Come Back to Me (31 page)

‘How do you find?' the Judge's Associate asked the foreman after reading out the first charge of murder. ‘Guilty or not guilty?'

The pause seemed to last forever. How could there be so much time between a question and a reply? Alex glanced at Amy, who was hunched over, trying to hide her face, staring at her knees. He couldn't begin to imagine her torment. The whole court was silent, expectant, the ordinary-looking man in a dark grey suit about to utter the response that would have a great bearing on the lives of so many in the room.

‘Guilty.'

Chaos erupted. There was a babble of chatter in the general arena, and at the front of the gallery a woman screamed, then began sobbing, held in the arms of a younger couple.

Alex had jumped up before he realised it, punching the air
with a loud ‘Yes'. His reaction was so reflexive he couldn't stop himself, causing quite a few at the front to turn and stare at him, their expressions ranging from sympathetic to angry, but all looking curious as he sat down again.

The judge restored order and the associate continued reading out the charges against the men. To each one, the response was ‘guilty'. To Alex's right, Amy was breathing hard, still staring at the floor. He put his arms around her, unable to remain still, anger coursing through him, causing him to shake. He whispered into her hair, ‘It's over, it's over, Amy,' and felt a hand on his shoulder, looking up to see the detective beside them, his face sombre but his hand giving Alex a squeeze, trying to convey what scrap of comfort he could.

The jury was dismissed and then the judge began to speak again, setting the date for sentencing. Amy remained huddled within Alex's arms, leaning into his chest, breathing heavily. They stayed that way until people began getting to their feet, then stood up to watch the judge leave the courtroom.

‘Let's go, Alex,' Amy whispered to him. ‘I just want to get away from this now.'

Alex kept his arm around her as they made their way downstairs. ‘I just need to nip to the bathroom,' Alex said, when they reached the ground floor.

‘Me too,' Amy replied. ‘I'll meet you back here in a moment.' She gave him a long look, as though she were trying to tell him something, and let go of his hand.

Alex pushed through a door into the bathroom to find it surprisingly empty. He made his way over to a urinal, relieved himself, and turned to go, heading towards the door
as another man entered, wearing a dapper navy pinstriped suit and a bright yellow tie. His face was stricken, his dark eyes tormented, and Alex asked instinctively, ‘You okay?'

The man nodded, at first unable or unwilling to speak. He murmured what sounded like ‘A terrible day.'

Alex grimaced. ‘I know, mate,' he said, as he made his way back outside.

At first Alex didn't panic when he couldn't see Amy. But when after a few minutes she still didn't appear, a small, insidious roiling began in his gut. He walked up and down the corridor, looking for her familiar dark head.

Ten minutes went by, then another five. He was biting down the urge to shout her name, walking frantically back and forth.

Of course she had gone. The court case was over, the verdict announced. In Amy's head, all that was left now was to watch him walk away, back to his old life, leaving her to try to pick up some semblance of the pieces of her own. Of course she would have decided to leave first, sometime when he wouldn't be expecting it; of course she wouldn't want to go through such a painful goodbye.

He felt desperate. He didn't want it to end like this. How could he have been so stupid as to let her slip out of his grasp again?

When Chloe woke up, it was all there in front of her as though she had never pushed it away; as clear as the daylight pouring through the crack in her curtains. She choked and spluttered at the intensity of it all, unable to believe she had kept this thing buried in her subconscious for so long.

As she tried to calm herself, she could hear her mother humming in the kitchen. She couldn't make out the tune.

Fractured images paraded past her like a police-station line-up. First, there were the three of them, Mummy, Daddy and little Chloe; a storybook setting, the trees green, the sky blue, the sun yellow, and life rosy. Then came the baby, Anthony, and nothing changed, it all just glowed that little bit brighter. They lived in America. There were fourth of July parties, with shrieking fireworks and dancing. Chloe could remember her mother in beautiful dresses, kissing her shyly in the early evening, and hugging her tightly later at night
when it wouldn't matter what stains Chloe could transfer onto the silken material. Her father, ruffling her hair, kissing her forehead, swinging her up onto his shoulders. He was godlike, the world bending to his will. Chloe and her brother watching their parents in awe as one shimmered and the other commanded.

Then, during the night after one such party, Chloe had been disturbed by a noise. It had scared her too much for her to stay in her room so she went looking for comfort.

And, eventually, she had found her father wrapped around her brother, his face turned away, but small movements shaking his body.

Too much flesh. Anthony's eyes vacant. Chloe peeping in, her small fingers clutching the door.

Running to her mother, asleep in a chair downstairs, putting a tiny finger to her lips, and her mother, thinking it was some kind of child's game, unfurling in easy delight like a cat, and letting Chloe lead her to Anthony's room.

Standing together at the doorway. Margaret dropping Chloe's hand.

 

Tears streamed onto Chloe's pillow, helpless from gravity's push. The humming from downstairs sounded like a child's, and it was ceaseless. She wanted to turn it off, or tune it out, while she gathered together the broken threads of her memories and turned them over, trying to repair them to become something she could use.

That was how she had last seen her father. Through a crack in a doorway. His face turned away from her. Her mother had also turned away then, in silence, and Chloe had watched her begin to walk off, sliding along the floor, her whole body stiff, ghostlike. Then Margaret had remembered her small daughter. Had padded back, scooped her up. Chloe had been laid on her bed, then, a while later, Anthony was brought into her room and put into the bed with her, and her mother lay down next to them in the long, cramped space, and put her arm across them both.

In the morning, Chloe had woken of her own accord, which was unusual. Her mother was normally already in her room and flinging back curtains, chattering merrily. That morning there had been nothing; Anthony and her mother were no longer with her. She had arisen in her nightie, and wandered around the house looking for Margaret. In her parents' room she had found her, frantically packing, shoving everything into cavernous suitcases. ‘We're going on holiday, to England,' her mother had said in a strange singsong voice. ‘It's an adventure, honey.'

Chloe knew England – it was where her grandparents lived. They came to visit now and again, and Chloe had seen pictures of herself there when she had been a baby. So she had packed for a holiday, leaving behind the doll's house; her special light that, when switched on, showed small furry rabbits living inside; her collection of seashells. And all the rest that she wouldn't need for a holiday.

Anthony had been quiet all the way to England. He sat on his mother's knee and stared resolutely ahead. Her mother sat in perfect imitation of her son, her eyes fixed forward,
responding to Chloe when she felt a pull on her sleeve, but otherwise letting her be, even when she drew in crayon all over the pull-down table in front of her.

Chloe had been five years old when they'd stepped off the plane onto English soil. She remembered her grandparents' delighted, surprised faces when they opened their cottage door to find their daughter and her children waiting, and how their smiles had faltered slightly as they'd looked at Margaret and then been pinned back in place as they turned to Chloe and Anthony. The children had been told to go into the garden to play, and they moved off holding hands. Chloe looked back as her grandparents turned inwards, a carapace for their daughter, and saw her mother's head go down and her shoulders sag as she made it to the doorway, then slid down it to become a shaking, wailing heap, Chloe's grandmother quickly going to her side.

In the garden, Anthony had let go of Chloe's hand. The trees were bare and brown, and thick white cloud blotted out most of the leaden-grey sky.

 

Chloe raced downstairs as though the hounds of hell were chasing her, and burst into the kitchen, where her mother seemed to be in the process of emptying a cabinet of glass-ware, washing it all and putting it back again.

Margaret turned around in surprise at the sudden sound, and took one look at Chloe's face, then said, ‘So, you do remember.'

‘Mum!' Chloe was forcing herself to stay still, to keep her hands at her sides, though she felt like moving across
the room and throttling her mother. ‘How
could
you –' She registered her mother's shocked face as she said the words. ‘How could you let Anthony go to America like that? You
should
have told him. You
should
have. What if …' Now she was registering her mother's expression becoming one of relief, and then Margaret said:

‘Chloe, you underestimate me. I've known where your father was all along. Anthony was never in danger, you needn't worry about that.'

In the bathroom, Amy splashed water on her face, bracing herself for everything that must come next.

Guilty. They were going to prison.

She was so relieved. But what this meant for her life, she really didn't know.

As she turned to grab a paper towel, two women came through the door; one her mother's age, the other probably a little younger than Amy. She didn't recognise them, but was all too familiar with the hollow look in their eyes.

She threw her paper towel in the bin, keen to leave, when the older woman began speaking to her.

‘Excuse me … Did you know my daughter? Did you know my Vanessa?'

Amy was so shocked that she began speaking without even thinking about it.

‘No, I'm sorry, I didn't. But I'm so, so sorry.'

The woman came over and took Amy's hand. ‘Then what happened to you?' she asked softly.

The woman's gaze was boring right through her. Amy felt almost transparent, like the woman could see into her brain and out the back of her head. Slowly, she unwound the scarf around her neck to show both women the scar that sliced across her skin.

‘I'm pretty sure I was meant to die too,' she said.

The younger woman gasped. The older one took a long, appraising look at Amy's neck, the rest of her body completely still.

Amy didn't know what she was expecting the woman to say, but she felt immeasurably guilty, as though she could have done something; perhaps stayed and hunted down these men before they had preyed on someone else. She was expecting harsh words, a slap to the face, and was waiting for but not shirking from them; in fact her mind was inviting them to confirm everything that she knew she was.

So, the words that finally came shocked her more than anything she had imagined. The woman leaned forward, her arm stretching out towards Amy's face. Amy instinctively recoiled, but there was something gentle in the movement that slowed her backwards arc, and the woman's hand connected with Amy's face to stroke her cheek, just once, with the lightest of touches. Like Amy's mother used to do.

‘I am so very glad that
you
didn't die,' she said, with both sadness and kindness in her eyes.

Amy let out a sob and then collapsed into the woman's arms, as a torrent of emotion gushed from her. The younger woman came and joined the embrace, and the three of them
were locked together for what might have been seconds or hours, Amy couldn't tell, though she vaguely registered the bathroom door opening and closing more than once without anyone coming inside.

When the woman stepped back, she said, ‘I'm Vanessa's mother, Jean, and this is her sister, Natalie.'

Amy took her hand.

‘I'm Amy,' she said, first of all. And then, ‘Thank you.' They smiled at one another, but there was nothing else to be said.

‘Look after yourself, Amy,' Jean added, as Amy turned to go.

‘You too,' she replied, without looking back.

 

The peacefulness that had temporarily overcome Amy was blown away by Alex's anger when he saw her.

‘Where have you been?' He wiped his brow and agitatedly ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I've been looking everywhere.'

‘I met Vanessa's mother and sister in the bathroom,' she replied, surprised at his agitation.

Alex looked bewildered for a moment, and then understanding crossed his face. ‘Oh, I see,' he said, his shoulders slumping, the fight leaving him.

Amy was confused until he added, ‘I thought you'd gone.'

Another time, she might have been affronted, but now she wasn't. Instead, she gave him a small smile. ‘Well, I didn't,' she replied.

‘No.' He looked at her, his face relaxing, and then said, ‘Okay then, let's go.'

As they headed for the door, Detective Thompson approached. ‘Just what we hoped for,' he said, shaking Amy's hand and then Alex's, but Alex's attention was caught elsewhere for a moment, and she followed his gaze.

The detective's words faded away.

Time drifted, then slowed, then fractured.

A navy pinstriped suit teamed with a trendy yellow tie. Dark hair, a thin face, a vertical scar slicing his cheek just beneath his right eye.

Two black eyes were staring back at her. Spittle on her cheek. A body bearing down, violently crushing air from her lungs.

And then she was screaming as loudly as she could, because this time she didn't have a petrol-soaked rag blocking her throat.