When You Are Mine(59)

‘Daddy! Daddy!’

Goodall has stepped between cars and is running towards me. He’s fifty yards away, picking up speed. I hammer my horn, but the driver in front of me raises her hands in frustration. She has nowhere to go.

Suddenly, a gap clears on the opposite side of the road. I swerve into the oncoming traffic as Goodall reaches the driver’s side window and hammers on the glass, yelling, but I can’t hear his words. He tries to open my door. I floor the accelerator. Goodall hangs on.

The driver ahead of me looks aghast, convinced I’m going to crash into her, but I swerve again and shake Goodall loose as I straighten and find the correct lane. Now he’s in my rear-view mirror, still running, hoping he might catch me at the next set of lights, but I accelerate through the changing red.

Nathan has gone quiet.

‘Why didn’t you stop for Daddy?’ he lisps.

‘I’m taking you to your mummy.’

‘You made him angry.’

‘Does he get angry a lot?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Does he ever hit your mummy?’

‘I’m not supposed to say.’

‘Why not?’

‘It makes Daddy cross.’





31


Alison Goodall’s parents live in a rambling house with slate-covered gable rooftops that are dotted with chimney pots. The dwelling looks pieced together, as though each new addition and extension has been an afterthought. The front garden is dominated by a large oak tree that has a rope swing hanging from the lower branches.

Keith, a short man with a softness of body and voice, is the more welcoming of the two. His wife, Jenny, is a nervous creature with a face full of sharp angles that could have been drawn with a maths set. Although happy to see her grandchildren, she treats me coolly, as though I am somehow responsible for Alison’s marital difficulties. I want to play her the emergency call from Nathan. Maybe then she’ll change her mind about Darren Goodall.

Both grandparents are fussing over Nathan and Chloe, feeding them buttered tea cake and orange cordial in the kitchen. Alison pulls back the curtains of the sitting room, waiting for her husband to come. She has turned off her mobile phone, but periodically the landline rings, echoing from a phone table in the entrance hall.

The house is full of antique furniture, or French provincial knock-offs that don’t particularly match or suggest an overarching theme. It is the same with the decor, which looks dated rather than traditional.

‘Maybe he’ll come to apologise,’ says Jenny, who has brought us tea on a tray.

‘Not this time,’ says Alison.

‘But he’s your husband.’

‘Nobody should hit a child.’

‘I’m sure it was an accident.’

‘Did Daddy ever hit you?’

Jenny looks aghast. ‘No, but that’s … I mean, they’re different men. Keith is a teacher.’

I have to swallow a laugh. Jenny isn’t impressed.

Alison argues: ‘Are you suggesting that police officers should be given a free pass? Beat-your-wife-and-get-out-of-jail-free.’

‘No. You’re taking it the wrong way.’

‘He threatened to kill me. He locked me in the house.’

‘You should try marriage counselling again,’ says Jenny.

‘Darren lasted one session. He accused the counsellor of picking on him.’

Jenny looks at me, hoping for support, but I’m with Alison on this one, although I’d rather not be making enemies of people who can destroy my career.

Keith comes in for a cup of tea. He looks at me. ‘You’ll stop him, won’t you? If he tries to throw his weight around.’

‘I shouldn’t be involved.’

‘Why not?’

‘We have something of a history.’

Jenny squeaks in alarm. ‘Are you sleeping with him?’

‘Not that sort of history.’

Nathan appears in the doorway. He has a cordial moustache. ‘Are we having a sleepover?’

‘Absolutely,’ says Alison.

He runs to tell his sister.

Alison turns back to the window and peeks through the curtains as a car pulls up outside. Her whole body stiffens. Together, we watch Goodall get out of his car and walk towards the house. Alison tells her mother to take the children upstairs.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ says Keith.

‘No! Don’t go out,’ says Alison.

‘I’ll tell him you’re not here.’

‘He won’t believe you.’

The doorbell has a bing-bong chime. Goodall holds his finger on the button and hammers a fist on the outer glass door. Keith opens the inner door and tries to sound jovial.

‘Darren. How are things?’

‘Where is she?’

Alison is curled up on an armchair, hugging her knees and holding the sleeves of her cardigan in her fists.

‘Alison isn’t here.’

‘Don’t bullshit me. I want to see her.’

‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

A loud bang echoes through the house. Goodall has launched a kick, trying to break the door down.

‘Call the police,’ I whisper to Alison.

‘But they won’t—’