The Stranger Within (7 page)

Dinner is an ordeal, and all hopes of Rhys’ visit having diluted Dillon’s behaviour evaporate the minute I put their plates in front of them. “It’s burnt,” Luke moans, pushing the perfectly cooked fish around his plate. “And I hate beans. Dad never gives us beans.” I wonder how anyone, even a child Luke’s age, can look someone directly in the eyes while lying so blatantly; the beans are only in the fridge because Luke insisted they’re his favourite vegetable.

Next to him, Dillon clicks away on his BlackBerry, not acknowledging that there is any food in front of him. I don’t know what’s worse: the silent treatment or the malicious complaining.

I should be used to this by now, my skin should be thickened against anything they throw my way, but this is far from the case. I want to scream at them to eat their food, to stop being ungrateful, to stop causing me this pain. But instead, I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice calm. “Eat your food.”

Luke reaches for his fork but Dillon shoves his arm aside, sending it crashing to the floor. “Come on,” he says, grabbing his brother and leading him away. “We don’t have to listen to her.”

Blinking back tears, I watch as they rush upstairs, to whatever it is they do in their bedrooms.

Later, when I am in bed, James still not home, I hear someone foraging around in the kitchen. I should feel sorry that the boys have gone to bed hungry and are resorting to scavenging like thieves. But I’m not. I smile because they have brought this on themselves.

Chapter Seven

Now

“Do you often have angry thoughts, Callie?”

              DS Connolly places his hands together, resting them under his chin, his elbows balanced on the table like the pillars of a goal post.

              “No. I mean, not before then, no. But the boys were driving me to despair. Can’t you understand that? I just wanted to look after them but they kept pushing me away, testing me, doing everything they could to make my life miserable.”

              He nods, offering up a half-smile before shuffling through his notes. “Tell us about the accident.”

              It was inevitable this would come up so I am prepared for it. “There are so many different versions of this story, DS Connolly, so many fabrications, but I’m going to tell you the real one. I have nothing left to lose, do I?”

              Both officers lean forward in their chairs, as if I am their entertainment, an actress they’re watching in a theatre.

              “James and I had only been married a few weeks and the boys were…well, it was difficult for them. You see, I hadn’t lived there before the wedding and they hadn’t known me as their dad’s partner for very long, so it was hard for all of us. But I hadn’t lost my spirit then. I was still determined to support them and make things work. And I hadn’t seen the worst of the boys yet.” My arm begins to itch and I scratch at it, relishing the painful respite my nails scraping my skin gives me.

              “I had just driven back from a tutorial. Normally I would have walked to the station or got a bus, but I was running late that day so had to drive. Mrs Simmons was watching the boys. Anyway, we don’t have a driveway so I was reversing the car into a space just outside the house when someone appeared from nowhere on a bike. Suddenly I was backing into him, but by the time I slammed on the break, the damage was done. I had reversed into Luke and broken his arm. They said he was lucky it hadn’t been worse.” I stare at the table, reliving the pain of the memory.

              The officers turn to each other once more, a look passing between them. I know without them speaking what it means. They don’t believe it was an accident. Yet they will be confused because I have no need to lie now.

              Ignoring their disbelief, I continue my story. “Dillon appeared, shouting from the house, and I should have realised he didn’t look shocked. He just said calmly that he was calling his dad to tell him what I’d done. You see, that’s what’s strange, DS Connolly. The fact that Dillon was so relaxed about his brother lying writhing on the road. It only made sense once I’d heard their conversation that night. They planned the whole thing. Or Dillon did. He is always the one in charge, treating Luke like his little lapdog. He didn’t even suggest calling the ambulance, I did that myself once I’d checked Luke was conscious.”

              DS Connolly scribbles something in his notebook. “And your husband believed it was an accident?”

              “Yes, he did. Despite Dillon’s best efforts to convince everyone I’d done it on purpose. Despite our neighbour saying she saw the whole thing and it looked intentional. I don’t know what she thought she saw, but she got it wrong.”

              That shared look again, officer to officer, a secret language only they can interpret. But I shouldn’t worry about this, it is probably for the best.

“Are you on any medication?” DS Connolly asks, his question once again out of the blue.

“No…I…”

He scans a sheet of paper he’s pulled from the pile in front of him. “But you should be, shouldn’t you? Doctors have been worried about you showing early signs of bipolar disorder. Isn’t that right?”

“I’ve been okay for a while. I’ve been fine. Until now.” I hasten to explain. “I wasn’t being reckless, I just wanted to manage it myself, especially as it wasn’t so advanced. Isn’t. I don’t know which.”

“You’ve been without help for the last few years?” DS Connolly says.

I could hold back now, but they already know the worst of what I have done. “Yes, I’ve been trying. Being with James helped. Getting married, becoming a mum. But I wasn’t always so strong. In fact, with my ex, Max, I fell apart. I drove him away with my…behaviour.”

The female officer speaks up and somehow I remember her name is DC Barnes. “And what behaviour was that?”

“I…um…I got into a bit of trouble, spending more than I earned, getting into debt.” A memory flashes through my head. Max cutting up seven of my credit cards, his face a picture of despair, telling me I was irrational, that I couldn’t see things clearly, insisting he wanted to help me but how could he when I wouldn’t help myself? Telling me he didn’t know how to handle my mood swings. I shove the thought aside. “But James took all my pain away. Just by loving me, he helped me get healthier.”

Glancing at her colleague, DC Barnes frowns. “That doesn’t exactly appear to be the case, does it?”

“You help look after your Dad, don’t you?” DS Connolly interjects, saving me from answering her hidden accusation. “And I understand he has schizophrenia? Wouldn’t you say that’s reason enough to take your pills?”

“I’m not my Dad,” I say. It comes out in almost a whisper but neither officer asks me to repeat myself.

“Was James supportive?” DS Connolly asks, furiously scribbling again.

“He…until tonight he didn’t know about Dad. About me. Any of it.”

The detective’s eyes widen, judgement pouring out. The kind man I saw glimpses of earlier is slowly disappearing.

“Let me ask you something,” I continue. “Do you ever keep secrets from your wife?”

He shakes his head. “No, can’t say I do.”

“But you would to spare her pain, wouldn’t you? To protect your marriage? You’d do it to keep her happy. Well, that’s what I was doing. I didn’t want James to suffer, to carry my burden for me. So he couldn’t know about Dad. I couldn’t let him see what I might become.”

DS Connolly stops writing and chews his pen. “But didn’t you also believe there was a chance he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, stand by you? You didn’t want to take that risk, did you? You were scared of losing him.”

“Yes, yes, I was. Terrified.”

Chapter Eight

There is a lump in my throat as I stand outside Dad’s door, pressing the buzzer to his flat. No matter how many times I visit, being here in Palmers Green, on the other side of London, always feels odd. It’s not like coming home because we never lived here. Dad is Wimbledon born and bred, so I have no clue what made him suddenly decide to cross the river into unfamiliar territory. People who aren’t from London may not understand it. London is London, they will say, but that’s not true.

I come every week, without fail, when Dad’s health worker, Jenny, isn’t here to keep him company, and each visit blends into the next. Especially this part, when I am waiting at the door, unsure of what to expect. The four plastic carrier bags I carry are loaded with groceries and their handles cut into my palms.

The blue paint on the door is chipped, the intercom red with rust, and weeds creep up the walls, as if trying to escape from a prison. I used to wonder if that’s how Dad felt, but it can’t be; he is not aware of his shackles.

I am not surprised that he hasn’t noticed the front garden – if you could call it that – declining, but surely his neighbours have? There are five flats in this building so how is it possible nobody cares? The small consolation is the beautiful park on the other side of the road. Dad’s front window overlooks it but the view is lost on him.

              Finally the intercom hisses with static, followed by Dad’s voice, loud and severe. “Yes? Who is it?” It is the same each week, no variation from these four words.

              I try to swallow the lump, but it’s firmly lodged in my throat. “Dad, it’s me. Callie.” I should say Caroline. He hates me shortening my name. There is the usual silence that comes after I’ve announced myself and, as I wait, I look around to check nobody is watching. It doesn’t look good to loiter on someone’s doorstep. Finally the door groans and clicks and I am inside, heading up the stairs to Dad’s flat, wondering what will greet me at the top. It doesn’t matter when Jenny was last here; Dad only needs a few hours to get the place in a state.

              It is a while before he opens his door so I know today won’t be a good day. I always judge what to expect by how long he takes to open up and let me in. “Oh, it is you. I thought it was. Come in, come in.” He stands aside and I step into the stale, smoke-filled hallway. I was only here last week, wiping down floors, walls and surfaces, spraying vanilla air freshener in every room. But it’s never enough to eradicate years of smoke and neglect. “Be a love and put the kettle on,” he says, heading into the living room. “I’m parched. I’ll be watching the footy.”

              I long to hug him but I can already sense he is jittery and unsettled so I don’t. It wouldn’t be a proper hug anyway, one where it’s possible to feel his love, so it’s not a great loss. But still I long to hug my dad.

              The kitchen is already filthy. Dirty pots and pans are precariously stacked in the sink and there are scattered breadcrumbs and pools of milk on the worktops. It’s hard to believe this is a couple of day’s worth of mess.

              I clean up as best I can and make two cups of tea, trying to ignore the permanent brown stains in the mugs that no amount of bleach will remove.

              Mum would have hated to see Dad like this. She couldn’t bear the sight of a crumb or speck of dust, so this would have sent her packing even if she hadn’t already left. Even now, in my adulthood, Dad won’t tell me the truth about why she left. But I know. She couldn’t deal with him and the life his illness made them both live. She was a good person, I know she was, but she was pushed to her limit, something I refuse to do to James.

              In the living room, Dad sits in his armchair with his feet on the coffee table, and just for a second he is the father I remember. But then he says, “You don’t mind if I watch the footy, do you? I can still hear you if you want to talk.” I glance at the television and it isn’t even switched on, the black screen coated with a thick layer of dust.

              We sit in silence for a while, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter. What’s important is that I’m here with him. I am not scared to be alone with Dad because underneath whatever has taken control of his mind, he is still the father I love.

              “So what’s new in Caroline’s life? he asks, his eyes still fixed on the blank television. He always uses this third person address when he asks me questions, but it is something else I’ve grown used to.

              If we were any other father and daughter I would be able to tell Dad everything I’ve been struggling with for the last eight months. He would hold my hand and nod along while I explain how Dillon and Luke have frozen me out since the day I married James. That they want to be rid of me. And that I’m holding onto this life by a thread. He would tell me what to do, his advice delivered in clear instructions that, once followed, would solve everything. But even if he was having a clear day, how could I tell him my troubles when neither he nor James knows the other exists?

              “Everything’s fine, Dad,” I say. I have become an expert at feeding this lie to the people I care about, as if it is programmed into me, only requiring the press of a button.

              He lifts his mug and takes a long sip, still staring at the television. For the first time I notice a red stain on the front of his shirt and I stand up, moving towards him to get a closer look, preparing myself to see blood. But it’s only ketchup or something else Dad has eaten. It saddens me to see him in this state; he was a dignified man when I was a child, or at least that’s how I remember him. I make a note to try and get him into a clean shirt before I leave, but I don’t fancy my chances.