The Son-in-Law (9 page)

A pool glinted in the beck below, mirroring the pale sky. Joseph remembered lying there on summer days. He could still feel the eddying water as he submerged himself, tea-coloured ice that forced the breath from his lungs.

‘So,’ said Abigail briskly. ‘What are your plans?’

‘Bloody Nora! Give me time.’

‘You’ve had plenty of time. About three years, I should imagine.’

He looked up towards the moor. ‘First thing I plan to do is get myself up there,’ he said. ‘Just because I can.’

Once Abigail had left, Joseph made his way downhill to where stepping stones lay half-submerged among glassy rapids. Somebody was coming towards him across the stones; he dimly registered walking boots and a swirl of claret skirt. Some part of his brain appreciated the supple ease of her movements, but he desperately didn’t want to speak to anyone, so was relieved when she merely smiled and passed by.

He barely hesitated, gauging distances before leaping from one rock to another with sure-footed certainty. After all, he and Marie were the architects of this bridge; it had taken them a whole day. Once across, he struck up the hillside with long strides. Evening was overtaking the moors now, and the temperature had dropped still further. Sheep lifted their heads to watch him pass, mildly curious about the dogless human.

Joseph had climbed for twenty minutes by the time he pushed his way through a patch of tangled bracken and breasted the last ridge, to be greeted by a knife-edged wind. High above him two curlews twisted and soared in the emptiness, spotlit by the last rays of sun. He could neither see nor hear any other sign of life. Even Abigail’s farmhouse was hidden from view. He revelled in the solitude.

Spreading his hands wide, he let himself drop straight back like a doll tumbling off a shelf. Or perhaps a mother falling to her death; there was no marble fender, up there on the moor. He dropped onto a cushion of skeletal heather, and bounced.

Hours later, he made up the bed he’d last shared with Zoe. He used the turquoise sheets she’d chosen and which cost a bloody fortune. Pressing his face into them, he caught the lingering breath of her perfume. He added every duvet he could find. Then he dug out a book and read until long after midnight, in the hope that he might then be able to sleep. It didn’t work. Sleep was a luxury.

He’d been woken by a glowing sunrise, last time he’d slept in that bed. Zoe was pressed very close, her cheek on his shoulder, elegant fingers tangled in his hair. She’d seemed so well during that last holiday. They’d been happy—though they knew their happiness was fragile, like thin sunshine. Joseph remembered tracing the line of her face with his forefinger, adoring the high cheekbones and elfin features. He’d inhaled the warm scent of her and watched as the growing day crept up her body, gilding each contour. He had wished with all his soul that the precious moment could go on forever. He’d known it would not.

Rain was chattering quietly outside. He lifted his wrist to check the luminous dial of his watch. Almost two in the morning. He was drifting at last. He was drifting in the darkness, between Zoe-scented sheets. The rain whispered to him.

At two nineteen, he woke with a yell of horror. He’d just killed Zoe. She was lying on the hearthrug, her green-glass eyes wide open. Dropping to his knees, he began to pump her chest—trying to start her heart, frantically shouting her name. He knew her life was over. So was his.

The rain was tapping on the window, tap-tappety-tap, asking to come in. It took a long time for his racing heart to slow.

At two thirty-eight he sat bolt upright, sweating with panic.

He’d just killed Zoe. Her eyes were wide open. He was on his knees. His life was over.

He woke at three, because he’d just killed Zoe.

And three eleven.

And three thirty.

He was in his bunk in a cell, suffocated by blackness. He must have gone blind because it was never completely dark in prison. He heard a gentle bleat, and wondered what the hell a sheep was doing in Armley.

Or perhaps he wasn’t in Armley.

The rain had ceased, leaving complete stillness save for an almost imperceptible trickling of the stream. He’d forgotten how deafening silence could be. He’d spent the past three years as a captive audience, forced to listen to the snoring and rambling and cursing of other men. He’d longed for peace; yet now, in the icy night, it blared between his ears like an alarm. He lay with his eyes open, assaulted by the silence. He was profoundly tired. He’d been tired for three years, because Zoe was dead.

•

Zoe was alive—gloriously, vibrantly alive.

She dominated the dusty stage of a South London school. Pocket Shakespeare, they were called. Three actors and a box of props, standing in front of a bloodthirsty mob of fifth and sixth formers. In an hour they whipped through
Hamlet
,
Othello
and
Romeo and Juliet
. The bedroom scene in
Romeo and Juliet
triggered catcalls and ribald slurpings—Joseph collared the ringleaders and handed out detentions—but mad Ophelia had the teenage monsters eating out of her hands. Perhaps they recognised themselves. Joseph was a new teacher, roped in for crowd control. He leaned against the wall, goggling helplessly at the redhead with green eyes and a ringing voice.

She must have been half the weight of the two male actors; there wasn’t an ounce to spare. Cheekbones, shoulders, hips—all sharp, defined, like an active child’s. Energy radiated out of her, bewitching the cynically gum-chewing audience. Poor Desdemona was about to die. She was pleading for a little more time. Joseph wished she didn’t have to die. He wished he could change the ending.

The school’s head of drama collared him as the students were filing out of the hall. She was called Henrietta. Posh Hetty. It was she who’d invited the group to perform; their manager was a friend of hers.

‘Talented, aren’t they?’ she demanded.

‘Very.’

‘Party. Tonight. My place.’ She scribbled an address. ‘It’s my birthday. Be there or be square.’

Joseph was surprised to be asked, and knew he wouldn’t go. He’d only been at the school six weeks, shunned staffroom politics and could think of nothing less appealing than a stand-up-and-shout birthday bash.

‘Happy Birthday, Hetty, but I’m afraid—’ ‘They’ll be there too.’

‘Who?’

Hetty’s smile was arch. ‘Pocket Shakespeare. All of them.’

‘I think I can make it,’ said Joseph.

He spotted Desdemona as soon as he walked in. She was wearing an emerald green shift dress, swaying fluidly to the rhythm as Leonard Cohen murmured ‘Hallelujah’ through a pair of retro speakers. A couple of pinstriped suits were all over her. Joseph was on his way over when he was hailed by Posh Hetty, three sheets to the wind. As soon as she’d sailed on, one of the school’s secretaries buttonholed him. She had sharp blue eyes and an English-rose complexion, and seemed determined to take him home with her that night. On any other evening he would have been delighted to oblige, but not this one. He kept scanning the crowd for an emerald dress. Perhaps she was in the kitchen. Perhaps she’d gone.

‘You’re distracted,’ yelled the secretary above the din.

‘Sorry.’

She touched his hand. ‘My glass is empty.’

Joseph picked up their glasses and began to shoulder his way through the throng towards the makeshift bar. There she was, perched on a sofa and edging away from one of the suits. He was leaning right over her, though she’d put a hand on his chest to ward him off. She caught Joseph’s eye, mimed an expression of horror and mouthed
help!

Joseph dumped the glasses on a table and was charging to the rescue when Pinstripe pounced. He slumped like a great blubbery sea lion, simultaneously tearing down the dress and trying to kiss Desdemona. Joseph grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him onto the floor. The guy was drunk, so it wasn’t difficult. He sprawled red-faced, gawping up at Joseph.

‘What the fuck’re you doing?’ he yelled. Public-school accent. ‘Are you off your head? That girl’s mine.’

She was laughing. She was laughing so much that she couldn’t speak.

‘I don’t think she likes you,’ said Joseph.

‘You cunt,’ screamed Pinstripe, staggering to his feet and lunging.

Joseph shouldn’t have done it. Really, he shouldn’t. He knew he ought to walk away but the temptation was just irresistible. The guy was legless, and there was a dazzling girl with green eyes to impress. He only hit him once, though ‘I think we’d better leave now,’ gasped the girl, as blood fountained from Pinstripe’s nose. She grabbed Joseph’s arm and pulled him into the hall. She was still laughing as they scuttled into the lift. ‘D’you know who that was?’

‘Nope.’

‘Neither do I. But according to him, he’s an up-and-coming barrister and London’s most eligible bachelor.’

The lift was very old, and very slow. The girl smelled of sandalwood. Her green dress clung to her. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You’re the Russian prince.’

Joseph smiled. He felt very commonplace beside her. ‘Sorry. Wrong bloke.’

‘Right bloke. I spotted you at Parkway High. You were leaning against the wall with your arms folded.’

‘True.’

‘You looked bored out of your brain.’

‘Not true.’

‘And there was a monster right in front of you who was texting. I could see the little bastard fiddling with his phone the whole way through Desdemona’s murder.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t spot him.’

‘I made sure you were invited tonight.’

‘You did?’

She laid her mouth at the side of his throat. The touch burned him; warm breath and coconut oil. ‘You’ve gallantly rescued me from death by boredom at the hands of London’s most eligible bachelor. Let’s go and celebrate.’

It was like a night out with a hurricane. Hurricane Zoe. He was a night owl, but he couldn’t keep up with her. She danced him off his feet, she drank him under the table. In the pearly dawn they found themselves strolling along the embankment. His jersey was draped over her shoulders, and she carried a pair of gold sandals in one hand. She seemed as alert as she had hours before, and voracious for his story. She asked a question, listened acutely, asked another. He’d never felt so understood.

They were crossing Waterloo Bridge when she broke away from his side. The next second she was perched on the handrail, legs dangling over the mud-brown expanse of the Thames. The tide sprinted below, murderous currents crisscrossing and swirling.

‘Hop down,’ begged Joseph. ‘Just to please me. If you go in there, you won’t come up.’

She laughed, took both her hands off the rail and stretched her arms wide,
Titanic
-style. A passing car honked. Joseph stopped breathing.

‘Get down,’ he said quietly. ‘Please.’

‘Shall I dive?’ She sounded cheerful, as though deciding whether to be sinful and have a chocolate fudge sundae for dessert or not. ‘It’d be fun. I’m a very good swimmer.’

Joseph edged closer, ready to grab her if she fell. Suddenly she looked at her watch.

‘Oh
no
!’ she moaned. ‘Bugger bugger bugger.’

‘You’re meant to be somewhere?’

She swung her legs back over the handrail, landing lightly on the pavement. ‘Screen test at nine o’clock. Gotta go. Taxi!’

Even the black cabs were in her thrall. The second she raised a slender arm, two of them appeared out of nowhere.

‘Phone number?’ shouted Joseph.

She slid a biro out of his pocket, pushed back his sleeve and scribbled on his wrist. ‘Don’t wash it off,’ she warned, kissing the place where she’d written. As her lips touched his wrist, a rooster crowed.

He stood watching until the taxi disappeared across the bridge. She’d left with his jersey over her shoulders and his pen in her handbag. He didn’t mind at all. He’d be seeing her again. He knew that for sure.

The rooster crowed twice more, and shattered everything.

He was lying between turquoise sheets that smelled of Zoe, but she wasn’t pressed close beside him. Her number was not on his wrist, and he would never see her again.

He wasn’t sure whether he could bear another day.

Eight

Hannah

Freddie was up, sidling around the room and bumping into things in the dark.

I turned on the lamp. He was sitting on the end of the bed in his camel-coloured dressing gown, unrolling a pair of socks.

‘So sorry,’ he whispered. He pulled a sock carefully up his calf. ‘Kept thinking we were already in Jane’s office. What time are we due there?’

‘Not till ten.’ I checked the clock. Five fifteen. Not too bad, really. For a year after Zoe’s death we were routinely up by four, drooping over tea in the kitchen while the world slumbered untroubled around us. My mind lost its sharp edge, clouded in tiredness. I don’t think it ever quite recovered.

Our bedroom door inched open, and Scarlet’s face appeared around it. She was sheet-white, her eyes unfocused.

‘That you, Dad?’ she said loudly.

Frederick was the first to recover. ‘Scarletta!’ he cried, swiftly retying his dressing-gown cord. He’d been terrified of accidentally exposing himself ever since an old friend was disgraced for flashing on Hampstead Heath.

Bottle-green eyes swivelled from him to me. ‘I heard noises.’

‘That was Gramps,’ I announced cheerily, ‘bumping his shin against the drawer. That’s what shins are for—finding things in the dark.’

‘Make him stop singing.’

‘Nobody was singing, poppet.’

She pressed her hands to her ears. ‘Make him stop.’

Then she walked further into the room, lay down on the floor and closed her eyes. We were used to this. When she first came to live with us Scarlet used to get up nightly, roam the house and sleep in odd places. We had to barricade the outside doors and windows. She seemed to be trying to escape some ghastly music that she alone could hear.

‘Scarlet,’ I whispered, leaning down beside her. ‘You can’t sleep on the floor. Get into our bed.’

She was quite suggestible in this state. Between us, Frederick and I managed to coax her under the covers.

‘Two more hours before she has to get up for school,’ I whispered, as we padded down the stairs. ‘Sometimes she seems almost a normal girl. Then she does this, and she’s like something off one of those absurd zombie films.’