Evan doesn’t want to hear the answer to that. It’s not as simple as he thinks it is. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be in that situation. How it changes even the most passive person into someone desperate, someone who could do anything. But then, we don’t know anything about her situation. It might have been a case of him being abusive. It might be that she actually did it because she felt like it.
Because I have seen something change in Verity over the time she’s been with him. And there was that look in her eyes, on her face, when the police came to get her. It was resignation. Not fear. It was as though she was expecting them and was surprised they hadn’t come for her earlier.
‘You’re right,’ I say to appease Evan because I don’t want to fight with him any more. I don’t want to upset him any more than I need to at this stage. We’ve got a lot more of that ahead, there’s no need to start it right now. ‘I need to keep an open mind – give her the benefit of the doubt until we know more.’
That pleases and appeases my husband. He climbs into bed and I cuddle up to him.
I don’t know how I know this, I only know that I do, whether by accident or on purpose, my daughter is not as innocent in all of this as Evan wants her to be.
February, 2015
The lights were low and a hush had settled over everything: in the room, in the outside world.
It felt like we were the only two people in the world. I kept staring at the blinds. I was looking for flaws, for anything that made the lines uneven or irregular. I sat in this chair, waiting. Counting down the hours, which had been days not long ago, weeks not long before that. I couldn’t remember when it had been months or years. I just knew it was now hours and these were my hours.
These were the moments assigned to me so I could sit here and listen, wait and talk if I fancied.
My dad was asleep. He was sleeping more nowadays but when he was awake he was alert, he was here, he was present.
I’d been reading him a book on Ghanaian politics when he closed his eyes and didn’t open them. Terror bolted through me. But this wasn’t it. This wasn’t the moment I’d have to say goodbye.
I put the book down on the bedside table, and relaxed back against the chair. Immediately, I sat up again. I knew the second I relaxed, the moment I let myself go, that would be it. The moment we were all dreading would arrive.
I looked at my father, my dad. I’d never get used to seeing him like this. Thin and gaunt, fragile. He’d always been strong and big and there. I’d taken him for granted, though. Without realising it, I just always expected him to be around. Even when I found out he was ill, I didn’t really think about it. I didn’t really contemplate it. It wasn’t something that was meant to happen so it wasn’t something that was going to happen.
I didn’t do it, Daddy, I wanted to whisper into the dark, into his sleep, just so he would know. I was accused, but I didn’t do it. I might have thought about it, he might have battered me down so I was almost broken, but I didn’t do it.
I wanted to tell my dad this so he wouldn’t leave this Earth thinking that of me. He wouldn’t leave this world believing that I could have done it.
I whispered it in my head, so quiet even my mind had to strain to hear. I didn’t want anyone to hear me say that. I didn’t want there to be even the sliver of a chance that Dad might pick it up.
I couldn’t dredge that up, put that out there, even inside my head, in case he heard. In case he heard and it brought it all up for him. And he would leave with all of that unresolved, all of it preying on his mind again. He believed what he believed and there was no way for me to change it. Not now.
‘I want you to know that I love you,’ I whispered out loud instead. ‘It’s been complicated and I never said that to you before, but I love you. And thank you. Thank you for being my dad. Thank you for being the man you are. Thank you for being the best grandfather. The children, as big as they are, have loved every second of being around you. I love you.’
And I didn’t do it, Daddy. I didn’t do it.
verity
Now
‘Who is Howard Scarber, Miss Gillmare?’
They have asked me what happened the night Logan was hurt and I have stayed silent. They said I had one chance to put my side forward, to explain what happened at my flat. And I stayed silent. I thought I was imagining it, that they weren’t pursuing that line of questioning as rigorously considering that was what I was here for. And now I know why. Howard. Howie.
Yes, Darryl warned me of this, that the police would be digging into the most hidden recesses of my life, but I didn’t think they’d get to Howie so quickly.
I don’t say anything because I’m still doing the silence thing.
‘My client, as advised by me, has chosen not to reply to that or any other questions,’ Darryl intones. He does that every few questions, in case they have somehow forgotten. There’s a tremor flitting along the curves of his words that only I can decipher. That tremor is saying that he is PISSED OFF. Because despite demanding I tell him everything yesterday, despite him putting himself out for me, he’s been blindsided. Exactly what he warned me about. I didn’t realise, though, that such a detailed, fingertip, forensic search of my life was possible in such a short amount of time.
May, 2017
I checked my watch for the millionth time (only a slight exaggeration) and sighed. Howard was really pushing it. He was one of those people I’d spotted on the first day of university and decided I was going to be friends with. Much like I had with Zeph on the first day of reception. Howie and I were in the same halls of residence and when we discovered we were both from Brighton, our friendship had been sealed. Because we went way back there were certain things he could get away with – being late was one of them. But only to a certain point. There were limits to my patience.
I forced my mind to focus on the book in front of me, and shivered. It was May, it was meant to be warmer than this, but this dip in temperature had meant sitting out here at the Meeting Place Café on the seafront, waiting for Howie to show up had resulted in a cold nose and numbing fingers.
‘Oh, finally,’ I said to him as he slotted himself into the bench across from me at the table. I was about to start telling him off, when I spotted his face. ‘What happened to you?’ His handsome face had been hit a few times, basically. He had a white plaster across his nose, a split on his lower lip that was healing with a thick black scab, and a purple-blue bruise shading the dark-brown skin under and around his left eye.
He went to pull a face, thought better of it, and instead said, ‘Muggery, innit?’
‘What? Oh no! When? Did they get much?’
‘My phone and my dignity. Thought I could handle it, thought I could handle myself in that sort of situation, but . . .’ He pointed to his face. ‘Not in real life. I should get a refund on my Streetfighter and Ultimate Ninja games, seeing as they don’t translate into real-life fighting skills.’
I knew Howie well enough to know his pride had been hurt way more than his body. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Yesterday. On the way to the chippie. Was really looking forward to those chippie-shop chips for tea. I tell you, Beccie was not happy that she didn’t get her large battered sausage and curry sauce. I think she would have taken them apart with her bare hands if she could.’