The Stranger Within (8 page)

              “They’ve been here again, you know,” he says, turning to me. “All night, they talk and whisper about me. I can’t make out what they’re saying but I know it’s not good.”

              This is what I fear the most. If I humour him it feeds his paranoia, but what choice do I have? Telling him he’s mistaken only ends up in an argument.

              “I’ll talk to them,” I say, falling back onto the worn sofa. “I’ll tell them to stop.”

              Dad frowns and places his mug back on the coffee table. “Don’t be ridiculous, Caroline, they won’t listen to you. They don’t listen to anyone. They just keep on and on.” He turns back to the television. “They better not interrupt my football game.”

              Now that his focus is back on the invisible match, I tell him I’m going to clean the flat, and begin my search for cleaning products. I only brought a few today and no matter how many I buy, they have always disappeared by the following week. “You can’t trust them,” Dad says when I question him. “They take all kinds of things.”

              For the next hour I scrub, dust and vacuum, taking out my anger on the filthy surfaces of the flat. I wonder how Dad fills his days when I’m not here. Does he just stare at his reflection in the television all day? What kind of life is this? By the time I start on the bathroom I have convinced myself that the only peace he will ever get is when he’s asleep.

              Wiping down the cabinet mirror, I am startled when the door springs open and several white packets drop to the floor. I don’t know what I’m most shocked about: the fact that I’ve caused this mess or the fact that Dad’s cabinet is unlocked. He always locks it, claiming that
they
will snoop through his personal items if he doesn’t. I scoop up one of the packets and study the label. They are Dad’s pills. But he shouldn’t have so many packets. I check one and it’s from three months ago.

              “Dad? What’s going on?” I stand in front of the television, waving one of the packets in front of him. “Why haven’t you been taking your pills?” Dumping the other packs on the coffee table, I wait for him to explain himself.

              But he doesn’t even flinch, continuing to stare ahead as if I’m invisible. I try a different approach and kneel in front of him. “Please, Dad, you need to take them. Just take a couple now. I’ll get you some water.” I stroke his hand, his rough, calloused skin feeling like sandpaper. I will need to speak to Jenny about this; clearly Dad’s been fooling us both.

              He turns to me and his eyes seem to soften. I begin to stand again but then he opens his mouth and bellows, louder than I’ve ever heard him, his voice shattering the silence of the flat.

“Get out! Get the fuck out of my house!”

When I get home, I am surprised to find James is already home from work, sitting on the sofa with his laptop perched on his knees. The house is quiet – too quiet – and I can hear the whirr of the laptop fan. “Where are the boys?” I ask.

              James taps on the keyboard but doesn’t look up. “Emma’s taken them to the cinema. I thought you could do with a break.” He looks up at me and his frown lines show me he is struggling with something. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

              I hold out the Sainsbury’s carrier bags I’m still holding. “Traffic was bad and I forgot the list. Had to try and remember everything. I stopped for a coffee as well.” This is not exactly a lie, more of an omission.

              He nods and turns back to his laptop. “Why don’t we get a takeaway tonight? It will save you cooking, and Emma said she’d take the boys out for food after their film.”

              “Sounds good,” I say, wishing it was me taking them to the cinema, me with whom they want to spend time.

Sometimes it is easier to ignore things. Push them under the carpet, out of view, and hope they won’t trip you up. This is what I think as I sit cuddled up to James on the sofa, stealing Peking duck from his plate because I’ve already finished my own and I’m still hungry. He playfully nudges me away and shoves the last forkful in his mouth before putting his plate on the floor. I make a grab for him but he wrestles me away and we collapse in a heap. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard but am sure it was more than eight months ago. At this moment I am grateful James doesn’t know the extent of my problems with Dillon and Luke.

              So what he says next surprises me. “You know all you had to do yesterday evening was call me. I would have made them eat.”

              I freeze, my mouth half-open because I am still in the middle of a laughing fit.

              He continues without waiting for an answer. “I’ve been thinking about it all day and I just don’t know what to do. I’ve talked to them till I’m blue in the face but they’re still giving you trouble. Aren’t they?”

              I remember the boys late last night, scurrying around in the kitchen when they thought I was asleep. “I, um…” I trail off when I see James’ expression. This is harder for him than it is for me. He is stuck in the middle.

              “I’ll talk to them again, tell them we won’t tolerate any more nonsense. We’ve got to keep trying, haven’t we?”

              Hearing this, something inside me snaps. “I
am
trying, James. Every day I try to make this work, try to be a mother to them. It’s impossible! Whenever I ask them to do anything, they either ignore me or try to argue. But that’s not the worst of it. They lie and play nasty tricks, they just want me out!” I am too angry to hold back, to keep James from hearing the truth I’ve tried to protect him from, so I tell him everything. And when I get to the part about the overheard conversation, James’ face pales and his eyes drop to the floor.

              The silence in the room is torture, until he eventually speaks. “Are you sure? I need you to be sure about this. There can’t be any doubt if I bring this up with them.”

I nod, but am suddenly unsure of myself. What if I have got it all wrong? What if my mind is playing tricks and I only thought I heard Dillon admitting they planned the accident. Come to think of it, did I even hear him say that? Or have I just jumped to conclusions? I stare at James, already regretting that I’ve brought this up.

“Right, I’ll speak to them as soon as they get back.” His frail voice betrays his shock.

              “James, let’s think about this. Surely confronting them won’t help? We need to think about this carefully. Besides, they’ll just deny it, of course.”

“Callie, I don’t understand. I’m trying to help but now you’re saying I shouldn’t? You’ve told me now so I can’t just pretend I don’t know. If they planned the accident…well… I won’t have that kind of appalling behaviour. Let me talk to them, okay?”

“But don’t you realise that does no good? You’ve spoken to them already, several times, and they still make life impossible!” My voice gets louder, and even to my own ears I sound unreasonable.

              James grabs my hand. “I told you, I’ll sort this and they will be punished. I’ve had enough, and this is the worst of it. I know they’ve been through hell but it’s no excuse. Lauren would…” He trails off.

              And then, without thinking, I ask him the question I don’t want to know the answer to, don’t want him to think about. “But what if it never changes? What then?”

              Our eyes meet and there is something different in the way he looks at me. I have opened a floodgate and will not be able to avoid what comes through it. I also realise something else: the boys have a permanent position in James’ life, whereas mine is not so secure.

Chapter Nine

Days pass and the house is shrouded in a frosty atmosphere. There is tension between James and the boys, and I feel responsible, even though James would never say so. He grounded them for a few days and took away their PlayStation but I should have kept my mouth shut, like I’d planned to, and sorted it out for myself, instead of making the situation worse. Things just aren’t right, and I am certain we both feel it.

              Even sex between us has become strained. Both of us go through the motions with our bodies, but we are disconnected somehow. It’s as if we hope to fill a gap with an act that leaves us feeling even emptier afterwards. Perhaps we are both scared that if we leave it too long our desire will fade. And where would that leave us? But I am not without hope that this fog will lift. For all of us.

I am stir-crazy today, full of energy I need to expend. The boys leave for school and for a few hours my time is my own. I’ve been working tirelessly on my new module and need to give myself a day off. I don’t want to burn out and begin questioning what I’m doing. This course is the one thing in my life that is going well at the moment.

But standing in the hallway to gather up the letters the postman has shoved through the door, it occurs to me that there is something I could do to make things better. It doesn’t matter whether or not Dillon and Luke appreciate my gesture, it only matters that I don’t give up.

So I change into some old clothes, already splattered with paint, and spend the morning replacing my yellow walls with Lauren’s snow-white shade. With every brush stroke, I imagine what these walls have seen: James, Lauren and the boys, happy together. A real family. There will have been laughter and all the noise a family should make, none of the tense silences now characterising our home.

It should be enough that James is happy, that he made the choice to be with me, to marry me. But it’s not. Not when his first choice will always be Lauren. It is strange to think it but I probably would have liked her. From everything I’ve heard people say about her – and there is no shortage of participants eager to share their stories – she sounds like a woman it would have been impossible to hate. James insists she was far from perfect and her need for control exasperated him, but she was just
right
for him. I can tell from their family pictures that what lies beneath the surface of smiles and poses is something pure. How can I compete with that? No photos of the four of us exist; the boys would rather be skinned alive than stand in such proximity to me.

But you are here now. That’s all that matters. Isn’t it?

The afternoon is almost over by the time I’ve finished painting and clearing up, but I have done the right thing. Dillon is taking Luke straight to football after school so I’ll have even more time to myself. James insists the boys aren’t coming home first because they want to go to homework club but he is just trying to see the best in them. I suppose that’s what any father would do.

I have worked up an appetite and crave chocolate and crisps so I head to the shop, pretending I can’t see Mrs Simmons pulling her net curtain aside and watching me from her window.

As desperate as I am for junk food, I now have no idea what I want to eat. I walk aimlessly up and down the aisles, picking items up before putting them down again when they don’t feel right. The cashier eyes me from behind the counter and doesn’t smile when I look up at him. I know he just wants me to hurry up and make a purchase, but once again I’m finding it difficult to make a decision. About something as insignificant as food. I sigh at my stupidity.

Finally I give up and head to the bakery next door. But the same thing happens and with even more choice in front of me, I still cannot make a decision. I look at the young woman behind the counter; she is busy taking some pasties out of the small oven by the back wall, but it won’t be long before she’s exasperated like the man in the shop.

“I’ll have a sausage roll, cheese pastry, ham salad roll and pork pie,” I say to her back. She spins around and begins gathering up what I have asked for, probably assuming I am collecting an order for family or work colleagues. “Oh, and an apple turnover and chocolate doughnut,” I add, fishing in my purse for some change.

When I reach home, Mrs Simmons is still at her window, this time holding the curtains as far back as she can manage and waving frantically to get my attention. I wave back and she points to her right, jabbing her finger towards my house.

There is someone on the front doorstep. I take a step closer and am surprised to see it is Dillon’s friend, Rhys. Seeing me, he stands up, pulling his headphones from his ears and stuffing them in his pocket.

“Hi, Mrs Harwell. Sorry, I was just waiting for Dillon but he’s not home yet.”

Feeling apprehensive, I walk towards the door and fumble in my bag for my keys. “He’s gone with Luke to football practice today. Didn’t he tell you?”

Rhys steps aside to let me pass, heaving his rucksack onto his back. “Oh, yeah. But I thought that was later? I was going to give him a quick lesson before then.”

He seems genuinely disappointed and I begin to relax. I am so used to the boys’ tricks that I am always on edge, but there is something about Rhys I trust. He is different to Dillon. More mature and calm. Maybe being a little older helps. I can’t imagine this kind-looking boy being cruel or malicious, but I still won’t let down my guard.

“He won’t be back for a while,” I say. I have forgotten till now that Rhys is teaching Dillon to play the guitar. It might not make sense but perhaps this is another reason I believe he is being genuinely nice.

“Okay.” He nods but makes no move to leave. “What’s in the bag?”