What Lies Between Us(20)

‘No. We haven’t been for a long time.’

‘That’s a shame, she was your best friend.’

‘You hated her.’

I don’t know where this conversation is heading but it’s not sitting comfortably with me. ‘I didn’t think she was a good influence on you at the time,’ I say. ‘She was leading you astray.’

‘It was more like the other way around.’ The corners of her mouth rise ever so slightly, as if a specific memory has stirred.

I smile too, as if I know what she’s referring to, but I don’t have the first clue. There is so much about that period of her life that I am not privy to, nor do I want to be. I know all that I need to know and even after so much time has passed, it still feels like too, too much.

‘You hated me too back then, didn’t you?’ Nina continues. ‘Go on, admit it.’

‘Of course not. I could never hate you. You’re my daughter.’

‘Surely you must hate me by now for keeping you locked upstairs?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

She is looking to pick a fight that I don’t want to have. ‘You’re my flesh and blood. I don’t always have to like you, but I have never stopped loving you.’

Nina tears her garlic bread in half and stares at me, her head slightly cocked, like my words have resonated and are creating a warm spot inside her. For a split second I think I can see my daughter again, not my captor. How I miss her. ‘Well, I hate you,’ she replies and I realise I’m wrong.

We don’t speak again until all four songs on the CD have played in their entirety.

‘You haven’t asked me why I’ve dug this out,’ she says.

‘I thought perhaps you fancied a change from ABBA.’

‘Do you remember the band’s singer?’

‘Not really,’ I lie again. I can picture his body, as clear as day, nearly naked, his legs splayed, slumped upon the sofa in his basement flat. I can’t see his face though.

‘Jon Hunter. He was in the news today.’

Hearing his name makes my stomach churn. I mask it by taking another mouthful of lasagne. Moments ago, it tasted delicious. Now it takes effort to swallow it.

‘Oh really,’ I reply, but don’t ask why.

‘Yes, he died.’

I stop chewing and look at her. That’s knocked me for six. I hope she’s telling the truth, I really do, but you never can tell with Nina. ‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘Cancer. Leukaemia, to be exact. It came up as a news alert on my phone. He died in prison, still protesting his innocence.’

‘Well, the evidence was stacked against him.’

‘I thought you didn’t remember him?’ she says.

‘I recall the story. Vaguely.’

‘I only remember bits and pieces about that time.’

‘The brain is such a complex thing. It has the ability to store so much, and also to tuck away certain things that don’t need repeated examination.’

‘They’re called repressed memories,’ she says. I keep my face a blank. ‘They are memories that have been subconsciously blocked because they are so stressful or traumatic. But by hiding us from them, they keep us shackled to the past.’

‘Oh,’ I say, nodding.

‘I’ve been thinking of going for therapy to see if I can unlock mine.’ She glares at me, again, waiting for a reaction. I swallow hard and she catches me do it. It’s a giveaway and she has what she wanted. Nina has rattled me.

‘Whatever you think best,’ I say. But I don’t want her to remember anything from back then. It will do neither of us any good if she does.





CHAPTER 15





NINA


It’s getting late and the wind and rain have started rattling the windows. I close the curtains and pull down the blinds to keep myself hidden. Even as an adult, storms make me uncomfortable. And tonight, I’m already unsettled as I continue to process the news about Jon’s death.

I’m doing everything to delay the inevitable clicking on my phone’s news alert and reading more than just the headline. It’s as if learning the whole story will make the truth all the more real. At present, they are just words on the Internet and we all know how much the Internet lies. So for a moment, I try and convince myself this is fake news. It doesn’t work.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I direct the electric toothbrush along my bottom row of teeth, before pausing it and pulling out my lip. I examine my tattoo for the second time this week. Lolita, it reads. I recall visiting the library and borrowing Jon’s favourite book by Vladimir Nabokov, to understand why Jon chose the nickname for me. I was flattered when I understood how much the protagonist was imprisoned by his love for that girl. Nobody can ever convince me that Jon wasn’t driven by the same passion for me.

There are a handful of memories I’ve been able to piece together from back then, such as the night I got the tattoo. It was at a house party and Jon was keen that I got something permanent to show how much I loved him. He was insistent it was the word Lolita because it would mean something to both of us. I eagerly agreed.

It was in a bathroom not dissimilar to the one I’m in now, when I sat on the lid of a closed toilet, listening to the gentle tap of excess Indian ink against the jar as one of his friends prepared to pierce my skin. It didn’t hurt – the pills Jon gave me made my body tingle and it was like I was lying on my back and floating in a warm ocean with the sun shining down on me. Minutes later when he was finished, several hands connected with mine as his friends high-fived me, telling me I was a ‘cool bird’ for having it done. Then I rinsed the blood and sour-tasting ink from my mouth with a bottle of vodka, and it stung like hell. I spat it into the sink and examined my branding in the mirror as I’m doing now. Jon’s face radiated with pride. I’d proved my commitment to him as he’d asked me to.