Run, Mummy, Run (26 page)

Aisha looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

Christine met her gaze. ‘I read the report of the accident in the paper. Didn’t you see it?’ Aisha shook her head. ‘It was quite a large piece based on the cruel irony of a wife being responsible for the death of her husband. But I also read the unwritten story behind it, Aisha. Some men are dangerous, but not as dangerous as a desperate wife who’s been beaten for years. And for you, coming from your background, there was probably no other way out. I guessed it was either kill him or yourself. Am I right?’

Aisha looked into the clear blue eyes which now echoed empathy and concern. The woman whom she’d come here to blame and vilify, now transformed into an ally with a common past. Aisha rested her head back and closed her eyes. The life drained from her, and the photograph trembled in her hand. ‘Yes, I killed him,’ she said softly, ‘but I’m paying the price. I might just as well have killed myself for what I have left. You escaped, but I am still trapped. This will haunt me forever.’

D
ark. So very dark. It was impossible to see. The dark was packed tight around her, forming a wall as impenetrable as stone. No air, no light, no sound, just a thick black cowl. And hot, hotter than the raging fires of hell that melted her skin and turned her eyes to liquid so she couldn’t see or feel. Aisha tossed and turned in delirium, fought against the constraints that seemed to bind her and held her in a torment of endless nights. Then on the edge, trying to break in, was a noise, a series of notes resonating down through the layers of darkness to the edge of her consciousness. ‘A-ish-sha. A-ish-sha. A-ish-sha.’

She shied away, withdrew back into the darkness, for although the black was crushing, it was also safe. But the sound continued, louder, clearer, more insistent. ‘Aisha. Aisha. Can you hear me?’ It was familiar now, reminding her of a time a long while ago that was safe.

Her mind and body began to rise, soaring up through the layers of darkness into a small void of gloomy light. Her eyes flickered and then opened. Shadows and images swirled in a moving pool of grey and she tried to focus. A room, dimly lit, a bedroom that had never held the dark. ‘Aisha, love. Can you hear me? Are you awake?’

She turned her head towards the voice and saw the outline of her father sitting close beside her. He leaned towards her, his face bathed in the soft glow of the lamp. ‘It’s all right. You’re at our house. In your old bed. It’s nearly midnight.’

She started, tried to pull herself up. ‘Sarah? James?’ The room tilted and swayed. He eased her back onto the pillow.

‘Don’t worry. They’re safe. They’re asleep in the spare room. Try to relax. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’ And this was enough for now – the knowledge that the children were safe, close by, and being looked after. Her eyes closed again, and she felt her father’s cool hand on her forehead, soothing her as he had done when she was unwell as a child. Then other thoughts began to surface and she opened her eyes and looked at him again. ‘Christine? I was at Christine’s. How did I get here?’

‘She phoned us, and then brought you here in her car.’

‘And the funeral? Isn’t the funeral today?’

‘Yesterday. Today is Saturday. Your mother took the children. Don’t worry. Everything went as it should, and I have settled the bill.’

She allowed her head to relax back again onto the pillow and moved her gaze from him, to look around the room. The contents were exactly as she had left them on the morning of her marriage all those years ago: the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, her desk and chair in the alcove as though expecting her at any moment to return and resume studying. She could smell the familiar scent of her mother’s homemade potpourri, a combination of pine and jasmine. She looked at her father’s tired, worn face, even older now, and her heart went out to him. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble. I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you and brought you so much shame. Will you ever be able to forgive me?’

His brow furrowed in pain and he took her hand from the duvet and enfolded it in his. ‘Aisha, please don’t. There is nothing to forgive. Not on your part, at least.’

She looked at him questioningly and he shook his head sadly. He had something to say, but Aisha could see it was difficult for him. He squeezed her hand and then gently returned it to the duvet and stood. She watched as he slowly crossed to the window and looked out through the parted curtains. She heard his intake of breath.

‘Aisha, while the children have been staying with us they have been talking. They speak wisely, with voices far older than their years. They have told us many things, sad things, about their father, and the life you had together. It causes me much pain, Aisha, and I am very sorry you have suffered.’

‘Father, there’s nothing for you to be sorry for,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I have failed your expectations miserably. I didn’t mean to. I so wanted you to be proud of me. You could never be to blame.’

‘Exactly, Aisha. My expectations.’ He straightened and looked up towards the night sky. ‘Aisha, I brought you up as I would have done in my own country, strictly, compared to Western standards. I instilled in you a sense of obedience and duty – you were an obedient and dutiful daughter. Yes, I was proud of you, what father wouldn’t have been? You took that sense of duty and honour into your marriage and became an obedient and dutiful wife. I can see now that it was that sense of duty that kept you in a marriage far longer than it should have done. I now know it was a bitter and cruel marriage, Aisha, and I think you stayed to protect me. That is why I am sorry.’

She looked at his profile, stooped and humbled by his admission. She wanted to cry out, tell him it wasn’t his fault, that it could never ever be his fault, that she loved him dearly and she was solely to blame. But she had to admit there was a truth in what he said, that he had inadvertently made her what she was.

‘You did what you thought was right,’ she said quietly. ‘Please don’t blame yourself. I should have known you and Mother were always here for me. But I was so far down I couldn’t see, I still can’t. I wonder if I ever will.’

He was silent for some moments, his frame silhouetted between the curtains against the night sky. She heard the clock ticking as it had done when she was a child and had to get up early for school. Then he moved slightly, straightened his shoulders, and looked up again towards the heavens.

‘While you have been sleeping these two days, Aisha, I have spent a lot of time standing here, thinking. I remembered the time we watched the eclipse together. I don’t suppose you remember it, you were only three or four. You were very scared as the birds stopped singing and the day turned to night. I tried to explain that the sun hadn’t gone forever and it would return. But you didn’t believe me, not until it happened. Then as the sun slowly slid into view again and the light gradually returned, your little face was a picture. You were so happy. “We are alive,” you cried. “There
is
a tomorrow.” I will never forget it, Aisha.’

He turned and looked at her, sad and vulnerable from sharing his feelings. He crossed to the bed and sat again beside her. ‘Aisha, my darling, an eclipse doesn’t last forever. Although it may not seem so now, it will pass, I promise you. The light will return to your life and it will be brighter because of the darkness. And until it does we will be here to care for you.’

She held his gaze, saw the hope, the expectation that she could succeed in this as she had done in other things. To disappoint him again was too much. She turned her head away from him and closed her eyes. A single spotlamp on full beam flashed across her vision, and with it came the sound of breaking glass and shattering metal.

‘Father,’ she said without opening her eyes, ‘sometimes we do things that change us forever. An eclipse passes, but what I have done will blot out the light for good.’

‘No, Aisha, you’re wrong. Trust me. I know what happened and I know it was not your fault. In time you will recover from this and I know I am right.’

‘B
eautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.’ He grinned roguishly as he placed the bouquet on top of the papers on which she was working.

Aisha touched the delicate array of pink blooms and moved them to one side. ‘Thank you, David, but I wish you wouldn’t. They must have cost a fortune in the middle of winter.’

He grinned again. ‘You’re worth it, as I keep telling you. Any chance of dinner tonight?’

She smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a pile of work to take home, and my daughter is bringing a friend to tea.’

David laughed good-humouredly. ‘And what about this friend? When do I get a look in? I won’t give up you know, Aisha. I’ll pester you until you give in, or sack me on the spot.’

‘I’d never sack you,’ she laughed. ‘I need you too much in the department. In fact, I couldn’t manage without you.’ Aisha threw him a smile and then returned to the letter, picking up her pen ready to sign.

He watched her as she wrote, her long neck with its trailing plait curved gracefully forwards like a beautiful swan reaching over the edge of a riverbank to drink. ‘You know,’ he said after a moment, ‘despite us working together for nearly three years, I sometimes feel I don’t know you at all. It’s like the first day you walked in with a big notice saying “Keep out. Private. Trespassers will be prosecuted”. ’

She looked up and smiled questioningly.

He shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t mean your rebuffs. I’m game for that. But there’s something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on. A sort of detachment, I suppose. A closed area …’ He paused, searching for the right word. ‘Oh, I don’t know, but whatever it is, it makes you all the more appealing. Though I do wonder if anyone will ever get that close to you.’

Aisha gave a small dismissive laugh and, dropping the letter in the ‘out tray’, stood. ‘The lure of the illusive woman?’ she teased. ‘You know I like to keep my private life separate, David. I always have done.’

‘No, it’s more than that,’ he began again; then shrugged and let it go. ‘Anyway, when you change your mind about dinner, which you will one day, I’ll be waiting.’ He winked and headed towards the door.

‘Thanks again for the flowers,’ she called after him. ‘They’re very much appreciated.’

‘So are you! You’re welcome. Enjoy!’

Aisha watched the door close behind him and then glanced at her watch. She would have to get a move on if she was going to stop off at the supermarket on the way home. She liked to make a special dessert when either of the children brought a friend home for tea. Chocolate gateaux or pavlova – Sarah loved meringue. Picking up the flowers and her briefcase, Aisha unhooked her coat from the stand and went out through the main office, calling goodbyes as she went. At least it wasn’t far to home which was one of the reasons why she had accepted the position. She and the children left the house together in the morning and she could be back by five thirty when necessary.

Going down the steps at the rear of the building, she crossed the staff car park and flicked the central locking system on her car. She smiled to herself as she got in and laid the flowers on the passenger seat. How many bouquets was that now? She’d lost count, and all the little gifts David had left on her desk, or recently, more boldly, presented to her in person. The first had been a potted plant for the windowsill in her office with a note saying he hoped he wasn’t being presumptuous. It must have been over a year ago. That had been followed with chocolates and perfume and then the huge bouquets tied with ribbon. And while initially Aisha had felt uncomfortable accepting the gifts, feeling she was in his debt, it had become a little harmless fun, where David joked he would eventually capture the heart of his boss and they would run off together into the sunset. He was her deputy, and she was the assistant claims manager at Medway Life Assurance Company.

Aisha turned on the heater in the car and pulled to the exit. Sam Griffiths, the sales director, tooted his horn as he drew up behind her and then gave a little wave. She waved back. They got on well. In fact she got on with most of the staff in the small and friendly office. It was a subsidiary of an American company and the directors liked their managers squeaky clean; and for them widowhood equalled dignity, with no skeletons in the cupboard. Aisha suspected the occasional wearing of her sari helped the company’s political correctness. She made a point of wearing it if anyone from the New York head office paid a visit, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Making the detour via the shops, Aisha continued home and parked on the drive. As she got out, she paused to admire the front garden, for even in winter it had colour, with the carefully chosen evergreen shrubs and heathers. She and her father had worked on it all the previous summer, and like the house it now bore her stamp and no trace of Mark. Going in, she found James sprawled on the sofa, as usual, deaf to everything except the music coming from his MP3 player. Aisha ruffled his hair as she went by and he grinned, languidly raising one hand to acknowledge her. There was no sign of Sarah; she would be upstairs with her friend, poring over teenage magazines or trying out new hairstyles.

Aisha set the kettle to boil for a cup of tea and then arranged David’s flowers in a vase. She vaguely wondered what he was doing at this moment. He had a teenage son living with him so perhaps his evening routine wasn’t so very different from hers: preparing the evening meal, tiding, trying to initiate conversation; parents of teenagers who were needed, but not required. Sarah and James’s generation were free spirits, she thought, unrestrained by tradition or the need to be seen to do the right thing.

Aisha glanced at the wall clock – it was nearly six o’clock. She would start the spaghetti bolognese just as soon as she’d paid her evening visit – the visit she made at six o’clock every evening.

Taking the key from under the tea towels in the kitchen drawer, Aisha silently unlocked the interconnecting door to the garage and went in. There was no need to lock it from the inside; the children knew not to disturb her at this time.

She stood for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust – the only light came from the two candles on the floor, near the centre of the garage. The shadow on the wall opposite danced in the draft from the closing door, like a cave painting of a giant wildebeest on the run. Six o’clock, exactly the right time. She knew because the radio had been on. The six o’clock news coming from Magic, ringing in her ears and drowning out the sound of crunching metal and breaking glass. She stood silently as the shadow sleeked around the walls, then settled, the handlebars sticking out like the antlers of a beast ready to charge. It was the shadow of Mark’s motorbike, the bike returned to her by the police, now balanced on its stand in the centre of the garage, just like the evening she had first seen it. It wasn’t complete, of course, the fenders and headlamps were missing, severed in the crash and swept up with the other debris. The framework was bent in places and the previously immaculate paint work had ugly gashes down both sides. But she’d had it collected from the police compound and kept it, and it had stood here for nearly five years, as a testament, a monument, lest she ever forget.

Aisha walked slowly to the centre of the garage as the shadow of the bike distorted and flickered around walls. Stopping at the side of the bike, she ran her hand over the length of the leather seat, just as Mark had done. Propped at the end of the seat was the framed photograph, partially illuminated by the candlelight. Aisha picked up the photograph and breathed on the glass, then rubbed it hard with the sleeve of her cardigan. The couple in love smiled back, assured and unrepentant. She breathed and rubbed again, then returned it to its position so that it looked out over the garage and kept watch. The candles had burned low and needed replacing; she replaced them every evening from a box kept full on the workbench beneath his tools. The garage was exactly as it had been on that fateful night – a shrine, a cenotaph, an acknowledgement to what she had done and that she was very sorry.

Aisha remained quiet for a few minutes, looking around, taking in the scene and remembering. But tonight, instead of fetching new candles from the box, she squatted down on her haunches and pinched out the last of the flames. The garage fell into darkness.

Memories pale, bitterness loses its edge, pain and humiliation fade. At some point we have to cloak the past in experience and move on, wiser, to the future. Aisha won’t be replacing the candles tonight or ever again, for she has decided that five years is long enough to repent and be sorry. Tomorrow she will make arrangements to have the garage completely cleared – of the bike, his tools, the photograph, and everything. Then possibly the closed part of her that David had recognized might begin to open, and she might, just might, accept his dinner invitation. Her father had been right – an eclipse doesn’t last forever – and there could and would be an even brighter future with a lifetime of tomorrows, just as soon as she told the inspector what really happened that night.