Guilty Innocence (22 page)

Drive
,
Mark
,
drive,
he tells himself.
Get a grip on yourself
. He peels himself off the steering wheel, fumbles for his keys, starts the engine. The journey will have to be done on autopilot; thank God it’s not far. He’ll count, and breathe, one, two, in, out, allowing the rhythmic disappearing of the road beneath his wheels to hypnotise him, numb him until he reaches the sanctuary of his flat. He recalls Natalie telling him about Callie Richards’s agoraphobia. Right now, he understands the appeal, although he’s not planning to add it to his list of compulsions. To stay indoors, making one’s home a haven against the outside world - he gets why people go down that route.

He sets the car in gear and drives away, heading towards the M5 junction, counting as he goes, batches of seven, repeatedly, getting a rhythm in his head. He takes the journey slowly, sticking to the inside lane all the way, too exhausted to deal with the logistics of mirror, signal, manoeuvre. The self-medication works; eventually he’s in Bristol, back at his flat, before he’s aware of how he got there.

At home, he pulls a bottle of Black Sheep from the fridge before slumping on the sofa with his beer. What he can’t understand is how things ever got this far. The impulse to speak with Rachel after the vigil was bad enough, but this? Facebook messages? Lunch, not once, but twice? What the hell was he thinking? The pain of Natalie’s rejection is no excuse for his behaviour. He’s managed to screw things up, which means retribution won’t be far behind. People like him always get caught and punished. It’s the consequence of being born lower down in Nature’s pecking order.

Mark swings his legs off the sofa. He’s wound too tightly to sit still. One, two, he paces across the floor, nervous energy surging through him. Back and forth, four strides taking him from one side to the other of his living room. He settles into a rhythm as he walks, beer bottle in hand.

It looks as though his subconscious has sabotaged him, leading him to press the self-destruct button. Was that what he wanted to happen? Was the mention of Rachel’s black kitten deliberate? Some weird kind of Freudian slip? Did he delude himself about seeking answers from her whilst all the while intending to reveal himself as Joshua Barker? So she would either absolve or condemn him? After all, Michelle Morgan has already judged him, whereas Rachel’s verdict on him has been an unknown before today. He’s unsure of the answer, but he suspects he’s pretty close to the truth.

How she’ll react to the knowledge of who he is seems inevitable. She’ll resort to the knife. Mark pictures the blade, slicing through the flesh of her arms, her legs, her senses oblivious to the pain, the silent scream sounding out through the blood, the open wounds. She’ll cut, and it’ll be deep too, in an attempt to carve out the memory of their kiss. After all, he’s branded himself on her with his lips. One more in a series of never-ending punishments for her supposed neglect of her sister fourteen years ago.

Besides the inevitable self-harm, Rachel will also seek revenge, of course. She’s too furious, too insulted, to do otherwise.
Don’t think I won’t tell the police you’ve broken your parole.
On the slim chance she doesn’t, perhaps through shame or embarrassment, then Shaun definitely will. She’ll get the itch to cut and then call her brother. He’ll demand answers about what’s triggered her latest urge for the knife. Rachel will eventually confess how she’s unwittingly been seeing Joshua Barker.
I hadn’t a clue who he was, I swear
, she’ll say
.
Enough, surely, to shatter this man’s seemingly unshakable cool at last. Shaun will inevitably erupt with anger and the police will be informed within the hour.

Perhaps Rachel won’t turn to her brother, though. Second, less likely, scenario. She’ll cut, releasing her pain with yet another silent scream. More scars for her collection. Then she’ll lock the knowledge of their connection inside her, too ashamed to confess she’s kissed one of the individuals convicted of her sister’s murder. The police will never find out. He’ll keep his job, his flat, his life, such as it is. It’s more of an existence, really. He doesn’t kid himself he’ll be able to reinstate Natalie in his life, not now, not after this. He’ll continue to get up, go to work, come home, eat and sleep as per usual. All without the embellishments that add depth to living. Like friends, warmth, love. He’ll never have those, so what he’ll be left with is worth fuck all anyway.

The most likely scenario, though, will be the first one, in which Rachel seeks revenge. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, after all. She’s definitely that all right, humiliated as she’ll be by her former hopes about him. She’ll turn into her mother, all fire and brimstone, her mission to throw his arse back behind bars for the rest of his life. No, one way or another, the police will come for him. He’s unsure how much time he has left, but he won’t be free for long. The rapping of the policewoman’s knuckles against his window now seems a warning, a foreshadowing.

When the police do arrive, he won’t be able to deny his connection with Rachel. Their shared history on Facebook is a giveaway; even if he deletes his account, some techno-whizz will be able to recover it. Mark’s sad about the prospect of disappointing Tony Jackson; he’s a decent enough guy who’s come to expect Mark will always toe the line, not give him any trouble. Now Jackson gets landed with this shit. The poor bastard’s simply another in a long line of people he’s let down.

Back to jail. Really, it’s not such a bad prospect. He’ll forfeit his job and his liberty, sure, but he’s used to prison life. No, it’s the loss of Natalie that hurts the most. A sense of inevitability follows the pain, though. Did any chance of making things work with Natalie ever exist, tainted as he is? No is the answer.

She tugs at the back of Mark’s mind, though. Natalie’s messages have been guarded but she’s made it clear she’s open to listening to his side of the story about Abby Morgan. How reconciliation between them might be possible. He’s been so stoked up about their forthcoming meeting on Tuesday, but now the idea is unbearable. All that seems lost now. He should never have texted her in the first place. Someone else he’s hurt by being the total fuck up that he is. He’s failed Natalie. If he ends up back in prison, then they’re over anyway. If he doesn’t, he still can’t see the two of them being able to work things out, for the simple reason she deserves better than him.

Enough is enough. He’s acted like an idiot recently, too much impulse and not enough thought or consideration. Time to stop, right now, and grow some balls. He’s fucked up once too often and whatever he does or says from now on, he has to get it right. Too many people have been hurt by him already. Whilst he can’t do anything to influence Rachel, he can do what’s right by Natalie. The kindest thing will be to set her free from him.

So, then. Decision made. He’ll still go to her flat on Tuesday as they’ve arranged. No talk of reconciliation, no holding out false hopes of a shared future. He’ll simply tell her they can’t be together.

Shit. He remembers Rachel’s threat. All this assumes he’ll be granted the chance to meet up with Natalie. Rachel Morgan might be talking to the police right now. If he remembers correctly, once his name is logged into the criminal database, it’ll trigger an alert, warning the few individuals who know his new identity, flagging up his breach of the rules to Tony Jackson and his superiors. After that, they’ll arrive swiftly at his door. Extinguishing all chances of him ever explaining anything to Natalie.

A circle of pain is clamping down around Mark’s head. Too little time, too much to do. He could call Natalie, ask to go over there now, but his brain is too fried, his nerves too shredded; he’ll end up getting what he needs to say all wrong, making things worse rather than better. No, this has to be done right.

A thought occurs to him. Perhaps he should text her, ask if they can bring their meeting forward, to Monday evening. Then he remembers. They arranged it for Tuesday for a reason. Natalie’s away all day tomorrow. Some television production she’s working on up in London. A slap-up meal afterwards. She won’t be home before midnight.

Shit. He’ll have to take his chances as to whether he’s granted sufficient time to explain things to her.

Mark stops his pacing, tossing his empty beer bottle in the bin. Time for a shower. Once in his tiny bathroom, he turns the water on as hot as it will go, willing it to wash away the stress of the day. He doesn’t hurry; this may be his last shower as a free man. The heat steams through the cramped space, enveloping him with comfort. Mark closes his eyes, leaning against the tiles as the warmth cascades over him.

Without warning, a memory surfaces; Joanna Barker’s voice sounds in his head. It’s fourteen years ago, not long before Abby Morgan’s death. His mother’s outside the bathroom as he showers before school, shouting at him not to waste so much water. A frequent complaint of hers. For a second, her irritation works its usual effect in the present day, causing Mark’s fingers to stray towards the off knob on the shower. He stops himself, struck by how pervasive, how powerful, the maternal influence is. All these years, and she’s still able to cow him.

His mother. She’d not be surprised, not at all, if she knew about his latest fuck up. She always did consider him stupid and weak. Unworthy to be her child.
You’re your father’s son
. Along with
can’t trust you to get anything right
. Her favourite mantras when annoyed, making it clear his paternity isn’t something of which to be proud.

Thing is, her voice in his head has a point, given how badly he’s screwed up this time. Perhaps it’s not so hard to explain why she didn’t love him. The answer is so obvious, really. Joanna Barker sniffed out his weakness, his unworthiness, as soon as he made his entrance into the world. Maternal rejection is hardly unknown in the animal kingdom, after all; why shouldn’t humans act the same way? Abby Morgan was the excuse his mother needed to oust him from her life completely and finally, a thorn pulled from her flesh at last.

Is it so complete and final, though?

Somewhere inside, Mark’s still a young boy, one who craves his mother’s approval. As well as wanting one last attempt at shattering her icy defences before he’s arrested. Not unreasonable to hope fourteen years may have changed her. People often mellow as they get older. Why not his mother?

For the first time ever, he considers attempting to find her. Not impossible, not at all, to contact Joanna Barker. Wherever she is.

Whether it’s advisable is another matter.

Your mother has decided to move away from Exeter and change her name.

Shit. Should he even be contemplating tracking her down?

He stands under the cascade of water, desperate for an answer.

The child inside him, the one still craving his mother’s love, ends up victorious. Sod taking the easy way out. Joanna Barker is a ghost he needs to exorcise, one way or another.

He’ll do it. With the possibility of arrest an imminent one, he’ll have to act fast. Hanging around isn’t an option. He’ll call in sick to work tomorrow. Put the enforced delay in seeing Natalie to good use.

Mark turns off the shower. Time to make a long-overdue phone call.

19

IN HER OWN WAY

Rachel’s hands are grasping the edge of her kitchen unit so tightly, she’s amazed she doesn’t snap either it or her fingers off. The slam of the door to her flat echoes in her head, taking with it Mark Slater and her hopes for the two of them. He’s gone, leaving her alone, fighting to get a handle on the emotions churning inside her.

Wine. Always a good idea. She gulps back the remainder of her glass of Chianti before pouring herself a second measure, her fingers shaking, red splashes spattering over the table. She doesn’t care. At times, she understands why her father drinks the way he does. Why he depends on the booze to blur the sharp edges of reality, transport him to a world where children don’t kill each other. Rachel’s confident she’ll never walk down that road herself - for her, a sharp knife provides the release, not alcohol - but she reckons the principle’s much the same. She swallows another large mouthful, coughing as the liquid goes down the wrong way, gasping and spluttering as the tears come.

‘Oh, God.’ Her words come out as a moan. She might as well have said
why me
, because it’s what she’s thinking. Hasn’t she suffered enough? Been sufficiently punished already?

She underestimates her own capacity for mental self-flagellation. The self-torture commences.

He gave off enough clues about his identity, except you missed them all, you stupid bitch.

Now Rachel realises why Mark seemed somehow familiar to her when they first met.

Mum will go berserk when she hears about this. She’ll jab her fingers in my face the way she always does when I’ve pissed her off. She’ll scream how stupid I’ve been. She’ll tell me I should have realised who he was. How it must have been obvious. And it was. I ignored all the signs, though. How he approached me after the vigil, with his lies about coming across it by chance. The way he steered most of our conversations around to Abby’s murder, the effect it’s had on us.

Oh God. Time to sift the mess in her head into some semblance of order, before she decides what to do next.

She has three options.

One, the tried and tested route of cutting herself.

Two, call Shaun and tell him what she’s discovered.

Three, show some spunk for once in her life and make good on her threat. Notify the police about what’s happened.

Number one is her favourite. The second option will inevitably lead to the police being informed anyway. Shaun is bound to insist on it. She can’t bring herself to contemplate how swiftly their involvement will unleash her mother’s contempt. For not realising sooner she’s been hanging out with Joshua Barker. The third – well, no matter what she screamed at him, right now any spunk she possesses has barricaded itself behind the walls of some deep inner fortress. Impossible even to contemplate the police, not on her own, not without Shaun’s support.