Oh, the old ‘he’s dead to us’ routine.
‘I know you and he have your problems, and that’s nothing to do with anyone but the two of you. But, well, I can’t talk to my daughter, and it’s killing me. There’s nothing anyone can do about that. Being without his daughter is killing Glenn. Please, let him see Katie. Or at least let him call her.’
‘Katie? She’s next door’s kid.’
What?
‘I’m telling you, love. Me and Glenn don’t have kids. I always wanted them, and he’s so great with them, but…’
‘I… I’m so sorry. There’s been a mix-up. Sorry,’ I repeated, ending the call hurriedly.
What the hell? Why would Glenn lie about something like that? He was yet another bloody person who was lying to me! A person I thought I could trust, but clearly couldn’t. But…
As I thought, I calmed down. And started feeling pity.
Glenn and his wife had wanted kids but couldn’t have them. It could be an emasculating thing for a man; your dad had felt that, briefly, when we’d tried for another baby and failed. That was one of the reasons we’d agreed not to bother with tests, but instead simply to relax, make the most of what we had and be philosophical.
When Glenn talked about the loss of a child, that was what he was referring to.
Still, why lie? Why pretend that his neighbour’s child was his?
My shoulders slumped with the realisation. He’d done it for me. So that I wouldn’t feel so alone when talking about you, Beth. I’d thought he was different, that he didn’t look at me with pity, but all this time he had.
Walking slowly back along the maze of corridors to the paediatric ICU, I resolved to speak to him about it.
Fifty-Three
BETH
FRIDAY 22 JANUARY
Eyes glittered in the darkness. Skewering Beth in place.
‘Things wouldn’t go well for you if you told the police.’
This far out of her depth, she only had one option left. Brazen it out.
Fifty-Four
Hope filled my heart as I woke. The world was normal and wonderful. Then reality punched in, and my face scrunched up as tears leaked down the sides to wet my pillow.
My dream had felt so real. Hugging you, talking to you. I’d felt you, warm and solid. Smelled your perfume as you drew closer, and your minty breath as you planted a kiss on my cheek.
The dream made me crave a drink. That sounded terrible, didn’t it, Beth? But drinking to excess made me pass out, so that I no longer had these vivid encounters with you; encounters that felt so real the loss of you was fresh when I woke. A whole weekend without alcohol had taken its toll, the dreams particularly lifelike.
It was just gone 5 a.m. Monday morning. Jacob lay beside me, sleeping through sheer exhaustion. I didn’t know how he found the strength to keep going. He was amazing, inspirational… and made me feel ashamed because I lacked those qualities. No wonder he sought comfort elsewhere.
My left hand started to cramp. I had the duvet clutched in a death grip that pulled it taut between my body and my husband’s; a physical metaphor for the atmosphere in our marriage. Between Jacob and I lay a mattress no man’s land that neither of us would stray into for fear of attack; the exact boundaries were sorted out without words passing between us. Jacob balanced on approximately five inches of bed on the extreme left, and I did the same on the right.
My right side ached from sleeping in one position for too long. As I slid from under the duvet and onto the floor, Jacob shifted slightly in bed, his foot straying across to forbidden territory, but he didn’t wake. Opening and closing my left hand repeatedly, trying to get the blood flowing round it properly again, I crept silently into the bathroom, where I dressed quickly. This was my routine, and I was adept at moving around in the dark these days.
Once downstairs, a softened thud, thud, thud from the kitchen, a pattering sound, then something wet and cold pushing against my skin.
‘Hello, Wiggins. Yes, all right,’ I soothed. My voice less than a whisper as my hands ran over the furry head.
More gentle thuds as he wagged, then a warm, wet tongue found my fingers before I pulled them away and felt for the torch. By its light I also grabbed a tatty rucksack, once olive green, now camouflaged with years of grime because it was used to gather wood for our stove. Into the rucksack I pushed an axe, kept handily beside the fire in the living room.
Fifty-Five
The only light came from the stars, the crescent moon and the bobbing circle made by the torch. I’d visited the marsh so many times recently I barely needed the faint illumination, instead relying on the familiar changes in smell: from cabbages, to rich earth, to brine. Once onto the sea bank, I watched the tide beating a retreat, uncovering rich pickings for the wading birds and revealing the hardy plants that survived a regular soaking.
The tatty rucksack hung low and awkward on me, and it bounced against the small of my back in rhythm with my stride. Wiggins surged ahead, confident of his footing, while I crunched through frozen puddles.
Finally we reached the sycamore, stunted by the constant wind. Stepping over the bedraggled teddy bear abandoned at its base, I reached out and touched the trunk.
Nothing. No connection.
I yanked off my glove and clutched the rough bark so tightly it hurt. Better. Maybe it would make me bleed. Drip and mingle with the blood already in the earth. But I still couldn’t feel a connection with you.
Something ruffled audibly in the wind. It danced along my hand, tickling then fleeing. Caressing. I couldn’t see them properly, but I knew it was one of the ribbons tied to the tree, making it look as overdressed as an ugly girl ready for her first date.
This marked the spot where you were attacked.
A blow to the skull. A scream for help, cut short.
Scenes flickered through my mind, numbing me far more than the cold.
Terror. Panic. Confusion.
I could barely feel my extremities now. You must have felt like that. It made me feel closer to you.
Running. Feet won’t go fast enough. Silently begging for Mum to come to the rescue. Then…
I screamed my rage into the night. The wind took up the war cry.
I would never forgive myself for not protecting you, Beth. I was sleeping when it happened. Safe, warm, cosy at home. There had been no shiver of fear. No eerie mother’s intuition that my daughter needed help. The first time it was obvious something was wrong was in the morning.
‘Oh, Beth, you must have been so cold out here,’ I said aloud. You always hated being cold.
Trying to share my daughter’s suffering was what held me in place as the sky slowly paled to mother-of-pearl with the rising sun. I refused to move despite the wind cutting through my clothing as if it didn’t exist, slicing through flesh until it hit bone and chilled me to the marrow.