The Forgetting(85)

He looks at me, nonchalant and unsentimental. ‘It was the right thing to do. We need to focus on us, on our marriage, without any distractions.’ The self-justification is inconceivable and yet Stephen’s tone is matter-of-fact, unapologetic.

‘Distractions? My parents aren’t a distraction. My son isn’t a distraction. They’re my family, for god’s sake.’ My voice gets louder, the unreality finally catching up with me. ‘What were you planning to do? Hide me away forever? Carry on pretending that my parents are dead, that I have no other family? Keep me from my son?’ I do not know where my disbelief ends and my anger begins. ‘Why would you do something like that?’

Stephen shakes his head, impatience spilling from his voice. ‘I did it for you. For us. I just want you to be happy. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?’

‘Because it’s insane. You’ve been contacting my family, pretending to be me, telling them I don’t want to see them. Why on earth would you imagine – for a second – that I’d be happy about that?’

Stephen’s face hardens, as if set in concrete. ‘I just wanted to give you enough time to realise that we don’t need anyone else. We’re better on our own.’

‘Without our son?’

Stephen groans, loosens the tie from around his neck. It dawns on me that he is wearing a suit, that perhaps he has been at a work conference after all. Perhaps it is the only true thing he has told me.

‘Of course not without our son. I was going to get him back, just as soon as you understood that we’re happier without constant interference from your family.’ He looks at me, eyebrows raised, as though it is the most logical plan in the world.

‘How can you possibly think I’m better off without any contact from my family? It’s inhuman.’

The muscles in Stephen’s jaw clench. ‘I did it because I love you.’ He holds my gaze and it is written clearly on his face: the deluded belief that it is true.

‘You love me? You tell me my entire family’s dead – that my son is dead – and you call that love?’

The expression on Stephen’s face shifts, like an actor in a Greek tragedy swapping one mask for another. ‘I should have known better. It’s always about you, isn’t it? Other people’s feelings just don’t matter. I used to think you were ungrateful, but now I think you’re just plain selfish.’

There is something in Stephen’s scathing tone that snakes between my ribs and I know I have heard it before. I know – somewhere beyond palpable memory – that this is not the first time Stephen has tried to twist the narrative, cast himself as the victim. I do not know how I have reacted in the past. All I know is that I won’t tolerate it now.

‘This isn’t what love looks like, Stephen. Love is about wanting the best for somebody, not imposing your will on them. It’s not about cutting them off from everything and everyone they care about. You don’t love me. You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

Stephen scowls. ‘You really don’t have a clue, do you—’

‘No, you don’t have a clue. You’ve stolen my entire life from me. You’ve stolen my parents, my sister, my son, my home. You’ve stolen my identity, for god’s sake. And you call that love?’

‘Stop being so melodramatic. I haven’t stolen anything from you. Let’s go home and we can talk things through when you’re less hysterical.’

He grabs hold of my arm, fingers digging into the flesh above my elbow, and it is like a physical memory rushing back to me. I know he has done this before, that this is not the first time his violence has imprinted itself on my skin.

‘Let go of her.’

I whip my head around, see Zahira standing beside me, cheeks flushed with adrenaline.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Take your hands off her or I’m calling the police.’ With one hand Zahira holds the hood of Elyas’s coat. With the other, she pulls out her mobile phone, holds it up in front of Stephen, unblinking in the face of his fury, daring him not to believe that she will do it.

‘This has got nothing to do with you.’ Stephen spits the words at Zahira, his grip tightening on my arm, needles of pain shooting into my flesh.

Courage finds its way into my throat. ‘She’s here because I asked her to be.’ My voice threatens to waver and I breathe fiercely against it, harden the edges of my consonants as if sharpening the tip of a blade. ‘Now get your hands off me.’

There is a momentary pause, like the silence before a storm.

And then Stephen opens his mouth to speak and I notice tiny globules of spit at the corners of his lips as he takes a deep breath, his hand still firmly on my arm, fingers pressing into my skin. ‘You know you’re nothing without me, don’t you?’

His words hiss at me through the cool September air and there is a split second when I sense my whole body flinch, like a visceral memory trained to react in a certain way. Something inside me is paralysed, as though I dare not act for fear of the consequences, numbed by whatever has gone before.

And then I think about Leo, about our enforced separation. I think about my parents and my sister, unaware of what has happened to me. I think of the life I must have led before Stephen tried to mould my personality to fit his twisted needs.