Two dead wives, p.25
Two Dead Wives, page 25
I think of Oli and Seb. Oli an angry teen but with the potential to become a good man, I’m sure of it. Seb just a child still, with so much growing up to do. They both need me. I don’t doubt they are furious with me. Perhaps, like the papers report, they hate me, but I am their mother and I need to stem the flow of confusion and pain in their world. I need to apologize and try with every ounce of energy I have to make things a bit better. Mark won’t be managing well on his own. He never does. He needs me too. He is unlikely to want me as a wife, but he needs me not to be dead; he needs me to help save his boys from that at least. And Daan needs me. He is being falsely accused of my murder. If I die here, no one will ever know the truth and he will be sent to prison for life. He doesn’t deserve that simply for falling in love with me. For me falling in love with him. I have to find my way back to them all. I need to find a way back to my weird, unconventional life. I need to fix what I can. So I refocus my energy and pull sharply on my bindings. I’m a bigamist, yes. And according to the papers, I’m a bitch. Well, maybe. I’m certainly a mother, and I’m definitely not a quitter. Never that.
This outside loo is made of brick. I can’t kick it down, so I continue to patiently and repeatedly swing my arms left and right, pulling on the rope as I do so, hoping that the strands of yarns will begin to fray and eventually snap apart. Freeing me. My wrists are bleeding where the friction from the binding scratches, my shoulders ache, but I push on and am grateful when I become numb to the pain. These sorts of escapes always look easy on TV and in movies, but the reality is bloodier, slower.
“Are you hungry?” His voice through the door makes me jump. I freeze and pray he hasn’t heard my escape attempt.
“Yes,” I admit.
“I’ll make you something.”
“Just bring me a bag of crisps or an unopened packet of biscuits.”
Kenneth chuckles. He sounds benign. Part of me wishes I could turn back the clock, live in blissful ignorance where I believed he was my loving father, when I didn’t know I was in the care of a madman. “You think I’m going to drug your food,” he says.
“Not unreasonable under the circumstances,” I snap back.
He opens the door, and I panic that there is evidence of me sawing at the rope.
“I have administered sedatives now and again. Needs must,” he confesses. He shuffles and looks at his feet. I wonder if he is ashamed, or at least regretful. If so, he quickly shoves those emotions aside and starts to justify his actions. “I had to, though. I had no choice.”
“You are insane,” I mutter.
“I suppose that would be the easiest explanation, but I’m not. Not really.” He pinches the top of his nose as though he’s trying to stem emotion, then swiftly drops to his haunches to be closer to me. “I’m desperate. I’m lonely,” he states flatly. “I know you’re not her. I know you’re dead.” He slaps his hand on his forehead and corrects himself. “She is dead, I mean. I know she is dead.”
So Stacie is dead. I thought that was most likely, but now I consider what it means that he has confirmed as much. How did she die? I know you’re dead. Was that a slip of the tongue or a threat?
He looks me directly in the eye and says, “I know you are not her.” He loved Stacie intensely, there is no doubt about that. Was I safer when he was make-believing that I was her? “I knew that as soon as you remembered one thing it would all come back to you quickly and everything would be over. I’ll go and get you something to eat.” He stands abruptly and leaves.
The moment I think he’s out of earshot, I start to swing my arms again, frantic to escape before he decides how he feels about Kylie versus Stacie. My life is apparently doomed to be one of duality, choices. I freeze when I see him returning along the garden path toward me. He is carrying two packets of ready salted crisps, a banana and a can of Coke. None of these things could have been tampered with. He opens the crisps and starts to hand-feed them to me.
“I’m thirsty,” I mutter.
He opens the can and carefully holds it to my mouth, tilting it at an angle to allow me to drink. His tenderness confuses me. I recognize it, and until recently, I wholeheartedly believed in it, but now I know he tricked me, so I don’t know how to respond to his care. I eat and drink in silence for a while. Sad, scared. He starts talking again.
“The thing is, you look just like her and I thought that meant something. You know?” He meets my gaze, eager, excited. “I just wanted the chance to take care of you because I didn’t get that chance with her. You were a second chance. Who doesn’t want one of those?” I let him talk. Providing he’s telling me the truth this time, any information he can give me will be useful. “I missed her, so much. So much. You can’t begin to imagine. I simply thought maybe I could play a game, that I could pretend. Nothing more. Who would be hurt by that?”
I want to interrupt and say, Me, I would be hurt. I have been. I was taken from my life, and however complicated that life appeared to be, it was mine. I have a right to know who I am. There is no excuse or reason that would justify him forcing a new identity on me, unbeknown to me. It’s not just kidnap. He stole more than my physical body; he stole who I am. However, I bite my tongue. I pull back from saying any of this for fear of riling him.
“You needed me,” he insists.
Maybe, but what I need now is answers. “What were you doing in London? How did you get access to Daan’s apartment block?” I ask. “Why did you keep me there? Were you planning on framing him all along?” I have so many questions that they tumble out, a barrage of confusion.
Kenneth stares back at me; he looks as bewildered as I feel. “We didn’t meet in London,” he says. “I found you on the beach.”
“What?”
“I just wanted to help you.”
“I don’t understand. I remember the room. Being chained to the radiator, just as it’s described in the papers.” I nod toward the articles. “I know that happened.”
“Yes, it did. But it wasn’t me who held you captive in that hellhole.” He looks offended that I’ve suggested it. Ironic, considering my current predicament. “You don’t remember it now, but after you went over, you were washed up just a couple of miles along the coast from here.”
“Went over?”
“The cliff.” He rushes on, “You were unconscious, near death. I saved your life. You have a lot to thank me for,” he adds self-righteously.
My head is spinning again. Everything I thought I’d pieced together from the newspaper reports falls apart. Once again I am on quicksand. Kenneth Jones, if he is to be believed, did not hold me captive in London; he did not bring me here to Dorset. So who did?
On a number of occasions over the past few months I have believed this man could read my mind. I thought it was largely charming, a natural by-product of us living in such close and constant proximity and having such a tight father-daughter bond. Now I know that isn’t true, so I am disconcerted that it appears he can still guess what I am thinking. He answers my unasked question. “She did it. The friend. Your supposed friend,” he clarifies.
I glance at the newspapers. Recall the reports and remember the comments; who was commented upon. “You mean Fiona Phillipson?”
“I saw her do the deed. It was dark and wet. Awful night. Ronnie still wanted to pee, though, so I was taking my usual walk when I saw her shove you over the cliff.”
His words fall like a physical blow, because in that moment, I see her face. I can feel her presence. Fiona. A woman who loved me and then hated me. He’s right: my best friend of over twenty years, pushed me forcefully over the cliff edge. And in the moment she did so, I saw in her expression a kaleidoscope of emotion: satisfaction, triumph and hate. I know he is telling the truth. I was betrayed. Punished. Whatever she thought she was doing, it was horrific. Disproportionate and vicious.
I recall the two of us walking up to the top of the cliff. It was pouring down; we were soaking wet. The waves smashed, the wind roared. I felt exhausted and frail, unused to exercise after the captivity she had kept me in. Now, I am sure that she was my captor, but back then I was ignorant of that; I thought Daan was responsible for my abduction. I was so grateful, believing her to be my brave and brilliant rescuer. Despite feeling physically challenged, part of me found it completely exhilarating to be outside, no longer locked up. I remember I was a bit drunk, but I gladly stumbled up the hill. I recall that she kept asking me which man I would choose if I had to pick one. She doggedly pushed for an answer. I was bewildered by that, but I trusted her. Eventually I said I’d pick Mark. Mark and the boys. I believed that was the right decision to make. It was, in a way, the decision I had made every day by not leaving them for my new love. Suddenly I felt her hands on my chest and my feet coming off the ground. Round and around I spun, plummeting. I remember hitting the icy water. The pain was extraordinary. Ten times as awful as the most inelegant belly flop.
Kenneth saw all of that? We weren’t alone?
He elaborates, “I scrambled down the cliff. Keeping out of sight of that madwoman. She didn’t hang around. Had to get away from the scene of the crime, I suppose. By the time I reached the bottom, you’d disappeared. Gone under. I went into the water. It was brutally cold. I had to dive for you but couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch-black. I knew that every minute mattered, that running for help would have been a waste of time. I kept flailing about, desperately searching for you.”
I think of this old man, wet, cold, scared but determined. His actions seem a lot like bravery. A lot like compassion. The man who is now holding me captive once risked his own life to save mine. It seems unfathomable, but I, better than anyone, know that none of us are one thing alone.
“I walked up and down the coast for hours, repeatedly going in and out of the sea, hoping to find you but thinking it was hopeless. Then, just as the light was coming up, I heard Ronnie barking from a spot not far up the beach. I didn’t know if you were just unconscious or already dead. I lunged toward you, barely able to stand myself by that point, I was so cold and tired. You were bleeding and unresponsive. I started chest compressions to keep the blood pumping around your body; it helps to keep the vital organs, including the brain, alive. You would have died if it wasn’t for me.”
So I owe him everything and I also resent him for everything. “Why didn’t you call an ambulance or the police once you’d done the emergency care? Why didn’t you report finding me?” I demand. It’s not that I am still unsure if this account of events is true. Finally, I believe this is what happened. It feels raw and unwanted, yes, but authentic. What I’m trying to establish is Kenneth’s thought process.
“I was going to, of course. But the immediate priority was to get you warm, avoid hypothermia. I was planning on taking you to my house, calling an ambulance from there. But I got home and my phone wasn’t charged. It just seemed to make sense to tend to you myself. I had to shave your hair off so I could sew up your wound. I was out of practice, but it’s like riding a bike, you never forget. I dressed you in dry clothes, put you to bed. I’m a doctor first even after years of not practicing. I have to preserve life. That’s the oath.”
“And then?” I nudge him.
“You have to understand, the moment I clapped eyes on you, I noticed it, the fact that you looked so much like her. And as you slept, I started to think that was a sign. All I wanted to do was look after you. Well, her, Stacie, I suppose.” He shakes his head, bewildered. “I reasoned that you needed someone to take care of you, and I needed someone to take care of.” He grabs at my knee and urgently squeezes it. Wanting me to buy into his warped logic. “It seemed like you’d been sent to me. We were meant to find one another. There had to be a reason that I was the one who witnessed what was done to you and that you survived the fall.”
“It’s just a coincidence that I look like her,” I say sadly.
He shakes his head firmly. Like a terrier with a bone. “You woke up confused. You didn’t know who you were or where you were. Your story hit the papers the next day. All the gory details. The two husbands. One of them a suspect in your disappearance. They said he’d skipped the country. It became very ugly. I’m not sure how they got the story so quickly. I’ve thought about it since. I suppose that was Fiona Phillipson too. She probably leaked it. You were confused and exhausted. You slept most of those first few days. You’d been through a lot. Then people stopped looking for you. They didn’t want you. I did.”
“No, you didn’t. You wanted Stacie.”
“I deserved you. They’d given up on you so easily.”
“They thought I was dead.”
“Yes, they did,” he says eagerly. “And wasn’t it for the best that the troubled Kylie—a discontented woman who couldn’t accept the limits of life—just stopped being?” I gasp inwardly at that thought. No, never. It is never for the best to be gone, to be done. “Then, when you started to get well, the similarities between the pair of you became more apparent, not less. Your eyes are the same color, the shape of your face. Same height, weight. All those obvious things, but there was more. Many of your mannerisms were similar. There were moments when you yawned in a certain way, stretched, threw a ball for Ronnie, and it was as though you really were becoming her.” I suppose this was why Tanya Vaughan believed I was Stacie when we met at the library. Enough of a resemblance to convince a long-lost school friend. Kenneth pushes on with his weird train of thought. “It was easy enough to believe that I wasn’t doing a bad or stupid thing; I was in fact giving you a new persona, a new opportunity. I was doing a good thing.”
His eyes shine and I marvel at his self-delusion, but at the same time I understand it. We all tell ourselves a lot of lies.
He continues, “If I had called the authorities, they would have arrested you. I felt sorry for you. You’ve read the papers now. You’ve seen it. You were the most hated woman in the country. Pitied one day, when you were two missing women, loathed the next when it emerged you were a bigamist cheat. That hasn’t really gone away, even though many of the great British public think you died for your crimes. They still hate you.” He shrugs, acknowledging the way of the world. “At one point I thought things would settle down, that you could get better, stronger, and then turn yourself in, argue your case. But your memory didn’t come back. I suppose there was an element of your subconscious that was acting in self-preservation by suppressing your crime, your complex life and the captivity. Think what you like, but I just saw an opportunity.” I nod slowly. His grief for his dead daughter is so intense that he’s stopped thinking clearly. He’s not a bad man. He’s a sad one. “We were both so alone,” he states finally.
“Tell me about Stacie. What happened to her?” I ask carefully. Kenneth Jones is grieving for his child. I can’t judge that. I want to understand it.
“Oh, she was everything to me. I was devastated when she died. I missed her so much, I ached. And the gap inside me... The pain gnawed a hole that grew and grew; I was being eaten up from the inside. I just wanted to bring her back. Was I so bad? You like being different people. We were made for each other.”
“But my boys. They must miss me. They must be so scared,” I point out gently. I hope that he respects the parent-child bond enough to empathize with their loss. Enough to see he can’t keep me here.
My hope is blown away when he says with a cynical chuckle, “Oh, I don’t think so. I imagine they hate you very much. What you did was quite terrible.”
“So what’s next?” I ask carefully, unsure that I really want to know.
“Well, that’s up to you. You could agree to stay here with me. We’re okay, aren’t we, Stacie? Not as close as we once were, but there’s a warmth. We can work on that.”
“My name is Kylie.” I regret saying it immediately, as I note his lips pull together a fraction. His body hardens and he turns to stone in front of me.
“Stop being silly, darling. There’s no place for Kylie. She’s dead and everyone thinks good riddance. You and I know who you have to be in order to stay safe. No one loves Kylie.” It is impossible not to hear the threat.
“How did Stacie die?” I ask gently. “Was it cancer? Did she have the cancer you told me I had?”
Kenneth looks at me with a slightly puzzled expression, as though he can’t quite comprehend how slow I am being. “Oh no, darling, I killed her.”
“You...” The words stick in my throat. “You killed her.”
“Be sensible. Kylie hasn’t anywhere to go. No one wants her. No one would miss her. But Stacie has a loving home here. I’m happy for her to continue to live here with me. I would have to get rid of Kylie, though.” Kenneth squeezes my knee. His touch is torture. I try not to shrink from him, I know it will annoy him, but my reaction is instinctual and I furl into myself. “Think about it,” he says. Then he stands up and walks back to the house.
41
DC Clements
The sound of her phone ringing wakes her up. It takes her a moment to orientate. The car clock says 11:15. Damn, she’s slept far longer than she intended. She should have set an alarm, but she assumed the sun coming up at 5:00 a.m. would wake her. She rarely sleeps well, and can’t believe that bedding down in her car at the roadside resulted in such a deep slumber when most nights in her little flat she spends hours tossing and turning and staring at the bedroom ceiling. She planned to be back in the station by now, or at least in the shower at home. The car stinks; it reminds her of that first breath when waking up in a sleeping bag, in a tent that has caught and trapped a night’s sweating, farting humanity. She used to enjoy camping, but after she trained as a police officer, she started to associate this particular smell with a stale cell or a long night’s stakeout rather than the great outdoors, and it put her off. When would she have time to go camping anyway?
