Читать книгу Mindsight - Chris Curran - Страница 7

The phone jolted me from sleep and I sat up, hugging my arms tight around my knees.

‘Hello Clare, it’s me. Are you there?’

I grabbed the handset. ‘Alice, your name didn’t register.’

‘I’m ringing from the surgery. I can’t talk long. Just wanted to check you were all right.’

‘I’m fine. What time is it?’

‘Half past eight. Try to get out for a bit today, won’t you. A walk will do you good.’

‘I should go and see your friend in the flower shop.’

‘Don’t rush it. I told Stella not to expect you immediately. Why not start by meeting your neighbours. The ones I talked to seemed lovely.’

In the end, I couldn’t get myself through the door. Still wearing the musty T-shirt I’d slept in, I switched on the TV and curled on the sofa in front of it, dozing and waking, dozing and waking. According to the weather forecast, it was the hottest heatwave since 1976, and when I opened the windows, all that came in was steaming air and the screeches of the gulls. I made tea and toast I didn’t finish, wanting only to sleep again.

Around four o’clock, I found myself staring at the phone. I picked it up, put it down, then tried again. At the third or fourth attempt I began to dial the number, but halfway through, I clicked to disconnect and threw the handset onto the other end of the sofa, as far from me as it would go. Then I dragged myself back to bed, pressing my face into the pillow. You coward, you fucking coward.

I didn’t leave the flat for three days. When I wasn’t huddled on the sofa or in bed, I was in the bathroom, standing under the shower, letting the water soak into me, through me, washing out the filth of five years.

Alice rang every morning, and on the second day I lied that I was going for a walk later on. Each afternoon, around four, I would sit and stare at the phone, my hands clammy, mouth dry. Once or twice I started to dial. Once, I even let it ring for half a second before clicking to disconnect, my whole body shaking.

On the fourth morning I made myself get up early, glad to see that, at last, the sun had disappeared and a light curtain of rain made the outdoors more kindly, easier to hide in. I knew I had to get out and I needed to find something decent to wear to visit the florist’s. I’d been watching and listening for my neighbours; the flat across the hall from mine seemed to be occupied by a young woman with a small child. My kitchen overlooked the front garden and I saw them, through a gap in the blinds, leaving about 8.30 every morning, and coming back around half past five.

Today the woman looked back, fair hair flopping over her face, and I jumped away from the window. It was minutes before I caught my breath, but the silence and the empty front garden reassured me they were safely out of the way.

Alice had said one upstairs flat was empty, but I heard enough from directly above to guess someone was living there: someone who liked jazz and was often walking around in the early hours, but sometimes clumped down the stairs in the morning too.

I stood by my closed front door, listening, and checking my bag yet again. My keys, the most important things of all, were still there, nestled in an inside pocket.

I had the cash Alice had given me on the first day and there was a debit card too. She’d put £5,000 in the account and told me I could have more whenever I needed it. After all, she said, Dad would have wanted that. I wasn’t so sure.

I was still inside, minutes later, with no idea what to do next: it had been so long since I’d been free to walk through a closed door. I made myself turn the knob and peep out. The hall was silent, and I stood for a moment, steadying my breath. A creak from somewhere above had me shutting the door again: leaning my head on it. Come on, come on. Get on with it, you stupid cow.

I forced myself through the hall, stumbling down the garden and out of the gate in one gasping rush. A car roared past, almost brushing me with its wing mirror, and I remembered Alice’s warning about the traffic. There was no pavement here, so hugging the hedge, and unsure whether to look behind or ahead, I scurried down the hill.

The rain had stopped by the time I reached the safety of a narrow pavement and the sun was out again, already hot enough to send filaments of steam from the patches of water on the ground. I didn’t dare go into any of the tiny shops in the Old Town, but it wasn’t far to the modern shopping centre where I could be anonymous. It might have been a pleasant stroll, but I kept my head down, my whole body clenched against anyone coming too close. No one knew me here – one of the reasons, along with the cheap rents, I’d chosen Hastings for my bolthole – but I felt as conspicuous as if I wore a convict suit, complete with arrows. I couldn’t forget the publicity around my trial – the photographers. I was even something of a minor celebrity in Holloway Prison at first, which certainly hadn’t helped.

It was still early, so the shopping mall was almost deserted, but the colours were so bright, the floor so shiny, my eyes were dazzled. I stood still and began to take in the individual shops. Marks and Spencer was in front of me. Yes, that would do, it was big enough for me to pass unnoticed, and empty enough, at this hour, that I wouldn’t have to queue. It would all be over in a few minutes – and then back home.

Inside, it seemed huge, the lights too brilliant. But it was quiet, just a few figures wandering at a safe distance. The rails of clothes, crowded together, gave some shelter and I walked through them, touching the soft cloth of shirts and trousers and avoiding the mirrors.

At last I spotted a few dresses. A blue one looked OK, not my size, but there was another in green that would have to do. Scrabbling with my bag and purse, I tried to replace the dress on the rack, but it didn’t seem to fit. When I let go, it fell to the floor dislodging the blue one and a white cardigan. My breath caught in my throat as I tried to control the clothes, the hangers, my purse, and my bag, and the purse came open in my hand spilling coins onto the floor.

‘That’s all right, dear.’ A waft of perfume as she picked up the bundle of clothes, shaking them and slotting them back in place, then crouched beside me. ‘Can I help?’

‘No.’ I clutched the purse to my chest, knocking her hand away from the scatter of coins.

She flinched, her face flushing under the film of make-up.

I left her there, and the money where it lay, and looked for the exit. I couldn’t think where all these people had come from. I pushed past a woman posing in front of a mirror with a frilly strip of something, and bumped into a pushchair. There were stacks of china and glittering glass around me, as I turned on the spot, terrified to move in case I broke something.

At last, I saw the doors and was able to get out. But the mall was crowded, now, and my ears throbbed with the clamour: squeals of laughter from a group of women, a screeching child in a pushchair, and behind it all the tinkle of piped music.

It was hot, so hot, and, head down to hide the tears that had begun to sting my eyes, I made for the main doors. As I reached them, a teenage boy charged through, bashing hard into my shoulder. The stab of pain brought me back to my senses and I made myself stand for a moment to get my bearings, then headed for the seafront.

On the promenade I stopped, leaned on the rails, and looked out over the calm water, slowing my breath to match each rhythmic sweep of waves back and forth. You’re not in prison anymore, I told myself, and the woman was trying to help you. That’s what people do outside. Five years of learning to fight, to meet aggression with aggression, to show everyone you’re hard so they won’t bully you. To make sure you never let anyone near your precious spends, or your few belongings. That was something I had to unlearn if I was to be fit for normal society.

Back at the house, I felt in my bag for the keys, my breath catching when I couldn’t find them.

‘Here, I’ve got mine out already, let me do it.’ It was the young woman with her pushchair. The red-faced baby, head slumped, asleep.

‘I’m Nicola, Nic, and you must be Alice’s sister. It’s Clare isn’t it? She said you’d be moving in soon.’ I managed a nod as she opened the door and together we dragged the pushchair inside.

‘Honestly, the nursery phones me at work,’ she said. ‘“Your Molly’s been sick you need to come and get her.” By the time I’m there she’s playing and laughing with her little mates, but they still make me take her home. Any excuse.’

Her chatter helped to calm me and I found my keys easily enough.

‘Let’s have a coffee sometime,’ she said, hauling the baby into her arms. The little girl was blonde, like her mother, her hair curling at the nape of her neck, chunky legs hanging down. So vulnerable.

In the flat, I made some tea, cradling the warm mug. Tea was Ruby’s remedy. At one session in prison, the therapist, Mike, asked us to write and read out an account of our lowest moment. For Ruby it was when her pimp threatened her children if she didn’t work that night. She stabbed him. ‘But the kids are safe with my mum and they know I did it for them.’ Mike sat po-faced, as the rest of us clapped.

I couldn’t bring myself to read my account and Ruby told me I needed a cup of tea. I gave her the paper and afterwards there were tears in her eyes to match my own.

I killed my family. That was what I’d written. My father, my husband, and my darling son. And my darkest moment was when I finally had to admit I must have been to blame. I couldn’t remember the crash and although some people thought that should be a comfort, Ruby realised it only added to the agony.

It was my cousin Emily’s wedding day, in the Lake District. I’d never driven Dad’s Mercedes before and I enjoyed the contrast of its smooth comfort to the bumps and grunts of my own rust bucket. But it was further than we’d realised, the roads narrow and winding, and we were only just in time at the small, stone church. It was next to the farm where the reception was to be held, overlooking one of the smaller lakes, and I remembered thinking how beautiful it was; the day one of those cloudless rarities so precious in that part of the world.

Dad sat next to me in the passenger seat and Steve was annoying me by tickling our giggling eight-year-old, Toby. I told my son to calm down; he was going to have to behave in the church. He answered in a voice bubbling with hysteria. ‘Don’t tell me, Mum. It’s Dad’s fault. Tell him.’ And that’s where the memories stopped.

At first I’d hoped, and dreaded, that I would recover the rest eventually, but only the odd flash returned. In hospital, Alice had tried to fill me in on the facts she knew and of course I’d heard plenty more during the trial, but nothing seemed to explain what had happened when I crashed the car on the way back that night, or how I managed to crawl free leaving the others to burn.

Or why my bloodstream had been full of amphetamines.