The jury was dismissed and then the judge began to speak again, setting the date for sentencing. Amy remained huddled within Alex’s arms, leaning into his chest, breathing heavily. They stayed that way until people began getting to their feet, then stood up to watch the judge leave the courtroom.
‘Let’s go, Alex,’ Amy whispered to him. ‘I just want to get away from this now.’
Alex kept his arm around her as they made their way downstairs. ‘I just need to nip to the bathroom,’ Alex said, when they reached the ground floor.
‘Me too,’ Amy replied. ‘I’ll meet you back here in a moment.’ She gave him a long look, as though she were trying to tell him something, and let go of his hand.
Alex pushed through a door into the bathroom to find it surprisingly empty. He made his way over to a urinal, relieved himself, and turned to go, heading towards the door as another man entered, wearing a dapper navy pinstriped suit and a bright yellow tie. His face was stricken, his dark eyes tormented, and Alex asked instinctively, ‘You okay?’
The man nodded, at first unable or unwilling to speak. He murmured what sounded like ‘A terrible day.’
Alex grimaced. ‘I know, mate,’ he said, as he made his way back outside.
At first Alex didn’t panic when he couldn’t see Amy. But when after a few minutes she still didn’t appear, a small, insidious roiling began in his gut. He walked up and down the corridor, looking for her familiar dark head.
Ten minutes went by, then another five. He was biting down the urge to shout her name, walking frantically back and forth.
Of course she had gone. The court case was over, the verdict announced. In Amy’s head, all that was left now was to watch him walk away, back to his old life, leaving her to try to pick up some semblance of the pieces of her own. Of course she would have decided to leave first, sometime when he wouldn’t be expecting it; of course she wouldn’t want to go through such a painful goodbye.
He felt desperate. He didn’t want it to end like this. How could he have been so stupid as to let her slip out of his grasp again?
90
When Chloe woke up, it was all there in front of her as though she had never pushed it away; as clear as the daylight pouring through the crack in her curtains. She choked and spluttered at the intensity of it all, unable to believe she had kept this thing buried in her subconscious for so long.
As she tried to calm herself, she could hear her mother humming in the kitchen. She couldn’t make out the tune.
Fractured images paraded past her like a police-station line-up. First, there were the three of them, Mummy, Daddy and little Chloe; a storybook setting, the trees green, the sky blue, the sun yellow, and life rosy. Then came the baby, Anthony, and nothing changed, it all just glowed that little bit brighter. They lived in America. There were fourth of July parties, with shrieking fireworks and dancing. Chloe could remember her mother in beautiful dresses, kissing her shyly in the early evening, and hugging her tightly later at night when it wouldn’t matter what stains Chloe could transfer onto the silken material. Her father, ruffling her hair, kissing her forehead, swinging her up onto his shoulders. He was godlike, the world bending to his will. Chloe and her brother watching their parents in awe as one shimmered and the other commanded.
Then, during the night after one such party, Chloe had been disturbed by a noise. It had scared her too much for her to stay in her room so she went looking for comfort.
And, eventually, she had found her father wrapped around her brother, his face turned away, but small movements shaking his body.
Too much flesh. Anthony’s eyes vacant. Chloe peeping in, her small fingers clutching the door.
Running to her mother, asleep in a chair downstairs, putting a tiny finger to her lips, and her mother, thinking it was some kind of child’s game, unfurling in easy delight like a cat, and letting Chloe lead her to Anthony’s room.
Standing together at the doorway. Margaret dropping Chloe’s hand.
Tears streamed onto Chloe’s pillow, helpless from gravity’s push. The humming from downstairs sounded like a child’s, and it was ceaseless. She wanted to turn it off, or tune it out, while she gathered together the broken threads of her memories and turned them over, trying to repair them to become something she could use.
That was how she had last seen her father. Through a crack in a doorway. His face turned away from her. Her mother had also turned away then, in silence, and Chloe had watched her begin to walk off, sliding along the floor, her whole body stiff, ghostlike. Then Margaret had remembered her small daughter. Had padded back, scooped her up. Chloe had been laid on her bed, then, a while later, Anthony was brought into her room and put into the bed with her, and her mother lay down next to them in the long, cramped space, and put her arm across them both.
In the morning, Chloe had woken of her own accord, which was unusual. Her mother was normally already in her room and flinging back curtains, chattering merrily. That morning there had been nothing; Anthony and her mother were no longer with her. She had arisen in her nightie, and wandered around the house looking for Margaret. In her parents’ room she had found her, frantically packing, shoving everything into cavernous suitcases. ‘We’re going on holiday, to England,’ her mother had said in a strange singsong voice. ‘It’s an adventure, honey.’
Chloe knew England – it was where her grandparents lived. They came to visit now and again, and Chloe had seen pictures of herself there when she had been a baby. So she had packed for a holiday, leaving behind the doll’s house; her special light that, when switched on, showed small furry rabbits living inside; her collection of seashells. And all the rest that she wouldn’t need for a holiday.
Anthony had been quiet all the way to England. He sat on his mother’s knee and stared resolutely ahead. Her mother sat in perfect imitation of her son, her eyes fixed forward, responding to Chloe when she felt a pull on her sleeve, but otherwise letting her be, even when she drew in crayon all over the pull-down table in front of her.
Chloe had been five years old when they’d stepped off the plane onto English soil. She remembered her grandparents’ delighted, surprised faces when they opened their cottage door to find their daughter and her children waiting, and how their smiles had faltered slightly as they’d looked at Margaret and then been pinned back in place as they turned to Chloe and Anthony. The children had been told to go into the garden to play, and they moved off holding hands. Chloe looked back as her grandparents turned inwards, a carapace for their daughter, and saw her mother’s head go down and her shoulders sag as she made it to the doorway, then slid down it to become a shaking, wailing heap, Chloe’s grandmother quickly going to her side.
In the garden, Anthony had let go of Chloe’s hand. The trees were bare and brown, and thick white cloud blotted out most of the leaden-grey sky.
Chloe raced downstairs as though the hounds of hell were chasing her, and burst into the kitchen, where her mother seemed to be in the process of emptying a cabinet of glass-ware, washing it all and putting it back again.
Margaret turned around in surprise at the sudden sound, and took one look at Chloe’s face, then said, ‘So, you do remember.’
‘Mum!’ Chloe was forcing herself to stay still, to keep her hands at her sides, though she felt like moving across the room and throttling her mother. ‘How could you -’ She registered her mother’s shocked face as she said the words. ‘How could you let Anthony go to America like that? You should have told him. You should have. What if…’ Now she was registering her mother’s expression becoming one of relief, and then Margaret said: