‘No,’ I say, although even as I do, I know it’s a lie. ‘No. No way.’
Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. I was young and stupid and it’s the only piece that could fit.
Clever. So very clever.
I wish I could cry.
37
AFTER
2006
Her heart thumps as she licks the bitter glue of the envelope. She shouldn’t send the letter. She knows she shouldn’t, but although the world might think she’s evil, if she can’t forgive him for the thing he did, then how can she ever expect to be forgiven herself? She can’t stay filled with hate. It’s too exhausting. And he’s sorry. He’s done the best he can to prove that.
They can keep giving her new names – Lisa, she’s now Lisa – but they can’t so easily wipe out all the versions of her who went before. They are ghosts who live under the skin and one ghost loved him for a while. Even with how he was towards the end, and after what he did when they left, she still misses how she felt in the early days. And he gave her Ava – Crystal has a new name too this time – so how can she not forgive him now that he’s done his best to make up for it all?
She physically flinches when she remembers the headlines – how he made their story, their life together sound so awful. How he blamed his drinking on her. How he said she’d ruined his life. All the tiny details of their relationship that she’d once treasured, he publicly trampled them and made them dirty.
At least they hadn’t been able to print her picture. But still, there had been the relocation and another identity to be created, more taxpayers’ money spent on someone most of the public would rather had been hanged for what she’d done. She was sure the team around her muttered at the ridiculous cost of it all and blamed her for being a lovesick fool who’d brought this on herself with her big mouth.
But over a year has passed and life has settled and now Jon’s done this good thing which will allow her and Ava to have a better life. Alison – there’s no more Joanne; a new town means a new probation officer – says that under no circumstances can she have any contact with him. They will pass on her thanks or any note or message she wants to send him. She’s told them to do that, but she’s also so very tired of everyone knowing everything and her life being under a microscope again. If she gives them the letter for him they’ll read every word and some words, even I forgive you and I wish you all the happiness, should be private.
She stares at the envelope, the carefully printed address in stark black against the white. His mother’s house, that’s what the papers had said. He was moving there because his mother was sick and looking after her would help with his rehab. The papers said he wanted to start a fresh life away from his memories of her. Maybe he’s not living there any more. But if his mother – Patricia, that was her name, Patricia of the over-sweet perfume – is still alive, perhaps she’ll pass the letter on. She wouldn’t, of course – she’d probably read it and burn it and curse the day her boy met Charlotte Nevill – but at least she will have tried.
She hasn’t put any sender’s address on the letter, and she’s read it over and over to make sure there’s nothing in it to give any clues as to where she is now. Not that she is worried about him. Not any more. She’s doing the right thing. She owes the ghost of their love, and the very much alive spirit of their little girl, this much. This private moment. She needs to say thank you, and it needs to come on paper not sullied by others’ eyes or touch.
Her decision made, she shoves the envelope in her pocket and smiles as she pushes Ava’s buggy down to the little post office at the local shops. Stamp attached, she enjoys the whisper of paper as it falls into the box. It’s done. Sent. It feels good, and she’s smiling as she heads over to the small park with the swings and roundabouts Ava loves so much. She’s closed a door on the past.
She doesn’t for a second think about the postmark that will be stamped on to her carefully addressed envelope. It doesn’t cross her mind at all.
38
NOW
MARILYN
Why did I say yes? Why? I’m only doing this for Ava, to get her back to safety. I’m full of anxiety for her, and exhaustion for me. I really don’t need this shit. I breathe more condensation on to the window glass. It’s one of those grey muggy days where rain has fallen but not enough, and damp hangs listless in the air soaking everything it touches. Even inside the car, my skin itches with invisible bugs.
Trees blur outside. At least the police hadn’t gone to my house, but called my mobile after going to the office. From the look on Detective Bray’s face when we’d met outside the hotel, Penny must have told her something of what was going on with Richard. I’ve never thought of Penny as a gossip, but then there’s something about the police turning up that makes most people blurt out everything they know or don’t know. Not only had she told them about my personal situation, it’s clear she’d also mentioned the missing money. ‘She thinks Charlotte took it,’ Bray says, as we head to our undisclosed location to meet. ‘Do you?’ she asks.
I shrug, staring out at the countryside. ‘What would I know? I thought her name was Lisa. I thought she couldn’t harm a fly.’
She doesn’t speak again until we finally turn down a narrow country lane and the car bumps over the uneven surface, my teeth clenching as each pothole makes my damaged ribs scream. ‘She’s here already,’ she says. ‘I must remind you that should you tell anyone at all about this meeting you could be hindering a police investigation and charged as such.’
I snort out a half-laugh. Like I’d tell anyone. Who would I tell? I don’t have anyone to tell. My self-pity is bitter as bile. I loathe self-pity. I don’t see the fucking point in it. ‘I’m here for Ava,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’ Bray nods, satisfied. We’re all here for Ava.
‘Try to keep Charlotte on topic,’ she says. ‘She’s … well. You’ll see. Keep her talking about Jon.’ She twists round in her seat as the car slows to a halt, and I see a fierce intelligence in her eyes. Not a donkey at all. ‘There must be something she knows that can help us. Somewhere he might have taken Ava. Somewhere they’d been before. A place important to him somehow. We’re going through the house again to see if there’s anything there to help, but it may come down to what we can get out of her. What you can get out of her.’
‘Why won’t she talk to you?’ I ask, carefully unfolding my damaged body from the unmarked car. We’re outside a country cottage which should be pretty but instead looks bleak. The small front garden behind the low wall has been tarmacked and even from a distance I can see that the paint is chipped on the cracked sash windowsills, big strips of rotting wood now bare of colour. Even on a sunny day it would be depressing – under the thick grey sky it’s virtually suicidal.
‘Oh, she talks,’ Bray says. ‘But she doesn’t make any sense. Chat to her. Try to relax her. We’ll sift through what she says for anything useful. We haven’t told her Ava may be pregnant, she’s fragile enough as it is, so don’t mention it. And don’t try to talk about her past.’
Suddenly I feel sick. I’m going to see Lisa again, but it won’t be Lisa at all. She’ll be Charlotte Nevill wearing Lisa’s skin. ‘I have no interest in her past,’ I mutter, as we trudge across the gravel to the gate. Talk about her past? How would I do that? Hey, Lisa, I’ve had a shitty day at work. Fancy the pub? You can take my mind off it by telling me how murdering your little brother felt. For the lols. Jesus, what a headfuck.