Wronged Sons, The (9 page)

“And if Simon had done that, then why hasn’t he been in touch with you?” I continued. “If he left me, he left you too.”

“Did he leave a note saying why he went?” asked Shirley. I let out a huge sigh.

“You’ve not listened to a word I’ve said, have you? Let me spell it out for you. Simon did not leave. He has gone missing. The police are treating him as a missing person. What more evidence do you need?”

Shirley rose to her feet. “I’m sorry I have to ask this Catherine, but did you do something to him?”

That threw me. “Like what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Maybe you had an argument that got out of hand, you might have hurt him, then panicked, I’m not saying you meant to but…”

“What, then I got the kids to help me wrap his body up in an old carpet and buried him in the garden? You’ve been watching too much Columbo.”

“We deserve to know the truth! He’s our son!” she growled.

“He’s not your son, Shirley,” I snarled back. “But he is my husband and it’s me and my children who are suffering the most. And how are you helping? By accusing their mother of murder? What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Their silence spoke volumes.

“If he’s not dead, then he’s abandoned you,” Shirley responded matter-of-factly, “And frankly, I’m not surprised.”

This time, Arthur shot her a glance as if to say even he thought she’d stepped over the mark. But she ignored him and continued. “I’m only surprised it hasn’t happened sooner. I’ve always said you can never repair damaged goods.”

Despite the cruelty of her words, it still took a glimpse of a bewildered Robbie sitting on the bottom stair listening intently as his mother was torn to pieces, before I snapped.

“Just leave,” I bellowed, lurching towards Shirley and grabbing her by the arm. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“Once you tell us where Simon is!” Shirley yelled as I frog marched her to the front door. Arthur shuffled awkwardly behind us.

“Get out now!” I screamed and physically pushed them onto the path, then slammed the door, locking and chaining it behind me. I took a moment to gather myself, then approached my son with my broken heart still racing.

“Doesn’t Daddy love us any more?” he asked, brushing away stray blond hairs stuck to his wet cheeks. “Is that why he ran away?”

I wanted to slap his grandparents for putting that idea into his head. Instead, I knelt down, placed his hands in mine and looked him straight in the eye.

“I promise you, Robbie, no matter where your daddy is or what has happened to him, he hasn’t run away. He loves us with all his heart.”

He peered at me cautiously, stood up and climbed the stairs. “You’re a liar,” he said quietly as he retreated to the safety of his bedroom. “You made Daddy run away.”

I could take what Arthur and Shirley had said on the chin. But hearing my little boy doubt his mother for the first time in his life was crushing. I should have gone after him and tried to explain you hadn’t been driven away by anybody, least of all your children. But Arthur and Shirley had sapped my strength.

Instead, I poured myself another glass of wine, sat in the kitchen with my head in my hands and fought the urge to break every dish in the sink.

June 25, 8.40am

I knew by the way the orange vase on the sideboard vibrated that a police car was pulling up outside our house. Their engines had an urgent, distinctive throb I’d grown used to, and made joints under the floorboards rattle. Then the panic would creep up my spine, terrified of what they were about to tell me.

It was usually just an update into the investigation or to ask me yet more questions I couldn’t answer. But the visits that scared me the most were when they brought me plastic bags containing pieces of stray clothing they’d found strewn somewhere. A handkerchief, a hat, a sock, and a shoe... the list of items for me to identify went on and on.

Each time I barely spoke as I sifted through them, but nothing ever belonged to you. The officers tried to hide their frustration at each dead end, like a positive result would be one step closer to solving the case. But you weren’t just a case to me; you were my husband.

And gradually the catwalk of the orphaned clothes petered out along with their visits.

June 30, 8.40am

James was six, Robbie was five and Emily was approaching two and showed no more understanding of our new life than their equally confused mum.

As soon as the school summer holidays began, they barely let me out of their sight in case I vanished too. From behind the kitchen curtains, I’d feel three pairs of eyes glued to me even when I walked to the end of the path to put the rubbish out. I constantly reassured them I wasn’t going anywhere, but they didn’t believe me.

Daddies were supposed to stay, and once they learned that wasn’t the case, they became worried mummies wouldn’t always stay either. I hated myself for thinking it, but part of me wished I could have told them you’d gone to see Billy when they’d asked. They might have made sense of that more easily. It was more important than ever that I pretended to be the constantly upbeat parent, no matter how I really felt.

Emily was aware something had made her world topsy-turvy, but it didn’t seem to trouble her much. In fact she loved the extra cuddles she received from our friends and the police as they came to the house. It was difficult for them not to melt at the sight of her huge baby blue eyes and goofy smile, especially when she’d point to a photograph of you on the sideboard and sing: “Daddy’s gone; no daddy.” I’d nod my head sympathetically then distract her by playing with Flopsy or a Barbie doll.

Robbie took it the hardest. He and Oscar spent more and more time together, feeding off each other’s confusion. I’d well up watching them when they sat together by the garden fence, staring across the fields, waiting for you to reappear like you’d been part of a magic trick that had gone horribly wrong. Each night when I put them all to bed, I’d open Robbie’s door so Oscar could hurry inside to sleep at the foot of his bed.

James was the spitting image of you, from the brown waves in his hair to the sparkle in his green eyes and infectious laugh. One night, he scattered his collection of white and brown seashells he’d found on the beach in Benidorm across his bedroom floor. His friend Alex told him that if he put one to his ear and listened carefully, he could hear the sound of the sea.

Every now and again he’d pick one up to try and catch your voice, in case you were lost at the seaside and needed his help to find your way home. I tried it myself once, but I heard nothing but the echo of my emptiness.

***

Today, 8.55am

She glared at him with unflinching venom she’d only felt for one other man. But she’d long buried that person in her past - along with her husband.

Her forehead was so furrowed it felt sore. It was difficult to find the words to respond to what he’d recalled about his first few weeks without them. Of all the possible outcomes she’d considered – and there had been many - she hadn’t envisaged he’d simply taken a holiday. While she’d been frantic with worry, he’d been lying on a beach.

She wanted him to understand how their lives had fallen to pieces when he disappeared. She needed him to know that while he was creating a whole new persona, her destiny hadn’t been one of choice.
But if she could have conveyed to him even a small sense of what she’d gone through, he still couldn’t comprehend how the agony of a missing soul mate felt. And to so conveniently disregard the first thirty-three years of his life and those who were an integral part of it beggared belief.

“Did even a tiny bit of you consider what it might have been like for us, here, while you were getting stoned with a bunch of teenagers?” she asked.

“It wasn’t like that, but at the time, I suppose not,” he replied with brutal honesty. “I assumed you’d thought I’d had an accident but couldn’t find my body.”

“And please correct me if I’m wrong here, but you actually made yourself forget we even existed?” He nodded.

“What about birthdays or anniversaries?” she persisted, hoping to find a glimpse of remorse. “Did you ever think of us then?”

“Not at first, no, but I had no choice. It was the only way I could move on.”

“That’s the difference between you and I, Simon. Without you and the children, I would never have wanted to have moved on.”

“I had to get away, I was suffocating.”

“Oh spare me the melodrama,” she snapped. “You could have asked for a separation if you didn’t want to be married to me any more. I’d have been heartbroken, of course, but I’d have worked through it eventually. And leaving me was one thing, but your children? I will never understand that.”

She felt her voice begin to crack so she swallowed hard. She had vowed many years ago not to shed another tear over him and she wasn’t going back on her word now.

“You asked me where I went, so I told you,” he replied quietly. “I’m not responsible if you don’t like what you’ve heard.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, you’re right. Responsibility isn’t a word you’re familiar with, is it?”

“I’m not here to argue with you,” he added, trying to rationalise with her and avoid confrontation so soon.

“Then why are you here? Because I’ve got a lot of anger in me that I’m trying my damnedest to contain. Only you’re not making it easy when you tell me how you just put us out of your mind.”

“Of course I thought about you, I thought about you all in time. What I’m saying is that it wasn’t beneficial for me to dwell on the past straightaway. I had to block you all out to carry on. I apologise if that sounds callous but at the time I did what I thought was best.”

She shook her head in disbelief and ran her hands across her cheeks. They were burning up. She walked over to the window and unlatched the lever arch to release the claustrophobia from the room. As the light hit her hair, he thought he noticed what looked like a crescent-shaped scar on the side of her head. She turned around quickly.

“Were you sick of us all, or was it just me? What did I do to make you not want me anymore? Did you get a better offer from someone else?”

He looked towards the fireplace, not yet ready to explain his reasons. He recognised a familiar object.

“Is that the one Steven bought us for our wedding present?” he asked, pointing to a round orange vase.

His change of subject threw her, but she nodded regardless.

“How is he? He must have retired by now.”

“Yes, he has. One of his sons runs the business you threw away. Steven and Annie retired to the South of France. Funny he didn’t bump into you on the beach. You’d have had so much to catch up on.”

He didn’t ask about Roger. Now wasn’t the time.

“Anyway, I doubt you’ve risen from the grave to make small talk,” she continued. “So either tell me why you’re here or go back to where you came from.”

“You need to know the full story first.”

“What, more riveting tales from Club 18-30? I don’t have time for this.” She walked towards the front door as if to open it, but she knew it was an empty gesture. She had waited too many years for answers for it to end now.

“Please, Catherine. I need you to know what became of my life. And I want to know what you did with yours.”

“You don’t deserve to know a thing about me,” she sniffed.

“I know I don’t have any right to, but it’s been a long time. We both need closure.”

Sod closure, she thought. All she wanted to know was why. Even after all this time, she still felt she was to blame. The puzzle missed key pieces she couldn’t fill by herself. So she told herself that while she’d indulge him, whatever happened that day, she wouldn’t make it easy for him.

CHAPTER FIVE

Northampton, Twenty-Five Years Earlier

July 17, 4.30am

A long, loud knock on the front door woke me up with a jolt and scared the life out of me. I jumped out of bed, looked nervously from the window and recognised Roger’s unmarked police car and a van parked by the curb. My mouth was dry.

‘They’ve found your body,’ I thought. ‘I’ve really lost you.’ I threw on my dressing gown and felt my legs wobble as I dashed downstairs, hoping the noise hadn’t woken the children. Roger stood awkwardly with his head bowed forwards, unable to look me in the eye.

“I know what you’re going to say,” I began.

“Can I come in?” Roger asked.

“You’ve found him, haven’t you? You can tell me.”

“No, we haven’t, Catherine. But I need to talk to you.”

Roger entered while a handful of officers carrying torches, wearing overalls and boots wrapped in blue polythene bags stayed by the garden gate. None of them looked at me.

“I’m really sorry about this, but it’s out of my hands,” he began apologetically. “We’ve been offered an alternate line of enquiry that my Chief Inspector’s ordered me to follow up.”

“I don’t understand.”

He paused. “We’ve received a tip-off that suggested we need to examine your garden for… signs of recent disturbance.”

“Signs of recent disturbance,” I repeated. “What does that mean?”

“There’s no easy way to say it, but there’s a suggestion Simon’s remains may be buried here.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked in disbelief.

“I only wish it was, but I have a search warrant.” He pulled out a document from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. I threw it back at him without reading it, choking at the absurdity of it.

“You seriously believe I buried my husband in the garden?” 

“No, of course I don’t, but we have to follow up all leads, even if they come from crackpots.”

“Tell me who this crackpot is, Roger.” I demanded.

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“This is me you’re talking to. I have a right to know.”

“I’m sorry, Catherine, I can’t.”

I paused. “Wait a minute, you said crackpots, as in there’s more than one. Who would…”

My voice trailed off and I shut my eyes when I realised who was responsible.

“Arthur and Shirley!” I fumed. “I’m going round there now to sort this out once and for all.”