My Husband's Wife(58)

Then I saw him. Daniel walking up the stairs. Daniel grinning as though there was nothing wrong. Daniel with huge black pupils.

I rushed up after him to the bedroom. ‘Mum and Dad are splitting up. And it’s all your fault.’

He shrugged. ‘She needed to know.’

His lack of concern made me boil. ‘If you weren’t so horrible, Mum and Dad would be all right.’

Daniel looked shocked, as well he might. Hadn’t I always protected him? Loved him. Looked after him, just as I’d been instructed from the day he entered our lives. Even though he tested us to the limits.

But the shock of my father’s affair had made me see red. And that’s when I said something else.

‘We should never have adopted you. Then you couldn’t have hurt me too. I hate you.’

Daniel’s face crumpled. Instantly I knew I’d hurt him. No. I’d destroyed him.

I put out my hand to try to make up with him. He threw it off. Then he seemed to change his mind. He took my hand and squeezed it, crunching my knuckles with his fingers. The pain made me cry out. Then he pulled me towards him so that his eyes – mad with blackness – looked down on me.

I could smell his breath.

My heart pulsed in my throat. Words lay on the edge of my tongue, ready to be spoken. Words that would change our lives for ever.

‘You’re a bad person, Daniel. Everyone else says it, and they’re right. Really bad.’

Then he laughed. And I knew what that laugh meant.

I slapped him. Hard. First one cheek. Then the other.

‘You know what? I wish you had never been born.’

‘What happened then?’

Joe’s hand is on mine. Our heads are bowed together. Mine with grief. His with empathy. I can feel the same electric shock that passed through me in the prison when I gave him the sticker albums.

I’m certain he can feel it too.

That’s the thing about people like Joe and, up to a point, Daniel. They might not seem to show the ‘right’ kind of emotion at the appropriate time. But if you push them far enough, they bleed. Even cry. Just like the rest of us.

‘I went out,’ I mumble.

‘Where?’

‘I … don’t want to say.’

He nods. ‘OK.’

‘When I got back, Mum was frantic. Daniel had left a note just saying “Gone”. We searched everywhere. But it’s … well, it’s a big house. We have a few acres. And … and we have stables. That’s where I found him. He often went there. We often went there … But this time he was … hanging. From a rope wound round a beam.’

Joe’s hand tightens on mine.

My words are blurting out now along with the tears. ‘I tipped him over. He wasn’t well …’

Joe’s voice is gentle. ‘What exactly was wrong with him?’

I shake my head. ‘What they used to call “wilful disobedience”, possibly brought on by a difficult childhood. That’s what the so-called experts said.’ I laugh hoarsely. ‘He was never officially diagnosed, but sometimes I do wonder if …’

I stop, not wanting to cause offence.

‘If he was on the autistic spectrum too?’

‘Possibly.’ I twist my hands awkwardly. ‘But there were other things he did that didn’t fit.’

Joe is looking thoughtful. ‘So that’s why you understand me.’ It’s not a question.

I nod. Embarrassed. And yet also grateful that this man understands me too.

‘I’m so sorry about your horse.’ Joe’s voice has a softness I’ve never heard before.

I look up at him. His eyes are brown now. How can he do that? Go from brown to black and back to brown again?

‘Actually,’ I add, searching in my bag for a tissue, ‘he was Daniel’s. That’s what made it so difficult.’

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ says Joe. And as we stand up, it seems quite natural for him to take my hand in his.





22


Carla


A few days after Carla’s visit, Maria had put up her hand at register and asked if she could be moved to another desk in the classroom.

‘Why?’ whispered Carla, even though her sinking heart told her the answer.

Maria ignored her. It was as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘Who would like to sit next to Carla?’ said the nun with the gappy teeth.

No one volunteered. Instead, everyone shuffled away. One of the girls – the one with pigtails who usually invited her to play hopscotch – cupped her hand around her neighbour’s ear to say something quietly. The other one let out a little gasp.

It was like being at the old school all over again. Carla was so upset that she could not complete her maths exercise: a subject she now shone at. The figures hung in the air with giant question marks. What was going on?

‘They have sent you to Coventry,’ said another girl – the most unpopular one in the class, whom the nun had sent to fill Maria’s place next to Carla. She had greasy hair which her mother would only allow her to wash once a month because, so she had told Carla, it was better for the ‘natural oils’. This girl was always last to be chosen for teams: to be placed next to her was one of the gravest insults.