Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Scum!’

I make out an angry twisted mouth and a pair of enormous hooped earrings that swing from side to side. The woman makes a primitive sound at the back of her throat, then spits the glutinous result at my face. I turn my face just in time, and feel the warm saliva land on my neck and slide beneath the collar of my coat. It shocks me as much as if she had punched me, and I cry out and hide my face behind raised arms, waiting for the next offensive.

‘Justice for Jacob! Justice for Jacob!’

I feel an arm grip my shoulder and I tense, twisting away and looking frantically for a way out.

‘Let’s take the scenic route, shall we?’

It’s DI Stevens, his face grim and determined as he pulls me firmly back up the steps and into the court. He lets go of me once we are safely past security, but doesn’t say anything, and I follow him mutely through a set of double doors and out into a quiet courtyard at the back of the courts. He gestures towards a gate.

‘That’ll take you into the bus station. Are you all right? Is there anyone I can call for you?’

‘I’m fine. Thank you – I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.’ I close my eyes for a second.

‘Bloody vultures,’ DI Stevens says. ‘The press argue they’re doing their job, but they won’t stop till they get a story. As for the protesters – well, let’s just say there are a couple of soap-dodgers in that lot with placards like revolving doors; doesn’t matter what the issue is, you’ll find them on the court steps protesting about it. Don’t take it personally.’

‘I’ll try not to.’ I smile awkwardly and turn to leave, but he stops me.

‘Ms Gray?’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you ever lived at 127 Grantham Street?’

I feel the blood drain out of my face and I force a smile on to my face.

‘No, Inspector,’ I say carefully. ‘No, I’ve never lived there.’

He nods thoughtfully, and raises one hand to say goodbye. I look over my shoulder as I walk through the gate and see that he is still standing there, watching me.

Much to my relief, the train to Swansea is nearly empty, and I sink back into my seat and close my eyes. I’m still shaking from my encounter with the protesters. I look out of the window and breathe a sigh of relief to be heading back to Wales.

Four weeks. I have four weeks left before I go to prison. The thought is unimaginable, and yet it couldn’t be more real. I call Bethan and tell her I will be home tonight after all.

‘You got bail?’

‘Till March seventeenth.’

‘That’s good. Isn’t it?’ She is confused by my lack of enthusiasm.

‘Have you been down to the beach today?’ I ask Bethan.

‘I took the dogs along the clifftop at lunchtime. Why?’

‘Was there anything on the sand?’

‘Nothing that isn’t there usually,’ she said, laughing. ‘What were you expecting?’

I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m beginning to doubt that I ever saw the letters in the first place. ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you in a little while.’

When I get to Bethan’s she invites me to stop and eat, but I wouldn’t make good company, and I excuse myself. She insists on sending me home with something, so I wait while she spoons soup into a plastic tub. It’s almost an hour later when I finally kiss her goodbye, and take Beau along the path to the cottage.

The door has warped so much in the bad weather that I can neither turn the key nor open it. I drive my shoulder into the wood and it gives a fraction, enough to free the lock and enable me to turn the key, which now spins uselessly in the mechanism. Beau begins to bark furiously, and I tell him to be quiet. I suspect I’ve broken the door, but I’m past caring. Had Iestyn come to mend the door when I first told him it was sticking, it might have been a simple job. Now my constant forcing of the key in the lock has made more work for him.

I pour Bethan’s soup into a saucepan and put it on the range, leaving the bread on the side. The cottage is cold and I look for a jumper to put on, but there’s nothing downstairs. Beau is agitated, running from side to side in the sitting room, as though he’s been away far longer than twenty-four hours.

There’s something different about the stairs today, and I can’t place it. It wasn’t yet fully dark when I came inside, and yet there’s no light coming from the tiny window at the top of the stairs. Something is blocking the way.

I’m at the top of the stairs before I realise what it is.

‘You broke your promise, Jennifer.’

Ian bends one knee and pushes the flat of his foot hard against my chest. The wooden handrail slips from my grasp and I fall backwards, crashing down the stairs until I hit the stone floor at the bottom.

35

You took the ring off after three days, and it felt as though you had punched me. You said you were worried about damaging it, and that you had to take it off so often to work that you thought you might lose it. You began wearing it on a delicate gold chain around your neck and I took you shopping for a wedding ring; something flat and plain you could wear all the time.

‘You could wear it now,’ I said, when we left the jeweller’s.

‘But the wedding isn’t for six months.’

You were holding my hand, and I squeezed it tight as we crossed the road. ‘Instead of your engagement ring, I mean. So you have something on your finger.’

You misunderstood me.

‘I don’t mind, Ian, really. I can wait till we get married.’

‘But how will people know you’re engaged?’ I couldn’t let it go. I stopped you and put my hands on your shoulders. You looked around, at all the busy shoppers, and tried to shake me off, but I held you fast. ‘How will they know you’re with me,’ I said, ‘if you’re not wearing my ring?’

I recognised the look in your eyes. I used to see it in Marie’s – that mixture of defiance and wariness – and it made me as angry to see it on you as it did to see it on her. How dare you be afraid of me? I felt myself tense, and when a flicker of pain passed across your face, I realised my fingers were digging into your shoulders. I let my hands drop to my sides.

‘Do you love me?’ I said.

‘You know I do.’

‘Then why don’t you want people to know we’re getting married?’

I reached into the plastic bag for the small box and opened it. I wanted to take away that look in your eyes, and on impulse I dropped to one knee and held out the open box towards you. There was an audible buzz from the passing shoppers, and a crimson flush spread across your face. The movement around us slowed, as people stopped to watch, and I felt a burst of pride that you were with me. My beautiful Jennifer.

‘Will you marry me?’

You looked overwhelmed. ‘Yes.’

Your response was far faster than the first time I had asked, and the tightness in my chest evaporated instantly. I slipped the ring on to your fourth finger and stood up to kiss you. There were cheers around us, and someone slapped me on the back. I found I couldn’t stop grinning. This is what I should have done the first time, I thought: I should have given you more ceremony, more celebration. You deserved more.

We walked hand-in-hand through the busy Bristol streets and I rubbed the metal of your wedding ring with the thumb of my right hand.

‘Let’s get married now,’ I said. ‘Let’s go to a registry office, pull some witnesses off the street, and do it.’

‘But it’s all fixed for September! All my family will be there. We can’t just go ahead and do it now.’

You had taken some persuading that a big church wedding would be a mistake: you had no father to walk you down the aisle, and why waste money on a party for friends you didn’t see any more? We booked a civil ceremony at the Courtyard Hotel, with lunch afterwards for twenty people. I had asked Doug to be my best man, but the other guests would be yours. I tried to imagine my parents standing beside us, but could only picture the look on my dad’s face the last time I saw him. The disappointment. The disgust. I shook the image from my mind.