Page 120 of Christmas Every Day
‘I don’t want to!’ Ellen cried. ‘I always knew he could be ruthless and mean. Butthis? This is monstrous. No wonder Mum left. This is probably why she barely contacts us, because she’s all tangled up in his mess and doesn’t know what to do about it.’
In the end, Ellen only got as far as arranging to see Brenda in the morning. She drove me home afterwards as steadily as if it were her driving test.
‘I’msosorry,’ I said as we arrived at the front of my house.
Ellen turned off the engine. ‘You’d better not be apologising for my father running a campaign of terror against you.’
‘I’m not. I’m expressing my sorrow that it happened. I can’t imagine how hard this must be.’
She wiped a strand of hair off her forehead. ‘Like I said, I’m not massively surprised. But, yeah, it’s still horrible. And I know the next few days, probably months, maybe years, are going to be horrible too. I can’t eventhinkabout how I’m going to tell my sister. And if he ends up going to prison… how do I explain that to the kids?’
‘I can’t imagine he’ll go to prison.’ My voice squeaked in alarm. ‘He didn’t hurt anybody.’
‘Maybe not physically.’ Ellen looked at me pointedly. ‘And who knows what else he’s done on that list of grubby threats? Is it any better if you’ve paid someone else to commit your crimes?’
She sighed. ‘Either way, we’d better try and get a good night’s sleep before the volcano blows. I won’t be going in tomorrow, so you can take the day off.’
‘You’ll keep me posted?’
‘Of course.’ She leant over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘If you need anything. And by need anything, I really mean if you get scared, or sad, and want to talk, call me. Don’t worry if it’s the middle of the night. Most likely I’ll be awake.’
I whispered it again: ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Me too. Now get inside before Will starts to worry we’ve gone to tackle Dad ourselves, Squash Harris style.’
I didn’t call Ellen that night, when the fear and worry crept inside my head to dance with the darkness.
I didn’t call my friend when I choked on the self-pity. Self-pity, and anger, at once again being the victim, a mere irritant to be trampled underfoot while others strode onwards to success.
I called a different number. Three times, hitting the end call button as soon as the phone started ringing.
I turned my face to the wall, and imagined him there, lying parallel to me, only a layer of brick and plaster between us, and I talked at the non-existent Mack until my throat grew hoarse, the streaks on my cheeks dried up, my eyes closed, and I passed over into blessed nothingness.
* * *
It didn’t take long for the scandal to break. Three days after Ellen and I, and a whole load of other people, spoke to the police, Charlotte Meadows’ jewellery, Jamie’s oven and the old record player appeared in my living room. Having been working on teaching assistant applications in my kitchen at the time, rather than feeling spooked by the impressively quick and impossibly quiet delivery, I tapped off a quick message to Jamie saying thanks.
Later, I found out he’d discovered them in Tezza’s garage. For some reason, Tezza never reported Jamie breaking in. But I did hear he had nightmares for months afterwards.
And, according to Sarah, the mystery of the Beast of Middlebeck was now solved, thanks to Jamie’s undisclosed interrogation techniques. I seethed at the knowledge that I’d actually paid the Beast of Middlebeck to use his taxi service, in order to avoid encountering that very same beast. Thinking about him coming face to face with Jamie at crazy-o’clock helped, as did the fact that he’d been so easily dissuaded from repeating the performance after Brenda had made it clear she was keeping an eye on things. Knowing that no one in the village would be using Tezza’s taxi ever again helped more.
In the midst of this whirlwind, caring for extra-excitable and anxious children four days a week, volunteering with the formidable Year Fives of Middlebeck Primary, stripping wallpaper, bartering with electricians and plumbers, coaxing soup into my agonisingly frail friend – in the midst of all this, like a pathetic, pointless soundtrack on a loop in the background, my heart ached for Mack.
I repeatedly beat myself over the head with the truth that Mack being gone was a good thing. He was not mine to miss, or want, or love. Obviously the best thing was for him to go and enjoy his life with his wife, and leave me to get over it.
I even let Sarah and Kiko sign me up on the Lovelife! dating app, spending a couple of half-hearted evenings flicking through profiles looking for men with eyes like hot chocolate and furrowed brows.
But how did you stop loving the person you loved, when, as far as you knew, they were still lovely?
I learnt there were good days, when the ache was nothing but a faint buzzing in the background. And other, not quite as good days, when it felt as if a lung were missing.
On a particularly not-so-good day at the end of October, I sent him a text:
Hi Mack. I hope you and Sienna are doing well. I have a dry-rot specialist coming on Friday. He asked if okay to check out your side too. Is it? Does someone have a key to let him in? Maybe the estate agent? Best wishes, Jenny
I pressedsend, pressed the other hand to my galloping heart, closed my eyes and counted to ten and strolled, fake-it-till-you-make-it casual, into the kitchen to find some empty calories to distract me.
Right on time to see the genuine Hillary Mackenzie West wiping his feet on my welcome mat.
