Don't Turn Around Page 8

  I scan the thumbnails of the videos Geoff has catalogued in chronological order but I’m scared of what I might find and my courage fails. Distracted by the bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, I get up to pour a glass. I glance at the clock. Geoff will be out for another hour at least and preparations for dinner can wait. Something quick and light will do. I’ve lost my appetite and Geoff will have eaten at the golf club. He’s with our Whitespace clients, sweetening them up in case the meeting with the city planners tomorrow doesn’t go our way. It’ll be a disaster if planning approval is turned down. I’d like to say I care, but I don’t.

  There was a time when I took pride in every tender we won and every building we created or restored, but all I see lately are bricks and mortar. I hope this bad humour I’ve fallen into is a passing phase because the helpline is the only thing I care about these days and, even there, I can feel my strength waning. The call I took from Gemma on Friday evening has affected me more than I would like.

  ‘I’ve seen him, Ruth,’ Gemma had confided in me. ‘He’s lost so much weight.’

  It had taken all my self-control to keep the disappointment out of my voice when I replied, ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘That he loves me and he’d die without me.’

  ‘Wasn’t that part of the problem? I remember you saying you found all the attention smothering.’

  ‘I haven’t got back with him,’ Gemma said. ‘Mum would have a fit if I did. It was bad enough when she found out I’d met up with him again.’

  ‘She might not say the right things, but if she’s anything like me, it’s only because she’ll be desperately worried.’

  Gemma snorted. ‘Believe me, she’s nothing like you. Mum does all of the talking and none of the listening. She’s got her own life to lead now, and she’d probably be better off without me holding her back.’

  ‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ I said, my voice breaking as I catch a glimpse of myself through my daughter’s eyes.

  Like Gemma’s mum, all I’d wanted to do was protect my daughter, but as I return to the sofa, I know the video evidence contained on my laptop will confirm how utterly I failed her. By the time I’d realised what kind of a person Lewis was, Meg was on the wrong side of the drawbridge I was attempting to pull up.

  I’m no more equipped to save Gemma, and my growing concern for her welfare has become entangled with memories of my daughter. They both vie for my attention as I set down my glass of wine on the floor and pick up my mobile. As I wait for one of our longest serving volunteers to answer my call, I pull my laptop closer.

  ‘Hi, Ruth. What’s up?’

  ‘Hi, Janet, I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ I ask as I stare at the computer screen, the cursor hovering over a tiny image of Meg sitting alone at a table with anniversary balloons floating in the background. Her head is bent and she’s sulking.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Janet says.

  I move the cursor away from the thumbnail. I don’t want to be reminded of the Band-Aid Meg slapped over my marriage when I can feel the edges peeling away. The next clip is entitled, ‘An Alternative Nativity Play’, but I skip this one too. I’m not looking for a performance. I want to see the real Meg.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ I promise as I move on to a recording labelled ‘Christmas Morning’. ‘I had a message from Alison earlier. She’s come down with a virus and can’t make her Monday shift. I offered to do it, but right now I don’t feel up to it either.’

  ‘Are you sick too?’ Janet asks, concern in her voice.

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ I reply. ‘It’s just that after my shift on Friday, I don’t think I could face another one so soon.’

  There’s a hiss as Janet exhales. ‘Are those nuisance calls bothering you?’

  ‘They are annoying, but no. If there’s anything worrying me, it’s Gemma. You know how Ryan’s been priming her for weeks, causing friction between her and her mum. He’s going to keep going till he gets her back and …’

  My voice trails off as I tap the mousepad and the Christmas video begins to play. I feel a familiar sense of yearning at the sight of my daughter’s face in spite of her sour features. She’s kneeling in front of a tree bedecked with baubles and twinkling lights, opening presents on what would be her second to last Christmas.

  ‘Ruth?’

  As I stare at the flickering screen, I pray that Gemma’s mum will realise the danger her daughter is in before it’s too late. I don’t want her missing the signs that I ignored. The sound is off on the video, but there’s nothing to hear anyway. My daughter had been withdrawing into herself at that point and I watch her open her presents without looking up or saying a word. Meg couldn’t speak up because I was usually too busy talking over her. Fear that I’ll do the same with Gemma rattles my next words.

  ‘If Gemma does call tomorrow, I’m not sure I’m the best person to speak to her,’ I continue. ‘Is there any chance you could cover Alison’s shift?’

  ‘Of course, I will,’ Janet says gently. ‘She’s got to you, hasn’t she?’

  I could lie but if I’m going to talk to anyone, it might as well be one of our own helpline volunteers. ‘It does feel a little too close to home. Ryan has had a difficult life and Gemma sees herself as his saviour, not his victim. If she phones up and says she’s seeing him again, I have this horrible feeling my patience will snap. I won’t be any good to her.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ Janet tells me, before her training kicks in and she responds like a true helpliner. ‘It’s only natural for you to feel the way you do – even I can see the similarities with what you went through with Meg. There’s no reason for you to put yourself in the firing line if you don’t have to, and you don’t have to.’

  ‘Thanks, Janet.’

  ‘We’re a team, Ruth. We’ll get through this together and I’m happy to cover your shifts for as long as you need me to.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a wobble, it won’t last,’ I promise.

  When the call ends, I drop the phone onto a cushion without taking my eyes from the screen. I will Meg to look up, or better still, for the camera to pan around to me so I can reach through the screen and give myself a good shake. ‘Look at her!’ I want to yell. ‘Ask her what’s wrong!’

  But Meg doesn’t look up and the camera zooms in as she unwraps the ceramic heart-shaped pot I’d made for her. Its edges were lopsided but I was proud of it, and I’d wanted Meg to know that her idea for me to take up a hobby had been inspired. The pottery classes had managed to distract me from picking at the scabs of a marriage that was in the process of healing, but from Meg’s glum features, the message doesn’t get through. She looks briefly at the bowl before wrapping it up again.

  What had I been thinking as I watched her set it to one side? I recall being disappointed, and a little annoyed, but I was too busy enjoying life again to acknowledge there was a problem with my daughter that couldn’t be fixed with gentle warnings and stricter house rules. I thought she could be moulded like a piece of clay.

  The video goes blank, my chance to save Meg lost long ago, and despair consumes me. I snap the laptop lid shut and bring my fingers to my lips out of habit. I pulled off my acrylic nails this morning and can feel the rough surface of freshly gnawed cuticle. I’ll draw blood if I carry on chewing so I reach for my drink on the floor, but in my haste, I knock over the glass. It smashes against the porcelain tiles and I curse under my breath. I leap up to fetch a dustpan and brush but as I hurry into the utility room, it’s the memories I’m trying to outrun. They catch me up and I’m no longer thinking about the broken glass as I root out a large box from the back of the store cupboard.

  The collection of hand thrown pots and vases I’d amassed during my pottery classes had been wrapped with care before being buried out of sight. My heart flutters like a trapped bird in a cage as I take the box into the kitchen and unpack the contents, lining up the pieces on the breakfast bar. As I glare at them, an ethereal hand tugs at my arm and pu
lls me back to a memory that wasn’t caught on camera.

  ‘Can I have a lift to Jen’s?’ Meg had asked, grabbing hold of me before I could leave for my evening class.

  I looked past Meg to her father, who had appeared in the hallway with his arms folded. ‘No, Megan, you’re not going out on a school night,’ he said.

  ‘Mum, please. I haven’t got any homework.’

  Geoff raised his eyebrows. We didn’t know about Lewis at the time but we knew from our last parents’ evening that Meg’s first term in sixth form wasn’t going as well as it should. It was her form tutor who dropped hints that there might be competing distractions in Meg’s life and I’d asked my daughter outright if she had a boyfriend. She’d said no, but the blush rising in her cheeks had told another story.

  ‘You must have some work to do, Meg,’ I told her.

  ‘So must you but you’re going out!’

  ‘Megan, do not talk to your mother like that!’ Geoff’s voice boomed. He didn’t lose his temper often but Meg was trying us both.

  ‘Please, Mum. I won’t stay out late. You can pick me up on your way back.’

  I knew she was hiding something. She was a little too desperate to sneak out and I thought how clever I was to be one step ahead of her. ‘No, Meg. Do as your father says. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Fine, go!’ she said. ‘You care more about those stupid pots than you do about me!’

  ‘It was your idea for me to get a hobby!’ I roared as she stomped upstairs.

  After she died, I’d wrapped up the pots with such care because it was Meg who had encouraged me to take up a new interest. Why I’ve kept them hidden is a little less palatable. Meg had wanted Geoff and I to do something together, but he’d shown polite disinterest when I’d mentioned the ballroom dancing. Far from being upset that Geoff didn’t want to come along to the pottery classes either, I’d relished my time alone, escaping my cheating husband and yes, my troublesome teenage daughter.

  Picking up a brightly enamelled fruit bowl, I weigh it in the palm of my hand. It has substance. My daughter does not. Meg was right; I cared for these stupid pots far more than I did her. The bowl wobbles slightly as I raise it over my head and when I launch it at the section of wall between the dresser and the bookcase, I release a grunt like a wild animal. The crash as it explodes on impact fires up my belly and the shattering of broken pottery pieces as they hit the floor is especially rewarding.

  ‘You selfish cow!’ I yell as I hurl the next pot. ‘You couldn’t wait to get out of the house!’ Smash. ‘You didn’t want to spend time with her.’ Crash. ‘You wanted to spend time away from her!’

  Thump!

  Smash!

  ‘What kind of a mother are you? Why didn’t you talk to her? Why didn’t you listen?’ I ask as another pot shatters, then another, and another. I sob, I yell, I plead but I can’t stop. The burning ache in my arms dulls the ache in my heart.

  ‘I’m sorry, Meg. I’m so sorry,’ I cry over and over until there’s only one vase left. Tall and cylindrical, the green and silver glaze had matched the décor in the hallway and had stood pride of place on a window sill so I could look at it every day while I ignored my daughter. Meg had left her suicide note pinned beneath it so we would find it as soon as we came home.

  ‘I didn’t care more about these stupid pots. I didn’t!’ I cry out, issuing a curse as I grab the vase and let it fly. A shower of green and silver ceramic shards rain down onto the floor but the sheath of paper that had been curled tightly around its inner wall takes its time to settle on top of the wreckage.

  I take a deep shuddering breath because I think I might throw up. I recognise the yellow lined paper immediately. It’s a page from Meg’s notepad. Could this be the missing piece of her suicide note that will prove Lewis’s guilt at long last? I don’t move. I don’t dare. I hear the front door opening and I wait for Geoff.

  ‘Oh, my love,’ he whispers as he appears in the doorway. When I don’t respond, he follows my gaze and gasps.

  He takes a step towards the note but I hold up my hand. ‘Let me,’ I tell him as I kneel down on the floor. The jagged edges of broken pottery that slice into my flesh barely register as I lift up the folded piece of paper that has retained the shape of the vessel that kept it hidden. I uncurl it with a sense of reverence, opening one fold, and then another.

  Geoff releases the breath he’s been holding and his voice shakes when he says, ‘It’s not it.’

  The A4 sheet of paper trembling in my hand has no torn edge. It’s nothing more than a piece of Meg’s schoolwork. It has her name written across the top and the title of the essay on English poets she had started to write, but there’s only one paragraph under the Introduction heading and it’s been scored through with two lines and the word ‘fail’ written in capitals between them.

  The disappointment is crushing and I let out a sob as my hope collapses. I feel Geoff’s hand on my shoulder as he crouches down next to me. He reaches to take the note but my grip on it tightens as I read the first line of Meg’s long-abandoned essay. Do you want to know where the space girl goes?

  ‘Wait,’ I tell him. ‘Let me read it.’

  We read it together.

  Do you want to know where the space girl goes? She travels to a secret universe inside her head where the world is just a tiny speck in the distance. As she floats in space, she screams and screams and screams, but no one hears her. No one’s listening. And when the air runs out and she can’t breathe, she’s not scared, not any more. It’s amazing what you can get used to with enough practice. The lungs that burn are in a body she left behind. It’s just a shell and he can have her shell if he wants. She’s happier where she is, feeling nothing, being nothing, while he breaks her one last time. Except it never is the last time.

  10

  Ruth

  It’s a thirty-minute drive to the office and almost every face I see is sombre, including Geoff’s. Hunched over the wheel as the Monday morning traffic crawls along Aigburth Road, he huffs loudly when we come to another stop.

  ‘I don’t understand why we shouldn’t take it to the police,’ I say.

  Geoff keeps his eyes on the taxi cab in front of us. ‘I never suggested we don’t,’ he replies. ‘All I’m saying is don’t expect them to reopen the case.’

  ‘But this proves he hurt her. It’s her writing, her words, and it was written while she was still at school. It’s evidence that she was suffering over a longer period of time. The exam results weren’t the reason she killed herself. Lewis is the reason she killed herself.’

  I see Geoff’s shoulders tense. His thoughts have turned to what we’ve both spent a sleepless night imagining. What did Lewis do to break her over and over again? What was it she was forced to get used to?

  ‘As obvious as it is to us, she doesn’t name him, or herself for that matter. It could have been a creative writing exercise.’

  ‘In an essay on English poets?’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, my love. Honestly, I’m not,’ Geoff says as the traffic moves off again. The car jerks as he crunches the gears. ‘But do we have to talk about this now?’

  ‘I’m sorry you think it’s so unworthy of your time.’

  There’s hurt in his bloodshot eyes when he turns to me. ‘That’s unfair, Ruth. She was my daughter too, and I’m sorry if I’m a coward but I don’t want to think about him with her. Not ever. I wish you’d never found the essay, or whatever it is.’

  ‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry. You’re right, it’s not enough,’ I force myself to admit.

  We lapse into silence as we head towards Otterspool, and as we follow the contours of the river, we ignore each other’s pain. It’s what we do. Geoff didn’t ask me why there were smashed pots all over the kitchen floor when he came home yesterday, and I haven’t mentioned his red-rimmed eyes this morning. It works for us. Ignorance might not be bliss but it could be worse.

  ‘Are you worried about the meeting with the city pl
anners?’ I ask as we join a new queue of traffic on the Strand.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ve done enough with the revised design.’

  ‘If anyone can persuade them to put it through for approval, it’s you.’

  ‘I’ll need your help.’

  ‘At the meeting? I assumed you’d go on your own and I have other work to do this morning. I want to finish off the extension plans for Selina’s refuge. She needs something she can share at the fundraiser on Saturday.’

  ‘But it’s only a loft conversion. Can’t you get someone else to do it?’

  ‘I want to do it,’ I insist. It’s the one design job I’m still passionate about and the only thing right now that could help take my mind off my space girl. ‘Honestly, Geoff, you don’t need me there. I might have come up with the suggestions but you’re the one who revised the plans. You know it better than I do, and Jen could always go with you to take notes.’

  ‘This project is important to us,’ he reminds me.

  ‘I know,’ I say, when what I really want to ask is why he’s ready to give it all up if it is that important. As I nibble the torn cuticle on my fingers, a picture forms of my two irrepressible granddaughters.

  Geoff catches me chewing my nails and releases a sigh. ‘OK, fine. Leave the planners to me. I can manage.’

  As we turn into Mann Island and drive across the concourse to the underground car park, I wonder why I’m putting myself through this when Geoff has put an alternative life on the table.

  ‘Is that Jennifer?’ asks Geoff.

  I follow his gaze and catch sight of a young woman shuffling along the road from the direction of the waterfront. Geoff slows the car but Jen has her head hung low and she doesn’t see us.