Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

Patrick puts his hand out to me but I can’t touch him and he lets it fall back on to his seat.

‘They gave me drugs to induce labour and I waited on the ward with all the other women. We went through it together: the early pains, the gas and air, the checks from midwives and doctors. The only difference was that my baby was dead. When I was finally wheeled through to the delivery suite the woman next to me waved and wished me luck.

‘Ian stayed with me during labour, and even though I hated him for what he’d done, I held his hand as I pushed, and let him kiss my forehead, because who else did I have? And all I could think was that if I hadn’t burnt that shirt, Ben would still be alive.’

I begin to shake and I press my palms on to my knees to anchor myself. For weeks after Ben died my body tried to trick me into thinking I was a mother. Milk stung my nipples, and I would stand in the shower and press my flesh to relieve the pressure, the sweet smell of milk rising up through the scalding water. I looked up once and saw Ian watching me from the bathroom door. My stomach was still rounded from pregnancy, the skin stretched and slack. Blue veins ran across my swollen breasts and milk trickled down my body. I caught the look of revulsion on his face before he turned away.

I tried to talk to him about Ben. Just once – once when the pain of losing him was so intense I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. I needed to share my grief with someone – with anyone – and by then I had no one else to talk to. But he cut me off mid-sentence. ‘It never happened,’ he said. ‘That baby never existed.’

Ben might not have taken a breath, but he lived. He lived in me, and breathed my oxygen and ate my food, and was a part of me. But I never spoke about him again.

I can’t look at Patrick. Now that I have started, I can’t stop, and the words tumble out of me. ‘There was an awful silence when he was born. Someone read out the time, and then they put him in my arms so gently, as though they didn’t want to hurt him, and left us alone with him. I lay there for ages like that, looking at his face, at his eyelashes, his lips. I stroked the palm of his hand and imagined I could feel him gripping my fingers, but eventually they came and took him away from me. I screamed then, hung on to him until they had to give me something to calm me down. But I didn’t want to sleep, because I knew that when I woke up I’d be all alone again.’

When I finish, I look at Patrick and see he has tears in his eyes, and when I try to tell him it’s okay, that I’m all right, I cry too. We cling to each other in the car by the side of the road, until the sun begins to dip, and then we drive home.

Patrick parks the car at the caravan park and walks with me along the path to the cottage. The rent is paid until the end of the month, but my footsteps slow as I hear Iestyn’s words in my head; his disgust as he told me to leave.

‘I called him,’ Patrick said, reading my mind. ‘I explained everything.’

Patrick is calm and gentle, as though I’m a patient recovering from a long illness. I feel safe with my hand tucked into his.

‘Will you go and get Beau?’ I ask him, when we reach the cottage.

‘If you want me to.’

I nod. ‘I just want everything to get back to normal.’ As I say it I realise I’m not certain what normality is.

Patrick draws the curtains and makes me tea, and when he is happy I am warm and settled he kisses me lightly on the lips and leaves me. I look around at the snapshots of my life here in the bay: the photos and the shells; Beau’s water bowl on the floor in the kitchen. I feel more at home here than I ever did in Bristol.

On impulse I reach for the switch on the table lamp next to me. It’s the only light on downstairs and it bathes the room in a warm apricot glow. I switch it off, and I am plunged into darkness. I wait, but my heart rate is steady; my palms dry; there is no prickle of fear across the back of my neck. I smile: I am no longer afraid.

48

‘And there’s no question that’s the right address?’ Ray directed the question at Stumpy, but widened his gaze to include the rest of the room. Within two hours of leaving the Crown Court, he had assembled a public order team, while Stumpy got Area Intelligence working on an address for Ian Petersen.

‘None at all, boss,’ Stumpy said. ‘The Voters’ Register shows him at 72 Albercombe Terrace, and AIT have cross-referenced that with the DVLA register. Petersen picked up three points for speeding a couple of months ago, and they returned his licence to the same address.’

‘Right,’ Ray said, ‘then let’s hope he’s home.’ He turned to brief the public order team, who were getting restless. ‘Petersen’s arrest is critical, not just for the resolution of the Jordan case, but to ensure Jenna’s safety. There is a long history of domestic violence that culminated in Jenna leaving Petersen following the hit-and-run.’

There were nods from the officers in the room, their faces set with grim determination. They all knew what sort of man Ian Petersen was.

‘PNC shows him – unsurprisingly – with warnings for violence,’ Ray said, ‘and he’s also got previous convictions for drink-drive and disorder. I don’t want to take any chances with him, so it’s straight in, get him cuffed, and get out. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ came the chorus.

‘Then let’s go.’

Albercombe Terrace was a run-of-the-mill street with narrow pavements and too many parked cars. The only characteristics that marked out number 72 from its neighbours were the drawn curtains at every window.

Ray and Kate parked in a neighbouring street to wait for the confirmation that two of the public order team had reached the rear of Petersen’s house. Kate killed the ignition and they sat in silence, the only sound a rhythmic ticking from the cooling engine.

‘You okay?’ Ray said.

‘Yup,’ Kate said tightly. Her face was set with a grim determination that gave no hint to how she might be feeling underneath. Ray felt fire coursing through his veins. In a few moments that adrenalin would get him through the job, but right now it had nowhere to go. He tapped his foot against the clutch pedal and glanced at Kate again.

‘Got your vest on?’

In answer, Kate banged a clenched fist against her chest, and Ray heard the dull thud of body armour beneath her sweatshirt. Knives were easily concealed and swiftly employed, and Ray had seen too many close calls to take risks. He felt for the baton and spray on the harness he wore under his jacket, gaining comfort from their presence.

‘Stay close to me,’ he said. ‘And if he pulls a weapon, get the hell out of there.’

Kate raised her eyebrows. ‘Because I’m a woman?’ She snorted derisively. ‘I’ll back off when you do.’

‘To hell with political correctness, Kate!’ Ray slapped the flat of his hand against the steering wheel. He fell silent and stared through the windscreen on to the empty street. ‘I don’t want you getting hurt.’

Before either of them could say anything else, their handsets crackled into life. ‘Zero six, guv.’

The units were in situ.

‘Copied,’ Ray responded. ‘If he comes out of the back door, nick him. We’ll make for the front door.’

‘Roger,’ came the response, and Ray looked at Kate.

‘Ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’

They rounded the corner on foot and walked smartly to the front of the house. Ray rapped on the door and stood on his toes to peer in through the small glass opening above the knocker.

‘Can you see anything?’

‘No.’ He knocked again, and the sound echoed in the empty street.

Kate spoke into her radio. ‘Tango Charlie 461 to Control, talk-through with Bravo Foxtrot 275?’