Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,19,560635-my_darling.html
This is so pathetic, I laugh inside. ‘Get real Emma. You made me use a wrench to mend your sink.’
‘I just wanted you to help fix the sink, I promise you.’
‘You promise, and I’m supposed to believe you. How touching.’ There is a pause. ‘I know what you said to the police. My barrister told me.’
‘I’m frightened of her, Alastair. She threatened to kill us both if I didn’t give evidence against you.’
I clench my fists and grind my back molars. ‘I don’t believe you. I hate you, Emma, for what you’ve done to me. It’s me you should be frightened of now. Watch your step. I’ve got connections in here.’
119
Emma
Saturday morning, walking along the Thames path towards Temple Island, living for the moment, with the sun on my back. The Temple sits in front of me in the middle of the river, like a beacon. So early that not many people are about. An eight practising the regatta course glide past. I hear the edges of the cox’s voice shouting at her crew. I strain my ears but I cannot make out exactly what she is saying.
I stand on the bank watching the river birds; swans and ducks, moorhens, grebes, terns and coots, listening to their cooing and chattering. As I turn to walk on I see a tall woman with dark hair walking towards me with a dog. She comes closer. A woman wearing jeans and trainers, and a baggy jacket with a fur-lined hood. Closer still and I see it is Jade, a puppy lolloping at her heels. Floppy gait, legs too big for its body.
We meet on the towpath. She stops in front of me. The puppy lies at her feet, panting. I bend down and stroke his head. He licks my hand and slobbers on it. I think of Casper’s elegance. I have never been a dog person. I wipe his saliva away with my handkerchief.
‘Hey, how’s it going?’ she asks, her masculine, make-up-free face squinting in the sun as she speaks.
I look at the lines on her brow and around her eyes. At the crevices each side of her lips. I know exactly where I would inject Botox and fillers if she was one of my patients.
‘Life’s ticking on,’ I reply.
She smiles and the lines around her eyes deepen. ‘Not seducing anyone’s husband right now? I’ve not seen any strange cars outside the house.’
I press my eyes into hers. My lips tighten. ‘I never seduced your husband.’
‘Did he seduce you?’ she asks.
‘Jade, we didn’t have an affair.’
She laughs. ‘I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.’
I stand glowering at her by the riverbank. She glowers back. So unattractive. So unbalanced. How did someone as handsome as Tomas ever marry a woman like that? She still really believes I slept with her husband. Whatever I say, she will always think that. She is unbalanced and I have used her. A loose cannon, loaded and dangerous.
‘How’s your social life now?’ she pushes.
I stir uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Quiet. Just keeping myself to myself.’
‘You should come to mine for a drink sometime.’
And drink Cherry Bomb again and wake up with no memory? Do you think I’m stupid?
But I manage to crack my lips into a saccharine smile. ‘That would be lovely, yes.’
‘Come on, Monty,’ she says to the dog. ‘We can’t stand chatting by the river all day, can we?’
She walks away with a cheery wave. ‘This way, Monty. This way.’
The dog pulls himself up to standing, tail wagging, and follows her. A few minutes later he is running ahead of her along the path, tail raised.
I turn and continue walking towards Temple Island, shuddering inside. A clusterfuck is always a clusterfuck, however much you help them out. My mobile phone trills in my pocket. I pull it out. My heart sinks. Alastair. I press reject and switch it to silent. One difficult conversation is enough for today.
Back home, sitting in my kitchen drinking coffee. Breakfasting on cranberries and muesli. I look at my phone. Twenty missed calls from Alastair. One voicemail. I brace myself to listen to it. He might have something important to say.
I fucking hate you. You fucking bitch.
How childish, Alastair. When will you stop behaving like this?
120
Alastair
Visiting time. The buzzer sounds. The guards open the doors and allow us to rush in. The prisoners’ eyes are bright, shoulders squared, smiles playing on lips, as we wait for our families to arrive. I find a table near the entrance to make it easier for my mother. I sit and wait for her to arrive, riddled with a combination of longing and dread. Longing to see her. Heavy with guilt as to how my incarceration has affected her. Having to bring up my son alone at her age is not a joke.
She is here. Standing by the entrance, waving across at me. Wearing her maroon raincoat. The one she bought in a sale at a posh department store many years ago. A designer make that she is proud to own. She makes her way towards me, walking as she always walks, stooped, head down to make sure she doesn’t trip up on anything.
I stand up when she reaches my table and we hug. She clamps her body against mine and says my name, ‘Alastair,’ as if it is the most precious name in the universe. I’m her only son, so I suppose it is to her. I inhale her scent of lily of the valley. The talc and cologne that she has worn ever since I can remember. Her love and familiarity engulf me. And for a second the world of pain I live in now stops moving around me. All that matters is this moment.
The moment moves on.
‘That’s enough,’ a gruff voice barks behind me.
I know it is the guard standing by the wall behind us. Mother and I have hugged for too long. She doesn’t hear him. I try to pull away but she clamps on to me more tightly. The guard is here, ripping me away from her as if I’m dangerous. Pushing us apart.
‘That’s enough,’ he growls again.
‘How dare you stop me touching my son, young man,’ Mother says, staring at him over the top of her half-moon reading glasses.
The beast of a man, with a shaved head and a tattoo dancing across half of his face, stares back. ‘Prison rules. Not me who makes them, love. I’m only doing my job.’
‘Sit down, Mum,’ I instruct.
She does as I ask, stiff with anger. She reaches across the table to take my hand. I pull my hand back.
‘Maybe later, when the guard’s not looking. We’re only allowed brief body contact at the start of the visit.’
Eyes wide. ‘Why?’ she asks.
‘They minimise body contact so visitors can’t pass prisoners contraband; drugs, knives, mobile phones. Things we’re not allowed.’
‘But they’ve already searched us. X-rayed our bags, made us walk through a machine.’ She shakes her head, slowly. ‘It took me ages to get through security. There was a long queue. I would have thought they would trust me now.’
‘It’s not about you, Mum. It’s prison, remember. There are a lot of bad people in here.’
Her eyes fill with tears. ‘But you’re not one of them.’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘The guards don’t know that. They can’t take any risks.’ I lean forwards. ‘Come on, let’s not waste time talking about prison procedure. How are you? How’s Stephen?’
Her face closes. ‘Fine,’ she replies, voice clipped.
‘Come on, spill the beans. How is he really?’
‘They’re teasing him at school.’
‘About me being in prison?’
She bites her lip and nods her head.
‘Do you mean bullying him?’
Her eyes hold mine. She doesn’t reply.
‘You’ve explained to him that I didn’t do it, that I’m innocent?’
‘Yes. And he believes that. He loves you. He trusts you.’
My eyes are filling with tears. I swallow hard to try and push them back. But one escapes and trickles down my cheek. I brush it away with the back of my hand. ‘Just keep reminding him. Tell him to ignore what people say.’
Mother pulls a large handkerchief from her pocket and blows her nose. She is trying
to stop tears too.
‘When is he coming to see me?’ I ask.
She sniffs and grimaces. ‘Do you think he’s old enough to cope with it?’
‘Children are more resilient than we think.’
‘Only if they need to be.’
‘Don’t say that, Mum, it hurts.’
Her face crumples into her handkerchief, and she weeps now. Full-blown shoulder-heaving sobs. Guilt for the pain I’m causing her by being in here clamps in a band around my head, around my chest. She looks up, breathing deeply, pushing the tears back, red-faced and gasping. She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m doing my best.’ There is a pause. ‘I just wasn’t sure whether you wanted him to see you, in here, like this.’
‘The thing is, I want to see him.’
‘OK, OK. I’ll bring him next week.’
I look around. The nearest guard is staring out of the window. I reach across and take Mother’s hand in mine.
‘I’m so sorry about what’s happened. I’ll make it up to you one day, I promise.’
121
Emma
My patient, Emelie Rose Cirencester, is lying on my dental chair, eyes closed, hair scraped from her forehead in a white towelling hairband, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons serenading her from my sound system. A lavender-scented candle burns on the windowsill as I massage her forehead with anaesthetic cream. Pummelling. Pressing. Telling her to relax.
‘Lie there and rest for ten minutes while the cream starts to numb your skin,’ I instruct.
Her lips curl at the edges. She is almost asleep. I step away, tiptoeing across my consulting room, not wanting to wake her. I go to the fridge, pull out the Botox and dilute it to the right strength with saline. By the time I return to the consulting area, brandishing the needle, she is fast asleep, Tania is standing by the chair watching her.
‘Oh, to be so relaxed when you’re about to be punctured by needles,’ she says when she sees me.
‘Let’s wake her up. We’ve got a lot of patients to see. I need to crack on with the day.’
Tania leans across and shakes her right arm gently. ‘Emelie, Emelie, it’s time for your injections.’
Emelie stirs in the chair, stretching her arms above her head. She opens her cornflower-blue eyes and smiles. I hover over her face, needle ready.
‘Please frown, as tightly as possible,’ I instruct.
She pulls her neat little face into an evil grimace. Like an ugly gargoyle.
‘OK, OK,’ I laugh. ‘That’s enough.’
I inject the soft skin at the top of her nose, between her eyes. I press a tissue across the puncture marks and hold them down, to prevent bleeding.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
She nods her head. Now I’m ready to attack her frown lines. I stand above her, needle poised, planning where to inject. Her pale face contorts to the darker, stronger face of Jade. Jade’s taunting eyes. Jade putting her head back, laughing. ‘I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.’ Her laugh turns to a frown. ‘You shagged my husband, didn’t you? I saw you. Heard you climax.’
Her face changes shape and becomes Alastair’s. He is pushing his dark hair from his eyes with his right hand. ‘I fucking hate you,’ he spits.
I stand above him, brandishing my needle. Stomach constricting, anger rising. Pulling my arm back, lifting the needle back, ready to stab him. I close my eyes and open them. Alastair has disappeared. My patient, Emelie Rose Cirencester, is lying in front of me, face still, eyes closed again, humming to Vivaldi.
Breathe, breathe, hold steady. It is time to inject Emelie’s forehead. I lean forward and puncture her skin, gently, so gently, just as I did three months ago. I press down on the pinpricks with a tissue.
‘All done. Sleep on an extra pillow tonight.’
She pulls herself up to sitting, shaking her head sleepily.
‘Thank you so much Emma,’ she beams as she leaves.
Tania nips out to buy a sandwich for lunch. I sit on a stool by the window, hands trembling. I nearly harmed a patient because I was hallucinating about Jade and Alastair. I need to do something about this.
122
Alastair
Stephen is here, in the visitors’ room, sitting opposite me. Wearing blue jeans, shiny blue trainers and his favourite red shirt. Eyes wide and staring. At the guards. At the other prisoners.
Mum has gone to buy coffee and chocolate: Mars Bars and Maltesers, Stephen’s favourites. I know she has sidled off deliberately to make sure Stephen and I have some time alone together. I know her so well. She will be gone for as long as possible.
He leans across the table. ‘Tell me about the villains you’ve met.’
‘They’re people, not villains to me. People I have to live with.’ There is a pause. ‘Some of them are quite kind, actually.’ I lean back and cross my arms. ‘And some of them are innocent, like me.’
‘Innocent until proved guilty,’ Stephen chants.
I nod my head. ‘Exactly.’
‘OK,’ he says, turning to look at the chubby middle-aged man sitting at the next table, wearing a pink polo shirt and black jeans, waiting for his visitors to arrive, ‘what’s he done?’
‘He robbed a bank. Held the cashier up at gunpoint, and stole her necklace too.’
‘Wow.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not wow, it’s crime. Let me remind you of the important saying – crime doesn’t pay.’
I sigh inside. Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged Mum to bring him. Not if he is going to use my incarceration as an excuse to hero-worship criminals. Especially the man he has just pointed out, who has an anger management problem worse than mine.
‘Who’s that?’ he asks, pointing at Fred.
Fred is sitting at the back of the room, wearing a tracksuit and flip-flops. Blond and angular. Keeping slim by running in the gym three times a week. Talking to his slim, curly-haired wife. Her twisted curls bubble around her face, falling past her shoulders. They make an attractive pair. Always chatting happily at visiting times. He seems so relaxed. He must truly believe his barrister is going to get him off the hook. He sees us watching him, looks across and waves.
‘That’s my cell-mate Fred.’
‘What’s he in for?’
‘Murder.’ I pause. ‘His trial is coming up soon. He hopes his barrister will get him off. He’s my best friend in here. He would do anything to help me.’
Stephen wriggles in his chair. ‘Why are so many people who shouldn’t be locked up, locked up in here?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I guess no system is perfect.’ I take a deep breath and continue. ‘Grandma says someone’s bullying you at school. Who is it?’
‘No one.’
‘No one. What sort of a name is that? Grandma says the person is called Francis Hudson. She says he’s the ringleader.’
Stephen’s face stiffens. He holds his head up, shoulders wide. ‘He teases me a bit sometimes.’
I lean forward. ‘What does he say? Does he talk about me?’ I can see from his eyes that he wants to tell me, but he hesitates.I smile. ‘Don’t worry. Whatever it is I can handle it.’ He takes a deep breath and moves his weight from buttock to buttock. ‘Come on Stephen. Tell your dad. Isn’t that what dads are for?’
Another deep breath. ‘He says you’re a low-life, and it’s genetic. Low-life is my nickname at school now.’
My jaws clamp together, my fist clenches. Soon Francis Hudson will find out how a low-life operates. A low-life who has nothing left to lose.
123
Jade
Standing in our bedroom, determined to throw your belongings out now. Six months after your body has been burnt to bone-fragments and ash, and scattered among the roses at the crematorium, it is time for the last remnant of yours to leave this house. Having this constant reminder of you near me is too painful.
I have a roll of plastic bin bags waiting on the bed. Once I wrapped your dead body in plastic. Now I will wrap anything el
se of yours that is left. Ready to dump at the tip or a charity shop. Nearly all the dead people’s clothing in this country goes to charity shops. Charity shops that smell of dust and death.
I open your wardrobe. Your hangers point in random directions. The sign of an untidy mind. Weird that you were so good at maths and earnt so much in the City. This wardrobe contains all your favourite clothes. Your smart designer jackets. Dior. Givenchy. Your Gant chinos, hanging in a row; cream, caramel and navy. Your Hugo Boss shirts. Pink stripes. Fancy collars. Your Crew Clothing polos. Tasteful shades of blue and cream. I pull them off the hangers, fold them and lay them in the bin bags.
Shoes: Loakes, Churches, Dubarry, Sebago, UGG slippers. Charity bin bags again.
I open the drawers where you kept your smalls. Underpants and socks, into the bin bag for the tip. Even the morbid people who hang around in charity shops like gannets, looking for the clothes of the dead, do not want their underwear.
Your bedside drawer: cufflinks, watch. Do I want to keep them? No. Why would I want mementoes of an unfaithful man?
I open the drawer beneath. Two letters. I pull them out and sit on the bed to look at them. Of all the letters that come and go in a lifetime, these are the only ones you’ve kept. A letter I sent you shortly after we first met. I remember writing it. I was so enamoured with you. You were so beautiful, weren’t you, Tomas? I stand, tears rolling down my face. I howl, silently inside, and wipe my tears away. How could I have been so short-sighted as to fall in love with your looks? I can’t bear to read the letter and remind myself of my stupidity.
And an unopened letter in a sealed envelope. Addressed to me. A letter you never gave me. Two hidden letters. One from me. One from you. I open yours to me, and read it.
Dear Jade,
I know you are unwell, prone to paranoia. I just wanted to write this letter in case things ever become so difficult between us that we cannot communicate because of your illness.
I love you Jade, always have. Always will. I have never been unfaithful to you. Not once. All the women you have accused me of sleeping with have been platonic friends. Jane Halliday, Sally Smith, Josephine Reynolds, Amber Trecastle. Friends I’ve worked with. People I’ve met dog walking. Just to pass the time of day with for a random chat. The woman you said I kissed at a party never even existed. And recently Emma Stockton. She has simply been treating my teeth. Root canal pain is devastating and she relieved me of it. That’s all. You decided her looks were the sort of looks I like, and made up a story in your mind.