Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

I might have been more reluctant to encounter him, after our last meeting, but the relief I feel is so great that before I know it I am following the scuff marks left by Beau in the sand, and walking to join them.

‘How are you?’ he says.

‘I’m fine.’ We’re strangers, walking in conversational circles around each other.

‘I left messages.’

‘I know.’ I’ve ignored them all. At first I listened to them, but I couldn’t bear to hear what I’d done to him, and so I deleted the others without playing them. Eventually I simply turned off my phone.

‘I miss you, Jenna.’

I found his anger understandable and easier to deal with, but now he is quiet and beseeching, and I feel my resolve crumbling. I start walking back to the cottage. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ I resist the temptation to look around to see if we are being watched, but I’m terrified Ian will see us together.

I feel a drop of rain on my face, and I pull up my hood. Patrick strides alongside me.

‘Jenna, talk to me. Stop running away!’

It is so exactly what I have done all my life that I can’t defend myself.

There’s a flash of lightning and the rain falls so hard it takes my breath away. The skies darken so suddenly our shadows vanish, and Beau presses himself into the ground, flattening his ears. We run to the cottage and I wrench the door open just as thunder crashes overhead. Beau races past our legs and shoots up the stairs. I call for him, but he doesn’t come.

‘I’ll go and see if he’s okay.’ Patrick goes up the stairs and I bolt the front door, following a minute later. I find him on the floor of my bedroom, a quivering Beau in his arms. ‘They’re all the same,’ he says with a half-grin, ‘highly strung poodles or macho mastiffs – they all hate thunder and fireworks.’

I kneel down beside them and stroke Beau’s head. He whines a little.

‘What’s this?’ Patrick says. My wooden box is sticking out from beneath the bed.

‘It’s mine,’ I say abruptly, and I kick it violently back under the bed.

Patrick’s eyes widen but he says nothing, getting to his feet awkwardly and carrying Beau downstairs. ‘It might be an idea to put the radio on for him,’ he tells me. He speaks as though he is the vet and I’m the customer, and I wonder if it’s out of habit, or whether he has decided enough is enough. But when he has settled Beau on the sofa, with a blanket around him and Classic FM on loud enough to drown out the quietest rumbles, he speaks again, and his voice is more gentle now.

‘I’ll look after him for you.’

I bite my lip.

‘Leave him here when you go,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to see me, or speak to me. Just leave him here and I’ll come and get him, and I’ll have him while you’re…’ he pauses. ‘While you’re away.’

‘It could be years,’ I say, and my voice cracks on the final word.

‘Let’s just take each day as it comes,’ he says. He leans forward and drops the softest of kisses on my forehead.

I give him the spare key from the kitchen drawer and he leaves without another word. I fight back the tears that have no right to spring from my eyes. This is of my own making and however much it hurts it has to be done. But my heart still leaps when there is a knock at the door barely five minutes later, and I imagine Patrick has come back for something.

I fling open the door.

‘I want you out of the cottage,’ Iestyn says, without preamble.

‘What?’ I put my hand flat against the wall to anchor myself. ‘Why?’

He doesn’t look me in the eye, reaching down instead to pull Beau’s ears and fuss his mouth. ‘You need to be out by the morning.’

‘But, Iestyn, I can’t! You know what’s going on. My bail conditions state I have to stay at this address until my trial.’

‘It’s not my problem.’ Iestyn finally looks at me and I see he isn’t enjoying this task. His face is set hard, but his eyes are pained and he shakes his head slowly. ‘Look, Jenna, the whole of Penfach knows you’ve been arrested for running over that little lad, and they all know you’re only here in the bay because you’re renting my cottage. As far as they’re concerned, I might as well have been driving that car myself. It’s only a matter of time before there’s more of this’ – he gestures to the graffiti on the door, which despite my scrubbing has stubbornly remained – ‘or worse. Dog mess through the letter box, fireworks, petrol – you read it in the papers all the time.’

‘I’ve got nowhere to go, Iestyn,’ I try to appeal to him, but his determination doesn’t waver.

‘The village shop won’t stock my produce any more,’ he says, ‘so disgusted they are that I’m putting a roof over the head of a murderer.’

I take a sharp breath.

‘And this morning they refused to serve Glynis. It’s one thing getting at me, but when they start on my wife…’

‘I just need a few more days, Iestyn,’ I plead. ‘I’m due in court for sentencing in a fortnight, and then I’ll be gone for good. Please, Iestyn, just let me stay until then.’

Iestyn thrusts his hands in his pockets and stares out at the sea for a moment. I wait, knowing there is nothing else I can say to make him change his mind.

‘Two weeks,’ he says, ‘but not a day longer. And if you’ve got any sense you’ll stay away from the village until then.’

41

You stayed in your studio all day and would disappear back there of an evening, unless I told you not to. You didn’t seem to care that I worked hard during the week, and that I might like a little comfort in the evenings, someone to ask about my day. You were like a mouse, scurrying down to your shed whenever you got the chance. You had somehow become well known as a local sculptor; not for your thrown pots, but for the hand-sculpted figurines that stood eight inches tall. They had no appeal for me, with their warped faces and disproportionate limbs, but it seemed there was a market for such things, and you could hardly make them fast enough.

‘I bought a DVD to watch tonight,’ I said, when you came into the kitchen one Saturday to make a coffee.

‘Okay.’ You didn’t ask what the film was, and I didn’t know. I would go out later to choose one.

You leaned against the worktop as the kettle boiled, hooking your thumbs into the pockets of your jeans. Your hair was loose, but tucked behind your ears, and I caught sight of the graze on the side of your face. You saw me looking and flicked your hair forward until it fell across your cheek.

‘Would you like coffee?’ you said.

‘Please.’ You poured water into two mugs, but only added coffee to one. ‘Aren’t you having one?’

‘I don’t feel very well.’ You sliced a lemon and dropped a piece into your mug. ‘I haven’t felt right for a few days.’

‘Darling, you should have said. Here, sit down.’ I pulled out a chair for you, but you shook your head.

‘It’s okay, I’m just a bit off colour. I’ll be fine tomorrow, I’m sure.’

I wrapped my arms around you and pressed my cheek against yours. ‘Poor baby. I’ll look after you.’

You returned the embrace and I rocked you gently, until you moved away. I hated it when you pulled away from me. It felt like a rejection, when all I was trying to do was comfort you. I felt my jaw tighten and instantly saw a watchfulness pass across your eyes. I was glad to see it – it showed me you still cared what I thought; what I did – but at the same time it annoyed me.

I raised my arm towards your head and heard the sharp intake of breath as you flinched, screwing your eyes tightly shut. I stilled my hand as it brushed your forehead and gently removed something from your hair.