Never Close Your Eyes (17 page)

She noticed that his Geordie accent had mellowed since he was a boy, but it was still there. Not like hers. She'd worked so hard at getting rid of it. Now everyone assumed that she was from London. She realised that she was shaking. She folded her arms, crossed her legs and attempted a smile. She hoped it didn't look unnatural.

‘Hardly changed?' she said. ‘In thirty years? I wish.'

He laughed. ‘No, honestly. Obviously your hair's a different colour – and I don't remember those black eyebrows. But I can still see the little girl I kissed in the park.'

He laughed again but she frowned. ‘Yes, well, an awful lot's happened since then.'

‘Do you want to talk about it?'

Becca swallowed. She was sick of being careful. How lovely it would be to pour out her whole story: those first days when it was all a dream. When she thought she'd wake up and everything would be back to how it was.

Then the gradual realisation that this was for real, that it wasn't going to go away. The fear and loneliness that threatened to crush her. A young girl alone in a strange place, surrounded by strange people. New rules, new ways of behaviour.

The terrible, gnawing homesickness, the way she missed her mam, missed Jude, even missed her crummy little bedroom. All those familiar objects gone for ever. She was never going home again. The guilt and self-hatred that came in waves and left her gasping for breath. At those times she'd wanted to join Jude so badly. If they'd given her a gun she'd have put it in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

Some of the other kids didn't care, didn't understand what they'd done, but Becca did. She knew about death; she'd watched her beloved nana die of cancer. She knew that Jude wasn't ever coming back. They wouldn't let her go to the funeral or visit the grave. That was part of her punishment. Besides, they said, it would be too risky. There'd be a media frenzy.

Becca didn't know anything about that but she found out later, when she was older. The tabloids gave it pages and pages: ‘Grammar-school girl batters sister to death with hockey stick.' ‘A sustained and vicious attack,' the judge called it. ‘She's dangerous. She needs to have a very close eye kept on her.'

Mam gave them an interview, saying she'd always been odd and different. That hurt. The neighbours said she was weird, too, not like other kids. ‘There was something cold about her,' they insisted. ‘She had an icy stare.'

She wanted to describe the different secure units, the dormitories and schoolrooms, the therapists who snipped her open and tried to delve into her soul, picking over it, poking and prodding, trying to identify why, to understand the anger that had driven her to do it, the trigger that had sent her over the edge. They'd delved till there was nothing left to discover. Then they'd taught her how to stay calm. She'd been a model patient; she was brilliant. She never got angry now – not
really
angry. She had it all under control.

Later, much later, she'd explain, there was the dull ache of acceptance, the feeling that at least she was paying her dues. And at last, amidst her books, buried in her studies, she began to find a little peace.

Finally, there was the parole board. All those people sitting round, asking her questions, testing her, trying to catch her out. But she passed with flying colours – as she did all her exams. Then there was the intricate false identity, a new name, new city, university, a pre-history that foxed everyone, even her husband. She'd tell Gary that she never saw her mam again. Not once. Had never even been back to Newcastle. But she couldn't say any of this. Not one bit. Not yet, anyway.

‘I've tried to put it behind me,' she said instead. She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully in advance. ‘What I did was ugly and terrible, but I realised long ago that I couldn't change what happened. The best I could do was try to move on and make a decent life for myself. I was guilty and I paid my dues and I believe that I've been forgiven where it matters. That's all I can say.'

He nodded. He'd been listening intently. ‘I didn't mean you to rake all that up,' he said. ‘I just wanted to find out how you've been. You've more than moved on. Looks like you've made a fantastic go of things. Congratulations. Champion.'

Champion
. Becca hadn't heard that in a long while. She sipped her gin and tonic. She felt more relaxed now. He seemed sympathetic and easy to talk to.

‘I've got a well-paid job,' she agreed. ‘I worked like crazy when I was locked up. I'd always been pretty swotty, if you remember, and it was comforting to bury myself in my studies. I was determined to get to university, too, to make what I could of this second chance that I'd been given.' She tipped her head to one side. ‘I'm not quite so successful at managing the rest of my life, though.'

He scratched his head. ‘What do you mean?'

She frowned. ‘Oh, crazy hours, never seeing enough of the kids, a lazy husband who doesn't pull his weight, you know the sort of thing.' She gave a wry smile.

He nodded. ‘It's hard, I guess, for a lot of women, trying to do it all. Michelle would probably say the same thing. We're lucky because I work flexi-hours and I can pick them up from school. But I'm sure she'd tell you there are lots of other things I do wrong.'

Becca was surprised. He seemed to her to be pretty perfect: kind, handsome, a good listener. So unlike the alpha males that she met in the office. Unlike Tom, too, who couldn't even be bothered to look up from the telly when she entered the room. She didn't want to probe, though. She'd only been with him ten minutes. Strange how she felt as if she'd known him for ever. Well, in a way she had. Almost for ever, anyway.

‘Marriage, eh?' she said. ‘What does Michelle do?'

‘She's a teacher,' Gary replied, taking a swig of lager. ‘At a primary school in Hammersmith. She doesn't like it much but we need her salary. I love my job but it's not exactly well paid.'

Becca put her elbows on the table and leaned forward, cupping her face in her hands. ‘It's funny,' she said thoughtfully, ‘but I used to think money was so important. I was so envious of those middle-class girls at the grammar school. They seemed to me to have everything: nice homes, lots of clothes, ponies even, some of them. But now I've got plenty of money it seems kind of pointless.'

Gary pulled a face. ‘I'd like it to be pointless. I hate consumerism, all that lusting after material things. But once you have kids, unfortunately, it does seem to take over rather. Michelle wants a bigger house for them, more of a garden. And London's so expensive. I've suggested moving out of town and I could commute but she's not interested.'

Becca felt a wave of sadness. He wasn't particularly happy, she could see that now. Somehow she'd hoped that he would be, hoped that for some people at least things could work out. Life was too full of sadness. So many people struggling away to earn a decent living and make a good life for their kids and then what? Old age and death.

She reached out and touched his arm. ‘Well, it's lovely to see you,' she said. ‘After all these years.' She rose. ‘I'll get us another drink but I need to go to the loo first. Would you mind keeping an eye on my bag?'

She couldn't quite believe it when, glancing at her mobile, she saw that it was nearly 11 p.m. The time had flown. They'd talked non-stop about his job, hers, the children, their friends, what they liked doing and her book, too. He'd been very interested in that. ‘Keep at it,' he'd said. ‘It sounds like a great idea.' He'd offered to read it for her and give constructive feedback.

‘If you're sure?'

He grinned. ‘I'd love to. Why don't you email it to me?'

He was so different from Tom, she reflected. He'd never bother to read it even if she asked. He'd be too busy watching the football. She resolved to send it to Gary the next day. His input could be useful.

‘I must go,' she said finally, smoothing down her skirt and pushing her empty glass to one side. She paused. She'd circled round it all evening. Did she dare bring it up now?

‘Tell me,' she said, ‘do you go home much – to Newcastle, I mean? Do you know anything about my mother?'

He glanced at her and nodded. She didn't like the look on his face. It was sort of uncomfortable; shifty even.

‘I go back from time to time,' he said. ‘My mother and father are still there, in the same house, and one of my sisters. Your mother moved away . . . after it happened. She still keeps in touch with my mother by phone. They write to each other occasionally, too. As far as I know she's fine.'

Becca's stomach turned. So Gary's parents knew where Mam lived. Her mouth felt dry. ‘Does she, you know, ever mention me?' That must sound pathetic. She straightened her shoulders and tried to look casual.

Gary frowned. ‘I don't think so. I'm sorry.'

Becca shrugged. ‘It's all right. She told me she never wanted to see or speak to me again and I guess she's kept her word. Can't say I blame her.'

She pulled on her cardigan and rose. ‘I've enjoyed meeting you.' She meant it. She kissed him – just once – on the left cheek.

‘Me too,' he replied, helping her on with her coat. He looked at her closely, his eyes full of meaning.

She took a step back, startled by the intensity of his gaze.

‘Can we meet again soon?' he asked. ‘I'd really like to.'

She paused. Swallowed. ‘I . . . I think so,' she replied.

She left him at the pub door, heading in the opposite direction from her towards Southwark tube. She needed to make her way back to Waterloo. She felt peculiar, dazed, not like herself at all.

Normally she'd be itching to get home, hoping that Tom would be in and that she'd get the chance to share at least some of the day's news with him. But not today. She found herself walking slowly, breathing deeply, looking down at her shoes, scarcely aware of what was going on around her. She needed time to think.

She'd hadn't told Tom anything about Gary. It was too risky. She'd just said casually before she left for work this morning that she was seeing a friend. He hadn't pressed her, which wasn't a surprise. Usually she'd have been annoyed, but today it was a big relief.

Funny how Tom had only ever quizzed her that once about the fact that she hadn't kept in touch with any of her childhood friends and hadn't invited a single one to their wedding. ‘I hated school,' she'd told him. ‘They were the worst days of my life. Couldn't wait to get away.' He'd seemed satisfied.

But if she'd mentioned now that she was meeting someone from her past it might have pricked his interest, so she'd kept stumm. Now, though, she realised that there was another reason why she wouldn't want to tell Tom about Gary: she wanted to keep him, and not just her secret, to herself. The thought disturbed her.

She was confused: excited and nervous in equal measure. She had a weird sense that this was just the start of something, though she had no idea what. She'd felt an immediate affinity with Gary, a magnetic pull, a sense that she could say anything to this man whom she really hardly knew and he wouldn't be shocked, wouldn't judge her.

She had this feeling that he really understood and liked her. She wanted to spend more time with him, even though it was almost certainly a mistake. In fact, she couldn't wait to see him again.

What would Gary say to Michelle when he got home? Becca hadn't asked him not to tell his wife about her and her story. In fact, she'd rather assumed he would. She trusted him not to betray her; she hoped that his wife wouldn't either. After all, they were a couple, and couples are supposed to back each other. But she had a funny feeling that Gary wouldn't say much about her to Michelle. Maybe she was fantasising that the meeting meant more to him than it really did, but she didn't think so.

She crossed over Waterloo Road and walked towards the escalator that would take her to the main concourse. There were still a fair number of people about, but nothing like the crowds at rush hour.

Something made her turn her head to the right and she spotted a familiar face coming out of the tube. It was Nic's husband in a dark overcoat. He seemed to be hurrying towards the station exit; there was a young girl at his side.

‘Alan!' Becca called. It was strangely comforting to see someone she knew.

He turned and stared at her, clearly not knowing who she was. Then a shock of recognition crossed his face. The girl also turned and gazed at Becca. She had peroxide-blond hair, too much make-up and small, pinched features.

Becca glanced down; she couldn't help it. She had to stop herself gasping out loud. The girl was in a black leather bomber jacket, mini-skirt, black fishnet tights and high black patent heels that looked absurdly large on her thin little legs. She appeared foreign, Eastern European possibly. She was probably only eighteen. Younger even.

‘I'm on my way home,' Becca explained, pointing helplessly at the escalator. She couldn't think of anything else to say. Alan nodded, unsmiling. Then he grabbed the girl by the arm and hustled her away. Becca was so surprised that she stood rooted to the spot, watching them disappear round the corner.

Ohmigod, she thought. He was with a hooker. She checked herself. She was being ridiculous. The girl wasn't a prostitute, she was just his niece or something. They'd been out to the theatre or for dinner and he was taking her home, back to her parents. But that skirt, those heels, that thin, white little face with so much make-up . . .

Becca shuddered, all thoughts of Gary momentarily forgotten. What on earth was she going to say to Nic? Indeed, should she say anything at all?