Just between us, p.32
Just Between Us, page 32
They have been ships passing in the night. It’s probably for the best.
The papers are still wild for info about the case. The police are trying to keep a lid on the details, at least until Fiona comes to trial. Her lawyer is saying the jurors will all be prejudiced against her, even before they hear the facts. Frankly, Mark can’t imagine it matters whether the jurors have read the sensationalist and salacious details. It seems to him it’s open and shut. Finally, something about his life that is categorical. Fiona has confessed to everything. He doesn’t know if her near-death experience in the English Channel finally shocked some sense into her and made her take responsibility for the pain and horror she’s inflicted, or whether it’s more the case that she can’t avoid the blame any longer. There’s a difference. Anyway, it doesn’t matter to him: a confession is a confession. The list of her crimes is long. In no particular order, he reels them off to himself in his head: kidnapping, abduction, false imprisonment, attempted murder, illegal drugging, assault. Other charges may yet come to light. They will throw away the key.
Leigh has asked if she can talk to him. He’s not sure whether he’s ready for that yet, or, honestly, whether he ever will be. What should he say to her? What does she want to say to him? He is sure of one thing: he doesn’t want any more drama, categorically no more tears, scenes or rows. There has been enough of that to last a lifetime. However, Oli and Seb have pleaded for him to hear her out. She’s spoken to both of them a lot this past week. Whatever she said was what they needed to hear; both boys call her Mum again. So for their sake, he’s agreed to meet her.
62
Kylie
It is pouring. The needles of rain fall with relentless determination. People speak of it being good for the gardens and a relief after the long, hot summer. No one seems ready for it, though; people are wearing flip-flops as they splash through puddles in the hospital car park; summer dresses are barely protected by flimsy waterproofs. A hire car that smells strongly of antibacterial spray isn’t an ideal place for a reconciliation, but we’re both conscious that we don’t want to leave Seb’s side for any longer than we have to. He’s not on his own, of course, Oli is with him, and the nurses are vigilant, but nonetheless, the idea of driving even to the closest café is out of the question. We both feel anxious if the boys aren’t being guarded. A café would have been unsuitable anyway; we need privacy.
As we get into the car, we both check over our shoulders. We’re behaving like an adulterous couple sneaking about trying to see one another in secret, but in fact we’re not on the lookout for suspicious or irate spouses; we’re trying to avoid journalists with long lenses. The air inside the car is overheated and stale; I open a window and rain immediately pours on to my arm and lap, so I close it again quickly.
‘Can we take our masks off?’ I ask. Wearing them is a totally understandable requirement in the hospital, but I feel there are enough barriers between us right now.
Mark must think the same, as he comments, ‘Literally or metaphorically?’
I sigh and remove the little blue mask. ‘Both, I suppose.’
He nods and takes his off too. It’s the first time we’ve been up close and personal with one another for months. He’s still immediately attractive to me, but I’m struck by how tired he looks. I can see what he has endured. He’s obviously studying me and is probably shocked by what he sees too. I wear my ordeal. He tactfully comments, ‘You suit the pixie cut.’
‘It’s not a fashion choice.’ I grin, shyly touching the back of my bare neck.
‘Yeah, I heard some of that crazy stuff. The old man who abducted you did that to you, right? He wanted you to think you’d had chemo or something. The DC told me.’ Mark shakes his head. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’
‘You believe me?’
‘Yeah, of course. Even you couldn’t make that up.’
‘Thank you.’ I’m relieved, glad of that at least. I have been wondering how much he’d trust me.
‘I heard he drowned,’ he adds. I nod, tears stinging my eyes as they do every time I think of Kenneth’s death. ‘You’re not upset, are you? The man was obviously a headcase. He abducted you.’
‘He saved my life, too. Twice. And he helped save Seb’s, I can’t forget that.’ My feelings towards Kenneth will strike other people as odd, I know that. But then again, I don’t have a track record of conventional emotions. I loved two men simultaneously and equally, although differently, for years. People struggle with that. And Kenneth, well, I think of him with a strange mix of love and regret, sadness and gratitude. For a brief time he was the father I wanted. He loved me in a way that made me feel valued, whole. Although I realise now that he didn’t really love me, he loved his dead daughter, but still, for a time I benefited from that. I’m grateful that I experienced it. He wasn’t well. He was grief-stricken and desperate; his behaviour was eccentric but I find not unforgivable. People are complex. ‘He was only on the boat because he was trying to help. He ultimately sacrificed himself for me and for our son. Is there a greater love? I don’t think so.’
Mark blushes. I knew he would. He’s always had a propensity to colour up. The boys do too. I’ve missed this comfortable state of knowing a person so well you can predict how they might respond. I’ve missed it and I’ve also destroyed it. I might be able to guess when Mark will blush, but I’m not confident I can predict his responses, feelings or actions on a wider scale any more.
‘For a few months I really thought he was my father. I believed I was someone else, a much-loved daughter who had been cosseted and adored. It was nice.’ I shrug. That’s gone now. It was never true. Never mine. ‘Kenneth helped me and Seb into the boat, and I was so concerned about reviving Seb I just forgot about him. Can you believe that?’ I murmur. The guilt and shame burns behind the back of my eyes. ‘So it’s complex, how I feel about him.’
‘I get it. I understand. It’s sort of how I feel about you.’ The colour in his cheeks deepens. ‘I mean, you ruined my life, cheated and betrayed on a colossal scale, but you did risk everything to save Seb.’
‘Of course. Seb should never have been in danger and never would have been if it wasn’t for me.’
‘I agree,’ he says shortly, his tone scolding.
‘What are we going to do, Mark?’
‘Do?’ He seems surprised that action is required. That a plan must be made. That’s very like Mark. He waits to see what happens to him. Normally I do the planning, but now I am in his hands and he must decide what happens next. A role reversal that makes us both uncomfortable.
‘I’m their mother.’
He draws his mouth into a thin line. I know he holds all the cards. If we go to court, I won’t have a chance of winning visiting rights, let alone custody, not considering everything. I never officially adopted them; we never felt the need. I regret that now, as I have no legal claim. If we divorce, I’m their ex-stepmother, nothing more. I understand that Mark has filed for divorce. I think there is a chance that Oli and Seb would still want to see me; we’ve talked a lot these past few days, and they both still love me, I’m sure of that. But they are also angry and confused. They have questions; a lot more talking is needed. I must win back their trust and I’ll only be able to do so with Mark’s help. If he works against me, the boys will suffer. They will be torn. He could easily nurture their resentment and mistrust. I need him to work with me, but it’s a lot to ask.
‘The thing is, I don’t need this,’ he says. I take a sharp inward gasp. Shocked and frightened that he’s said the opposite of what I was hoping to hear. ‘You drain me. When I’m not with you, I’m bigger and brighter.’ I want to deny it, but I look and see that his skin is grey; there’s grey in his previously raven-coloured hair too. He seems bleached and faded by everything that has happened. He needs to find life’s colour again, and I hate it that this man I once loved so deeply is less because of me. ‘I don’t need all this that you’ve brought to us,’ he goes on firmly. ‘So much mess and pain. I can’t cope with it. It’s all too much. You are too much. I can’t forgive you.’
I nod, because his position is understandable. We both stare through the windscreen. The rain drums down, blurring our vision.
‘Why wasn’t I enough for you?’ His voice scratches, husky with emotion.
It’s a question I have asked myself, often. Was I greedy? Was he lacking? Could I have resisted Daan? Should I have? Who is at fault? I wonder how I can most honestly answer him, because he does deserve that, finally, my honesty.
‘You always gave the impression that ever since Frances died, you spent your life making do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You behaved as though you didn’t feel entitled to good things, the best things. Or you couldn’t be bothered to reach for them. I don’t know, but I don’t believe you ever really wanted me. You married me simply because I was handy, and to have someone to co-parent with.’
‘That’s bullshit, Leigh. I loved you.’
‘Maybe, to an extent, but I was second best and we both knew it. You didn’t choose me. If she hadn’t died, you’d never have looked at me. You married me to shield yourself. You didn’t want to bring the boys up alone.’
He drops his gaze to the floor, ‘I didn’t think I could do it.’ His confession is heartbreaking. It is the crux of our marriage and of his own lack of self-worth.
‘You could have,’ I say, gently. ‘But you hid behind me at parents’ evening, at doctors’ appointments, at family dinners. You didn’t want to get involved.’ I laugh sardonically. ‘In the final analysis, I think you married me to avoid the hassle of playdates.’
‘No, Leigh, that’s not it. I loved you, but … Sod it, why am I the one justifying myself? You were the one who secretly married another man.’ He has a point. My actions are indefensible. ‘Besides, even if there was an element of convenience in my marrying you, you loved being their mother. The role I handed you was one you wanted.’
‘I did. I do. But what I’m trying to explain isn’t about me and how I felt in relation to them. It’s about you and what you expect from life. And you don’t expect enough. I think I was make-do and I’m certain your brief dalliance with Fiona was the same.’ He blushes again at the mention of Fiona. Embarrassed? Angry? ‘It’s sad. It’s a pity. I hope you learn to do things differently with the rest of your life. I hope you begin to think you are entitled to the very best and that you have the courage to go out and get it.’
‘What do you mean?’ He raises his voice. I notice an old couple paying for parking nearby cast a glance our way.
‘When you’re hungry, you go to the nearest newsagent and buy a slightly stale sandwich that has sat on a shelf for too long, because it’s the nearest thing to hand. You mindlessly swallow it down, not expecting taste or even nutrition.’
‘And I suppose Daan would find a Michelin-starred restaurant.’ His comment is snippy. I don’t respond, because the answer would hurt. Yes, Daan would find a restaurant. ‘Look, Leigh, I want to be clear. You are not choosing him over me, because I’m not giving you the choice. I don’t want you.’ He thinks he’s hurting me by rejecting me, and of course he is, but I’m pleased he’s got this level of clarity and self-respect. It’s what I want for him. Besides, the idea I might still choose between them hasn’t even entered my mind. Mostly I’ve been concerned with staying alive, and during the police interviews, I’ve been busy with the thought of staying out of prison. The only emotional matter I’ve allowed myself to consider is whether I have a chance of retaining my boys’ love. It’s an audacious thought that there might still be a choice between my husbands; a chance with either of them seems out of the question. The thought is served up and dashed in the same instance.
‘Of course,’ I murmur. I’m glad he’s not settling. In this instance, I am the slightly stale cheese sandwich.
‘We’re done,’ he says. ‘Understand? We’re at the end of everything. Our family, our history, your lies, and certainly the fanciful analogies about sandwiches. I don’t need this crap.’
‘The boys?’
He stares at me, his eyes so deep they are black. ‘You are their mum, that doesn’t change.’
I let out a sigh of relief. The air leaves in a rush and I feel light-headed. My heart races.
‘Thank you.’
63
Kylie
Mark gets out of the car and heads back into the hospital. I watch as he puts his mask on, turns up his collar and then forces his hands into his jeans pockets. He drops his shoulders, pushes forward through the rain. It’s a stance I recognise from the hundreds of times I’ve seen him step out the door, hunched against the elements, as he’s set off to work in the rain or wind. I keep my eyes on him as he shrinks and then disappears through the hospital doors, then I rest my head on the steering wheel. I’m alive and I am going to be able to see my boys. I’m going to be able to mother them. It’s a lot better than I could have imagined for a while. I am so grateful. So lucky. Yet a part of me still feels like hell. My marriage is over. I destroyed it. The air feels clouded with failure.
I nearly jump out of my skin when someone knocks hard on the passenger window.
‘You OK?’ It’s DC Clements. She isn’t holding a brolly or wearing a coat, but nor is she hunched against the rain; she seems completely unfazed by the fact that it is still pouring. She looks concerned but capable, as ever. Such an interesting woman. Over these past few days when she’s been interviewing me, I have come to respect and admire her. She’s bright, thorough, tough and yet compassionate. I found it easy to be completely honest with her, to unburden myself entirely of all the secrets I have kept for years and the ones that have been thrust upon me recently. She patiently listened to my backstory but obviously wanted to concentrate on the investigation.
I’ve told her everything I can about Fiona and the first abduction. I gave a detailed account of the night Fiona brought me to the coast and pushed me into the sea. I’ve told her everything I can about Kenneth: how I trusted him, but that I was mistaken, because he tricked me, held me against my will; and how he finally helped me. She didn’t rush me or dismiss me. She didn’t roll her eyes and make sarcastic comments about me meeting my match in duplicity the way the younger, male officer did. It was her calm ability to absorb that meant I even told her that Kenneth had confessed to me that he’d killed his daughter. ‘I don’t know if it’s true or if it matters now that he is dead too, but that’s what he said.’
She said she’d follow it up.
Right now, she is exactly the person I want to see. I lean across and open the passenger door. She climbs in, raindrops falling from her hair and nose. She shakes herself like a dog.
‘You all right?’ she asks.
‘Tough day,’ I admit.
‘Do you ever have any other kind?’ She roots in her pocket and pulls out a Twirl. ‘Will chocolate help?’
‘Always.’ I take it from her and open the packet, bite into the sweetness.
‘I wasn’t sure if Leigh or Kai ate chocolate,’ she muses.
‘They both do. I do. I’m not separate people. I just had separate lives because it was the only way,’ I say with a hint of impatience. ‘It’s not like schizophrenia or dissociative identity disorder or anything like that.’
‘Just teasing. Don’t take offence.’ The DC looks out of the window, scans the grey parking lot. ‘I saw Mark heading back into the hospital. He looked upset.’
‘We’re both upset. I cause upset. That’s my forte.’
She’s not going to allow me to be self-indulgent. ‘I agree it’s one of your many party tricks.’ She grins at me and it’s impossible not to smile back.
‘You know, it was really wonderful for a while,’ I confess. I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that to anyone. It’s too scandalous and selfish, but I flatly lay the truth out for her to examine. Clements invites confidences. She must be brilliant at her job.
‘I can imagine,’ she says carefully.
‘They saw the best of me. I was a near-perfect woman for both of them.’
‘I think women try too hard to be perfect. Men not hard enough,’ she comments with a sniff.
‘Well, now they both know the worst of me. Everyone does.’
‘It can’t be easy. It’s a bit like going on a date and them discovering you wear Spanx.’ She nudges me in the side with her elbow, smiling sympathetically.
‘Mark said I can still see the boys. I think that’s pretty generous of him considering everything.’
‘Well, that’s good.’ She pauses. During my interviews and debriefs, I’ve got used to her rhythm. I can recognise when she needs to tell me something important.
‘What is it?’
‘We followed up on your hunch.’
‘And?’
‘Yes, Stacie Jones was buried under the sea-glass bed.’
‘Oh Christ,’ I gasp.
‘We’ve identified her officially. Dental records and such. We’re trying to find the mother. There are people in the village who will want to bury her properly.’
‘Will you let me know when that happens?’
‘You’re going to go?’ The DC is incredulous.
‘I think Kenneth would want me there.’
She nods. I get the sense she’s an old-school sort of copper who understands duty and is devoting her life to responsibility. ‘What are you going to do next?’
‘Well, a lot depends on if I go to prison or not.’ I raise my eyebrows.
‘I don’t think anyone will be pushing for that. You’d make a good private detective.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah, with your twisted mind. You could even join the force. If the Crown doesn’t prosecute your bigamy, which I think they may not – there isn’t much hunger for it. Technically, you’d have a clean record.’
