‘Things are different now,’ he said. ‘You’re my wife, the mother of our child. I’m not arguing with you, Mandy. Your doorstepping days are over. Don’t forget what that thug threatened to do if you ever wrote about his family again.’
It seemed so long ago, the anonymous calls and the hoax bomb. These days she received goodie bags instead of bullets, invitations to gala openings instead of white powder, and her phone calls, carefully vetted, were usually from some PR executive, inviting her to lunch.
Lar’s breathing deepened. ‘That’s enough shop talk for tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ve another more important matter on my mind.’
Amanda clenched her teeth – so perfectly aligned now – as he slid her hand downwards, his desire obvious. He was close behind her as they walked up the stairs. She had a sudden yearning to make love to him against the landing wall. The two of them caught in an urgent, mindless union? But she knew, as Lar did, that such acrobatics were beyond him. She stifled a sigh as he opened the door of the bedroom where Rosalind’s long shadow did not fall.
Afterwards, she eased from his side and checked on Marcus. He had flung his arms above his head, his legs apart, the duvet kicked down. He stirred and murmured in his sleep. She covered his starfish body and stroked his cheek, then slipped quietly back into bed beside her husband.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Karl walked through Cherrywood Terrace and stopped outside the house he had once shared with Nicole. The bank had finally sold it and the new owners were in the process of gutting the interior. He tried to look through a crack in the curtains but was unable to see anything.
‘Karl, is that you?’ Maria Barnes shouted from her doorway.
He could ignore her, but she would probably ring the police and report a suspicious stranger loitering.
‘Yes, it’s me.’ He walked swiftly down the driveway, hoping to avoid talking to her, but she was already crossing the road.
‘I’d be hard put to recognise you behind all that hair.’ She peered at him through the shadowy street lighting. ‘Where are you living now?’
‘Here and there.’
‘That’s as clear as mud,’ she said. ‘It certainly won’t work as a forwarding address. Remember the letters I gave you when you got out of jail?’
He nodded.
‘I missed this one. It fell behind the press in the hall but you’d disappeared by the time I noticed it. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since.’
‘Dump it,’ he said.
Ignoring his words, Maria thrust the letter into his hand. ‘It belongs to you, not to me. Dumping it is your decision.’
‘Thanks. Anything else that comes, get rid of it.’
‘You’re sure you’re okay, Karl?’
‘Yes, I’m good.’
‘You don’t look good, not from where I’m standing,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come into the house for a bowl of soup.’
‘Another time. I’ve to meet someone and I’m already late.’
‘Take care of yourself, Karl.’
‘You too, Maria.’
O’Toole’s pub was busy, the clamour of voices and music slamming into him. When a couple rose to leave, he slipped into their seat and took the letter from his anorak pocket. The noise and movement in the pub receded as he stared at the dusty, crumpled airmail envelope, postmarked Arizona.
Selina Lee’s handwriting used to be filled with flourishes, as flamboyant as her personality, yet there was nothing familiar about this handwriting, so neat and cramped, as if the sender was afraid a stray stroke could change the meaning of a word. The suffocating sensation of being penned in by bars overwhelmed Karl. Not steel, but bars of memory pressing against his chest, making it difficult to breathe as he opened two thin sheets of airmail paper.
Dear Karl,
How to begin such a letter? The false starts. The ‘how are you’ enquiries. I’ve crossed them out and started again, only to end up with the same banal greeting. How are you, Karl? I know you are grieving over the passing of your lovely niece but I hope you’ve moved on with your life after the appalling injustice that was visited upon you.
When that journalist rang, I couldn’t believe our story had travelled beyond Winding Falls. I asked how she had stumbled on it but she was not answering questions, only asking them. She wanted details. I told her the only detail that counted was the truth. But that was not her truth. She had found what she believed to be a gold nugget and would not allow me to tarnish it. I was appalled, but frightened also, by the utter certainty in her voice. She believed I was delusional. One of those women who fall in love with convicted murderers, lured by the power evil attracts.
I should have hung up but I needed to convince her she was wrong. She demanded to know why I was protecting you. How I could have been so sure you were innocent? I told her you loved me. It seemed such an egocentric thing to say, yet it was true until I stamped all over your feelings.
After talking to her, I crashed. It’s happened in the past. I thought I’d moved on but when the memory of that night is thrust upon me without warning it can trigger an attack of post-traumatic stress. I hear his voice again, smell his breath, feel his knife on my throat. I can’t breathe and the terror is indescribable.
When I discovered you’d been arrested on suspicion of having murdered your lovely niece, I thought I was to blame. That I hadn’t been convincing enough during that interview. Self-blame; it’s so corrosive, so weakening. I suffered a severe attack of depression and was admitted to hospital. I didn’t contact you after I was discharged. My recovery was fragile and I wanted to build safety barriers around myself.
I’m okay now, wrung out but stronger. I’ve seen the freedom campaign she’s organised for your release. What changed her mind? Having destroyed you, is she trying to rewrite the past? Does she not realise the past never goes away? It can swing a fist and knock us out with one blow.
My marriage is over. I’ve set Jago free. We married for the wrong reasons. His was guilt that I almost died on a night when he and I should have been together; would have been together if he hadn’t ended our relationship that day. My reason for marrying him was security. The need to feel safe again, and Jago does have broad shoulders. But I wanted to stop being a victim living in a gated community where locks and cameras created the illusion of safety. And he deserves a real relationship, not one based on the roles we both played throughout our marriage.
I’ve moved to downtown Phoenix and have bought a small apartment. My address is on the business card I’ve enclosed, if you ever feel the need to contact me.
I hope you’ve survived your ordeal with the loving support of your family.
Always in my memory,
Selina.