Two dead wives, p.18
Two Dead Wives, page 18
Of course it only happened for Kylie.
Twice.
The thought burns Fiona. As though someone is holding a match to the soft fleshy bit of skin on her upper arm. Kylie betrayed Mark and Daan, everyone gets that, but she betrayed Fiona too. Way back before the bigamy, she betrayed her when she married Mark and left Fiona alone. Fiona had to suffer endless blind dates without even the comfort of returning to their flat and knowing that Kylie would be there, ready to laugh at the night’s antics, the way they often had when they were both dating. She was doomed to creating humiliating internet profiles alone; she endured countless meaningless shags, morning-after rejections, ghosting and catfishing. Without help or companionship, she faced the conundrum of whether she ought to present as a “cool girl” who didn’t expect commitment, exclusivity or even decent communication, or risk being labeled insecure and clingy. Supportless, she negotiated the many weird stages that were part and parcel of the run-up to being in a relationship nowadays: texting, talking, seeing each other, dating non-exclusively, then exclusive but not actually in an official relationship, and all of this in the hope of finally reaching the nirvana of a full-blown relationship. People could be so damned mean.
Of course people do fall in love. People do marry. Fiona gets that. That wasn’t the issue. Fiona believes the ultimate betrayal that Kylie committed against her was not that she fell in love and married Mark; no, the treachery was that she didn’t consider Mark enough. In Fiona’s opinion, Kylie didn’t split herself in two, Leigh and Kai; she had in fact doubled. Gobbled up two men. She should never have done what she did, considering all that she’d had with the first. If being married and a mum couldn’t make Kylie happy, what the hell was Fiona striving for?
There’s no point in romanticizing her now, just because she’s dead. Fiona recalls that Kylie hadn’t had much idea or drive back in the beginning, when they first met. Her ambition was limited to a desire not to be a server in a coffee shop forever. She mentioned that an office job would at least mean she had an excuse to buy decent clothes. She used to present her early career as a textbook approach to resilience and persistence; Fiona thought it was more of an example of chaotic indiscrimination that eventually led to Kylie stumbling into an unwarranted opportunity. If you throw enough mud, some sticks. Fiona watched as Kylie wormed her way up to an undeniably impressive management position in a global consultancy. She was delighted for her at the time, of course. She took her out for champagne to celebrate every one of her promotions.
Yes, delighted.
And also a tiny bit irked, because the truth was, everything always sort of landed in Kylie’s lap, and that just didn’t seem fair.
It was always the same with Kylie. Often as not, someone would take a liking to her and just offer her something she hadn’t really earned. Like free food at the restaurant she was working at when they met, or a tip-off as to where a decent flat was being advertised, or a hint as to what might be a wise next rung on the career ladder. People just seemed to want to help her. Mark did the same thing, when you think about it. He’d just taken a liking to her and offered his ready-made family. Fiona was in the play park when Mark and Kylie first met. It could just as easily have been her who caught Mark’s attention, who he welcomed into his family, his bed, his home, but somehow—as always—the good fortune landed at Kylie’s feet. Just because she was the one to dash up and perform first aid on Seb after he fell off the slide. She didn’t even know any first aid; she said later that her response had been instinctual rather than expert. It was really rather risky of her. Some might say she just poked her nose into another person’s business. Made herself important.
Kylie didn’t really value the high-flying position she’d hustled her way into. She chucked it in the minute she inherited off her father, because she was running a double life and couldn’t hold down a job as well as two husbands. She must have been delighted when her estranged dad unexpectedly came through for her and afforded her the opportunity to deceive both her husbands. A lifetime of neglect made up for in one fell swoop. The luck the woman had was unbelievable! Kylie always landed on her feet.
Fiona allows herself a small internal smile at the subconscious choice of metaphor. There is no way that Kylie fell on her feet when she tumbled over the cliff. Her luck had finally run out. Well, all good things come to an end. Eventually.
Fiona herself always had a much clearer idea of what she wanted out of life, and she worked hard to achieve it. She had to. It’s unfair to think things never panned out as easily for her. She was never handed anything on a plate; no one ever rushed to help her. She hasn’t inherited a penny. Both her parents are still alive and still together, insisting on living their “best lives,” which means they seem pretty determined to spend all their money before they die. Kylie was always going on about how lucky Fiona was to have two loving, adventurous parents, but there will be no unexpected windfalls fluttering Fiona’s way; she has always known she’d have to make her own way in life.
When the two women met all those years ago in the recruitment office, Fiona had a clear passion to work in fashion. She envisaged herself as a buyer for a decent-size department store, going to catwalk exhibitions where they showcased the new seasons, ultimately setting the trends as to what people might decide to wear, perhaps through writing for a magazine or working as a consultant in one of the big fashion houses. However, fashion turned out to be an incredibly competitive industry. The best roles went to the anorexically thin women with trust funds or the gay guys who all stuck together. Fiona wasn’t either, it wasn’t fair. So she diverted her creative talent, her colossal ambition and her work ethic toward interior design. No one could call her a quitter. The interiors industry tends to be dominated by middle-aged women with wealthy husbands and a little bit of flair but no ambition to speak of, so she cleaned up. But it is all her own hard work.
She sighs. Thinking about Kylie is uncomfortable for her. She wishes she could simply put her out of mind. But considering everything, she knows that is never going to happen. She recalls every moment of their last encounter in lurid detail. The narrow, winding path, the ground wet underfoot, having to shout to be heard above the wind and the sea. Making Kylie finally decide.
“Tell me which one of them you loved the most.”
“I don’t know why it matters. It’s not as though I’m going to get to choose between them.”
“Just pick one!”
“I took immeasurable risks for Daan, I lost friends for him. That shows I love him.”
“You don’t know what love is.”
“But I do. Twice over. I love them both.”
“That’s not allowed.”
“I know, but who decided it wasn’t?”
“Pick one!”
“Mark. Mark, Oli and Seb outweigh Daan. I guess they always did. I was never able to leave them. I choose Mark.”
“Right, good, I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up. Finally.”
She remembers the feel of Kylie’s body through her clothes as she brought up her hands and shoved hard. It was solid, yet soft. Not at all resistant; she folded into the fall. Accepted the inevitability of it. Her face was so white, it was almost transparent. Her features spun through a myriad of emotions in that split second. The initial shock as she tumbled over the edge was almost instantly replaced by horror, but then—and Fiona is almost sure of this—she looked glad. Relieved it was over at last, most likely.
Fiona likes to think that on some level her friend knew she was doing her a favor. Sorting out the mess Kylie had created. She shakes her head, tries to dislodge the thoughts. Difficult, since everything around her belongs to Kylie and is a reminder of Kylie’s life with Mark. Maybe she ought to redecorate. She has no intention of moving out; that would be such a backward step. Unthinkable after everything she’s gone through to get to this point. Could Mark ever be persuaded to sell this house and make a fresh start? It would be a good move for everyone.
She swallows down a couple of tablets. She doesn’t bother with water. She has been taking a lot of medication recently and can knock tablets back like shots. Even so, these painkillers aren’t doing much to combat the pounding in her head. Or the rage that seems to flow through her blood, poisoning her. Truth is, the fury against Kylie hasn’t subsided, even though she has been dealt with. Even though she is dead. It sometimes settles in Fiona’s throat, growing there like a cancer. It feels like there is a tie around her neck, a tie that is pulled too tight. She is choking. She needs to hold her shit together. Stay calm, stay a step ahead. She has a lot to play for: the husband, the house, the boys. And she has a lot to lose. The thought of prison makes her freeze.
She doesn’t want the police tracking the boys. It’s best if she deals with them herself.
“Mark, I’m going out to look for Seb and Oli.”
“Should I come with you?”
“Didn’t the police suggest it was best that you stayed here, in case they show up? Which, by the way, I’m sure they will.” She smiles at him, risks putting a hand on his arm, squeezing. She’s never certain how much physical contact she should initiate. She’s careful about that; lets him take the lead. She never knows when he’ll knock at her door at night, peel back the duvet, climb between her sheets. She always readily submits whenever he does, shows clear enthusiasm. There will come a time when she approaches him in that way, she has to believe that, but she’s not certain when that time might be.
“Where are you going to look for them?” he asks. He has no ideas of his own, and that irritates Fiona, to be frank. He should have.
“I thought I’d start at the skate park on the South Bank. Oli likes hanging out there. I’ll have my phone on and I’ll keep in touch. Don’t worry about me.”
Mark nods and turns his attention back to his phone. Checks his messages for the hundredth time. Fiona smothers the thought that her last instruction was unnecessary. There is nothing about Mark’s demeanor that suggests he has ever spent a single moment worrying about her.
26
Stacie
It is starting to get dark, as the journey home takes far longer than it should. Traffic curls around every winding road. The lanes are soon clogged. On three occasions, a stream of vehicles are forced to reverse on a single-track road to give way to oncoming traffic. Some drivers appear flustered or incompetent; there’s a lot of posturing. My dad manages all the maneuvers steadily and skillfully, but the atmosphere is still charged. Tension rolls through the car like a sea mist. It smells of us, bodies that wash in the sea more often than in the shower, dusty plastic dashboard, feet. I press the button to open a window; nothing happens. “It’s broken,” Dad mutters.
These are the first words he’s said since I got in the car. I glance his way and catch his gaze. Cold. Cross. He’s furious with me for slipping out of the house and going to a crowded town where I might become infected. When he found me in Lyme Regis, he was purple in the face, incandescent. He repeatedly spat out the words, “All these people, Stacie. So many people.” I am equally furious with him because he forced me to abandon my research trip. I feel like a naughty teen who has ignored her curfew and whose parent has crashed the party, turned off the music, switched on all the lights and exposed the teenagers who are smoking dope and having sex. It’s mortifying.
Because of the traffic jams, we’re driving incredibly slowly; in fact we’re often completely static. I could get out of the car at any point and walk back to the town that was gifting me some memories. I’m not trapped. I’m not being restrained. Yet somehow it feels like I am, because considering Dad’s worry for my health, acting independently leaves me feeling selfish.
Eventually the traffic loosens and falls away, and in the last stretch homeward Dad puts his foot down and travels at speed. Too much speed, in fact. He takes the bends aggressively, no doubt as a way of venting his frustration at me. I wish he’d slow down. If the cancer doesn’t get me, a head-on collision with a tree most certainly will. At one point my head almost touches the car’s roof as he takes a bump too fast; the car is old and the suspension does little to cushion the impact. The headlights bounce on the road ahead and startled animals scamper out of danger, their eyes glinting with terror. I hope to hell no child of a holidaymaker strays out in front of us like the rabbits, foxes and mice have. A child wouldn’t be as quick or knowing about getting out of the way.
“Slow down, Dad.” I grip my library books and my knuckles turn white.
“Oh, now you want to be sensible,” he snaps back with uncharacteristic sarcasm.
I turn my head away from him and study the farmhouses in the distance. These homes are filled with people living ordered lives; lives they understand and control. They will have pasts, presents and futures, memories, purpose, ambitions that they will quite naturally take for granted. I feel envious. It’s perfectly possible that the people in these houses were once great friends of mine, but their lives are unknown to me now; not surprisingly, as I am only just beginning to know my own life again. Hope bubbles up and even my father’s furious disappointment in me can’t pop the excited swell of possibility. Today I met a school friend and I recognized the geography of the streets. Real progress.
As we approach our cottage, Dad’s profile is illuminated by a light on the corner of the property. He’s waxy, yellow, like a corpse. There’s no hint of his usual warmth. His eyes are black, like bodies of treacherous still water. I don’t think now is the time to tell him of my triumphs. He pulls up close to the house and switches off the engine. My legs feel heavy. I don’t want to go inside. I’m not done with outside, only just starting. His protectiveness of me is veering into something annoying, restrictive. I want to yell at him for picking me up and forcing me to come home, but I can’t. I know he’s worried about me and means well. My protest manifests in a silent mini sit-in.
He sighs, gets out of the car. “Come on, let’s be having you. You need bath and bed. You need to take things easy, Stacie.” He opens the back door, ushers me inside. He oozes a sense of ownership and “father knows best” that irritates me.
Ronnie bounces about, his claws scratching on the wooden floor, his tail wagging so enthusiastically it beats my leg and the kitchen units. Thump thump thump. He nuzzles our hands and I pat him. I realize that meeting Dad’s fury with my own irritation is pointless, so I am about to offer to put the kettle on, but Dad turns from me, reaches for the whiskey bottle and pours. He seems to pause as though considering whether to include or exclude me. I watch his back bent over the glasses and am relieved when he eventually turns and hands me one. He drains his quickly and flops into the armchair.
“Have you eaten anything?” I ask.
“I haven’t eaten all day,” he snaps. The onus of his omission swells in my conscience.
“Should I make supper?” I offer.
Dad looks at me for a long time, as though I am a puzzle to him that he is trying to solve, which I suppose I am. He chews the nail on his thumb. “I’m not hungry.” His attitude is unbecoming and honestly fairly annoying. As I don’t remember our life before, I have no idea if he has a propensity to sulk or how long it might last. I don’t know if it’s a case of waiting it out or whether I can coax him back into a better mood.
Even though it is a warm night outside, the cottage is nearly always cold. I drop to my knees and start to build a fire in the hearth. I scrunch up newspaper into balls, add kindling; once that’s taken, I carefully layer on sticks, then logs, crisscrossed and increasing in bulk. By the time the fire is roaring, Dad is asleep in the chair. I suppose today has exhausted him, and once again I feel a flare of guilt flash through my body. I wonder how I’m going to manage his concern and my own need to explore and reintegrate, because somehow, I must. However, that feels like a question for another day.
I put the guard around the fireplace and sit in the chair opposite Dad’s, sipping the large whiskey he poured me. The amber liquid dances and catches the light from the fire; when I sip, it burns my throat. His mouth is slack and his forehead has a sheen to it. Sweaty panic. After a time, his head falls forward and I can see his pink scalp beneath the slick of silver hair. I study him, as he studied me earlier. He’s not a puzzle exactly. In some ways, he’s an open book with large, easy-to-read print. He’s simply a man who loves his daughter dearly, above everything and everyone else. Yet he is unknown. I keep hoping that if I look at him for long enough, I’ll remember us.
I sit for the longest time, and then I stand and lean close to him. I put the tip of my nose to his head and inhale, because I think heads smell quite distinctive. I think I will remember him as today I remembered the smell of freshly baked pasties, slick with fat, drifting up Bridge Street, and the briny air near the flotilla of small boats bobbing close to the shore. I take two or three deep inhalations.
Nothing.
27
DC Clements
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus, Tanner. You made me jump.” DC Clements almost knocks the box she is rooting through off the shelf.
“What are you doing in here?” Tanner’s tone is cold, suspicious.
The evidence room is a prosaic place. Less glamorous than the name suggests. More of a cupboard really, painted in a vanilla tone, rows of shelves that house boxes that hold lives. It’s not especially prepossessing, but it is sacrosanct. It has gravitas. This is where a deal might be sealed and a criminal trapped, something they collectively work for. They all have hunches and theories and thoughts, but evidence is what it boils down to. There are procedures to get access; electronic and physical signing-in is necessary. Visits are generally only made in pairs. No one wants to be accused of tampering with evidence. Clements is alone, late at night, rooting through the boxes of evidence that pertain to Kylie Gillingham’s case. She knows she looks shifty.
