When You Are Mine(105)

The braying mass has surrounded the car. I hear them shouting and swearing, demanding that I show my face and answer their questions. The car horn sounds and I feel the vehicle lurch forward several times before accelerating away. I peer from beneath the coat.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

‘There was some debate about that,’ says Daragh, who is driving. ‘Your mother and father had a heated whatnot.’

‘They argued?’

‘Yeah, and for a good Catholic girl, your mother knows a lot of bad words,’ says Clifton.

‘Who won?’ I ask.

‘Scoreless draw,’ says Daragh.

‘Eddie on penalties,’ says Clifton.

‘Where is Henry?’ I ask.

‘I haven’t seen your boy,’ says Daragh. ‘Have you called him?’

‘They wouldn’t let me. I have to go home.’

‘That’s not what the court agreed.’

‘I need to see Henry.’

‘Call him.’

‘No. In person. I need to explain.’

Daragh and Clifton glance at each other, unsure of what to do. ‘Maybe you should wait until tomorrow.’

‘Take me home, or I’m getting out of the car right now.’

Daragh makes the final decision, circling Hyde Park Corner and driving west towards Knightsbridge.

‘Headstrong,’ says Clifton.

‘Like her mother,’ says Daragh.

‘We should warn the poor bugger.’

‘Too late for that.’

‘I can hear you,’ I say.

They grin.

It’s still an hour from dusk and the house in bathed in a soft twilight that makes the exterior look golden. I walk through the rooms, hoping Henry might have left a note, but find nothing. A calendar pinned to the fridge has his shifts blocked off with red crosses. He’s not working tonight.

As I move between rooms, I sense that everything has undergone a subtle transformation, as though a group of intruders has come in and shifted things around, before putting them back exactly as they had been.

Daragh has followed me into the house. I borrow his phone and call Henry’s number. He doesn’t answer. In the bedroom I discover that his overnight bag is missing and he’s taken his toothbrush and shaving gear.

I have his parents’ phone number in my wedding book. I call them. It rings for a long while. A woman answers. Henry’s mother. I call her Mrs Chapman, even though she’s told me it’s ‘Janet’.

‘Is Henry with you?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Philomena?’

‘Yes. Is he there?’

A pause. ‘He can’t come to the phone.’

‘I need to speak to him.’

‘Is this your one phone call?’ She thinks I’m still in custody.

‘I’ve been released.’

‘But you were charged. We saw it on the news.’

‘I’m on bail. Can you please put Henry on the line?’

Another silence. ‘He doesn’t want to speak to you.’

‘Don’t be difficult. Put him on.’

‘I don’t think you understand how much you’ve hurt him.’

‘Me?’

‘Those photographs … on the internet.’

‘What photographs?’

‘You and that woman. I have nothing against gay people; and I know attitudes to sex and gender have changed, but you can’t expect to marry my son after something like this.’

The police must have leaked Tempe’s photographs.

‘Nothing happened,’ I say.

‘You were naked.’

‘I did nothing wrong.’

‘You’ve been charged with murder.’

‘Let me talk to him. It’s about the wedding.’

‘There won’t be a wedding. I’m hanging up now. Please leave Henry alone.’

I’m listening to a dialling tone. I call again. Nobody picks up.

‘I have to go and see him,’ I say to Daragh.

‘Not tonight.’

‘But he doesn’t understand.’

‘Give him time. Let’s get you home.’

This is my home, I want to say, but it doesn’t feel like that any more. I’m torn between leaving and staying, hoping that Henry might change his mind and drive south from Hertfordshire and slide beneath the covers beside me during the night.

Daragh waits while I pack a small suitcase. Periodically, he glances into the street, worried the reporters might have followed us.

‘We’re all a little concerned about Finbar,’ he says.

‘Why?’

‘The police found a partial palm print on Darren Goodall’s car.’

My heart plunges.

‘What did he tell them?’

‘He said a lot of cars come through the garage.’ Daragh takes the suitcase from me. ‘Finbar has to be careful. A lot of people rely upon him. Kids. Grandkids. He can’t afford to fuck up.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

‘No harm done.’

We go back through the house, turning off the lights. I notice my wedding dress, still boxed, sitting on the dining table. I contemplate taking it with me, but I don’t want to be reminded of what I might have lost.