The Unseen (41 page)

‘And he knew … he
knew
how he was going to end up. Incontinent. Unable to speak, to feed himself, to do anything.
Slowly dying. He was wasting away right in front of our eyes … every time I saw him …’ Mark shook his head, swallowed convulsively. ‘I knew what he was going to ask us to do. He called Karen and me into the room one afternoon; sent the kids outside. And told us, the two people who loved him most in the world, that he wanted to die. Karen went crazy. She called him a coward, and worse – that he didn’t want to fight it, that he was giving up. Accused him of abandoning her and the kids. God, she said some terrible things! I thought she was just … wild with grief. I thought she’d come around. Because I was willing from the start. I didn’t want to lose him – I’d have done anything to keep him. But there
was
no keeping him – he knew it and I knew it. And I’d have done anything to stop him suffering. I thought Karen would accept it eventually, but … she didn’t. She was adamant. Suicide was not acceptable to her, and of course neither was murder. That’s what she called me, when I tried to persuade her. A murderer.

‘Another six months of this went by, and even though we didn’t talk about it much it was there. Every time I went to visit. Every time I saw Karen, she had this look in her eye – this awful, angry, admonishing look. Daring me to mention it. Warning me not to. And every time I was alone with James, he begged me to help him. He couldn’t even get himself in and out of his chair by then. They had carers coming to the house four times a day. His worst nightmare was coming true.’ Mark paused again, put his hand over his mouth for a second, as if to stop the words from coming out. ‘I wrote letters for him saying it was what he wanted and that I was only doing what he’d begged me to do. He signed them as best he could. One morning he gave the kids an extra thorough goodbye before they went to school. Then while Karen was taking them there, I gave him sleeping pills. As many as he could swallow. I bought them on the internet … God knows what was in them. But they worked. He … died. He died.’

‘Mark, I’m so sorry …’

‘You haven’t heard the best part yet. Karen reacted … as was
to be expected, I suppose. And more so. She tore up the letters when I showed them to her. My own stupid fault – I should have made copies. She destroyed them and went straight to the police to report his murder. I just don’t know … I don’t know why she
did
that! I still don’t understand … that she could be so deeply in denial, and not know in her heart that this was what James wanted. That it was the best and kindest thing anybody could have done for him. Then his will was read and he’d left all that money to me – money to keep Dad in the home for a bit longer, without having to sell the house. Once the press got hold of that they tore me to pieces.’

‘But the trial was over in no time … everybody could see you’d acted from compassion. The judge even said it should never have gone to court …’

‘Tell that to Karen and the kids. And to the journalists with their bloody “Cain and Abel” headlines. She’s told the kids terrible things, Leah. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see them again. If they’ll ever forgive me.’

‘But … did they know he was dying? Did they know that?’

‘I’m not sure. I never spoke to them about it … Karen told me she was handling it. So I don’t know. I don’t know.’

‘But … once they’re older, once they can find out for themselves how ill he was … I’m sure they’ll want to see you,’ she tried.

‘Well. I suppose only time will tell. So now it’s just me and Dad. He’s the only family I’ve got left. That’s willing to speak to me, anyway. Some of the time.’

‘That’s terrible. Mark, I … I really don’t know what to say,’ Leah said, helplessly.

‘There’s nothing
to
say. But now you know; and I wish I could say I feel better, telling you about it. But I really don’t.’ He took a deep breath, released a long, shuddering sigh.

‘It’s far too soon for you to be thinking you ought to feel better,’
she told him carefully. ‘You lost your brother, and all the shit afterwards meant you didn’t have a chance to mourn him.’

‘Well, I’ve got time now, haven’t I? Work fired me, of course. So much for innocent until proven guilty. They said my work had been falling below par for some time and it had nothing to do with the impending trial. Which is bollocks.’

‘We could take them to a tribunal,’ Leah said.
We
. How unexpectedly that word had slipped from her tongue. Her stomach gave a tiny jolt, but Mark didn’t seem to notice.

‘What’s the point? I don’t want any of it back. Any of that old life. How can you go back to things, anyway? When everything is torn apart? You just have to start all over. Might as well be in a new place. A new job,’ Mark said, finally sipping his wine.

‘You do have to start all over,’ Leah agreed. The lines on his face had faded away, smoothed out of relief by the candles’ glow. She took his hands across the table top, meaning only to hold them briefly, to give strength through the touch of human skin. But Mark gripped her fingers tightly, and didn’t let go. Leah met his gaze, as the pain she felt for him changed, became something like fear.

‘Stay tonight,’ he said. Leah opened her mouth but no words came out, and her heart lurched into her throat to choke her. The silence stretched and Mark let go of her hands. ‘There’re plenty of bedrooms, after all,’ he said, awkwardly.

Leah took a steadying breath. ‘I can walk back to the pub. It really isn’t far,’ she said.

Mark’s mouth twitched into the slightest of smiles. ‘Of course,’ he said.

In the morning, Leah rose early and drank a coffee standing at the window of her room at The Swing Bridge, where the glass panes were misted by a night of her own damp exhalations, and the day outside was tentatively bright. Her head was heavy and tender after the wine of the night before, and she couldn’t marshal a clear thought about Mark or what he had said to her. Downstairs there
were sounds of movement from the kitchen, metal pans and cutlery rattling. The smell of bacon wafted up the stairs and under her door, and her stomach rumbled; but she didn’t have time for breakfast.

Leah was at the library for when the doors opened at half past nine. She was shown the microfiche collection, and how to use the machines, and was soon scrolling through the local papers from a century ago with her heart speeding in anticipation. Following a hunch, she started with the year that Robin Durrant’s discredited photographs were taken, and taking the hints from Hester’s letters, she started with the summer months. Not even halfway into August 1911, she caught her breath, clapping her hand over her mouth inadvertently. There it all was, just like that; the story stretching out for a few weeks, into the autumn of that year. She read, and read again, and tried to scribble a few key facts into her notebook, but her handwriting had gone wild and erratic, barely legible. Smiling, she gave up and pulled out her phone, ignoring the glare and tutting of the person using the machine next to her as she dialled Mark’s number.

‘Leah? Found something?’ he answered, and in his clipped tone she read something of the same ambiguity she herself had felt that morning. Storing this fact away for now, she took a deep breath.

‘I’ve found
everything
, Mark. It’s all here! And pictures … wonderful photos of Hester and Albert, and of the theosophist … Everything!’

‘You mean, something did happen? When?’

‘
That summer
– the summer Hester was talking about. The summer of 1911,’ Leah said, her voice tight with excitement. ‘And I think … I think I know why our soldier kept those two particular letters of Hester’s …’

‘Leah – tell me what happened! Was it a murder?’

‘Oh yes, there was a murder. A dreadful and violent one.’

‘Well, who was it? Who was killed? And by whom?’ Mark pressed.

11

August 4th, 1911

Dearest Amelia
,

How I wish you were still here, to help and give me strength. This house is no longer a comfortable place. I don’t quite know where to start. Albert. Albert is not himself. He is strange and distant and so caught up in his desire to see the wretched elementals again that he has no space left in heart nor mind for me, or the parish, or his duties or anything. He eats little, and will no longer touch meat of any kind, and I have not seen him sleep in days. He has taken to lingering outside the inns and public houses of the district, preaching to passers-by about their many sins. Amy! I am quite distraught about it all! And I can trace only one possible cause of these unsettling changes – Mr Robin Durrant. Who is still lodging with us, after all these many weeks, though he contributes nothing to the running of the household. When I mentioned this to Bertie he seemed almost to find it funny. To find me funny. He describes Mr Durrant as ‘our esteemed guest’, and believe me – he could not possibly hold the man in higher esteem. Whatever Mr Durrant suggests, Albert agrees to. It is that simple. It’s as though my dear husband has quite lost his own mind!

Cat, our maid, is also beside herself. Albert saw her in one of the pubs in Thatcham, and declared that she must be dismissed for this misdemeanour. I protested, and spoke up for her, as I have come to like and value her; but it was only when Robin Durrant spoke up that she was allowed to stay. Albert insists that she be kept locked in her room at night, which she has been; but I understand that since her incarceration in London, confinement is something she really cannot abide, and she is most terribly upset every time the door closes. I think it’s a cruel and unnecessary thing to do, but Albert insists, and this time Robin chooses not to argue with him. Perhaps it amuses him to hear her in distress. Oh! I know I am writing terrible things about him, but suddenly I find that I do not trust him, and that I do not like him, and that I do not want him here!

Cat has a sweetheart, in town. That was why she was wont to go out in the evenings – to meet up with him. I thought when she first hinted at it that it was Robin Durrant with whom she was keeping trysts. I have seen them together, outside in the courtyard. Talking in a most familiar way. But he insists that he knows nothing about it, and actually I can’t think that Cat would be interested in him. Perhaps this is why I feel so much sympathy towards her, for if she loves this man as I love Bertie, then keeping her away against her will is even more inhumane of us. I suggested that she write him a note to explain her staying away for the time being, but she tells me that he cannot read. Poor, simple soul he must be. I have made sure Albert hears nothing about any of this. In his present mood I think he would march them straight to church and wed them, even if the most tenderness they had shared were a kiss, or a clasping of hands. It breaks my heart a little to think I am party to their being kept apart. For that is how I feel too – cut off from Albert, separated. I miss him, Amy!

I shan’t commit the details to paper, but a week or so ago, on the last occasion that Albert came up to our bed at night, something occurred which demonstrated to me just how the thing that is supposed to happen between us, as man and wife, should go. I
understand
, you will doubtless be relieved to hear, after all this time. But no sooner had I made this discovery than I found myself even further from my husband than I have ever been. He recoiled from me, Amelia. From the very touch of my hands. There. What possible direction can I go in from here? Because I know, though I can’t explain exactly how, that if there is to be any improvement between Albert and me from here on out, then it
cannot
happen while Robin Durrant remains in our lives, and under our roof. When he is here, it’s as though Albert is not. Or perhaps, I am not. Am I making sense?

Well. Perhaps you have read about our elementals in the paper? I understand that a couple of the national papers are printing the story now, after the storm of correspondence that followed the publication of the pictures in our local paper. It seems a great many people share your reaction to the photographs, Amy. Mr Durrant has yet to receive official support from the Theosophical Society, which annoys him greatly. He is petitioning them to send somebody to witness another picture being developed, to prove that the images are real. How do I know all this? By listening at doors, dear sister. Yes, in my own home! Albert’s pamphlet fares less well. He has yet to find a book shop to take on a stock of it, and has run an advertisement in the paper instead. He sends out two or three a day by mail order, for three pence apiece
.

I wish you were here, with all my heart; and am also glad that you are not – for I would not wish the atmosphere of this house upon another living soul right now, let alone one as dear as you. But how about you? And your own troubles with Archie? I do so hope you have managed to come back to some state of accord, and that your house is a happier one than mine. I wish I had some advice to give you, but I am fearfully ignorant. I can’t think what advice you will have for me, mine being such an unusual and unwelcome set of circumstances. But if you do have any, please dearest sister, write it soon and send it to me. I am not sure what to do, what not to do, or how much longer I can stand it all
.

With all my love
,

Hester

1911

When the key turns in the lock, there comes such a roaring in Cat’s ears that she fears her head might explode. It doesn’t matter that Mrs Bell’s face is heavy with anxiety and displeasure as she does it. It does not matter that through the window the moon still rises, and sets the glass ablaze with silver light. It does not matter that come morning she will be let out again. None of it matters but that she is a prisoner again, and powerless, and hasn’t the freedom to come or go as she may. She is like The Gentleman’s canary, which tipped its head at him and would not sing. Silence was its last weapon, the last thing of its own that it had control over. Cat’s voice is her last thing. In fear, in rage, she shouts at the door, shouts her throat raw; shouts to be louder than the thumping inside her head. She will not rest, and neither will the household. She hammers her fists against the wood; stamps her feet; curses and swears and sobs. She thinks she is loud, too loud for anybody to ignore. But when at last she slumps, exhausted, to the floor, she can hear Sophie Bell’s snores, sawing gently from two doors down the hall.