Unspoken (18 page)

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly, and walked away. ‘What tests?’ I stopped and turned back.

The nurse shrugged. ‘It doesn’t say exactly, but you’ll be notified when we have results.’ She turned to answer the telephone while her associate chased after a stray patient. They were being cagey and I didn’t like it. It was my mother they were talking about.

I returned to the day room to discover that Alex wasn’t with Mum. A quick glance round the room and I saw him helping an old man with a jigsaw puzzle. They were forcing a piece into a hole that was clearly too small. Flora was sitting on her Grandma’s knee, chuckling away like she’d just had the tickling of her life. Then she fell serious and signed something I couldn’t make out. I paused behind them, in case Mum signed back, but Flora’s expression had already given away my presence in the doorway and any conversation, imagined or otherwise, was lost.

Did Grandma talk to you? I signed frantically as Flora slipped off Mum’s bony legs.

Flora looked up at her grandma before answering. No, she signed at me, her fingers hesitating. When will she get better? I want Grandma back.

Soon, I hope, darling. Soon.

It was as we were shuffling up the stairs – seemingly one forward and two backward – that I realised The Lawns was a very special kind of hospital.

‘Excuse me.’ I stopped a young man trotting past us down the stairs. He looked like he knew his way around the place. ‘This might seem a very strange question, but,’ I gripped Mum’s arm, ‘can you tell me what kind of hospital this is?’ It sounded crazy but I had to hear it for myself. I trusted David, didn’t I?

The young man’s pupils enlarged into big black buttons and he slid against the banister rail. He licked his lips furiously and started rubbing his shoulder. ‘They’re trying to kill me,’ he whispered. His eyes darted everywhere. ‘All of them trying to kill me.’ Then he ran down the remaining stairs, chanting as he went.

With my head bowed, I ushered Mum up to her room. David knew what he was doing and I had no right to question his decision. If I had any doubts, I quickly decided that for the time being they were best not mentioned. I couldn’t take any more complications; perhaps I couldn’t take the truth.

 

‘I expect Murray will be here first thing in the morning.’ It’s no consolation to either of us. My time with David is nearly up and I don’t want to waste a minute of it.

‘Let me check my diary to see if I’m available.’ He’s laughing now, holding on to my hand, and we might as well be sitting at my house, his house, or the pub where we shared a meal. Nothing that he has said during this visit makes me think David is a violent criminal. I trust the legal system. I trust David. Most of all, for now at least, I have to put my trust in Murray.

‘I’ll get him to bring you some clean clothes. At least you don’t have to wear prison overalls.’

‘One of the perks of being a remand prisoner. See, it’s not all bad in here.’

He’s trying to make the best of this. I study him, wondering why I am falling for a man who, in truth, I hardly know. Am I on the rebound? Perhaps, but it’s undeniable that there’s something deep between us; a connection spanning the universe yet invisible to the naked eye. David makes me feel like a different person – someone I never thought I could be. I can see quite clearly that he was meant to be a part of my life.

‘Was it awful?’ I ask. ‘Being in court.’ What I really want to know is how well Murray did. Did he do a good job? Was it his fault that bail was refused?

‘It was as I expected.’ His face remains layered with calm and ease. ‘Murray did his job well,’ he continues. He obviously knows what I’m thinking, confirming that we are in tune with each other. ‘A barrister will take over once the case is prepared.’ Then there is a silence because there aren’t words to describe the interminable wait in custody that David will have to endure before this actually happens.

‘What if Murray just puts in the appeal for bail. Then I’ll find a . . .’ I trail off. ‘. . . a more experienced lawyer to put the case together.’ I didn’t think I’d feel so disloyal. ‘This really isn’t his speciality.’

‘Julia, Julia,’ he says. ‘Slow down. Let things take their course. And besides, what’s wrong with keeping it in the family? Everyone else seems to be involved.’

‘You know that Murray and I are getting a divorce, David. That makes it very difficult for him to ...’ The look on David’s face tells me to stop. That discussing lawyers and barristers and the state of my marriage is simply more than he can tolerate after the last three days. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being selfish.’

I change the subject. I can’t have our last few minutes together ruined. ‘I think that Ed . . . that the police are clutching at straws.’ I want to give him hope but we’re back to family again. In our small community, it’s easy for lives to cross. ‘As for the evidence, it all seems rather circumstantial.’ Murray explained why David had been arrested but I could tell he was worried about upsetting me. ‘It’s probably all a terrible misunderstanding.’ I lean across the table. ‘And Murray says they don’t have any positive DNA results yet. That’s a good thing. Their whole case rests on that coat. He says there’s a chance the case could be chucked out before you even have time to zip up your prison boilersuit.’

The buzzer sounds and the guard calls out that we have two minutes left. Two minutes out of what could be a life sentence.

‘Goodbye, David.’ I stand up. Visitors are being ushered from the room; being searched on the way out. ‘If you’re still here, I’ll come back next week.’ He doesn’t move but I lean down and kiss him. My lips land on his cheek when he tilts away from me. I stay quite still for a moment, breathing in, ashamed that I’m searching for the scent of guilt.

‘Julia,’ he calls. ‘Look after yourself.’ I nod and walk away, catching a whiff of something on the air.

 

Gradin cries like a child when I tell him, and Brenna twists her hair in such a tight knot that the skin on her scalp starts to pull away from her head.

‘You’ll be placed with a nice family. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.’ If ever a voice is insincere, this is it. ‘Think of it as a holiday before you find something more permanent.’ I am preparing their supper. Not quite the last.

‘Don’t want a holiday,’ Gradin wails. ‘I want to stay here with you and Mary.’

Brenna slaps her brother round the head. ‘Don’t be such a baby.’ She wiggles her fingers to dislodge the nest of hair that has come out of her head. ‘If you send us back, we’ll just run away. We’re not damaged goods, you know. We have feelings too.’

I stare at them. Brenna is right. Gradin is so emotionally unstable that he’s hardly able to form a sentence. I can’t imagine what his future holds. My son is the product of a happy, stable, solid home, while Gradin is . . .

I squeeze the brakes on my thoughts. Happy, stable and solid? I laugh, making Brenna frown. So what will become of Alex and Flora when Murray and I finally break apart? What, indeed, is it doing to them now?

‘I know, I know. OK?’ I don’t mean to snap. Brenna is bitter and full of pain and shouldn’t bear the brunt of mine. The onion I’m chopping skids on to the floor. ‘But you must understand that Mary is very sick and can’t look after you. It’s time for me and my kids to go back to Ely so that I can return to my job.’ Return to normal, I think, whatever that is.

Brenna sneers, looking me up and down. She’s trying different techniques until I respond. Quite skilled, but it leads me to wonder what drove her to it. Whose hands shaped a little girl into such a bitter, messed-up thing? ‘I know your type,’ she snaps. ‘You kicked your husband out and now you’re doing it to us.’ She spits on the floor and yanks Gradin out of the room with her. Her timing is perfect because Murray is suddenly standing in the doorway, overhearing all this.

‘Whoa, what was all that about?’ Murray’s face spreads with surprise pretending he doesn’t know what’s been going on.

‘Oh, the usual,’ I say flippantly. ‘Teen tantrums. Hormones. Me kicking them out. Being homeless. Having abusive criminals for parents. That kind of thing.’ My eyes are streaming tears now. Murray hands me a tissue.

‘You told them they have to leave?’ Murray takes the knife from my hand. ‘Let me do it.You always did howl.’ He has a vested interest in the teenagers staying at Northmire. He thinks there’s a chance he will be able to stay on for protection.

I fill a big pan with water and set it on the stove. ‘What option do I have, Murray? I need to go back home, for the kids’ sake, and I certainly need to go back to work.’ I am about to say
because I am a single parent now
but realise I would be setting myself up for a harsh comment. ‘Can you chop the onion smaller? Flora won’t eat it otherwise.’

Suddenly we are back in our old home, chipping around each other with a daily update of our lives during snatched moments while the kids argue over some game, the kitchen smelling of laundry and spaghetti sauce. Evidently Murray realises this too. ‘Just like old times, eh?’ He grins and I have to look away as another salty tear leaves my eye.

I clatter knives and forks on to the old table that’s been in Northmire’s kitchen for ever. ‘I really have to go back to Ely the day after tomorrow. I’m exhausted, driving all over the place. I can’t please everyone and now I have to visit Mum regularly at The Lawns it makes more sense. There’s Flora’s ballet class to think about and Alex’s swimming club and the hospital’s up that way and—’

‘Steady, there. Steady.’ Murray lays down the knife. ‘We may not live together any more but the kids are still partly my responsibility. You know I’ll help share the load.’

Well why didn’t you convince me of that a year ago?
I scream in my head and Alex walks into the kitchen, preventing it from bubbling out. ‘Hungry?’ I ask, and then quietly to Murray, touching on the subject I hardly dare mention, ‘Just get David out of that place, that’s all I ask of you, Murray.’

A look passes between us – me because I need David freed, and him because he’s still hanging on. Still believing there’s some hope for us. ‘For Mum’s sake at least. So he can continue caring for her.’ It softens the blow, sharing the need for David with Mum. ‘Anyway, last time we played Mummies and Daddies we weren’t very good at it, if you remember.’ I instantly regret being so harsh when he was only offering to help. I slam down the table mats to compensate. Even Murray doesn’t deserve that.

‘So, you want me to be his solicitor now?’ He gives me an incredulous glare and his forehead crinkles. I can’t stand to look at him because he reminds me of everything familiar; everything how it should be. But all I need to do, to mask the guilt for smashing it up, is overlay the scene with a crate of beer, a few empty bottles of Scotch, evenings spent alone and a row each night at midnight.

I recall my conversation in prison with David. He didn’t seem to have a plan; appeared oddly content with Murray’s services. ‘No, Murray. I don’t
want
you to help David at all. The idea sucks.’ I fill a jug with water. There isn’t anything else to drink. Murray eyes it warily, realising the implication. He glances at his watch, wondering, no doubt, if the nearest shop is still open. ‘I think the sooner David finds a—’

‘What, a proper lawyer?’

‘No. I was going to say a
different
lawyer. A different one, Murray.’

He looks at his watch again.

‘It’s shut, by the way.’

‘What is?’

‘The village shop. Booze is about half an hour away unless you want to pay over the odds at the pub or are desperate enough to knock on someone’s door and beg.’ Murray doesn’t answer, which I take to be a good sign. ‘Look, David needs help. Won’t a decent judge see how ridiculous this is? He has patients that need him.’ Like Mum. Like me.

‘I’ll submit an appeal,’ Murray says keenly. It makes me wonder why he isn’t throwing his arms up in despair and leaving the whole mess to someone else. Surely he can’t want this case either. There’s clearly more at stake than Brownie points from me. Why doesn’t he just walk away?

I screw up my eyes in silent protest. It’s all too complicated. Only when I open them again, only when the pan of potatoes bubbles over on to the hotplate and I start breathing again, do I realise that we’ve been holding hands all this time.

Holding hands with your wife is perfectly normal. It is not a good reason for irregular heartbeats and sweating palms. God knows, we did all that when we were teenagers. But the dinner ensures that our connection is only fleeting because Julia flies across the kitchen to rescue the potatoes.

‘Bloody hell, what a mess.’ She tips the contents through the colander and I watch, quite unable to move as she pounds them with a masher. ‘Well, wipe the stove then.’ She glares at me.

I pick up a cloth. I have to go easy on her, ignore her snappiness. Julia has a lifetime of worries dished up on her plate. But when I remind myself that she doesn’t love me any more, that she is falling for another man – possibly a
criminal
– my blood runs cold and sympathy is stretched to its limit. ‘All sorted,’ I say calmly, wishing it was.

With the panic over, the six of us eat in silence and Gradin shovels his food like he hasn’t eaten for a week. The boy intrigues me. I’m certain that buried beneath his exterior is a capable young man. It’s doubtful that side of his character will ever see the light of day. For a second, I am reminded of myself; the real Murray that never gets a look-in these days.

So it’s a deafening silence this mealtime, with only Flora talking, chatting away with her hands, oblivious to the tension. No one is paying her any attention and everyone except me misses what she says about her trip to the hospital yesterday.

‘Grandma says what?’ I say, incredulous, signing at the same time. My fingers tangle in knots.

‘Oh, very funny, Murray.’ Julia lays down her cutlery and shakes her head. ‘Grandma says nothing. That’s the whole darn problem, in case you hadn’t noticed.’