Silent Victim(13)

My heart skipped a beat. Had he followed me? Had I been talking in my sleep? Another emotion rose up inside me. Relief. I had carried this burden for such a long time. Perhaps Alex would be able to help. The fact that he was still sitting here with me spoke volumes. Maybe I should have trusted him with the truth all along.

‘It’s your mother, isn’t it? You’re worried that if we move she won’t be able to find you.’ He reached across the table, his fingers touching mine. His wedding ring glinted beneath the last rays of dying sun flooding through our kitchen window. I felt my bottom lip tremble. Tears welled in my eyes as he spoke, and he gave my hand a squeeze, the warmth of his flesh providing fleeting comfort.

‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘we could hire a private detective to try to find her. There’s Jamie to consider too. He has another grandma. Wouldn’t it be nice if he could get to know her?’

My lips parted as I exhaled a sharp breath of disbelief. It was the last thing I had expected him to say. The realisation that I was alone with my problems hit me all over again. Alone to deal with the consequences of what I had done. Disappointment fuelled my bitterness. Weren’t we in enough of a mess, without bringing my mother into the mix as well? I took a deep breath as I tried to explain. ‘I was devastated after Mum left. Sure, she wasn’t perfect. She was temperamental and moody, and when she drank, she took her anger out on me. I still loved her though.’ I lowered my head as two fat tears rolled down my face and plopped on to my cardigan. Withdrawing my hand, I dabbed my eyes with a tissue. ‘But I don’t want to see her again. I couldn’t bear the pain of her walking out a second time. I won’t do that to Jamie.’

‘I can’t begin to imagine what that must have been like,’ Alex said. As he spoke, I could see my own hurt reflected in his eyes. They were dark, like mine, but open and honest. How could I ever tell him about Luke, knowing how easily he felt my pain?

Rain tapped on the window like tiny frozen arrows, the light from the sun now withdrawn. I stood up and switched on the lamp. I wanted to go to Jamie. I needed to cuddle him, to inhale his little-boy smell. But Alex was looking as lost as any child and I felt a sudden rush of love.

Standing behind him, I squeezed his shoulder. ‘I know you’re trying fix things, and that’s what I love about you. But Jamie has a lovely grandmother already. Let’s just leave it at that, eh?’

The mention of his mother brought a brief smile to Alex’s face. ‘Mum can’t wait for us to move. But I don’t want to bring our problems with us. If it’s not Isobel holding you back, then what is it?’

Silence fell, ominous and awful as I wrestled with my thoughts. This was my opportunity. I had to tell him now or not at all. I felt my throat tighten as I shrugged a response. ‘Nothing. I just wanted to say goodbye to the land. It’s been a while since I rode the quad bike and I was a bit out of practice. I won’t be doing it again.’ Despite my reassuring words, I could feel a layer of dread building up inside me. How much longer could I keep this all in?

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Alex said, looking up at me as he touched my hand.

I wasn’t.

‘Yes,’ I murmured, forcing the corners of my mouth into a tight smile. ‘Are you going to show me these houses?’





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EMMA





2017


As I crept through the hall, I listened for the slightest sounds. Creaking through the rafters, the rising wind made itself known, rattling our wooden front door. I wondered what it would be like to live in the new house that my husband had shown me. The weather would definitely be more forgiving. Our current home was often battered by the rising storms, standing desolate on the landscape. Tightening my dressing gown, I padded into our kitchen and turned on the lamp. It was more intimate than the accusing glare of the light bulb overhead. Just a slice, I told myself, knowing deep down that it was my compulsion that drove me, rather than the need for cake.

My eating disorder was my constant companion, surfacing in times of stress. A chubby child, I was berated by my mother, which in turn led me to find comfort in food. Now I gained control via the starving–bingeing–purging cycle whenever stress re-emerged. It was difficult to label what I carried inside me. Bulimia seemed too small a word to cover it.

I glided soundlessly to the fridge and opened the door. I had tried hard to fight the temptation as I starved myself that day. I had told myself that the pain of an empty stomach was good. It made me feel in control. But now the inviting glow of the open refrigerator was drawing me in, my eyes roaming the food I had bought earlier that day. Starchy cakes, sugary soft drinks and, stashed in the vegetable compartment, bars of chocolate, all ready for my midnight feast. No matter what happened today, I knew they would be waiting for me when I got home. ‘Just one slice,’ I whispered to myself, my mouth watering at the sight of the fresh cream cake. As if saying it aloud would make any difference. I was not in control any more. After starving myself, it was inevitable that a binge would follow. There was no point in trying to fight it. Closing the fridge with my elbow, I rested the large Black Forest gateau on the kitchen counter. My eyes widened, excitement growing at the thought of the sticky substance that was about to line my throat. I didn’t need a plate. There was no need for such pleasantries now. Taking a knife from the drawer, I cut myself a generous slab. The first mouthful was bliss. I closed my eyes as I succumbed to the delicious cherry sauce and cream melting in my mouth. I swallowed it back, quickly needing more. Texture was important for when it made its second showing. Dense sponge always made a satisfying thud as it hit the toilet bowl. I licked my fingers, my gaze on the cake. I barely paused for breath as I cut a larger wedge. Moaning in satisfaction, I turned the second slice over in my mouth. By the third slice, I didn’t bother with the knife, gorging with my fingers until it was all gone. I needed more. The McDonald’s Alex had brought home, the chocolate bars, I kept going until I’d polished off the lot. I couldn’t have stopped even if I’d wanted to. I washed it all down with a fizzy drink, belching to make room in my expanding stomach. At last, when it was all gone, I folded up the empty containers ready for the recycling bin. But my movements were sluggish and painful. I leaned across the counter, my head hung low. The skin around my stomach felt like a tight leather ball, over-inflated and ready to pop. A voice screamed in my head. What have you done, you disgusting pig? Look at the state of you, how can your husband bear to sleep in the same bed? I lurched to the toilet, ready for my next move. It would be painful because I had not done it in some time and no longer had the automatic reflex action, which meant I would have to shove my fingers down my throat. I knew how pathetic I must have looked but, strangely, I took comfort in the presence of my old friend. Bulimia felt like something I could rely on even in the toughest of times.