What Lies Between Us(22)

Her eyes drilled through me as she conveyed Hunter’s fate, trying to identify falseness in the ignorance I was feigning as to the depth of my memory of him. Of course I remembered Jon Hunter as clear as day. A lifetime could pass and I’d never forget a parasite like him. Yet for some reason, I am struggling to picture his face with clarity, which doesn’t make sense because I have spent two decades following his story. For three weeks, I sat in the Crown Court public gallery, in the furthest seat away from him in the dock, listening to the evidence against him, hoping he wouldn’t recognise me under my wig and differently made-up face. Each time his eyes scanned the courtroom, they didn’t hover over me any longer than anyone else.

Despite the severity of his charges, he retained the same arrogance he had displayed during our confrontation well over a year earlier. Later, when a jury found him guilty of murder, it was all I could do to stop myself from sprinting across the room and hugging each member, one by one. Instead, I wept silent jubilant tears. My daughter was finally safe from that predator.

Then, as Hunter was led from the court and into a van to transfer him to a prison in Durham, I watched as his family and fans protested his innocence while the relatives of his victim cried for their lost sister and daughter. I felt their pain. He had tried to take my daughter away from me too, but I had snatched her back from under his nose. I had won, but I have paid for it with twenty-three years of guilt.

So why can I remember everything about him but his face? I’m overcome by an urge to see him one more time. I turn on the bedside lamps, take a deep breath and remove Nina’s memory box from under my bed. I purposefully skipped past this the last time I looked inside it, but now I don’t. Here is Hunter, pictured with his band on a flyer for a performance. I check the date – it was one of their last. Now his grey eyes, thin red lips and pale skin marry with my memories of him to form a complete picture of the times our paths crossed.

Over the following years, I read about each appeal and was relieved by each rejection. Although I admit to being surprised by his refusal to admit his guilt and earn an earlier parole. It meant that he languished behind bars longer than he had to. Perhaps beneath the snake’s surface lay a backbone after all. The irony that he ended his days incarcerated is not lost on me. We have both been punished for the same crime – for loving Nina.

Hunter’s conviction came at a time when she was only just beginning her journey back to me. I had kept her out of harm’s way and under my protective eye for the best part of two years before she discovered the truth. I remember the conversation as clear as day.

‘Why didn’t you tell me what happened to Jon Hunter?’ she had asked tentatively over supper. Her delivery was cautious, as if she were unsure whether to bring his name up.

‘Because he’s a part of your past now,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to upset you.’

Nina struggled to look me in the eye. ‘I read about what they said he did and I don’t think he did it. He wasn’t a violent man.’

‘Sometimes we don’t know the people we think we are closest to.’

‘But . . . I knew Jon.’

‘And I thought I knew your father.’

‘Jon couldn’t have killed anyone.’

I pushed my cutlery to one side. ‘That’s not what the police or the jury decided. And from what I gather, he could wrap girls around his little finger. I don’t blame them because at your age I would’ve been over the moon to get attention from a pop star like him. But he had a girlfriend who he lived with so he was leading on anyone else who thought they were in a relationship with him.’

Nina opened her mouth as if there was more she wanted to say, then changed her mind. I knew this version of my daughter couldn’t be certain of anything any more. The last few months had left her scarred and unable to trust her own judgement. And that meant I had done my job properly.

I close the lid on the memory box and put it back under the bed; it’s enough for one night. I turn off the lights and stare blankly at the wall ahead of me. The streetlights cast moving shadows of trees in the wind; the storm is raging both outside and inside this house. I wish I knew what Nina is thinking. What can she remember about him? Which of her memories are as clear as day and which are a jumble of patchwork squares that she can’t sew together? I hope her talk of seeing a therapist to unlock ‘repressed memories’ was an empty threat. Because if she is serious, expert help might enable her to put two and two together. And I can’t have her realise the lengths to which I have gone to protect her.

I close my eyes tighter and Hunter’s face, once again, vanishes. But even though he’s dead, he’s going to come alive again in my dreams tonight, I know it. Because he and his girlfriend do that a lot.





CHAPTER 17





MAGGIE


TWENTY-FOUR YEARS EARLIER


Mother’s intuition warns me that Nina is hiding something. And while I can’t put my finger on what it is, I don’t think I’m going to like it.

It’s terrible timing because I’ve had to shift my focus away from my daughter and towards our financial situation. We’re a one-income family and our fixed-rate mortgage has been replaced by a variable one, hiking the monthly charge up. Hell will freeze over before I ever consider selling this house, so alongside working as a receptionist at the surgery, I’ve swallowed my pride and am now also working after-hours as its cleaner. But needs must and my colleagues who know my marital situation have been very supportive. And I’m going to apply for the deputy practice manager’s job when Lizzy retires next year.