What Have I Done? (27 page)

He tried to whisper something.

‘I can’t quite hear you so I am going to have to guess. I would say thousands and thousands of points.’

She watched his complexion start to lose its handsome blush and turn ashen.

‘God, you look awful. And look at the mess on those sheets – they will be ruined!’

‘Please…’

His breath was laboured and his voice only audible because of the supreme effort that he put into trying to say something.

She breathed in sharply and put her palm to her breastbone.

‘Mark Brooker! Did you say “please”? Do not ever use the word “please”. It is akin to begging and is therefore degrading to us both. Have some pride, have some dignity. Have some dignity in death, Mark. Anything else would be most unbecoming.’

‘Get… help…’ he murmured.

‘Now, Mark, how long have you known me? Don’t try and answer. I will tell you. Nearly twenty years. And the one thing that you should have learned about me in all that time is that I never, ever break a promise. Never. What did I promise you, Mark? Again, don’t try and answer that. I will tell you. I promised you that I would not leave this room until the children got home and needed feeding – and, Mark, a promise is a promise.’

Kathryn pulled the ladder-backed chair to the side of the bed, walked to the wardrobe and opened its doors wide. She tore clothes from hangers and left them in a careless pile on the floor. When she had made an adequate gap, she reached into the wardrobe and grabbed from the top shelf a book that had been concealed by several jerseys. It was Louis de Bernières’
Birds Without Wings.
She smiled at her husband.

‘You must have missed this one.’

She cracked open the spine of the book and cast her eyes over the first chapter.

She paused from her scanning.

‘I was just thinking, Mark, that this is probably a good opportunity for me to ask you some questions, to tell you how I feel, to tell you how you have made me feel. In fact my only opportunity, my last opportunity. What I want to say to you is this: I think that you are quite mad, Mark. I think the real you is the one that I get to see every night and the charade is what you present to the rest of the world, the smiles and the joviality. You may have fooled the rest of the world, but not me, not for one second; maybe I’m not as thick as I look. Did your treatment of me bring you joy or sadness? It has brought me sadness, Mark; it has brought me great sadness. You have taken the person that I was and you have slowly dismantled
me over the years until I have become almost invisible. Why me, Mark? Why did you pick me? I had so much to offer, I had so much to give. I had a life. You took my life, slowly and piece by piece, and so now I am taking your life, do you understand?’

He nodded with eyes wide.

‘I want you to know that I will reclaim myself, Mark. I will gather up all the little pieces that you have chipped away, hidden in drawers, swept under the carpet and shoved behind cushions and I will rebuild myself. I will become all of the things that I thought I might. All the dreams I considered before you broke me, I will chase them all and you will be but a distant, sad reflection. It is important for me that you know that. Important for me that you know you did not win.’

The blood flow seemed to have slowed, either due to clotting or some other reason, she didn’t care. She sat and read through the afternoon, occasionally glancing at the vacant face of her husband. His skin was grey and he seemed sleepy.

‘Are you still with us, Mr Sleepyhead?’ she asked once.

It was some time later that her reading was disrupted by the sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs. It seemed to rouse her husband from his stupor. He tried to reach out his hand, beckoning to his children through the wall.

‘That is pointless, Mark. Take it from one who knows: wishing for help, reaching for help, praying for escape – that doesn’t work. But don’t you worry, Mark, I’ve got it.’

She rose from her chair, turned down the corner of the page she was reading and carefully closed her book. She padded across the carpet, opened the bedroom door a crack and popped her head through the gap.

‘Hi, kids!’ she shouted.

‘Hi!’ came at least one response.

‘Dad and I are having an early night, but I am happy to come out and feed you. Are you guys hungry?’

‘No.’ This time Lydia’s voice was distinct. ‘We ate at Amy’s.’

‘What about Dom, is he hungry?’

‘No, Mum, I told you, we both ate at Amy’s!’

‘So no one needs feeding?’

‘No! For God’s sake stop fussing.’

‘Righto, if you are sure. Goodnight, Lyds.’

‘Goodnight, Mum.’

‘Goodnight, Dom!’

‘Goodnight, Mum – you lightweight, it’s only half past seven!’

She closed the door and walked back across the carpet to where her husband lay centrally on their marital bed.

‘Well, looks like they don’t need feeding, Mark, and a promise is a promise. I will not leave this room.’

She lifted a glass of water from the bedside table and raised it to her lips, sipping slowly. Mark eyed the glass.

‘Are you thirsty? Would you like a drink, Mark?’

He just about managed a slight nod. She smiled at him.

‘Oh, I bet you would, but no drinking for you tonight, mister.’

The memory of her sock-stuffed mouth and swollen lips came to mind. She replaced the glass on the bedside table and let out a deep sigh before returning to her novel.

Kathryn must have nodded off. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, but was suddenly conscious of waking. She had been disturbed by her husband’s breathing, which sounded rattly and loud, almost gurgling. She glanced at the bedside clock. It was 2 a.m.

‘Well now, is this it, Mark? Are you off? Off to be judged,
if you believe in such things. Off to a dark place whence there is no return? I think so, I think it is time. Are you afraid? Are you scared of what might come next?’

The staring, widened eyes told her that he was. She smiled and bent low over his face.

‘You should be.’

‘I haven’t got long.’

His voice was a waning whisper. His final words coasted on fragmented last breaths.

‘Too slow, painful. You’ll pay.’

She mentally erased the words before he finished. She would not share, recount or remember them.

‘Oh, Mark, I have already paid.’

Bending low, with her face inches from his, she breathed the fetid air that he exhaled, sharing the small space where life lingered until the very end.

Kathryn watched the life slip from him, convinced she saw the black spirit snake out of his body and disappear immediately through the floor, spiralling down and down. She sat back in her chair and breathed deeply. She had expected euphoria or at the very least relief. What she couldn’t have predicted was the numbness that now gripped her.

She had expected to feel more.

Having changed into jeans and a jersey, Kathryn calmly stood by the side of the bed where her husband’s pale corpse lay. With great deliberation and for the first time in her life, she dialled 999.

Kate sat at the breakfast table filling out more dreaded forms. Tanya had been back at Prospect House for three weeks now, and Kate had only just got round to doing the requisite paperwork. The girl had walked in as though she had never been away, turning up one Wednesday morning with her holdall and asking Tom what was for lunch. It was a relief to have her back.

‘Who’s Lydia?’

Kate turned round in surprise. She hadn’t heard Tanya come into the kitchen.

‘Sorry?’ The question had caught her off-guard.

‘Who is Lydia? You were shouting her name out last night. I thought about waking you and packing you off to bed, but you looked so snug on the sofa.’

‘Oh, well, thank you for not waking me, Tanya, that was very sweet. I must have dozed off while watching some rubbish on the telly.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘Who is Lydia? You never said.’

Kate inhaled sharply.

‘Lydia is my daughter.’

‘Your daughter? I never knew you had one. Where is she?’

Kate swallowed the hard ball of tears that sat at the base of her throat. Imagine that. Tanya did not know that she was
a mother to the most beautiful girl and boy on the planet, did not know that every time her hand touched the stretch marks on her lower abdomen, she was reminded of the joy of having carried another human. They were her greatest achievement and Tanya, who lived under her roof, did not know that she was someone’s mum.

‘I… well… she lives in Hallton in North Yorkshire, near her aunt, my sister.’

‘Do you ever see her?’

Tanya’s questioning was typically frank. Nothing was taboo in her world, no feelings too precious to trample on. ‘
Are you using? Pregnant? Infected? Where is the bitch?
’ For her this type of talk was just routine.

‘Not really. In fact, no, not at all, not for a while.’

‘It’s weird isn’t it.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is weird.’

Kate could only concur. But Tanya was not finished.

‘I mean, here’s you, being a mum to me and anyone else that needs one and yet you don’t see your own daughter!’

‘Oh my goodness, Tanya – if words were daggers…’

Kate put her hands over her eyes; she wanted to hide from the world.

‘Oh God, Kate! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. God, I keep doing that, don’t I? It’s just that I sometimes say what I think without checking with myself first.’

‘Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s just how it is – a horrible situation that haunts me every minute of every day. I miss her, Tanya, and my son, Dominic. I miss them both dreadfully.

‘I can’t understand it. My mum is totally rubbish and I can see her whenever I want, which I don’t. But you’re completely brilliant. If you were my mum, I’d want to see you all the time!’

‘Maybe your mum feels like me, did you ever think of that? Perhaps your mum would love to see you. You can call her any time you want, Tanya, you know that. Or you could write to her? She’s more than welcome to visit; we’ve got plenty of room.’

Tanya’s gaze was steady and the seconds ticked by in silence.

‘The last time I saw my mum was the night I got arrested. The police knocked on the door and she screamed at me cos she’d been woken up. I went into her bedroom; it stank and this filthy, hairy pig was starkers and out for the count in the middle of her bed. They’d both been using and he was out of it. I noticed the ashtray on the floor had a long sausage of ash that was still attached to the fag; you know, where it’s just been left to burn and gone out because you forget about it. This bothered me because I could see her burning the bloody place down; she’s not careful with stuff like that. I don’t know what I expected from her, but I knew I was in serious shit. I’d got away with stuff before, but I knew this time I was going down and to be honest, Kate, I was scared. I said to her “Help me, Mum” and do you know what she said? She lit a new fag and she said, “Shut the fucking door on your way out!” I haven’t spoken to her or seen her since. She has never been there for me or helped me and I’m really pissed off with myself for asking for her help on that night. So I don’t think that she sits waiting for me to call or hoping for a visit. She couldn’t give a shit, Kate. She never did.’

There were a few seconds of silence while both of them took stock. Kate had never wanted for maternal love, but she did understand cruelty and could not blame Tanya in the least for wanting no more of it.

‘Well, even though I am not your mum, I can tell you that I am truly proud of what you have achieved. Only months ago your life was falling apart, Tanya, and now the whole world
is out there for the taking. Whatever you decide to do, I know you will achieve great things.’

‘I don’t want to achieve great things, Kate. I just want normal. I’d settle for a bit of peace, a little flat, a job. And I’d really like one of those posh coffee machines they’ve got in the pub; I could drink that stuff all day!’

‘And you shall have that, Tanya, all of it.’

‘Gooooood morning!’

Tom came through the back door with a basket chock full of fresh vegetables.

‘Today I make-a my leeegenderrry vegetable lasagne!’

His Italian accent was appalling. They all laughed.

‘Just bumped into Rodney on the harbour. He’s tarting up his boat as usual. I managed to snaffle all this veg off him at cost! A good day’s work, if I do say so myself. Fancy giving me a hand, Tanya? This lot won’t chop itself, you know.’

‘Sure.’

Tanya slunk off her chair and took the little paring knife gingerly into her hand.

‘I’m not very good. Nearest I’ve ever come to cooking is watching
Ready Steady Cook
.’

Stacey came down the stairs, heading out for her morning constitutional. She caught the tail end of the conversation.

‘
Ready Steady Cook
? God, that reminds me of one of Nathan’s old ladies who was obsessed with it, and she couldn’t cook either! He used to tell me about her and have me rollin’.’

She smiled at the happy memories.

‘Well, I’m going to teach Tanya, so at the very least she’ll be able to conjure up a decent lasagne. There is really nothing to it. By the time we’ve finished with her, she’ll be creating masterpieces that she can rustle up in her own kitchen.’

The trio looked at Kate. Tom winked at his boss. Tanya
beamed. This only reinforced the idea that one day she would have her very own kitchen and she would prepare the dishes that Tom had taught her. She couldn’t wait.

Kate had gone for an afternoon nap. Her head was filled with thoughts of Lydia, imagining what tomorrow might bring. Even though the trip to Bristol was all arranged, she was still in two minds about whether she should go to the exhibition. There were so many things that could go horribly wrong.

A nightmare wrenched her from her rest. The song that she thought she had banished forever swirled in her head.

The relief upon waking had been instant and sweet. It was just a horrid dream and she was safe. Mark was gone and could not hurt her any more. She sat up in the bed and wrapped her arms around her bunched-up knees. The fingers of her right hand snaked to the back of her thighs, where they ran over the bumps and dents of her scars, never more than a fingertip away. She shivered.

Whenever Kate dreamed like this, she always spent the next few hours with a slight tremor to her hand and a quiver in her voice. The memories of her old life sat like a tiny echo at the base of her thoughts. They unnerved her.

After gulping down a wake-up coffee, she welcomed the sun against her skin as she wandered the garden. The meandering
paths that led nowhere in particular and the cottagey feel of the disorganised, mismatched planting suited her much more than… she suppressed the image of the school grounds, its manicured lawns and the regimental roses. A shudder ran through her. At the washing line she brushed her hand over the soft pale lilac sheet that pulled against its anchorage like a spinnaker in the Cornish breeze. Kate had not washed a sheet for many years. It had been one of two unshakeable resolutions, the other being to wear jeans every day.

She negotiated the steep path down to the sea and spread her blanket on the sand.
The Life and Loves of a She Devil
fell open against her palms, revealing her bookmark. Every time she looked at the saccharine pink, glitter-coated rabbit, her breath stuttered in her throat.

Kate ran the pad of her index finger over the scrawled text inside the card: ‘happpy birday mummy’. Her heart swelled with pride and sadness in equal measure. How she had loved being called Mummy. How she missed it. Lydia’s signature was surrounded by an oval of kisses, an unbroken chain, created when everything in her daughter’s world had been perfect. A time when her little girl lived unaware of the wolf baying at the door, before Kate had broken everything.

The words of their telephone call floated to the front of her mind, always there for perfect recall. ‘
Sometimes, Mum, I pretend that you are both dead, and that makes it easier somehow. I pretend that you were both killed in an accident and then I don’t have to think about you doing something so horrible to Dad or about the horrible things that Dad did to you. I don’t like to think about it, Mummy.
’

She looked towards the horizon and studied the sun diamonds glinting on the water, framed by the rocky cliffs on either side of the bay. It was as good as any beach anywhere.
Maybe not as stunning as her St Lucian horseshoe paradise, but better in some ways because it was her beach, her special place. Somewhere for her to think. And no one was going to sell it from under her feet.

Bristol was buzzing and busy – or maybe Kate was simply transferring her own excitement and energy onto the city in which she found herself. Life in Penmarin was calm and quiet, just as she liked it. Bristol was entirely different. She enjoyed observing the university students clustered together in the entrances to buildings, in the way that only the young and carefree are happy to do. She laughed at how they had left school and abandoned their uniforms only to all dress the same now. And soon they would evolve again, perhaps joining the tribe of glamorous women who paraded the pavements clutching stiff paper bags stuffed with the day’s booty.

The three friends had agreed to meet at Browns restaurant, a prominent landmark on the Bristol skyline. They sat outside at a table at the top of the steps. Apron-clad waiters bought them a cold jug of Pimm’s and salmon fishcakes with stick-thin golden chips. Nothing, however, could distract Kate from what lay ahead. On at least two occasions her heart skipped a beat at the sight of a dark-haired young woman on the opposite side of the street – for a split second they looked like Lydia and she had to quell the temptation to cry out. She was impatient to finish lunch and get to the gallery, wanting both to linger over her daughter’s work and to get the whole thing over with.

‘How are you feeling, mate?’ As usual, Janeece was more than in tune with her friend’s anxiety.

Kate hesitated. How
was
she feeling?

‘I’m nervous, excited, scared and then nervous again.’

Natasha placed a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘You’ll be fine, we’re right here with you.’

Kate nodded, but Natasha’s reassurance did little to ease her angst.

‘She could be close by right now. I might be a few steps away from her…’ This Kate whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Janeece strode on ahead to check that the coast was clear, leaving Kate and Natasha to hover further down the street, waiting for the sign that they could proceed. It felt like an eternity, but it was in fact only minutes before she reappeared.

‘Right, had a word with a Mrs Ladi-dadi-da-pants in reception, who informs me that the
artiste
will be attending on Wednesday evening for the formal opening and then on Thursday only. So as today is Tuesday, I reckon we’re good to go!’

Kate beamed. ‘Right. Let’s do this.’

‘You sure you are okay, honey?’

Natasha knew only too well how revealing art could be and was worried that it might not be the positive experience her friend was hoping for.

‘Yep, I’m more than okay.’ Kate walked ahead alone.

The building was beautiful: grand and full of marble, with Corinthian columns and a wide, sweeping staircase. Kate marvelled at the vast, ornate oils that lined the walls. Her little girl was in fine company. Imagine her daughter holding an exhibition in a place like this. Pride swelled in her chest and made swallowing difficult.
Lydia
…

She lingered at the poster in the upper foyer – a blown-up version of the flyer that currently nestled in the bottom of her
handbag. Lydia’s flawless complexion and liquid eyes were stunning. Kate breathed in sharply, realising how much she had missed. Although Francesca had emailed her the odd blurry snapshot over the years, this PR shot was of a different order altogether. The Lydia in her memory no longer existed: gone was the teenage skin and the wobbly application of heavy eye make-up. Now twenty-five, Lydia had found her style and become a woman.

Kate studied each one of Lydia’s pictures intensely and read the titles carefully. Titles like
Come Undone
and
Life Interrupted.
Lydia was clearly talented; she had honed her skills considerably since Kate had last seen any of her work. Kate approached each piece with a mixture of pleasure and intrigue, even if she didn’t fully understand them.

It was a strange and unique experience. Kate was certain that she would have known her children’s handwriting from the tiniest scrap, would be able to identify their voices from just one word spoken within a group, would know of their presence by nothing more than a cough. What she hadn’t considered was Lydia’s personality being so easily identifiable with every stroke of the brush. The bold colours and contemporary themes were as much elements of her character as her voice and humour. Kate could see that this work was the progression of all the sketches and paintings that had come before, going back to her childhood.