Libby and Rowena had gone. I’d be expected home but I wasn’t fit company. The light was fading, the sky turning charcoal. A new moon, blurred by cloud, glowed above. The park was deserted. The football pitch was waterlogged already and some of the footpaths flooded. I walked at first, my legs stiff and aching from the bruises, then began to speed up until I was running at full pelt, fighting through the pain. The rain stung my face and hands, creeping down the back of my neck, soaking through my trousers. I increased my stride, felt the stretch in my calves and thighs, and the cold, damp air suck in and out of my lungs until my windpipe felt raw and my heart pounded in my skull. Running because I was sad and sickened and because I was alive with blood coursing through my veins and love and fear and hope in my heart.
Chloe’s house was busy again when I called round early the following day. The funeral was set for that Friday and half the neighbourhood seemed to be involved in planning the arrangements.
‘Can we talk in private?’ I asked her.
‘Upstairs.’
We went into her bedroom. She sat on the bed and pointed me to a wicker chair.
‘Have you heard from the police?’ I asked her.
She shook her head. ‘Why?’
‘They’ll be reopening the investigation.’
‘Honest? How come?’ Her brow creased.
I told her. As she listened, she played with a teddy bear, bending its limbs, positioning it; something to keep her hands busy, her face mobile with emotion.
When I was done, she shook her head and put the bear down on the bed beside her. ‘That bitch,’ she said, her eyes glittery with tears. ‘That bloody bitch.’
I couldn’t disagree.
I tried letting Geoff Sinclair know what I’d found out, maybe wanting a little recognition that I hadn’t been completely barking. But whenever I called, his answerphone was on. It’s not the sort of information you leave on voicemail. Later, I learnt he’d gone into a hospice and died very soon after. I don’t know if he ever heard that Heather Carter had been charged with murder or that her son Alex had been taken into psychiatric care, unfit to plead to charges of being an accessory.
I hoped that Libby would heal in time, that she’d meet someone new and build a life with him and her daughter. I couldn’t pass a marquee without wondering about her, and what she would tell Rowena about her father Charlie. How do you tell your child that their father was murdered? That jealousy about you was a big part of the reason? And that another man, an innocent man, died in prison after falsely confessing? How much do you reveal? How long do you keep silent? When do you tell them? There can never be a good time for such shocking disclosures so how do you choose the moment? And how do you cope with the distress and the anguish that will result?
The day the truth came out, the day Alex turned up on the doorstep of my office, I arrived home after my run in the park, sodden through, splashed with mud and grime and intent on having it out with Ray. Life was too short to be mucking about and I wouldn’t stand for another minute of his prevaricating. We were in this together or it was over.
They were all in the kitchen.
Leanne gawped at me. ‘Did you fall in?’
‘Can you take the kids, Leanne,’ I said tightly. ‘Take them out for a bit.’
‘It’s raining,’ she complained.
‘It’s easing off,’ I said.
‘It’s dark,’ Maddie said.
‘There are street lights.’ I pulled a damp twenty-pound note from my pocket and gave it to Leanne. ‘Here – buy them tea or something. Left at the main road – there are places down in Didsbury.’
‘We’ve had tea,’ Maddie said.
‘Have it again,’ I snapped. ‘Have pudding.’
‘Cool.’ Tom grinned.
‘I’m not sure-’ Ray finally chipped in.
‘I am.’ I glared at him. ‘Go,’ I said to Leanne.
Leanne’s eyes flicked between us. ‘Right,’ she announced. ‘Last one ready’s a muppet.’
The kids flew out to the hall, giggling and Leanne scooped Lola up and carried her out. I stood, my back against the counter, arms folded, waiting for the sound of the front door closing behind them. Water seeped from the bottom of my trousers, forming pools on the floor. My thighs and neck felt clammy from the damp.
Ray didn’t speak. The air between us sang with tension. I noticed my toes pressing against the floor, my back held rigid.
I heard the door slam.
‘So,’ I said, ‘do you want to go first?’
He shuffled in his seat. ‘Not really,’ he said. I bit down on my temper. He looked my way. ‘Your face,’ he said, his expression opening with concern.
Top marks for observation, I thought sourly. ‘Don’t change the subject,’ I said. ‘You and me… stuff happens, Ray: babies, surprises, setbacks, things change. We don’t have to let it destroy us.’
He gave an awkward shrug.
‘Or is that the plan? You close down on me, cut me off. You sulk, you refuse to talk.’ My voice was rising. ‘You’re so selfish – you never consider what it’s like for me. It makes me feel helpless and needy and I hate it. I really hate it.’ I was practically shouting, trying not to cry. I paced across the floor. ‘I want to be with you but I don’t know-’
He stood up, came closer.
‘Don’t touch me.’ I raised a hand to ward him off.
‘I love you, Sal.’
‘Don’t. I’m angry. I can’t be angry when you, if you-’ I was crying.
He raised his hand to mine and grabbed it; his was warm, large. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Come here.’
‘No.’ Like a child.
He kissed my eyelids, my mouth, hugged me close. ‘We’ll work something out. I don’t want to lose you. Lose this. Everything’s a mess at the moment but we’ll find a way, yeah?’
‘I hate you,’ I told him.
‘I know.’
‘I really hate you.’
‘Yes, I know.’ He kissed my neck and ran his hand through my wet hair, gripped my head, kissed me again, his lips firm and warm where mine were still cold, his tongue smooth.
‘You have to let me in,’ I said. ‘You have to share things with me. It won’t work otherwise.’
‘I know, I will. I promise, Sal.’ He kissed me. ‘Come upstairs,’ he whispered.
‘I’m hungry,’ I sniffed.
‘It’ll keep. Come on.’
I was getting dizzy, my body responding, my breasts tingling, my belly hollow. I let him walk me to the door, guide me up the stairs, stopping to kiss, into his room.
‘I still hate you.’
‘You said.’
He peeled off my clothes, then his own. Lowered me into bed. I closed my eyes and let go, spinning and swimming and dancing. Sensations overwhelming me, crowding out thought and logic and memory. Stopping time.
About the Author
Cath Staincliffe is an established novelist, radio playwright and creator of ITV’s hit series, Blue Murder, starring Caroline Quentin as DCI Janine Lewis. Cath was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey Best First Novel award for her acclaimed Sal Kilkenny series, and for the Dagger in the Library award in 2006. Her latest stand-alone novels all focus on topical moral dilemmas. She was joint winner of the CWA Short Story Dagger award in 2012 for Laptop. She is a founding member of Murder Squad, a group who promote crime fiction.
www.cathstaincliffe.co.uk
