Authors: Debbie Howells

The Bones of You (18 page)

BOOK: The Bones of You

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I
t takes time, but while Jo crawls from the depths toward daylight, Neal’s trial draws closer. The assault charge is conclusive enough, according to Laura, though whether he’ll be charged with murder is still questionable. The police have various accounts of what happened that night, along with the files Jo found, but the murder weapon has yet to be discovered.

“He may be the prime suspect,” she tells me. “And you wouldn’t believe the number of people coming forward with axes to grind. From work colleagues to ex-lovers. But the police need more concrete evidence.”

She glances at my face. “So many of them, Kate. Seems Neal’s upset a lot of people. It does happen, you know—particularly in the case of successful, powerful men, like he is. They think they’re invincible, until one day, they take a step too far. And then it all catches up with them.”

What she says is completely plausible, yet one thing puzzles me. “It’s hard to picture the same person involved with the orphanage.”

“Yes, well, seems they’d had enough of him there, too. He left a few months ago—under a cloud. Something clearly happened, though as yet no one’s saying what.”

“But the charity awards.” I’m puzzled. “He was nominated for one at the end of last year. He and Jo were going together, making a weekend of it. Only in the end, he went without her. She got drunk before they’d even left.”

“What? I hadn’t heard about this.”

“That afternoon, apparently, Jo was drinking. Heavily. I’m not sure why. By the time I found her, he’d gone.”

Laura’s shaking her head. “But if he’d severed his connection to the orphanage, he wouldn’t have been nominated—or would he? Maybe it was for past work. Did he win?”

I try to remember the Sunday morning at Jo’s, when he came back early. “He didn’t actually say.” But my brain is whirring. “What if,” I say slowly, still thinking, “it was all a facade? He got her drunk rather than tell her the truth—that they’d fired him—then pretended to go alone, only instead spent the weekend with another woman.”

Laura frowns. “It would be easy enough to check if he was there or not. Not that it’s really relevant to Rosie’s murder.”

“It’s very relevant to Jo, though. He had a way of bulldozing over her. She felt terrible that she ruined that night for him. It might be empowering, especially now, to know that he set it all up.”

“Who’d have thought it?” Laura shakes her head again. “You know, you think you can figure people out. Work out what it is that makes them tick. But honestly, Kate, sometimes you can’t tell the half of it.”

With the trial pending, speculation resurfaces as the press digs up all the dirt it can get on him. The messy trail of affairs and his systematic abuse of women, who until now had chosen silence for their own reasons. Even Jo’s history of illness. It leaves the image he’s built up over the years in tatters.

“God. What an utter bastard.” Rachael’s disbelieving. “More fool Joanna for staying with him. She didn’t have to, did she?”

“She loved him,” I say quietly.

The last straw for me are the unsubstantiated reports that Rosie was pregnant. And suddenly, I’m completely sick of the gossip, the speculation, the lies, every last bit of it.

Still fragile, Jo holds up bravely. “It’s lies, all of it. Don’t you think I’d have known? Everyone knows what the press is like. I’m not going to let them get to me, Kate.”

Head held up, internalizing it the way she does everything.

Maybe the cosmos decides I deserve a break, because two things happen that revive my flagging spirits. First, I’m asked if I’ll take on a horse. An ex-racehorse that through no fault of his own has become homeless. And so Shilo arrives, wary and apologetic, wondering how long he’ll be staying before he’s uprooted to yet another yard, but with honest eyes and a calm way about him, which I instantly warm to.

The second is Grace suddenly comes home.

“I wasn’t expecting you for another week!” I hug her, noticing the unfamiliar car parked outside. “Who drove you?”

As she pulls back, I see her cheeks flush pink. She fixes twinkling eyes on me.

“Now, Mother, you did say you wanted to meet Ned, remember? Well, now you can.”

He comes in, tall, tousle-haired, in slouchy jeans and an oversize hoodie, holding out his hand.

“Hi, Mrs. McKay. I hope this is okay. . . . I told Grace she should have called, but I guess you know what she’s like. . . .”

His manner is both bumbling and familiar; then he grins as Grace pretends to punch him. I shake his hand, liking him immediately.

“Yes, I do! Hi, Ned. And it’s Kate! I’m really pleased to meet you. This is
such
a lovely surprise!” I turn to Grace. “How long are you home?”

“The weekend? If that’s okay? Then we were going to Ned’s parents for a few days. But I’ll definitely be home for Easter, Mum. . . .”

The ground rocks under my feet just for a moment, as I figure both of them are staying, but in separate rooms? Grace’s room? It’s the first time I’ve been faced with this, and so out of the blue I don’t know what to say. Then quickly decide it doesn’t matter—they can work that one out themselves.

The combined presence of Grace and Ned, with Shilo out grazing with my own horses, restores much-needed equilibrium in my soul. I can feel my way in what is once again a hospitable world, with familiar routines of meals that need cooking and rooms tidying. With people.

After a thrown-together lunch of homemade soup and hastily unfrozen bread, Grace and I walk across the fields to see the horses. Ned stays behind to watch football, so he says. I half-heartedly twist his arm, then silently thank him for this time he gives us alone.

As we approach the horses, they lift their heads and study us. Grace stops.

“It’s so weird without him,” she says quietly, thinking of Zappa.

We stand, watching them, remembering his majestic presence, each lost in our own thoughts about him. I know Grace felt it, too. Only every so often do you meet a horse that touches your life as he did.

“Come on.” I reach for her arm. “Come and meet Shilo.”

She wipes away a tear and grins bravely, a grin that wobbles. And as we get nearer, Oz nickers at her and jogs over.

“I’ve really missed them.” She’s emotional, far more than she usually is, and I wonder. Is there another first going on here? Is she in love?

“His owner is ill, and no one wanted him.” Shilo wanders over, and I stroke his nose. “She has cancer. I’ve no idea how bad it is. He’s here indefinitely, until we know.”

“He’s sweet.” She hesitates. “Mum? Can I ask you something? Is Dad okay? I thought he’d be home this weekend, but when I spoke to him the other day, he said he was staying in York. And he sounded weird.” She pauses, and it’s as though ten-year-old Grace is beside me, looking up at me with tangled hair and pink cheeks as she reaches for my hand, seeking reassurance.

Fleetingly, I glimpse how it would be to tell my child that everything she’d grown up with, taken for granted, had been swept away by the two people she believed she could always count on.
This,
after Rosie.

“It’s just the job. It’s taking more of his time than he thought it would.” Wondering if she’ll notice my voice, overly bright. “Why? What did he say?”

“Not much.” She screws up her face. “That’s the thing. Usually, he makes bad jokes and asks me loads of questions—you know what he’s like—but he hardly said a word.”

It’s as though the sun’s dipped out of this wonderful day, and I shiver. “I expect he was tired, Grace. He’s working too hard.”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Don’t worry yourself about the adults! They can take care of themselves. Now, tell me all about Ned.” I link my arm through hers, and she smiles, a proper, warm, sunny Grace smile.

“What do you want to know?” She’s suddenly cagey.

“Well . . . is he good to you? Are you happy?” Are there any other questions worth asking?

She nods. “I really like him. I think you will, too, when you get to know him. You don’t mind, Mum, do you? About him staying?”

“Of course I don’t! I’m really pleased.”

She’s silent, framing the question I already know is coming. “Is it okay . . . if he sleeps in my room?”

“It’s fine, Gracie. I did think he might.”

“What about Dad?”

“He’s not here, is he? And even if he was, don’t worry! I’d talk him round.”

Though I can imagine how Angus would be about the other man in his daughter’s life, checking him out and inevitably finding him lacking, because no boy would ever be good enough for his little girl.
Nice boy, but don’t you think . . . ?

“Cool.” Her cheeks flush as she glances behind her. “I better go back and see if Ned’s okay.” She plants a kiss on Oz’s nose and, her child self again, whirls back up toward the house.

ROSIE

Joanna looks in the mirror at the face. It’s a too-perfect one, nipped and tucked by renowned plastic surgeons, every line, every wrinkle smoothed out, the skin of a twenty-year-old. The worst pain she’s known, but worth it.

The face is framed by lustrous, pale, long hair—not her own, but Neal hates short hair, so in the end, she got extensions. It was worth the day it took to have it done—just for Neal’s reaction. It was there, on his face. Desire, in big letters. He still wants her.

It’s the face of a girl who has everything to live for. One who has the world at her feet, especially when you read about how she lives. It registers only dimly as phony and unimportant before she pushes it from her mind, thrilled she can look like this.

Round her neck is the heavy gold chain. A gift from Neal. He gave it to her just after they were married, as she stood in front of another mirror in another house, feeling his breath against her cheek as he came up behind her and placed it round her neck.

“You’re mine, Joanna,” he whispered. Words she’d waited so long for, to be wanted, sending adrenaline through her veins like an intravenous shot, that meant she could go through any number of days of self-denial, not eating, enduring increasingly strenuous workouts, all because of him.

“Every time you look at this, think of me,” he said softly.

She gazes at it, admiring how slender her neck looks against its weight, how it’s the perfect length to wear with anything.

Remembers hearing the tiny metallic click as the catch snapped shut.

Only later glimpsing the back and seeing the padlock.

O
ver the rest of the weekend, missing my husband, I get to know my daughter’s lover, liking how he smiles at her, how his eyes follow her, how quickly he learns to navigate his way around the kitchen and make tea for us all. On Saturday night, I book the table by the open fire at the local pub, and over plates of hot food, any awkwardness that remains between us melts away.

As I watch them together, I realize that however much I tell myself otherwise, I wish Angus was here to share this.

When we get home, instead of collapsing in front of a movie with Grace and Ned, I head for my office and, closing the door, call him, hoping with all my heart that he’ll pick up. That he’ll listen and hear what I want him to hear, that I’m sorry, that I love him and I don’t ever want to be without him.

But he doesn’t pick up.

As I go back to join them, Grace eyes me anxiously. “You okay, Mum?”

“Fine. I just remembered something I had to do, that was all. Who’d like tea?”

“I’ll make it if you like.” Ned stretches his arms up and starts unwinding himself from Grace.

“It’s okay. You two stay there. I’ll do it. You can light the fire.” I scurry out before Grace’s X-ray eyes see right through me.

I’m bereft when they go. Disproportionately so, considering Grace will be back in only a few days. But I’m in a melancholy mood, and it’s a taste of the future I’m seeing. I tell myself I’m doubly blessed to welcome Ned into our circle, but also realize I have to share Grace.

I spend an hour with the horses, who, sensing my mood, are watchful. It’s Oz who comes over and thrusts his muzzle into my side as he tries to get to the root of what’s bothering me. Feeling no better, I walk back up the field toward the house, self-pitying tears blurring my vision.

I’m at the back door, pulling off my boots, when I hear a car pull up. Quickly, I go inside, wiping my eyes, not wanting to be caught like this, at the same time wondering who on earth could be here. Then my heart quickens as I hear footsteps outside coming toward me and a man’s voice that I’d know anywhere.

“Kate?”

“Angus?”

He comes into the kitchen, and I go to him, and then my arms are tightly round him, my face buried against his neck, as slowly I feel his arms go round me. And all the tears I’ve been bottling up come pouring out of me.

At first, he doesn’t notice, then gently pushes me away so he can see my face.

“You’re crying,” he says. “Please don’t cry. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I wail. “I’m so sorry, Angus.... I didn’t do anything, but I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“Shh.” He pulls me against him so I feel his chin resting in my hair. “I’m the one who should be sorry, leaving you to cope with everything. . . .”

“But I don’t have anything to cope with, do I? Just a friend whose messy life I can’t stay out of and Zappa . . .”

But the thought of Zappa finishes me. I can barely say his name before emotion completely overwhelms me.

I discover how big my husband’s heart is. How lucky we are, too, that we’re better together than apart.

“How long are you home for?” I don’t ask him until much later, not wanting to spoil the pleasure of his body against mine in our bed, where we’ve never needed many words.

“However long you want me here,” he says softly, stroking a wisp of my hair off my face.

“What d’you mean?” I prop myself up on my elbows and look at him properly. “Of course I want you here.”

He’s grave, his face questioning. “For a moment there, I wasn’t sure.”

I lean forward and kiss him. “I’ve hated you being away.”

“That’s good,” he says, his eyes a mixture of anxiety and relief. “Because I’ve finished there. I may have to go back for the odd few days, but that’s all. Next time round, I’m going to tell them they’ll have to send someone else.”

I look at him, feeling his words sinking in and a sense of peace descending on my world.

ROSIE

Another snapshot of my parents flashes before me. They really are a perfect match. Complementing each other. As Neal grows stronger and more successful, so Joanna fades and shrinks, the equal and opposite reaction to his every action.

But after a while, it isn’t enough. Not for Neal. He wants more power, over her emotions, her life, her happiness, such as it is. Needs to push limits and to control how she feels. See her need for him in her eyes, watch her stabbed with hurt as he rebuffs her. Or use all the tricks in the book to seduce, turn her on, making her body want his, before closing his hands round her neck until her eyes close and the fight goes out of her, so that she has all the desire but none of the release. It’s the ultimate control, over whether she breathes or not. Brings a surge of heat like he’s never known.

Joanna’s kept his sordid, sad little secret. Only this time, I’m witness. To him locking the bedroom door behind them. Dragging Joanna across the room, shoving her against a wall, pinning her there, one hand round her neck while he rips at her clothes, tearing them off her.

While she begs him not to.

“Please, Neal.”

Because she’s terrified, and she knows what’s coming, because he’s done it many times before. Knows each time could be her last sound, her last breath.

But she can’t stop him.

“Please, Neal, not like this.”

He doesn’t listen. He can’t hear her: he’s lost in her pain, her fear, just holds her neck with both hands and pushes into her.

This is where I want to shut my eyes, long for the picture to be sliced in two, my father in one half, taken away, those hands torn off first, then his tongue. I try to pull him off her. I scream at him to leave her, that he’s a vile monster everyone hates. How is it they can’t hear their own daughter?

But they don’t, and I’m forced to watch as it just goes on for what seems like forever, in hideous slow motion, as he squeezes tighter round her neck, pushes harder, until her eyes bulge and her head lolls over. Until the noise stops.

A silence that holds its breath is broken by a whimpering sound, coming from the small figure slumped on the floor against the wall. It gives way to a hoarse crying, because her throat is so sore, her neck red and throbbing. She’s alone. He’s downstairs with his whiskey bottle, and I sit beside her, stroke her hair, tell her she has to leave him. “This isn’t love. There isn’t a name for what he does to you.”

But she can’t hear, just reminds herself how lucky she is, even though she fears him, fears the pain he causes her, the marks he leaves both on her skin and so much deeper, underneath.

He loves her, doesn’t he? How long she’s waited to feel like this. So desired. So perfect. So minutely small. She winds one of those scarves round her neck, thinking how much she has to lose. How many scarves she has. How she’s married an amazing man.

The baby isn’t planned, not this first one. She knows they’ll have a family, just not yet. She isn’t ready, anxious at how her skin is already stretching and her belly is swollen, at how her shape is out of her control, and how the small foot that protrudes ripples not just her skin but her heart.

There’s conflict, between the baby and her looks, because looks are not about the brightness of her eyes or the glow her skin has or the new life she’s carrying; they’re about the size she has become.

And she’s frightened.

Doesn’t know if she can do this.

Each day her fear grows, but in the end, she doesn’t have to. The pain comes too early, when the baby’s too small, with lungs that can’t breathe. I watch as the light in her eyes that shone briefly fades with the baby’s heartbeat. With the heartbreak of touching him, holding him, then losing him. Seeing him for the first time, so strong and handsome. So pure.

The baby she wanted only when she’d lost him.

But he’s more.

He’s the brother I didn’t know I had.

BOOK: The Bones of You

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