Mindsight

He leaned back against the tree, arms folded, and looking down at the crumbled soil as he stirred it with the toe of his trainer. The whole wood seemed to have gone silent.

‘But, Tom, this doesn’t mean I don’t want to know exactly what happened that night. So will you give me some time to think about your ideas and to try to remember more?’

I almost said I needed to find out who could have supplied me with the stuff at the reception, but it was better if he didn’t start thinking that way.

He nodded and I gestured with my head that we should start back. Then took a chance and put my arm through his. He tensed at my touch. Careful, careful. ‘You can help me, Tom. Just give me time.’

‘OK.’

Then we walked back together through the cool, silent wood while phantoms from the past played and laughed around us.

Back at the flat, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tommy. My mind churned, veering from a kind of happiness to the sort of despair that makes you want to beat your head against a wall. And I did slam over and over into the pillow, pummelling it into a solid lump. I got up twice to use the toilet, then for water and finally to make a mug of tea that sat growing cold beside me as I stared up at the ceiling.

Night is the worst time in prison. That’s when you hear the sobs and the groans, the shouts of, ‘Shut up, you bitch, and let me sleep.’ It’s then you relive and regret, not in the therapy groups with a gentle voice saying you can rebuild your life. It’s your own voice that curses you as a pariah; a leper who would be better off dead.

At first I tried to remember what happened that night; to piece together fragments that came to me, sometimes awake, sometimes in dreams. Some things were constant: the dark road, the grey shadows overhead, the flashing light, but were they memories, or just images patched together from what I’d been told? After a while it didn’t matter because I didn’t want to remember. But now maybe I would have to if that were the only way to help Tom. And if I didn’t know why I’d done it, how could I be sure it wouldn’t happen again? How could I trust myself to be a real mother once more?

Apart from those horrible fragments, my memory of the day ended hours before the accident. Emily and I were close in age and we’d always been good friends. In fact, because of the five years between me and Alice, I’d probably been closer to Emily when we were kids.

Her husband, Matt’s, family owned a farm in Cumbria and the wedding was held there. Alice was a junior doctor in Newcastle, but we lived close to Dad in Kent. Most of the guests were planning to stay at a country house hotel and, when I said Steve and I couldn’t possibly afford a place like that, Dad offered to treat us. I agreed, on condition he let me pay him back by doing all the driving.

I remembered the journey to the church along sunny, twisting lanes edged by glassy streams and brilliant fields. Then, like a TV with a faulty signal, the picture stuttered and disappeared to be replaced by flashes and bursts of noise.

As those images played over and over in my head I wanted only to push them away just as I’d always done over the past few years. But I couldn’t let myself do that any more.

I got up and went into the living room where the card from Emily and Matt was still standing beside the laptop. I switched on, found Emily’s email address in the notebook Alice had left for me, and sent a message. I kept it short, just telling Emily how pleased I was to get her card. I wouldn’t blame her if she was still upset with me, but I’d love to see her. I gave her my home and mobile phone numbers, added three kisses, deleted two, and pressed send before I could change my mind.

Something woke me and I lay confused for a moment. Then a loud buzz came from the direction of the living room. I had no idea what it was and sat up in bed, switching on the light. Nearly 2 a.m. That metallic buzz again. Oh, God, it was my door buzzer. I clutched my dressing gown round me. Whoever it was couldn’t get in; they were outside the big main door, not in the hall. In the living room I stood in the darkness, away from the grey rectangles of light from the windows. Another buzz. It must be one of the other tenants, who’d forgotten their key. On the next buzz I picked up the intercom phone, but didn’t speak.

A rasping cough, then, ‘Come on, open up. I know you’re in there.’

I rammed the phone back on its holder, as if it was on fire, grabbed my mobile, and locked myself in the bathroom. Who could I ring? Certainly not the police, and Alice couldn’t help. Instead, I huddled on the floor, my back against the bath, pulling my dressing gown close. I didn’t dare turn on the light or go back to the bedroom in case he came round to my window.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, longer each time. They seemed to go on forever, but finally fell silent.

Who the hell was it? My case had made the papers, five years ago, mainly because of the recent scandal involving Dad’s firm. During my trial I was presented as a druggie debutante, a spoiled little rich girl, too reckless even to care about her own child, and I’d received plenty of hate mail. What if someone was out to make good those threats? Or maybe a reporter was trying to track me down?

After a while, the silence let me slide back the lock and creep to the bedroom. I switched off the light and shivered under the duvet trying to relax, even to sleep.

But now there was another noise. Not a buzzing this time, but an insistent tap, tap, tap on my own front door.

Somehow he’d got into the hall.

Chapter Five (#uf21d16fd-0341-5437-93b7-8958132b95f9)

In the living room again, I told myself the door was double-locked and the chain was on. I was safe. And I knew how to look after myself: had to learn that in prison.

The tapping again. ‘Clare, are you there? It’s OK, he’s gone. It’s just me, Nic, from across the hall.’

I put my ear to the door. No sounds of movement or even breathing. I checked the chain and opened the door a crack. Just her, in a shiny blue dressing gown. Behind her the door to her own flat was half-open. She gave me a nervy smile, pulling her fingers through her untidy fair hair.

‘Sorry about all that, Clare, it was my ex. He was so drunk he started ringing the wrong bell. I heard him shouting and realised what he’d done, but I didn’t dare come out till he was gone.’

I leant one shoulder on the wall, trying to speak calmly. ‘Is he dangerous?’

She looked down, kicking the door jamb with her slipper. ‘Oh no, but I didn’t want him waking Molly. And there would only have been an argument.’

I began to close the door, but Nicola held up her hand. ‘Look, I won’t get back to sleep for ages. What about coming over to mine for a drink?’

There was little chance of me sleeping either, but I shook my head. ‘I’ve got work in the morning.’

‘Come on, just one. I’m feeling really jittery. And I owe you one for putting up with him without calling the police.’

I didn’t tell her there was no chance I’d ever do that, but I felt jittery too. It might do me good to relax for a bit and talk to someone who knew nothing about my past. I grabbed my keys from beside the door. ‘OK.’

Nicola’s flat was a messier mirror image of mine. She gestured to me to sit on the red sofa covered in crumpled cushions and called from the kitchen. ‘White wine OK for you?’

‘Thanks.’

She handed me a large glass filled to the top. The first sip made me feel calmer and I leaned back, while Nicola perched on the edge of the matching armchair. ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘I don’t sleep well anyway, what with sharing the bedroom with Molly and worrying he might turn up in the middle of the night.’ She must have seen something in my expression because she flushed and took a deep drink. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Clare, he really isn’t violent, just a fucking nuisance – pardon my language.’

‘Is he Molly’s dad?’

‘Yeah, and she loves him so much. Kids need their dads, don’t they? So I can’t cut him out of our lives altogether. It’s just when he’s had a skinful or been on the skunk or something stronger.’

I smiled and concentrated on my wine. I’d noticed the smell of hash when I came in, so wondered if he’d been here earlier, and come back after she’d thrown him out. Or had she been smoking too. It was none of my business of course, but I didn’t want to be anywhere near people who might interest the police or cause my probation officer to have doubts.

Nicola was talking on about Molly, and the nursery, and about her own job at the council offices. ‘Dead boring, but if they make me redundant I won’t be able to stay here for long. What about you? You said you’re at work in the morning.’

There was no way out of it. ‘I’m part time at the florist’s up the road.’

‘That’s nice. And I’ve met your sister, what about other family?’

I needed to shut this down and I was amazed to see I’d finished my wine. I faked a yawn. ‘Sorry, Nicola. I’m really tired so I’d better try to get a few hours’ sleep. Thanks for the drink.’

She followed me to the door. ‘No, thank you, babe. Let’s get together again soon, eh?’ As I reached my door she stayed watching me then leaned out, pointing to a small table by the main door. ‘Hey, I’ve just thought. Are you Clare Glazier?’

I swallowed, oh God she’d guessed, but before I could speak she’d picked up an envelope from the table. ‘Mrs C Glazier,’ she read. ‘Sorry I put it there yesterday. It’s where we leave the mail. Didn’t realise that was your surname.’ My smile must have made my feelings obvious. ‘Good news?’ Nic said.

‘Yes, it’s from an old friend.’ I knew the distinctive hand at once and my heart lifted. Lorna – my godmother. Of course, I knew she’d be in touch.

I thanked Nicola and went back into the flat, ripping the envelope apart before I was even through the door. As always, the paper smelled of Lorna’s perfume, mingled, it seemed to me, with a waft of fresh air from her garden. She was the only one, apart from Alice, I’d let visit me in prison. She was a real old-fashioned letter writer and I’d treasured every one of her notes and cards, as well as the long letters she sent when she knew I was in need of something more.

This was quite short, although set out as perfectly as ever and I smiled, remembering how she always insisted personal letters must be handwritten, never word processed, and there was no excuse for slapdash presentation even in a casual note.

Dearest Clare,

I’m so happy to know you’re back in the land of the living with us and I can’t wait to see you.