What Lies Between Us(39)
‘Did you see the local news last night?’ Stacie Denton began over lunch in the canteen. She was a plump girl who dressed in dark Goth clothing and as a result, strayed a little too far from the norm to have many friends. But our shared love of Charlotte Bront? gave us common ground. ‘You remember that local guy who used to sing in the band The Hunters?’
A buried image of Jon performing onstage at the Roadmender burst to life in my head. ‘Just about,’ I said.
‘Do you recall when he was jailed for killing his pregnant girlfriend? Well, he launched this massive court appeal to get a retrial but it was turned down yesterday. I used to quite fancy him.’
It was too much information for me to process at once. Feigning illness to get out of classes, I said goodbye to Stacie and hurried towards the Chronicle & Echo. There, I sat in the reception area flicking through old issues of filed copies, catching up on what I had missed. So much of the story didn’t make sense. I was his pregnant girlfriend, not this Sally Ann girl, and I was very much alive. Jon was never the slightest bit aggressive with me. And when he was using, he was too out of it to move, let alone hurt anyone. I could only assume Mum had known about it, but didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to hurt me.
My mobile phone rings and brings me back to the present. I don’t know how long I’ve been lost in thought, but the washing-up water is now lukewarm and my hands are white and wrinkled. The phone’s screen reveals that Aunty Jennifer, Mum’s sister, is calling. I let it go to voicemail. She rings every fortnight for an update on Mum’s ‘condition’, as Jennifer’s own disability – multiple sclerosis – means she can’t travel to visit Maggie in the care home that I’ve invented. I leave a notepad of things I tell her each time we speak just so that I don’t contradict myself. But Christ, keeping up with your own lies is difficult. I give Maggie grudging respect for managing it successfully for so many years.
I dry my hands, send a text message and place a couple of fingers on top of the cake to check that it’s the right temperature before spreading chocolate mousse across the base. I take the piping bag and fill it with buttercream, then start to decorate it with the name Dylan. Finally, I add twenty-three candles that I bought from the supermarket yesterday, one for each year since I gave birth.
‘Happy birthday,’ I say, and I allow them to burn for a minute or so before blowing them out myself. And I make a wish that could never come true.
CHAPTER 32
MAGGIE
The sight of him is enough to make my pulse race.
Who he is and what he’s up to, I don’t know. But for the third time, he has turned up here in his white car and is simply staring at my house. Only today, he’s slowly making his way up the path. I crane my neck to get a better view but the bloody shutters are making it difficult. I drag the ottoman over and stand on it so I am right at the top of the window, looking down. I can just about see him; I think he’s looking in through the lounge window while I’m looking out from up here. If he’s a burglar, then he’s not a very good one because he’s far from subtle. Perhaps he’s a plain-clothed police officer or even a private detective? Maybe someone I know doesn’t believe Nina’s claims that I’m now living with my sister on the coast? Perhaps they are missing me?
Suddenly someone else comes into view – I think it’s Elsie. She’s a one-woman Neighbourhood Watch scheme and very little happens without her knowing about it. She uses her walking frame to approach him, although I have no idea what they’re saying. Now she’s pointing to the telephone in her hand and he’s beating a hasty retreat back to his car. I know she’s only trying to be helpful, but if he was planning to break into this house, she might just have scuppered my chances of being discovered.
As his car pulls away and Elsie returns to her house, I scan the street again and a room in the home opposite hers catches my eye. I don’t know the family at all; they moved in some months after I ended up in here. Two adults and two children, a boy and a girl, likely under the age of ten. I’ve never really liked the look of the husband. He’s a chubby man with tattoos up and down his arms and even from this distance, I recognise an arrogance in the way he swings his shoulders as he walks. I can’t see his wife’s face clearly but I picture her to have harsh angular features and to look as equally unpleasant as her spouse. And I’ve never seen the kids playing out in the street like Nina did when she was their age. I suspect they’re not very good parents.
I watch both of them in an upstairs bedroom with the daughter. The light is on but the bulb has no shade. They’re decorating the room and the window has watered-down emulsion on it that stops you from seeing inside while the curtains are down. Only from this height and angle, I can see through the upper section of the sash window, which they haven’t bothered to cover.
The wife has my attention; her finger is pointing aggressively towards the girl and she is leaning towards her as if she is shouting. But when her husband turns to leave, something happens. I can’t see what’s gone on behind him until he passes, but his daughter is falling into the wall and I watch helplessly as she collapses to the floor, out of my sight. I think her mother has just smacked her hard. In fact I’m sure of it. ‘No!’ I shout.
I ball my fists and will the girl to clamber to her feet. Her mother’s mouth opens wide again as if she is still yelling at the poor mite, then she too leaves and pulls the door behind her. Eventually, and to my relief, her daughter rises back into view; she’s rubbing her eyes and then the side of her head that hit the wall. She moves towards the door and I assume she is turning the doorknob, but it won’t budge. She tries a few times before accepting that she’s been locked inside. My heart bleeds for her as she disappears again.