The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed a muffled ten, and Jess glanced at the clock over the drawing room fireplace to confirm the time. She had let her hair down and changed out of Lisa’s floral dress into another of Lisa’s cashmere sweaters, a dark red one which she wore over skinny black jeans. She sat on the sofa opposite Peter, the silence total apart from the periodic rustle of the Sunday paper in which he was engrossed, and the occasional snort he gave when something in it piqued his interest.
She sat quietly, legs tucked under her, still, but inwardly agitated, mind whirling with possibilities, risks, threats, decisions. She would have gone to bed sooner but something held her back. Maybe she wanted to postpone the bad dreams that plagued her each night, dreams that had seemed somehow worse, more intense, since she had arrived at Chalton Manor. The facade she had put up at The Navigation was of no consequence, but here, in the company of this generous, well-meaning old soldier, it was despicable and cruel, and she felt ashamed. Maybe that was why, she guessed, the demons came back to haunt her each night, punishing her for her dishonesty.
But maybe she had stayed up to talk to him, and was just waiting for the right moment? Part of her desperately wanted things to stay the same, but she knew they couldn’t, not while she persisted with the lie.
She felt like she was standing close to a cliff edge and was being drawn inexorably closer by some uncontrollable and invisible force. It was something that terrified her, but something she could not resist. A rustle of newspaper startled her, breaking her train of thought. Peter folded the paper, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I think I’ll turn in,” he said stifling a yawn. “You must be tired after all that hard work?” Considerate as ever.
“I’m fine,” she smiled, and then, unwittingly, took a step closer to the edge. “I got used to long hours.” Too late, she had alluded to a different time and place, one of the many she wanted to forget or at least bury in the past, and she feared he would be prompted to enquire further. He didn’t.
“Well, it was an excellent day. Thank you.” The simplicity, the courtesy, heartfelt and warm. He went on, “I hope Emma and Michael didn’t frighten you too much?”
“No, not at all.” She stopped herself, thinking she had jumped in a little too quickly. “They’re nice people.” She meant it, despite the contretemps with Emma, who she knew had only wanted to protect Peter. Who wouldn’t?
“Emma thinks I’m your new housekeeper.”
She couldn’t stop herself. It was another step. She meant it to sound like an ironic aside but there was more to it than that. She would make a good housekeeper, she thought. She had all the skills and the temperament and the commitment. Was it possible? No, it isn’t.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” said Peter, looking contrite. She didn’t want him to feel guilty about mentioning it or giving that impression to his friends, knowingly or otherwise. She didn’t find it presumptuous or demeaning. She was proud of it. It was something she wanted, but at the same time knew she couldn’t have. He went on.
“Thing is, I did have a housekeeper. Latvian girl. Very pretty. Good English. But she moved on. Got a bit bored, I expect.” Again, he said it with regret. A self-deprecation, a sense of failure that she found moving but surely misplaced?
“And you didn’t try to replace her?” Another step.
“Well, I thought I could manage, and the thing is, Iveta was recommended to me and it’s always a risk taking on someone you don’t know.”
It sounded perfectly plausible, but she sensed something else in what he said. It was as if he could see her approaching, had been monitoring her step by step and could tell where she was going, even if she couldn’t do so herself. He had opened the door. Just a fraction. He was inviting her in. Wasn’t he? She wrestled with the conflict raging in her head. She wanted to move forward, but that would mean opening up the past, and the consequences could be catastrophic for them both. She could not conceive how he might react, nor how she might survive the ordeal of reliving it and although she desperately wanted to pull back, she couldn’t stop. She was so close to the edge now, she could see beyond it and there was nothing but darkness and terror. Yet she moved closer still.
When she spoke, it sounded dismissive, almost reproachful of him for not forcing her, not making the decision for her, not making clear what should be blindingly obvious to them both.
“You don’t know me.”
Peter put the newspaper to one side and leant forward, arms on his knees, hands together as if in supplication, glasses dangling aimlessly from the fingers of one hand. He saw a young woman, curled up on the sofa, legs folded beneath her, arms crossed, head down. Defensive, the posture designed for self-protection. And he sensed the change in tone from conversational to something bordering on provocation. He recognised the characteristics and behavioural patterns of someone on the edge. In his past life, he would have had to work hard and patiently over time to steer his opponent towards just such a state of mind so that whatever came next would seem like a relief to them both. He hadn’t done anything to entice, direct or manipulate Alice to this point, but for whatever reason, here she was. He had to be very careful now. He was in danger of losing her, and she, in danger of being lost.
“Maybe I know all that I want to know,” he said gently. His words were meant to calm her. He did not need to visit her past, or revisit his. He knew he was deluding himself, but he thought he already knew. The past he had lived for twenty-three years was crystal clear to him, and now, it was hers for the taking. If only she would grasp it, take it as her own. Maybe then, they would be able to move on together. She needed encouragement but she needed to do this for herself, and it had to be her decision.
“Look,” he said, putting his glasses down on the table and spreading his hands, urging her to take his course for the good of them both. “I need some help.” The words never sounded truer to him and, he thought, she could not possibly know the degree to which they so clearly defined his situation. “I don’t know what your plans are, but I should be very grateful if you would stay a while. See how it goes. I’ll pay you a salary, you’ve got your own space, all you have to do is keep the place tidy and do a bit of cooking. Well, what do you say?”
The clocked chimed once: 10.15 p.m. It was a signal. The clock was ticking, requiring her to speak, but she didn’t know what to say. He was asking her to stay with him, for an indefinite period, without any question as to who she was, where she was from, where she was going, or what she may have already planned for her future. She looked up and saw him watching her, unintimidating, kindly, patient. And then, as she watched him watching her, she began to understand. It was Peter who was drawing her in, drawing her close to that terrible edge, and despite all her instincts telling her to resist, to back away, she couldn’t stop. She could feel the rocks at her feet beginning to crumble. How do I know I can trust you?
“But how do you know you can trust me?” Another step. But somehow the words had been jumbled and come out backwards. She had no idea what she was afraid of more: the truth about Peter, or the truth about herself. Her voice trembled and she knew he sensed it. He smiled. He was probably trying to steady her, reassure her, but she didn’t even know whether she wanted it or not.
“I can trust you, Alice.” He sounded calm and confident. Certain but with no basis for certainty. Convinced without the evidence. Trusting, through faith. She was being welcomed and accepted by someone who knew nothing about her, beckoning her forward, his eyes urging her to trust that he would not let anything happen to her. But she had reached the edge and beyond; there was nothing but darkness.
They sat quietly for what seemed like an eternity while she wrestled with the fear and the doubt and the intolerable but irresistible pressure. There was no way back. Only forward. She closed her eyes, and with her voice reduced to a whisper, stepped over.
“My name’s not Alice.”
She thought for a moment he had not heard her. She waited for the scream, the explosion, the eruption of fire and rage that would inevitably accompany her fall into infinity, into oblivion, her helpless plunge to disaster. But there was none. Just two words.
“I know.”
Just two words, softly spoken, without emotion or drama. He had caught her before she could fall.
She blinked, and in the silence, slowly regained her composure. She had stepped over the edge and survived. And not only had she survived; she thought she could see something faint before her. A bridge. She took another step.
“It’s Jess.”
“I see.” Gentle, calming, reassuring. “So. Why Alice?” he said, encouraging her, coaxing her gently forward. She shrugged.
“I wanted to be someone else.” He remained still and quiet, and she knew she had to do the rest by herself.
“My full name … is Jessica. Anne. Khalid.” The last three words came slowly, deliberately so he could not mishear.
“Khalid?” She could tell he was surprised. He could not have expected that. Not expected that at all. But she sensed nothing in his voice to indicate distaste, disdain or anything that might bar her way. She was on the bridge and it felt steady, and she felt confident enough to continue.
“I was seventeen when I married Mo. He was very handsome and charming, and … different.” She seemed to smile at the recollection but it quickly faded to a frown. “And I had to get away from home. I loved my mum. But my dad drank a lot and then he would hit my mum. She just took it,” she said, with the same feeling of incomprehension she had back then, “and used make-up to cover the marks.”
She did not want to despise her mother – she loved her – but she had never understood how her mother could have been so feeble that fighting back against such cruelty was beyond her. But now, confronting the facts and relating the events for the first time, with the benefits, or rather, the curse, of experience, maybe now she did. She hesitated and took a deep breath.
“Then. When I got a bit older” – her face twisted in pain and disgust at the memory and she didn’t know how to say the words, but to her surprise they came easily – “he used to come up to my room” – she stopped and swallowed – “at night.”
Peter had been listening intently, letting her find her own way, but at this, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, the blood surging to his hands, and he clenched his fists in suppressed rage. What kind of monster? He rubbed a temple, trying his best not to react and interrupt her flow. But she was talking again, gaining in confidence.
“He was always gentle, he never hurt me, but I knew it wasn’t right. He said I was a good girl, and that it was usual for dads and daughters to … to be like that, but it was just between him and me and I shouldn’t tell anyone about it.”
“He said Mum knew and she was okay with it, but when I saw the sadness in her eyes, I knew it wasn’t true. I got more and more frightened every time he came, and I knew how mad he could get, especially when he was drunk, so I just let him.” There, just like Mum.
“So I used to stay out late just to avoid him. That’s when I met Mo.” She smiled again, remembering the good moments. “He was very kind and generous and gave me presents and wine, which made me feel better; and when he asked me to move in with him, I just said yes.”
How could I refuse? What choice did I have?
“Dad was not happy. He shouted and screamed” – she shook her head – “and he called me a Paki’s whore, and threw things and smashed up the house. I had to get out of there. So we married straight away, I got a cleaning job and we rented a house.” And then she stopped and she saw Peter, clearly reeling from the horror, looking at her with dread. She didn’t know whether he was horrified for her or at her. She just tried to focus on the bridge.
“I had Leila six months later.” Her voice broke for a second as her daughter’s face came into her consciousness and she swore she could hear her cries in the distance: “Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!” She looked up to the ceiling and beyond.
“My baby,” she gasped, the words barely audible.
After a moment, she realised the sound of her daughter’s voice was just a trick of her mind and she pushed it away. She nervously tucked a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek around her ear and went on.
“Mo was earning lots of money driving cabs, so we bought a house. He said I didn’t need to work. But he was always out, working nights and weekends. I hardly ever saw him. I never saw his family either. I don’t think they approved of me and a mixed-race child. And although Mo always wore a big fancy watch and gold bracelets and chains, Leila and I never had much to live on. He used to give us money for food, but that was it.” She sighed deeply, remembering when she had found out the awful truth.
“Thing was, he was into drugs. And gambling” – she grimaced at the utter horror and depravity – “and young girls …
“Him and his mates. There was a gang of them. I know, because he brought them round once, told me to take Leila upstairs and not come down. But I heard them talking ... and laughing” – she looked into the distance, she could still hear it – “and I heard girls voices … crying … in my house.” Her anguish was evident in her voice, as was the disbelief. Did that really happen? How could that have been possible? Who was responsible? She shook her head in a vain attempt to clear the debris of the past, wipe clean the memory.
“After a while he began to change. He got anxious and angry, and whenever I tried to ask him, he just pushed me away; and once, he raised his hand to me, and although he never hit me, I knew the signs and that … it was just a matter of time.
“One night his mates came round and there was a big argument and they beat him up in the hallway and his blood was everywhere and still he pushed me away, and then he disappeared for three days and I knew then that Mo was in serious trouble. I found a letter he’d got from the bank. We hadn’t paid the mortgage in six months.” Jess was talking faster now, agitatedly. She was back there, less than a year ago, frantically trying to hold together their lives as they crumbled around her.
“So I went back to cleaning because we needed the money but these horrible guys in black coats came round and he took most of it to pay them off. He wouldn’t talk to me about anything, certainly not money. I tried, but ... he just ... got ... angry.” She closed her eyes and her breathing deepened.
Peter’s torment and rage had been growing steadily throughout. She had escaped one monster and married another. No wonder she had been afraid of him at first. But he feared the worst was yet to come and he forced himself to hold his nerve and let her do this in her own way.
He had watched aghast as the full horror of her life unfolded before him, and he marvelled at her composure. He desperately wanted to hold her, to comfort her and tell her it was all okay now. But he feared the bloodletting was not over and if he was right, it must continue. But she had stopped. There was something else. Something she couldn’t face. She looked numb and distressed but there were no tears. She was strong, this girl. He waited and waited, and just when he thought he could wait no longer, she spoke.
“One day, I went to pick Leila up from pre-school. But she wasn’t there.” Her voice trembled again. “They said Mo had already collected her. But when I got home, they weren’t there. I called him and left messages and then called his mum, who just said she hadn’t seen him and then put the phone down. After a couple of hours I got panicky and called the police, but they said it was too soon to say anyone was missing.” She sat, quivering, arms around herself, reliving twelve hours of hell, the terror of the unknown, knowing for certain that something terrible had unfolded, yet hoping that if she spoke of it again, perhaps it may turn out differently this time.
“I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning I called his mum again …” She paused to gather her strength. She was halfway across the bridge, but it was getting steeper and narrower and she was struggling.
“She said he’d gone. Back to Pakistan ...” Her voice rose in pitch and she gulped in breath to find the words because although she had lived with the pain for months, she had never spoken of it, hoping it had all been a bad dream. But it was real.
“… and he’d taken Leila.”
She threw her head back to stop the tears but they flowed anyway, cascading down her face, the anguish visceral and unbearable, turning swiftly to rage.
“No one would do anything.” She was angry now, angry at her own tears, angry at the world and the cruelty of indifference. “Police just fobbed me off, so I went to London to the Home Office and they said they’d make enquiries. But nothing happened. I went to their embassy but they wouldn’t even see me.”
The bitterness and frustration of injustice was written all over her face, but then was replaced quickly by acceptance, defeat. “I never saw them again.”
Peter had willed her on silently, knowing something was coming, hoping upon hope he was wrong, but he had already worked it out. Filled in the blanks. He tried to analyse it.
Why would this monster, running away, trying to save himself, take his daughter with him? Did he love her or did he think she might have some value? His money was on the latter, and another wave of rage threatened to engulf him. But at the moment she broke, in that instant, her pain was his pain and his already broken heart broke once more for her. He could see she was already exhausted, drained, but she was more than halfway across. And he was waiting for her, patiently, agonisingly, willing her on.
Jess had never told this to anyone before and saying it out loud now, for her took on a new significance and a new perspective.
Years of trauma, endured, repressed, denied, now laid bare. She shocked herself by the scale and intensity of it, as if she were talking of someone else. She couldn’t rationalise it, but the further she went and the more she unloaded, the more she left behind. As the flow eventually subsided, she wiped away the tears and pushed back her hair defiantly. She had never given up, and she never would.
“Mum suddenly got ill, but before she died, she made me promise to look after Dad. His drinking had caught up with him, and without Mum, he went downhill fast. Had to go into a home. But Mo had left all these debts and these horrible guys would come round every week and I had to pay them.
“So I couldn’t pay my council tax or the electric or the mortgage, and then the bank started proceedings to take back the house and it just spiralled. I was doing a dawn shift cleaning and then working in an office during the day, but all my money went on paying debts and they still got bigger and bigger. Then, just before the house was repossessed, they found out at work the trouble I was in. They fired me. And the very same night, Dad died.
“So ... no family ... no job ... no house ... nothing.” She shrugged, the dam filling again. But she was almost there. One more step. “I destroyed everything with Jess’s name on it and just left.”
She looked straight at him and he looked straight back. Strong, solid, safe. He was waiting there for her after her long journey, waiting for her to come home.
“I didn’t want to be Jess anymore.”
She sat quietly. She had crossed the bridge and reached the other side. There was no looking back now. No going back. Everything that had happened was behind her and would soon be a distant faded memory of a forgotten life. Someone else’s life. A girl she used to know called Jess.
Alice looked up at him, her face still etched with foreboding and fear. Fear of the unknown. Jess had taken a leap of faith and placed her trust in him. Absolutely, completely, unconditionally.
He could not imagine the position she had been in, alone and fighting for her life, through no fault of her own other than having placed trust in others; and he, privileged, comfortable and secure, oblivious to her suffering. He had remained silent and engrossed in her testimony. But now she was free and she was his and he looked back at her, overcome with admiration for her spirit and in awe of her bravery, and he loved her and he vowed never to let her go, again. He leant forward and spoke at last.
“And how is Alice now?” His voice warm, gentle, comforting, trusting.
“Afraid.” Her voice, hoarse and broken, tore through him, and he wanted more than anything to wrap his strong arms around her and show her she would always be safe. But it was beyond him. As ever. Even now.
“Don’t be afraid. Nothing here can harm you.” It was a promise he would keep forever. “If Alice would like to start a new life here, looking out for an old fool, she’ll find an old fool who’ll be very grateful.” He smiled at her and, miraculously, she smiled through her tears.
“Thank you,” she said, “for being kind.” His smile widened and he got back to business.
“Now, off to bed. You’ve got work in the morning,” and she relaxed a little and smiled again.
“Goodnight,” she said softly and got to her feet.
Peter kept staring at the place where she had been sitting, and only when he heard her footsteps in the hallway was he able to reply, “Goodnight, Alice.”
He slumped backwards on the sofa and closed his eyes. He had never expected to hear something as terrible as he had tonight, but it was done. Alice would want for nothing. It would be his life’s work, however short that might be.
But it was not yet over. He had his own demons to confront and destroy and if his love for her was to survive, it had to be done. And soon.
***
She lay awake in Lisa’s bed, totally exhausted but unable to sleep. She had bared her soul to Peter, and he had listened to her without a word of comment or criticism or reproach. He had comforted her, welcomed her in and invited her to stay with him, unconditionally, indefinitely, which was everything she wanted. She felt exhilarated at the catharsis and, for the first time, in control of her own destiny, her new identity a symbol of her new life. Her new start.
She had failed to mention the episode at The Navigation, not because she was ashamed but because, truthfully, she had already put it behind her and decided it was of no consequence. But it fascinated her to think that had those unhappy events not taken place, she would not be here now, lying in Lisa’s bed, wearing Lisa’s nightdress and forming an intense relationship with Lisa’s father. Fate? Of course not.
And something else troubled her. All those whom she had trusted before had let her down, brought her to the brink of destruction, and yet she had seen fit to place her trust in Peter without finding the answer to the one thing that troubled her the most.
Lisa’s bed. Lisa’s clothes. Lisa’s father. Lisa’s life.