Let Me Lie(89)

‘I’ll go.’ Mum has her bag in her hand. ‘It’s me he wants. I should never have come here – it’s not fair to involve you.’ She takes a step towards the door and I grab her arm.

‘You can’t go!’

‘I was leaving anyway. You knew that.’ She takes my hand off her arm and gives it a gentle squeeze.

‘It’s different now. He knows where you are. He’ll hurt you.’

‘And if I stay, he’ll hurt you.’

It’s Mark who breaks the ensuing silence. ‘You both need to go.’ He’s decisive, rummaging in the dresser drawer for a set of keys he hands to me. ‘Go to my flat. I’ll wait here and call the police.’

‘What flat? No, I can’t involve you both in this. I need to go.’ Mum tries to open the door, but Mark’s quicker than her. He puts one hand flat against the door.

‘You’ve already involved us, Angela. And much as I sympathise with your situation, my priority is keeping Anna and our daughter safe, which means getting them the hell away from this house, until your ex is safely behind bars.’

‘He’s right,’ I say. ‘Mark’s flat’s in London – no one will know we’re there.’ Ella squirms in my arms, awake and hungry for a feed.

Mum’s face is pale. She’s searching for an argument but there are none to be had. This is the best way forward. Once we’re safely out of Eastbourne, Mark can call the police, and I’ll convince Mum that we have to come clean. There’s no other way.

‘I don’t want Anna and the baby with me,’ Mum says. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘Given that your ex has just tried to set fire to our house, it’s hardly safe for them here.’ Mark holds out the keys. ‘Go.’

‘Listen to him.’ I put a hand on Mum’s arm. ‘Take us.’ All I can think about is getting far away from Eastbourne. From Dad. From Murray Mackenzie and questions that circle around the truth.

She sighs, relenting. ‘I’ll drive. You sit with Ella – we don’t want to have to stop.’ She looks at Mark. ‘Be careful, won’t you? He’s dangerous.’

‘Call me when you’re at the flat. And don’t let anyone in except me. Understood?’

Mum grips the steering wheel, her eyes intent on the road. I’m in the back, Ella strapped into her seat beside me, sucking furiously on the knuckle of my thumb, in lieu of the breast she wants. It won’t be long before she starts crying for milk. Perhaps we can pull over once we’re safely away from Eastbourne.

‘Dad doesn’t even know Mark’s flat exists,’ I repeat, when I see Mum check the rearview mirror for the hundredth time since we left. ‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s not okay.’ She’s close to tears. ‘Nothing’s going to be okay.’

I feel my own eyes stinging. I need her to be strong. I need her strong so that I can be strong. That’s the way it’s always been.

I remember falling over as a child, feeling the searing pain in my skinned knee.

‘Upsy-daisy!’ Mum would sing, pulling me to my feet. I’d read her face and see her smile, and without actively thinking whether it hurt more or less, I would feel the pain of my skinned knee slipping away.

‘The police were always going to find out, Mum.’

In the mirror, her face is ashen.

‘It’s Dad they’ll go for. They’ll go easy on you – they’ll see you were forced into it. You probably won’t even go to prison; you’ll get a suspended sentence …’

She’s not listening. She’s scanning the street, looking for something – looking for Dad? – and suddenly she slams on the brakes and I shoot forward, the lap strap in the middle seat of my car doing little to hold me back.

‘Get out.’

‘What?’ We’re on the outskirts of Eastbourne.

‘There’s a bus stop, just there. Or you can ring Mark to come and pick you up.’ Her foot rests on the clutch; her hand on the brake. She’s crying now. ‘It was never meant to be like this, Anna. I never meant anyone to get hurt. I never meant for you to be involved.’

I don’t move. ‘I’m not leaving you.’

‘Please, Anna – it’s for your own good.’

‘We’re in this together.’

She waits a full ten seconds. Then, with a sound that is midway between a cry and a moan, she releases the handbrake and carries on driving.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know you are.’ All those years of mopping up my tears and sticking plasters on my knees, and now I am the strong one. It’s Mum who needs me. I wonder if this metamorphosis has taken place only because of the extraordinary circumstances in which we find ourselves, or whether this is the natural progression of women as they move from daughter to mother.

We drive in silence, except for Ella, who has progressed from fractious squawks to full-blown wails.

‘Can we stop again?’

‘We can’t.’ Mum’s checking the rearview mirror again. And again.

‘Just for five minutes. She won’t stop if I don’t feed her.’

Mum’s eyes flick from the mirror to the road and back. She’s seen something.