asked, as I started pricking.

“No.” She shook her head, causing a cloud of icing sugar to puff off the top of her brown bun. “I'm nervous. Hester here. The choir here. Why? What's happening? Did I mention Hester will be here? In my house! Her eyebrows peering at my things.”

She waved her hands about at the dozens of bowls, pans, spatulas, and food containers. “Peering at this!”

“It's fine. Calm down. You get on with the baking and I'll start clearing up. I don't think you need to let Hester, or anyone else, in the kitchen.” I took the tray of shortbread and slid it into the oven.

“Looking at me!”

“So what if she does? So your kitchen's a mess and you've picked up a bit of flour. You've been baking. You've got twins. Your husband is away.”

The doorbell rang.

“Help!”

I smothered my smile. “Go upstairs and get changed. I'll let them in and direct them to the living room. Calm down, Marilyn. Do some choir breathing. People'll think that chilled exterior is all a ruse.”

She took a deep breath, gave a firm nod, and barrelled out of the room. I found Rowan and Hester on the doorstep, both wheeling suitcases.

I welcomed them in and sat them on one of the sofas. Marilyn had set out some glasses and a carafe of water on the coffee table, along with some cartons of fresh juice. They declined tea or coffee, but Rowan did help herself to the bowl of crisps.

Before I could check on Marilyn, the doorbell rang again, and
for the next ten minutes I was letting people in, boiling the kettle, cutting up cake, and trying to keep an eye on the shortbread in the oven while deflecting everyone from the wreckage of the kitchen. To be fair, the rest of the house wasn't much better. While James had been home, things had been fairly
relaxed
. Since he'd left, they'd tumbled into shambolic.

Marilyn appeared as the last arrivals scurried in, depositing shoes and jackets in the hallway. By half seven, fed and watered, fourteen choir members were squished onto seats, chair arms, beanbags, and on cushions on the floor, all eyes on Hester.

“Good evening. And welcome to Marilyn's house. Thank you, Marilyn, for hosting us.” Marilyn shrugged, unaware she had had any choice in the matter.

“You women are old and wise enough to know that true beauty comes from within.”

“Speak for yourself!” said a couple of the younger women.

“Old?” exclaimed Janice. “That crossed a line, that did. I'm offended.”

Hester swivelled her laser beam eyes to look at Janice, whose cheeks turned pink. She mouthed, “Sorry Hest.”

“Confidence, poise, grace. A woman at peace with herself. Size and wrinkles are irrelevant. This choir is going to create something beautiful. But it cannot do that if you don't know you are beautiful. How can something ugly produce something beautiful, Leona?”

Leona, a fifty-something soprano, frowned. “Well, my kids are all gorgeous and I produced them.”

“Are you ugly, Leona?”

She looked around at us, hoping someone would provide her with the right answer. “Well, I'm no Carol Vorderman.”

“Rowan?” Hester nodded at her. Rowan opened up her suitcase, took out a large pink make-up bag, and opened it up. Removing a bottle and a wodge of cotton wool, she passed them to Leona. She then took out a couple more bottles, and more cotton wool, handing them to Rosa and the soprano called Mags.