Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

40

It’s two weeks before I dare risk being seen in public; when the violent purple bruises on my arms have faded to a pale green. It jolts me to realise how shocking the contusions look against my skin, when two years ago they were as much a part of me as the colour of my hair.

I’m forced out by the need for dog food, and I leave Beau at home so I can take the bus into Swansea, where no one will notice a woman in the supermarket with her eyes to the floor, a scarf around her neck despite the mild weather. I take the footpath towards the caravan park, but can’t shake off the feeling that someone’s watching me. I look behind me, then panic that I’ve chosen the wrong direction, so I turn once more, but there is nothing there either. I spin in circles, unable to see for the black spots that have appeared in my eyes and seem to move infuriatingly wherever I want to look. I teeter on the brink of panic, the fear in my chest so intense it hurts, and I half walk, half run until I can see the static caravans and the low building of Bethan’s shop. Finally my heart begins to slow and I fight to get myself back under control. It is times like this when prison becomes a welcome alternative to this life I’m living.

The car park at Bethan’s is for people staying at the caravan park, but its proximity to the beach makes it an attractive option for walkers heading off up the coastal path. Bethan doesn’t mind, except in high season when she puts up big signs saying ‘private parking’, and charges out of the shop when she sees a family unpacking picnics from their car. At this time of year, when the park is closed, the occasional cars left there belong to dog-walkers or hardy ramblers.

‘You can use it, of course,’ Bethan said to me when I first met her.

‘I don’t have a car,’ I explained.

She told me my visitors could park there, and never remarked on the fact that I had none, apart from Patrick, who would leave his Land Rover at the park before walking to see me. I force the memory from my mind before it can take hold.

There are few cars there now. Bethan’s battered Volvo; a van I don’t recognise; and – I screw up my eyes and shake my head. This isn’t possible. That can’t be my car. I start to sweat and I take a gulp of air as I try to make sense of what I am seeing. The front bumper is cracked and in the centre of the windscreen is a spider-web pattern of cracks, the size of a fist.

It is my car.

Nothing makes sense. When I left Bristol I left my car behind. Not because I thought the police would trace it – although it crossed my mind – but because I couldn’t bear to see it. For one wild moment I wonder if the police have found it and brought it here to test my reaction, and I look around the car park as though armed officers might leap out at me.

In my confused state I can’t work out how important this is; if it matters. But it must, or the police wouldn’t have insisted I tell them what I did with the car. I need to get rid of it. I think of films I’ve seen. Could I push it off a cliff? Or set fire to it? I’d need matches and lighter fuel or maybe petrol – but how would I set it alight without Bethan seeing?

I glance at the shop but can’t see her in the window, so I take a deep breath and cross the car park to my car. The keys are in the ignition and I don’t hesitate. I open the car door and sit in the driver’s seat. Immediately I’m assaulted by memories of the accident: I can hear the scream from Jacob’s mother, and my own horrified cry. I start to shake and try to pull myself together. The car starts first time and I speed out of the car park. If Bethan looks out now, she won’t see me, only the car and the cloud of dust in its wake as I head for Penfach.

‘Nice to be behind the wheel again?’

Ian’s voice is measured and dry. I slam on the brakes, and the car veers sharply to the left as my hands slip on the steering wheel. I have my hand on the car door handle when I realise the sound is coming from the CD player.

‘I expect you’ve missed your little run-about, haven’t you? No need to thank me for returning it to you.’

The effect of his voice on me is immediate. I become instantly smaller, shrinking back into my seat as though I can disappear into it, and my hands are hot and clammy.

‘Have you forgotten our wedding vows, Jennifer?’

I put my hand on my chest and press against it, trying to slow the frantic pounding of my heart.

‘You stood next to me, and you promised to love, honour and obey me as long as we both shall live.’

He’s taunting me, the sing-song pace of the vow I made so many years ago at odds with the coldness in his voice. He is insane. I can see that now, and it terrifies me to think of the years I spent lying next to him, not knowing what he was truly capable of.

‘Running to the police with your stories isn’t honouring me, is it, Jennifer? Telling them what goes on behind closed doors isn’t obeying me. Just remember, I only ever gave you what you asked for…’

I can’t hear any more. I jab at the stereo controls and the CD ejects with agonising slowness. I snatch it from the slot and try to snap it in half, but it won’t bend and I scream at it, my twisted face reflected in its shiny surface. I get out of the car and hurl the CD into the hedge.

‘Leave me alone!’ I scream. ‘Just leave me alone!’

I drive frantically, dangerously, along the high-hedged rows, heading out of Penfach and into the countryside. I’m shaking violently and it is beyond my capabilities to change gear, so I stay in second and the car whines in protest. I hear Ian’s words over and over in my head.

As long as we both shall live.

There is a collapsed barn a little way from the road, and no other houses nearby that I can see. I turn down the bumpy farm track towards it. As I draw near I see that the barn has no roof, and naked rafters reach towards the sky. There’s a pile of tyres at one end, and a collection of rusting machinery. It will do. I drive into the far end of the barn, tucking the car into the corner. There is a tarpaulin heaped on the floor and I drag it open, covering myself in fetid water that has collected in its folds. I pull it over my car. It’s a risk, but under the dark green sheet the car disappears into the rest of the barn, and it doesn’t look as though anything has been moved for some time.

I begin the long walk home, and I’m reminded of the day I arrived in Penfach, when what was ahead of me was so much more uncertain that what lay behind. Now I know what the future holds: I have two more weeks in Penfach, then I’ll return to Bristol for sentencing, and I’ll be safe.

There is a bus stop ahead of me but I keep walking, taking comfort in the rhythm of my feet. Gradually I begin to feel calmer. Ian’s playing games, that’s all. If he were going to kill me he would have done so when he came to the cottage.

It’s late in the afternoon when I reach the cottage, and dark clouds are gathering overhead. I go inside only long enough to put on my waterproof jacket and to call Beau outside, and I take him down to the beach for a run. Down by the sea I can breathe again, and I know I will miss this most of all.

The feeling of being watched is overpowering and I turn and keep my back to the sea. I feel a clutch of fear as I see a figure standing on the clifftop, facing me, and my heart quickens. I call for Beau and place my hand on his collar, but he barks and pulls away from me, running across the sand towards the footpath leading up to where the man is standing, silhouetted against the sky.

‘Beau, come back!’

He races on, oblivious, but I am rooted to the spot. It is only when Beau reaches the end of the beach, and bounds easily up the footpath, that the figure moves. The man bends to stroke Beau, and I instantly recognise the familiar movements. It’s Patrick.