The Sacrificial Man (23 page)

Alice was strapped into a car seat by a woman she didn’t know. Mummy was still in the house, still lying on the floor, but the woman carried on clicking Alice into place, giving her a tight smile. Next to her, on the seat, was her blue Winnie the Pooh suitcase and a black bag with the things that her mother couldn’t squeeze into the case. There were other people too, men in the green uniforms who came in the ambulance with its screaming siren. The woman opened the car door and got into the driver’s seat. As she did so, a man in green uniform ran from the house, to the car, and tapped on the window. “You’d best take this,” he said to the driver, poor kid, she’s only wearing a nightie.” The man handed her the lilac cardigan.

The woman put a key in the ignition and Alice panicked, erupting into tears like a split heart, shouting, “Wait for Mummy! My Mummy!” The woman turned round, reached to pat the girl’s leg. Alice couldn’t move. She was strapped in. Just then she heard the front door to her home open, and a metal bed was lifted out. On it was a bundle of sheets. No, it was a ghost. And then Alice saw a foot and pretty pink polish on toes so white.

But the woman was turning the key that started the engine, and the car was moving. Alice was still shouting, but Mummy couldn’t hear her, she was too far under the sheets.

As the car pulled away the girl kept shouting. No-one answered.

Alice had lain with her dead mother for nearly four hours until they were discovered.

When the landlord found them, calling on a routine visit to collect rent, he saw the mother and daughter entwined on the floor of their neighbour’s bedsit. Matilde Mariani was naked, and her daughter was clinging to her like a baby monkey. He said that coaxing the child away from the corpse had been the hardest thing he ever had to do.

The post mortem found a high level of narcotics in Matilde’s blood stream. They called it an accidental death. Mr Wilding was nowhere to be found.

The social worker, who subsequently took Alice to her new home, concluded that she had not accepted her mother’s death. She said that after the initial outburst in the car Alice displayed an ‘irregular, detached demeanour,’ and speculated that she would require help to recover, including age-appropriate grief counselling if she was to come to terms with it.

Help never came. Not for me.

I’m home. Released. Bailed. All of these words. But mostly, I’m free. As I open my front door the neighbour’s cat appears, looking at me with widened eyes as if demanding where I’d been. I stand in the cold air, and the cat comes to me. He pulls away when I stroke his black fur, only relaxing after my hand has massaged his sharp spine several times. But it’s too cold to stay outside for long, and I have much to do inside.

Like Goldilocks, I sit in each of the chairs, hurrying between them, unable to rest. I open my cupboards, touch the cold tins and crinkling bags of pasta. A feast after ten days of meals on a tray. I hardly know where to begin. I go to my bookshelves and touch the worn fabric spines, the smooth leather covers. I clean up the broken glass, the dead flowers. I’m like a child in a sweet shop, running from room to room. Oh, my bed! I’d forgotten how soft the mattress was. I open the drawer where I keep my most prized possession. My lilac cardigan, almost as old as I am. It’s still there, still soft under my fingers. What we forget in such a short time. Ah, a bath all to myself. No-one will come peering in to check that I haven’t scored my wrists with a razor. I won’t have to navigate a dayroom of drugged patients pretending to play Scrabble, or digest a meal without fresh vegetables.

I make myself some toast, with butter and jam. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted, ever. I’m happy to be home. And then someone rings the doorbell.

“I want to know what’s going on, Alice!”

The door is barely open when my father pushes me aside and walks into the hall. His face is grey with fatigue and he looks old. There’s dried blood on his chin, where he nicked himself with a razor. His eyes are the only lively thing, young with anger, narrowed and piercing in that face of lines and weariness. I feel a stab of pity that I’ve done this to him.

He didn’t speak to me in the courthouse, and I can see all the words are held in his chest, which he pushes out slightly, his hands deep in the pockets of his old trench coat. “What have you been up to, girl?”

I arrange my face to hide my disquiet and gesture with my square of toast. “Eating?”

“Don’t be clever,” he scowls, “it may work with your mother, but you don’t fool me. Why didn’t you tell us you were in a mental hospital?”

I’m less sure of myself, but carry on with the charade, as I can see no other way. “I didn’t want to worry you.” He comes close. He hasn’t brushed his teeth this morning and his face is a mess.

“And don’t you think not knowing where you’d got to was worrying? I even called the college to see if they knew where you were. You’ve been sacked, haven’t you?”

“University,” I correct. I turn my back and return to the kitchen, my father close on my heels. It’s a struggle to swallow the last of the toast and when I do it scratches my throat. I need a drink and can feel a headache starting at the top of my spine. I want him to sit down, but think he’ll refuse if I ask. His arms are across his chest, moving up and down with his rapid breathing. I sit at the table, pushing the plate with the remaining toast to one side but taking a sip of tea. He stares at me.

“Well?”

“I haven’t lost my job, I’ve just been suspended. Until after the court case.”

“Why didn’t you tell us, Alice?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’ll be reinstated soon enough.”

“I didn’t mean about the job, I meant about David. That is his name, isn’t it, David Jenkins? Not Richard. In the newspaper it never said anything about him having terminal cancer.”

I can’t even look at him.

He reaches into his pocket and removes a crumpled piece of paper. I recognise it at once, of course. I’ve seen it before. It’s the Hemlock Society flyer, designed by a do-gooder by the name of Roy who has made me his cause. My father is not willing to be my champion. He looks at me as though I wound him, “What the hell have you done, Alice? Your mother is worried sick.”

My head snaps up, searching his face, “How much does she know?”

“I’ve been hiding the papers, though what she heard in court today was bad enough. God only knows what she makes of it all. I’ve no idea.”

“Of course not,” I say, bitterly, “that would mean you’d actually have to communicate.”

He takes a step forward, his fist tight. “Don’t you try to put the blame on me and your mother. We’ve done our best for you, God knows. And this is how you repay us?”

Something inside me snaps. “Repay you? I didn’t realise I was in your debt! Is that how it works when you adopt a child? Buy me now, I’ll pay later?”

Dad sits heavily on the pine bench opposite me. He runs a hand over his scarred chin. “I didn’t mean that, but since you said it, maybe it’s true. Only we’re the ones who are paying. We took you in, Alice. We knew you’d had a hard start, but we tried our best to be a family. You’re not like us, Alice. You’re clever, I know that. But this… A man died, Alice, here in your house. The newspaper… they said something else… that he castrated himself and you… God, it’s so disgusting… ”

I interrupt, not wanting him to say it. “How much does Mum know?”

“More than she let’s on, that’s certain. Some of her friends won’t come round anymore. And that Betty from across the way? She’s always popping in on some excuse or other. All this publicity seems to attract the wrong kind of people. Your mum didn’t deserve this.”

“She’s not my mother!” The words are out before I can stop them.

Dad stands up, wringing his hands as if they’re wet. “She’s all the mother you’ve ever had, girl. And she loves you. You think on that while you’re tearing her world apart.”

I don’t get up to see him out.

Two Nurofen and a glass of water. I sit and breathe, waiting for the dizziness to pass. I still haven’t unpacked my bag when I hear the knocking. I recognise the sound, the slow, steady pace. I open the door, and Lee stands there like hope. I am held, caught up in Lee’s familiar smell of salt water and fresh air, the battered leather jacket on my cheek. I long for a warm shower, to rid myself of the institutional stench of cabbage and bleach, the courtroom tang of penance. But Lee doesn’t know of my inner turmoil, and I receive the kiss gratefully. From the strength of the hold, Lee must have thought I had gone for good.

My God, it’s so good to be home, even if the relief is temporary. In fourteen days I’ll be sentenced. Being locked up once against my will is surely enough. What could they hope to gain by doing it again? I’ll be a good girl now.

Lee knows nothing about Smith’s death in this house. Lee never bothers with reading the papers or watching the news, but with other things, like the best technique for butterfly stroke, the fixing of a slow puncture on an RAF dingy, and now it’s simply a warm mouth and hands running over skin that hold interest. What does it matter what happens in the world outside?

Lee has brought me tulips, large red petals, elegant proud heads, and long green stems. They’re my welcome home gift, and as I search those puppy-dog eyes I see understanding. I wonder if I’m wrong, that maybe Lee does know where I’ve been.

“I want you to know, Alice, that I don’t mind. Whatever you did. That I’ll cope.”

I look at Lee carefully. “Aren’t you going to ask where I’ve been?”

“No. I’m going to wait until you tell me.”

“How can you be so patient?”

Lee manages a half-smile. “I’ve learnt to be patient. Sometimes I thought I’d leave you for good, but it just never worked out that way. So now I just wait, for the time to be right. You’re an attractive woman. I mean, just look at you. You always were out of my league. You’re beautiful. So I can’t really be surprised that you’ve got someone else. I don’t blame you either. I’m just glad to have some place in your life. If I have to share you, then I’ll accept that.”

Does Lee know about Smith? I’m surprised when I see tears in those brown eyes. A survival equipment fitter should be made of stronger stuff.

“I was here last week, and I saw the car. The Volkswagen. I saw someone at the window, and it wasn’t you. I saw brown hair, not blonde. The thing is Alice, I’m not good at saying this, but I love you. Really. And I’m willing to hang on, hoping that at some point it’ll just be me. That I’ll be your only lover.”

Last Thursday Cate Austin was here, collecting my things. Her car is a Volkswagen. I start to laugh. I laugh so much that my face is wet with tears. “There’s no other lover for me, not since last summer. It’s only you now.”

The relief is so great it registers in those eyes, and Lee is like a child who just found a way home, holding me tight. I am kissed, my face, my lips.

“I love you Alice. I can’t believe how much I love you.” This is something I’ve heard seldom in my life. It’s a treasure. I will keep it safe.

Although I’ve known Lee all my life, there are still surprises, like a child’s game of pass-the-parcel. With each layer I unwrap I think I’ve reached the prize, only to discover yet another bright wrapping. I didn’t expect this return, this respite. This love, so undemanding. So seemingly unconditional. But all things have conditions and I would be a fool to believe that it would withstand my confession. Love never lasts; I know this. It must be trapped, at the perfect moment, if it’s to remain unsullied. Lee loves me, but I can’t trust that it will always be so. And although I love Lee, it’s not enough. It’s not the love I felt for Smith. It’s not the kind of love that inspires poetry.

The stillness of the middle hours is a harsh landscape and it’s always in the silent part of the night that we are stripped bare of our pretensions and confidence, taken back to our basest insecurities. Seeing Lee’s head on my pillow, cupped hands resting on clean sheets, I taste what it is to have a normal relationship. Part of me yearns for it; shared bills, holidays – children, maybe. It’s a mirage, pretence of what my life could be. Yet when Lee looks at me, when our bodies join, I believe it.