If You Only Knew Page 24
“Can you tell me about her?” she asks about thirty minutes into the drive.
Focusing on the road ahead of me, the myriad possibilities of what I could say about Maya threaten to overwhelm me. But I feel I have to answer her. A little information won’t harm, I tell myself.
“She’s a great kid,” I start. “She does well in school, is very smart, is gentle and always wants to help others.”
She’s silent for a few seconds, seemingly digesting the information I’ve just given her, even though it’s not much. “What does she look like?” she then asks.
“She’s very pretty. Her eyes are green, like yours. And she has red hair.”
“Like you?” she asks.
“It’s a different shade,” I say, desperate to play down even the hint of a resemblance. “A little deeper.”
Mrs Larkin doesn’t speak and we drive in awkward silence for a few more minutes. “Why don’t you tell me about your son?”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Before I can think about what I’m asking. My own question makes me cringe. Why would I want to know more about him? Why would I want to listen? It’s a mistake. I know this. Revulsion fights with the guilt that I’ve been carrying for all these years, and my fear is this will only be intensified if I start seeing his human side.
“John was such a good boy.” Her voice is so soft that I have to strain to hear. “He didn’t have a good life. His father wasn’t the best of men. First he beat me but when John came along, he turned his attention to him. Thankfully he left when John was six, found another family. Poor John found that very hard.”
Taking another look at her, I realise that the deep lines crossing her face are not all wrinkles. Faint scars mark her face, a stark memory of her abusive marriage. My guilt deepens. This woman had a rough life and I took away something she cherished. Her only son.
And I cannot help but wonder whether John Larkin’s aggression was triggered by his early exposure to his father’s violence. Whether being raised in that toxic environment, and being abandoned so young, caused him to become the monster he was. Perhaps he was a victim of circumstances, of his unfortunate childhood. And then he met me and his life was over.
No. I cannot allow myself to think that way. To come up with excuses for his actions. He killed those other girls and would have killed me too. There was no other way out.
She pauses for a while, and then takes a deep breath and continues. “He wanted to be a teacher and he’d have made a great one. But he left school at sixteen because he wanted to help out with the bills. I begged him to keep on studying. But he dropped out and found a job.”
There’s pride in her voice as she continues. “He was always smiling, always happy. He wasn’t the horrible person everyone made him out to be.”
His monstrous face, his eyes blazing with hatred, his mouth curled into a snarl, flash in front of me. This woman didn’t know the real him. What her son did. I cannot allow her version of him to make me feel even worse than I already do.
She sniffles and I reach behind me to grab a box of tissues and hand it to her. She takes one and dabs her eyes with it, then wipes her nose. Every few seconds I glance at her, unable to properly concentrate on the road ahead. Despite my practised techniques to keep focus, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.
“Did he have any friends?”
“He was close to his cousin. John was two months older. My sister lived down the road and the boys grew up together. They remained best friends, even as adults, always going out together.”
“Yeah? What was his name?”
“My sister’s son? Terry.”
Terry. The person he had called. The one who’s been sending me the letters. A shiver runs down my spine and my insides flip. “Where’s Terry now?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “He got into some trouble soon after John’s death and ended up in prison. But he should be out in a few months.”
So, he couldn’t be the one sending me the letters. He wouldn’t be able to get them past the prison guards reading the inmates’ mail. They would have flagged them as threats, probably launched an investigation. Unless he’s bribed someone. Which means that someone else knows about me. Maybe more than one person. Could it even be her? Could the old woman in my car know I was the one who killed her son?
“Yeah? What trouble?” I try to keep my voice even, needing to know more about this person, how long he’s been in for.
“Oh, some girl he was dating lied about him, said he assaulted her. It was a lie of course. He wasn’t that type.”
“Of course,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “So, he was jailed for sixteen years for that?”
She looks at me and narrows her eyes at my calculation. I need to be careful not to sound too interested. “No, it was only a few months. But something else happened, not sure what.” She pauses. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.”
We continue driving in silence. As we approach her Luton address, the streets start getting grubbier. Less trees line the pavements and instead there are metal bins, some toppled over and spilling their contents onto the street. The paint is peeling on the houses, a few windows have cardboard taped over their broken glass. Small groups stand talking at street corners. They all look up and stare as I manoeuvre the car along the narrow street, making me feel self-conscious, my fear increasing with every second. Feeling like a fish out of water in this neighbourhood, I shudder.
The navigation system beeps, indicating our arrival, and I pull up in front of a small house. It’s better kept than most on the street. The yellow paint might be peeling in places, but it’s clean. Curtains hang in the window and the two plants on each side of the door look well cared for.
“Thank you for driving me here,” she says. But she doesn’t get out of the car. Instead she turns to me. “Do you have kids?” she asks.
Her question is unexpected. “Yes, two. I need to get back to them.”
She removes her seat belt, then starts to open the door. But she turns, looking at me with pleading eyes. “When can I meet Maya?”
This is all she cares about, I realise. Reaching into the glove compartment, I fish out a piece of paper and a pen. Handing them to her, I say: “Write down your telephone number. We’ll give you a call.” She takes them and with trembling hands scribbles down her number.
“Do you promise you won’t forget?” she pleads, her voice full of anguish.
“You have my word.” I dig into my bag for a business card. “You can call me, but don’t try to see Maya without letting us know or we’ll have to take the matter to court.” It’s a flimsy threat, but it’s the only thing I can think of.
*
My foot is steady on the accelerator as I drive away from the neighbourhood, wanting to put distance between myself and the place. Mrs Larkin’s revelation about Terry being in prison drives my fear up. Does this mean he told someone else about me, what I did, who I am, where I live, where I work, about Miles and the children? Has someone else been sending me the letters? A shiver goes down my spine as fear grips me that perhaps Terry has not acted on his threats because he was in prison. But if Mrs Larkin’s right and he’s going to be out soon, he might come after me, get revenge for his friend.
My phone rings. It’s Ellen.
“Liz, are you ok? Where are you?” comes the frantic voice from the other end of the line.
“I’m ok, just driving back.”
She gives an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God, I’ve been so worried.”
Focusing as best I can on the busy road in front of me, I respond: “I just dropped her off, warned her not to try and see Maya again, that we’ll be in touch. I don’t know what she’ll do though.”
“She can’t come close to my daughter.” Ellen’s voice is shrill.
“What if Maya tries to see her?”
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t. I’ll ground her if need be.”
“Ok,” Ellen says. “We can come to your house when you get back. I don’t want to talk in front of Maya.”
My mind shifts to the work I dropped earlier, the work that I still need to do. I want to tell her to come another time, that I’m too busy, and that I need to spend time with my husband. But I don’t.
*
Miles is in the kitchen flipping through a medical journal when I arrive home. He looks up when I walk in and eyes me with a look of irritation.
“Working late again, I see,” he says.
A bubble of anger rises inside me. Pausing, I take three deep breaths, not wanting to respond without thinking. Instead I pour myself a glass of water, focusing on the small task, taking tiny sips. “I wasn’t at work.” My calmness surprises me. “John Larkin’s mother came looking for Maya today. Ellen called me and I came to speak to her. I just drove her back home,” I say in one breath, wanting to get the words out of my mouth as quickly as possible, before I change my mind and go back to my old habits of hiding the truth from my husband.
“You did what?” he asks. His face is reddening and I cringe under the look of anger that’s forming. “How do you know she’s not a crazed person?”
“I didn’t think it through. I wanted to get her away from Ellen.”
“This isn’t like you, Elizabeth.” He rarely calls me by my full name. “Does she know who you are?”
His expression has changed. The disdain of earlier has been replaced with care and worry and my heart fills with hope that we’re going to be ok. That he cares enough about me to allow our marriage to survive.
“She knows I’m their lawyer.” I look away, not wanting him to see the fear in my eyes, the doubt that perhaps she knows more.
“What were you thinking? If you’re not scared for yourself, can you pause for a moment and think of your two children? What if something happened to you? How do you expect me to explain that?”
The corners of my eyes sting with tears. I want to lash out at Miles, tell him that he’s being unfair bringing the children into this. But I know that he’s right. Guilt eats at me that in my rush to get Mrs Larkin away from Maya I had not really thought what the impact could have been on the rest of my family.
The doorbell rings. “It’s Tom and Ellen,” I say. “They want to speak about next steps.” And then I add: “I’m sorry this is taking over our evening.”
Miles purses his lips as he shakes his head. “This has taken over our lives, not just our evening.”
“Do you want to go to the office or would you prefer the living room?” I ask Tom and Ellen when I open the door. Tom nods towards the living room and then walks into the kitchen and starts talking to Miles.
“How are you?” I ask Ellen when we’re left alone.
She shrugs. “I’m a mess. I want to be so mad at Maya for writing to that woman and not saying anything. But at the same time I can’t help but feel sad for how she must be feeling.” Then, she quickly adds. “Maya, I mean.”
We head into the kitchen and I busy myself making tea. We talk for a few minutes and then Miles starts to excuse himself. Tom stops him. “Can you stay, Miles? We’d like your take on it too.”
“Have you spoken to Maya?” I ask.
Tom nods. “I had to tell her why I picked her up from school and didn’t want us to go home.” I look at him expectantly, wanting to hear more. He obliges. “She’s being quite stubborn, refusing to realise how wrong it was to contact this woman, to try to meet her before we know more about her.”
Maya’s face flashes in front of me, her light smile, yet her eyes glistening with determination. Pride surges through me at her independence, her ability to go after what she wants. She must be feeling alone, unable to speak to her parents and I wish I could be there for her.
“We told her we’re disappointed in her.” Ellen’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Do you think this woman could be dangerous?” Tom changes the subject.
Three sets of eyes turn to look at me. Although I’m the one who spent most time with her, I’m ill equipped to give judgement. Her son had also seemed harmless when I first met him. “She didn’t seem like it, but I really can’t say for sure,” is all I can muster.
“I don’t care if she’s the nicest person on the planet. She cannot come near Maya,” Ellen says, her voice raised.
Remembering Nora Larkin’s pitiable face, all her hope set on the chance to meet Maya, I am overwhelmed by a strange desire to make up for the pain I caused her by killing her son by finally helping her meet her granddaughter, the one I kept from her for all those years.
“But Ellen, surely you understand that if Maya wants to meet Mrs Larkin, she will find a way. And unless we organise a meeting between the two, you won’t have any control over this encounter.”
A fat tear rolls down Ellen’s cheeks and Tom hugs his wife. “Whose side are you on?” she throws at me.
Her words hurt. “I’m on your side. I want you to do what’s best for Maya. But perhaps we’re still rattled by today’s incident and need more time to think about the next steps.”
Looking over at Miles, I see his forehead creased in concentration. He hasn’t said anything yet. As if on cue, Tom turns to him. “What do you think about all this?”
Miles’ forehead knots even tighter, the lines between his brows deepening. “I have to agree with Liz. Organising a meeting means that you can control it, that you can choose the time and place. You can prepare Maya for it. It’s better than it happening behind your backs and taking you by surprise.”
“I can see your point,” Tom says. “What do you think?” he asks his wife.
We all turn to look at Ellen. She’s sitting bolt upright on her stool, her head held high, her lips tensed in a thin line. “We don’t know anything about this person,” she finally says.
Tom looks at me questioningly.
“We can hire an investigator. Have him look into her, give us more information,” I say.
Ellen doesn’t move. “What do you think, Ellen?” Tom coaxes.
“Whatever,” she shrugs, still sitting stiffly on the stool.
Mixed emotions rush through me. The fear of finding more about John Larkin’s past, of intensifying my guilt mingles with an insatiable curiosity to find out more about the man who haunts my dreams.
When the McBrides leave, I sit down next to Miles, anxious to get a few moments together. But he stands up, his face pinched, like he cannot stand to be around me. “I’m going to bed,” he says.
My legs wobble as I stand up and take a step towards him. He moves back before I can reach him. “Please come back to our bedroom,” I beg.
He stares at me. His eyes blaze and suddenly the expression changes to something softer. Pity. “I cannot be around you. Not yet.” The sound of his shoes on the hardwood floors are like daggers in my heart.
Chapter 34
I must have fallen asleep because when I wake up, it’s pitch black in the bedroom. The light from the lamp just above our front door, that creeps in from the sliver of space between the curtain and the wall is not visible. Staring at the wall where the window is, I wonder at the absence of light coming in. Maybe the bulb’s out, I think. I’ll have to get Miles to look at it tomorrow.
Realising that I’m thirsty, I reach over to my bedside table, rummaging in the darkness for my water bottle. But I cannot find it. I must have forgotten to bring it up to bed with me. Swallowing through my dry throat, I wonder whether I can fall back to sleep. But my throat feels like parchment.
Getting out of bed, I feel for my robe. It’s draped around the back of the chair sitting in front of the dressing table and I pull it around me, shivering slightly in the chill of the bedroom. Not bothering with slippers, I tiptoe barefoot out of the room.
The whole house is really dark. Strange, I think. There’s always at least a little bit of light coming through
the windows. The street is pretty well lit, even at night, a decision that residents had taken before we moved in, wanting to make it extra safe. Not that this neighbourhood is anything but safe.
Feeling for the bannisters, I hold tight as I walk down the stairs. A glow of light comes from the kitchen and I walk towards it. It’s strange that there’s only light in that area of the house and nowhere else. I look towards the front door but the hallway is in pitch darkness.
A chill creeps up my bare legs as soon as I enter the kitchen, making me wonder whether we’ve left the window open, although I didn’t think we opened any last night. It’s still quite cold and the alarm would notify us of any downstairs windows or doors that aren’t locked. Something feels strange, but perhaps Miles made some changes to the system and forgot to tell me. Or didn’t bother. It’s not like we’ve been talking much these days.
Eerily, the light that I’d seen from the hallway has now somehow disappeared. In the darkness I reach out towards the wall and feel for the light switch. It takes me a few seconds to find it and I flick it on. But I’m still surrounded by pitch darkness. I flick the switch again but nothing happens. It seems like we’re having a blackout; only that would explain the lack of light inside and outside.
Shivering, I tell myself it’s from the cold. But I know that it’s something else that’s making me feel so uncomfortable. Something doesn’t seem right. Part of me wants to go back upstairs and wake up Miles, but instead I square my shoulders and walk further into the kitchen, bumping against the island and manoeuvring around it. Feeling for the drawers, I open one and rummage inside for a box of extra long matches. Taking one out, I flick it against the striking surface.
The flame bursts alive, throwing a dim pool of light around me. Looking at the window, I see that it’s wide open, the fine curtains billowing outside. I pull them in and close the window, bolting it shut. The flame is licking my fingers and I blow it out, quickly striking another match. Turning around, I start making my way to the fridge and stop in my tracks. I feel like I can’t breathe. I feel like I can’t move. I feel like I’m glued to the ground. There, standing right in front of me, is Nora Larkin.