The Cruellest Game (12 page)

‘We have a funeral to arrange,’ I said. ‘Our son deserves that it is done properly, without his parents waging war on each other. I will stay until after the funeral. Then
we’ll see . . .’

There was hope in his eyes then. At least I thought that’s what it was. But this was a man I no longer knew, had perhaps never really known. So I suppose it could have been anything really
. . .

What a difference a day makes
, I thought again. Yesterday I had so wanted my husband to stay with me. Today I did not even know whether or not he was my husband. I did
know that I couldn’t remain in his company.

Apart from anything else I was still sorting my head out. I realized I remained in deep shock. And I was afraid I might do or say something I would later regret.

I went upstairs to our bedroom, sat on the bed and tried to think straight. When someone died there were always so many things to be done. I knew that from the death of my grandmother, and could
even remember further back to the busy comings and goings in our North Devon home after my mother died when I was child. Followed, of course, by the emptiness.

But Robbie’s death had been so utterly unexpected, and the revelations that followed it so shocking. I had so far done none of the things that should be done. We couldn’t make
funeral arrangements until the post-mortem was completed and Robbie’s body released. However, there were people who needed to be told what had happened, and I hadn’t been in touch with
anyone. Notably his school and, of course, my father. Robbie’s grandfather. I knew it was unforgivable for me not to have already contacted him.

The school was the easy one, so I did that first. I assumed the office would be closed on a Saturday, which gave me an excuse to avoid actually speaking to anyone. I would send an email. My iPad
was on the bedside table where it had remained since before Robbie’s death. I’d almost always taken it to bed with me when Robert was away working. Robert had refused to have a TV in
the bedroom, saying it would detract from the pretty tranquillity of the room and the stark beauty of the Dartmoor views through its big picture windows. I’d agreed with him, actually, but
when he was away had been inclined to cheat with my iPad, using its catch-up TV and access to movies.

I wrote to Robbie’s headmaster, briefly, and almost emotionlessly, telling him what had happened. As I pushed the send button I reflected fleetingly that the email looked rather tardy. It
couldn’t be helped. It was the best I could do.

I had to speak to my father. I could no longer put off making the call. How dreadful it would be if he found out about his beloved grandson’s death from some other source, I thought
suddenly. I couldn’t imagine what the source might be, but one did see stories of teenage suicides in the newspapers. I had no idea who would or could be responsible for that sort of
coverage, not before some sort of court proceedings anyway, but I could no longer take the risk.

However, just as I was about to pick up the bedside phone it rang. DS Jarvis was returning my call of the previous morning. I had almost given up hope of ever hearing from him again. I told him
about there being no marks on Robbie’s bedroom floor until I dragged his heavy desk back in place.

Jarvis was unimpressed.

‘Robbie could have lifted the desk across the room, Mrs Anderson,’ he said.

‘It’s made of solid oak, Detective Sergeant,’ I told him. ‘It’s very heavy. I can’t even lift one end of it.’

‘You are a small woman, Mrs Anderson,’ he responded. ‘Your son was tall and strong, and a very fit young man. Besides, in extreme circumstances people are inclined to find
extra strength.’

I tried to push the point, but got nowhere. It was as if DS Jarvis and the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary had made up their minds, and that was that. I ended the call, and before I had time to
do any more thinking made the one I had been putting off.

I dialled Dad’s Hartland number. He sounded so cheery when he answered the phone and heard my voice that I desperately wanted to have a conversation about nothing and then hang up. I knew
I couldn’t.

‘I have the most dreadful news . . .’ I began.

He gasped, in both pain and disbelief, I thought, when I told him what had happened.

‘Oh my God, Marion, how? Why . . .’

Always that same question. Why?

‘We don’t have any answers, Dad,’ I said. ‘I can’t give you any answers. I can barely talk about it at all, to tell the truth.’

‘Of course,’ he said. Then he asked me when Robbie had died.

‘You should have called me before, I’d have driven right over,’ he said.

I couldn’t tell him that on the night Robbie died I would have been unable to bear his grief, that he had not been the person I’d wanted with me. And I couldn’t tell him about
the revelations of yesterday that had made me feel I’d lost a husband as well as a son and rendered me quite incapable of contacting anyone.

‘I’ve just been too upset,’ I said.

‘Well, shall I come now?’ he asked. ‘I’ll just get in the car and I’ll be there in no time. I’d like to—’

I interrupted. ‘No, no,’ I said, a little too quickly, more than a little insensitively, I realized. I tried to soften it, probably not very successfully. ‘Look, it’s
just so hard. Robert’s with me. We need time.’

‘Of course you do, I understand,’ said Dad, sounding as if he didn’t understand at all.

‘Thanks,’ I said lamely.

‘But the funeral, when’s the funeral? I must come to his funeral.’

I agreed that of course he must, explained about the post-mortem, and promised to let him know as soon as we were able to make the necessary arrangements.

I ended the call as quickly as I could. I knew that I was treating him shabbily. We had once been so very close. When I was a child, perhaps because of losing my mother so young, I’d
always wanted to be with my dad, and to be like him, really. I used to try desperately to be useful, too. I don’t know why because Dad never made demands of me, but I did think it pleased
him. He called me his ‘right-hand girl’ in those days. As a loving father and grandfather he deserved to be included in all aspects of family life, even in the aftermath of tragedy. But
I couldn’t help myself. After all, my family had just been torn asunder and in any case we had never been what we seemed.

The call had been horrible to make. I didn’t want to break down again. It would serve no purpose at all. I was so determined to keep what remained of my wits about me.

I needed to get out of the house. I shivered even though the bedroom was quite warm. The place just didn’t feel right. I supposed it might never feel right again.

I called Bella, thanked her for her kindness, and asked if I could perhaps visit her in Exeter for a bit.

She hesitated momentarily. ‘Look, the kids have got chums over,’ she said. ‘It’s chaos here. But I’ll get my neighbour to keep an eye on them, and why don’t
we meet on Exmouth beach? Usual place. Walk the dogs, get some fresh air. It’s not such a bad day, dry anyway.’

I agreed.

‘I can be there in just over an hour or so,’ she said. ‘Have to be back in good time for this evening, though. We’ve got fireworks and a bonfire down the road.’

I remembered then. Not only was it a Saturday and no school, but it was the 5th of November, Guy Fawkes Night. Robbie had loved fireworks but had ultimately forgone them because they frightened
Florrie so much. He’d been that sort of boy.

I dressed in my dog-walking clothes – old jeans, sweater, Barbour jacket and boots – slung a thick scarf around my neck and pocketed gloves and a woolly hat. I called to Florrie. She
whimpered at the kitchen door. Robert opened it. Florrie trotted towards me and Robert followed her into the hall.

‘Are you going out?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t think we bothered to tell each other that sort of thing any more,’ I responded tartly.

‘Oh, come on, Marion, I’ve told you how sorry I am about that. We had just lost our son, you know . . .’

I relented. Slightly.

‘I’m going to meet Bella in Exmouth,’ I said. ‘We’re going to walk the dogs. I just need some space. You should understand that, after all.’

He coloured slightly and shuffled from foot to foot.

‘Please don’t go,’ he said. ‘Please stay here with me. I really want you here with me—’

‘Tough, Robert,’ I said. ‘From now on I make the rules.’

I opened the door straight away, called Florrie through and slammed it shut in Robert’s face. I didn’t even know quite what I meant by that last remark. I just knew things would
never be the same again between Robert and me. And not only because we had lost our beloved son.

I drove to Exmouth far too fast. Normally I was a careful driver. That day it was almost a case of not caring what happened to me. Maybe even half wanting something to happen to me.

On the road into the seaside town there’s a 30-mile-an-hour limit where you don’t expect it, and the speed cameras that so often accompany such a limit on the approach road to a
town. Easy pickings, I’d always thought, particularly in a tourist town. That day I didn’t give a toss about the cameras, of course, but then a young woman stepped out into the road
from behind a parked car. She was pushing a pram, presumably containing a child, and the pram came first. I braked hard and swerved, missing the woman and the pram by inches.

Florrie, in the back, was thrown against the dog guard which separated her area from the rest of the car. She whimpered in pain and protest. I could see the startled white face of the young
woman in my rear mirror. What she was doing pushing a pram out from behind a parked car when she clearly would have been unable to see the road, I didn’t know. But I did know I’d been
travelling far too fast. I slowed down.

I found a parking space at the eastern end of the seafront where the sand dunes begin and there’s no charge during the winter months. There were usually plenty of spaces at this time of
year, and Bella and I were in the habit of parking as close as possible to the town end of the free parking zone. I couldn’t see her Toyota, and was pretty sure I was the first to arrive.

I sat for a moment just staring into space. Now that I’d got to the beach I really had no idea why I’d made the arrangement to meet Bella in the first place. It was understandable
that I’d wanted to get out of the house and away from the man who had caused me so much pain over the last couple of days, on top of the biggest blow of all, the loss of my son. But why
I’d even considered meeting up with another person I had no idea. Particularly another person who I really did not know that well. I’d never even been to her home or met her children,
for goodness’ sake.

For a brief moment I thought about restarting the engine, turning the car around and just driving away. I might have done so, too, in spite of letting down this woman who had been so kind to me
on the night of Robbie’s death, if it had not been for Florrie’s persistent whimpering. She was eager for her run.

I climbed out of the car and flipped open the rear door for her. She seemed none the worse for her close encounter with the dog guard and was merely in the throes of her usual paroxysm of
excitement at the sight and smell of sand and sea.

I crossed the road and sat on the low sea wall opposite my car. It was cold but there was only a light breeze blowing in across the estuary from the Atlantic Ocean. Once I’d wrapped my
scarf tightly round my neck and pulled on my gloves and hat I was not uncomfortable. Florrie ran happily onto the dunes in front of me and began sniffing and snuffling around. She also had a roll.
As usual. Normally I would already be grumbling to myself about the job of brushing the sand out of her coat later. That was something else I couldn’t have cared less about that day.

I just sat there gazing blankly out to sea. But after just a few minutes I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching and drawing to a halt. I turned around just in time to watch Bella open her
car door and climb out.

She looked rather grim. I hadn’t really noticed before the deep lines which ran down her cheeks and curved around her eyes. Her bobbed reddish-brown hair displayed prominent grey roots. I
was reminded that her life had almost certainly been far harder than mine. Until now that is.

She spotted me, and smiled. It was that already familiar wide, warm smile.

‘I’m glad you came,’ she called, zipping up her blue anorak and slipping the hood over her head.

‘I nearly didn’t,’ I replied. ‘I nearly couldn’t . . .’

She crossed the road, Flash bounding away from her and straight past me to join Florrie on the dunes.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I mean, I did wonder. I wouldn’t have minded. But I’m glad.’

The tears pricked again. This woman had a way of hitting the spot. She seemed to really know me, to really understand me.

‘C’mon,’ she said. ‘Let’s get on the beach and give those dogs a good run. You don’t have to talk unless you want to.’

I nodded and swung my legs over the little wall. She clambered over it alongside me. We shuffled across the loose sand of the dunes and through a gap in the breakwater onto the beach proper. Two
miles of golden sand. That was Exmouth’s tourist commercial. And pure joy to any self-respecting canine.

Florrie and Flash duly took off at full speed, scattering seagulls and crows.

We watched them in companionable silence for a while, as we strolled vaguely in the direction of the town, past the Octagon, the eight-sided building on the Esplanade which houses a snack bar
and a shop, and on along the sand towards the marina.

A white wintery sun darted in and out of fast-moving clouds. The breeze seemed to be getting up a bit. Bella thrust her hands deep into her anorak pockets.

‘Should have brought my gloves,’ she muttered. ‘Didn’t realize it was this cold.’

It was an inconsequential remark, but it somehow prompted me to say something I felt needed to be said.

‘I’m so sorry Robert was rude to you the other night,’ I told her.

‘Oh no, you don’t need to apologize,’ she responded with what seemed to be her customary kindness. ‘He’d just had the most terrible news, after all.’