Just between us, p.22
Just Between Us, page 22
My memories will create me, I know that for sure, because the lack of them destroyed me. But will my memories fix me or damage me further? I have no idea, but I have to accept whatever it is that unfolds. It feels like I am coming round from an anaesthetic or sobering up the morning after a big session.
The ease with which my brain makes the leap is a surprise. Every thought I’ve had for these past few months has been such a struggle, so it is on one level reassuring to feel so certain, yet on another level horrifying, because in that instant I know Kenneth Jones is not my father.
I don’t know who the hell he is.
That can’t be good.
‘Darling?’ He holds his hand out towards me. I edge further back, move my arm out of his reach. I have a sudden conviction that being called darling by my real father never felt right or safe. I believe it was a tool he used to control me into collusion. And darling, obviously as that woman was nothing, we don’t need to mention this to Ellie. It’s between us. Who is Ellie? I know my father said this to me. My father trained me to have secrets. Kenneth Jones is not my father, although it appears he has secrets of his own. I did not enjoy the carefree childhood that has been described to me, captured in photos. I didn’t grow up by the sea, eat rock and visit the maritime museum in Great Yarmouth. I didn’t have a patch of garden that hosted an abundance of pretty bobbing snapdragons, roses and phlox. This delightful childhood doesn’t belong to me.
My childhood was desperate, difficult and divided. My parents insisted I split myself in two. The truth of that thought is absolute. It is the root of who I am. What grew from that root? I sense the answers are in my head now, no longer a black hole. The absence has been filled by a darker, denser threat. Reality. Whatever grew from that root wasn’t good.
Why is Kenneth Jones lying to me? I remember the first time he told me this story about my cancer, offering it as an explanation as to why I woke up in bed, bruised, confused, my head shaved and stitched. He’s right, I didn’t have any long-term memories, and his explanation seemed reasonable. He filled some of the terrifying holes that were gaping wide in front of me. Holes I thought I might fall into, disappear into. These past few months have been dreadful, not knowing who I am, unable to recall my childhood, friends, lovers, family or colleagues. This man was all I had to depend on, to believe in. He was so patient and kind, and I readily accepted what he told me, happy to embrace the identity he provided for me. I rushed to be engulfed by it.
What he created was not a perfect life. It was one that was blighted by illness, but it was not an altogether unattractive life. I inhabited it happily, accepted it as my own. Stacie Jones, as Kenneth Jones depicted her, was an independent woman who lived in Paris, taught English and had enough confidence to walk away from a wedding to her childhood sweetheart because she believed her fulfilment lay elsewhere. Confidence that I admired and that I was proud of. I believed that confidence came from being a much-loved child, because my God, for all the lies that I’m now confronted with, I do believe Kenneth Jones loves his daughter, Stacie.
But I don’t believe I am Stacie.
I don’t know who she is or where she is or why he is pretending I am her. But I know I am not her. It’s too much to compute. It seems crazy. I think of the clothes upstairs in cases and boxes. They fit me, but I understand now that they don’t belong to me. It’s not just that I can’t remember wearing them; I can’t imagine wearing them. The garish Crocs, the vintage festival T-shirts advertising bands I don’t recall. The clothes never felt like mine. I never found the expensive burnt-orange dress.
I look at the old man in front of me. He is tall and lean. Normally he walks with a lengthened back that suggests he had ramrod posture as a younger man. His light eyes are bright and intelligent. His eyebrows and hair unkempt, as white as snow. There’s something about his jaw and the ease with which his face falls into a smile that seems dignified and yet playful too. I thought I loved this man and that I could trust him. I feel something gush through my body.
Loss.
I thought he was my father, but now that I know that he is not, it hurts to lose him. To lose her, even. Stacie Jones. The identity I have owned these past few months. I loved the idea of being an adored daughter, having a devoted father. It felt like something I could lean into, something I always yearned for. I remember now. My relationship with my father was not at all like the relationship Kenneth had with Stacie, the one I have temporarily enjoyed believing in.
My head is pounding, and I can feel my breakfast in a lump in my throat, threatening a reappearance. I don’t try to run. What is the point? The doors are locked, and besides, I have nowhere to go.
Stacie’s mother walked out, but her dad picked up the pieces. I know that; I have seen the photos, the look of love beaming between father and daughter. I now remember that my father left me and my mother when I was very young, which I suppose is why I could believe the story that I was once abandoned by a parent; somewhere deep in my subconscious, I must have felt it to be true. The difference being, when my father left, my mother didn’t rally; she fell apart completely. I can recall her crying, wailing. I see her dark head dipped into her hands. I see her frame, the angles of her body sharp and spiky. It’s a clear, precise memory. She’s not the woman in the photographs that I’ve been shown.
My parents didn’t have much in common, but one thing they did have was their indifference towards me, the embodiment of their shared past. A past that my father wanted to run from, a past my mother grieved for so intensely that she couldn’t imagine a future for us. From a young age I was shuttled between the two of them. I remember a small brown plastic suitcase and a bustling waiting room at a station that I often lingered in, apprehensive and vigilant. My childhood was sad and difficult. Scarred and chaotic. Neither parent provided the necessities or the niceties of family life. I was often hungry. I recall opening sticky Formica cupboards and the door of an old fridge, aware even before I checked that they’d be empty. My father had money but didn’t make room for me; instead he moved on and had more children. Sons. I have brothers somewhere. My mother had no money; we shared a bed we were so poor. I grew up feeling hopelessly overwhelmed with being responsible for her happiness. A happiness it was impossible to deliver.
I recall all of this with total clarity. Kenneth Jones was not part of my childhood.
The room is airless. There is no escape. I stay in my head, pursuing the memories that are now tumbling, abundant and vibrant. No longer vague, stilted or forced. I know the truth. As an adult, I battled with the longing and the hunger to be loved. I wasn’t engaged to Giles, the open, hopeful-faced farmer, nor was I the sort of woman who might have had the confidence to walk away from an unfulfilling relationship – more’s the pity. I was the opposite. I accepted whatever was tossed my way. It’s painful and shaming to recall that as a teenager and young adult, the ravenous lacking controlled me. It pelted its way around my mind and body, eating up my confidence and trust, shredding and destroying conviction, poise and any hope I had at future intimacy. I never gave a name to the anguish of being unwanted. Identifying it would have imbued it with more power than I could allow. Better to leave it as a wordless curse. I vividly remember a number of faces; boys and men who I desperately tried to accommodate and impress. Always an extreme people-pleaser, I was in the habit of moulding myself to their ideals. A chameleon, putting on a show and only revealing the part of me I knew they would find palatable. I never gave the whole package. I always held something back.
I would present myself as straightforward. Men adore straightforward. But I am very complex. I was then and I’m more so now. I managed. I grew up the way many women do, accepting what was offered, not believing I deserved or could demand more. The longing to be loved was contained to a throb or a pulse, a dreary, austere lacking.
It comes back to me in one overwhelming tsunami. Oh my God. I feel my body turn to liquid and I think I might be swept away altogether. I know who I am. I know what I am.
I am a bigamist. I am a fugitive. My name is Kylie Gillingham.
Their specific faces come to me. One man, dark, tanned. He wears T-shirts and works outdoors. He’s muscly and solid. Solid emotionally as well as physically. He rescued me. It sounds oddly old-fashioned and anti-feminist, but it’s OK, because I rescued him too. I sense he needed me. Although I can’t recall exactly why. My brain won’t cooperate with that.
And my other man. The second husband. He is the epitome of sophistication, tall, blonde, rich, young – at least younger than I am. Ambitious, determined and eager to live his own life, he doesn’t demand much at all. He looks after me. He treats me well. He makes reservations and introductions; he gives me holidays and jewels. He somehow senses that I’m just out of reach and he likes my elusiveness. I’m a challenge.
And I liked it that neither of them knew me completely. It felt safer. But now it doesn’t.
Neither of them knows me completely, so they won’t know where to look for me, and I am lost. No, I am more than lost. I am being hidden. The memories carouse, crash and tumble into my head. They are unbelievable, but absolutely true. I know it. I was kidnapped, drugged and held captive. I recall being chained to a radiator. I force myself to look at Kenneth. Did he do those things to me?
It’s too much. The room swims, blackness starts to climb into the edges of my vision. My blood pounds in my ears.
Then there is nothing.
35
Daan
Daan has sent a number of messages to Oli. They have been read, but Oli has not responded.
What did you find?
What is it that proves she’s guilty?
Call me.
Are you safe?
He’s phoned several times too, but Oli has not picked up. Why not? Daan is concerned. He starts to consider more carefully what he’s asked the boys to do. This isn’t a bit of boy scout snooping; he’s embroiled them in a murder investigation with a ruthless, dangerous woman. He didn’t want to put them at risk. That was what he was trying to avoid. He sighs to himself, examines his thoughts. He’s a clear, logical thinker. He’s known for it at work; it’s made him and others buckets of cash in the past. Unimaginable – some might say obscene – amounts of money. He’s good at being logical.
He doesn’t have to lie to himself; he knows his main motivation for contacting the boys in the first place was to get his own arse out of this trouble. That’s why he feels so bad, possibly worse now than he did before. Going to prison for a murder he didn’t commit would be hell enough to endure; putting two boys in peril, being part of the chain that led to them being harmed, would unlock a whole extra level of personal demons. Has he done that? Led them to harm? Of course, it’s perfectly possible that Oli is messing with him. Off spending his cash and having some careless fun somewhere. But Daan doubts it. The kid is more serious than he likes to admit. Life has made him so.
Maybe Oli isn’t responding to him because he has his own crap to deal with. Perhaps he’s considering the possibility that his father is involved with the abduction and murder too. Daan doesn’t believe that, but then he’s not a stressed, vulnerable and desperate sixteen-year-old. Oli might be imagining that Mark was having an affair with Fiona. His life is so fucked up that nothing is unthinkable. It most likely depends on what he found. Daan needs to know what that is. Might it be enough to prove his innocence? Enough to prove Fiona’s guilt? All he really needs is enough to cast reasonable doubt. There is a sliding scale when it comes to law and order. Justice is an arbitrary, shadowy concept; he’s come to learn that.
Since Kai’s disappearance, Daan has experienced a myriad of emotions. He resents them all. None of them are good emotions, and besides, he isn’t a great one for feeling; he’d always rather think, or better yet, act. Even so, he’s been hijacked by feelings of devastation, resentment and frustration. Guilt is the latest unwelcome contender to join the litany. He believes Kai would have expected him to take care of her boys; ironic considering she never told him about their existence. But he knows she found him dependable, expected him to deal with things, have solutions and plans. That was their dynamic. At least he thought it was, but what does he know about anything any more? She was clearly capable of making solutions and plans of her own. Quite the expert. Although she was notably lacking in the dependability department.
The whole thing is a murky quagmire of lies, secrets, suspicions and fear.
He does know that his concern for the boys – which may have originated from his mixed-up feelings of responsibility towards his batshit-crazy ex-not-quite-wife – has now stabilised into something more personal. Oli and Seb have been screwed over too, and they are possibly in danger. This time it is his batshit-crazy ex-occasional-shag who is to blame. He can see that he is in the thick of this situation. He is not one to shirk responsibilities and he feels a level of personal responsibility. Something has to be done.
He could call the police. He probably should. But he weighs it up. If Oli is OK – say his battery is simply flat and he’s looking for a charger – Daan will regret involving the police. Anything Oli has found is likely to be challenged in court and refused as evidence if Daan’s involvement is revealed. Tampering with witnesses is obviously a big no-no. It is better if someone else calls them.
On reflection, Daan does not believe Mark is involved in Kai’s abduction and murder. Yes, he has shacked up with Fiona quite speedily, but Daan doesn’t think they were shagging before Kai’s disappearance. He thinks it’s a petty and ill-advised act of revenge. Mark needs to prove to himself that he’s desirable. It’s a bit pathetic, but he tries not to judge.
Daan believes that Kai’s abduction and murder and him being framed is all Fiona’s work, and hers alone. He doesn’t know that for a fact, but he trusts his own judgement. His confidence is such that even now, even after being duped by a bigamist wife, he thinks he can make a savvy guess at people’s characters. He has met Mark only once. Just after Kai first went missing, Mark turned up at Daan’s apartment looking for answers. Daan was curious at the time, suspicious too. He allowed Mark to roam around the flat opening doors and cupboards, checking out each and every room. He gave Mark the freedom to study his wife’s second incarnation because he felt sorry for him.
He saw the man’s grief, it was absolute. Mark is not in love with Fiona. Daan secretly watched him in Kai’s dressing room. Mark took a dress off the hanger, held it to his body and draped the sleeves over his shoulders as though the dress was embracing him. Then he slowly swayed from side to side, clearly imagining he was dancing with her. It was a moment of almost shocking tenderness. Daan was stung by an intense hatred of Mark at that point. He hated him for loving his wife so much. Dancing with her dress after she’d gone missing was not the action of an adulterous co-conspirator. Mark is a prick, though. Because despite Daan’s generosity in allowing him to see Kai’s home, when he asked if he could see Mark’s house, the one Kai lived in when she was Leigh, Mark flat-out refused. He said it wouldn’t be fair on the boys. It irritated Daan at the time. It felt uneven. Mark wouldn’t play ball. But then maybe Daan wasn’t the sort of person people felt sorry for. He wouldn’t want to be.
He wonders now whether the second thing he’s ever asked of Mark will be granted or refused. He hopes for everybody’s sake that Mark is in a more cooperative mood than he was at their first encounter, although it seems doubtful. Mark has less reason to trust Daan now than he did then; more reason to hate him. But Daan must do something.
Mark is even easier to find than his sons were. His mobile number is detailed on his landscape gardening website. Daan is surprised that he hasn’t taken this personal detail down. He must have had countless unsolicited calls from journalists, but then maybe he’s had an upturn in business too, Daan thinks cynically. People like a bit of notoriety; it’s the next best thing to celebrity. As Daan hits the numbers, he realises there’s a possibility that the phone will be disconnected, or that Mark won’t pick up, or that he’ll hang up as soon as he knows who is calling.
Still, he has to try.
He is pleased that Mark is either trusting or stupid. The number rings, the call is answered.
‘Hello.’
‘Mark Fletcher? This is Daan Janssen calling. Do not end the call.’ Daan uses his most imperious voice. The one that has clients and colleagues, employees and even employers sitting up, taking note. ‘You need to listen to what I have to say.’
‘Fuck off. I don’t need to listen to a word from you.’
‘Oddly, you do. I really want to help you.’
36
Mark
Mark wants to say it again. Fuck off. Again and again and again, actually, because he wishes this man would just fuck off out of the world. He wishes he’d never been in it. What is Daan Janssen doing calling him? Surely that’s breaking some parole stipulation. At a very basic level it is off-kilter, callous. Mark wants nothing to do with a brutal murderer. The man who has killed his wife, destroyed his life, ruined his boys’ lives. But he bites his tongue. He finds he’s more curious than he is furious, or even scared.
He answered his phone in a hurry, assuming it would be Fiona or one of the boys with an update as to when he should expect them home. He’s called all three of their mobiles this morning and sent texts, but he’s heard nothing from them. It’s only ten o’clock, though, it’s very possible they are all still asleep. Teen boys can sleep as though it’s an Olympic sport.
Hearing Daan Janssen’s voice when he was hoping for Oli’s or Seb’s is especially jarring, disturbing.
He is talking to a killer. He wonders whether it is possible that Janssen is going to reveal where Leigh’s body is. He’s read about murderers doing just that. He has found himself drawn to such stories on the internet; ones about abductions, murders, missing persons, missing bodies. It’s obviously not healthy. What obsession is? Of course, his immersion in such dark vileness also means that he has read about murderers doing the exact opposite instead. Some, famously, go to their own grave without revealing where their victim’s remains might be found. The final power kick over the grieving family, over the police and even the general public. So far, Daan Janssen has insisted he is pleading not guilty. Mark wonders whether he is going to change his plea, but even so it is unconventional of Janssen to call him directly to tell him as much. What does he want?
