Before I Go to Sleep (43 page)

She gasped. ‘Dead? When? How?’

‘I don’t know when, exactly,’ I said. ‘I think Ben told me it was last year. He was killed in the war.’

‘War? What war?’

‘Afghanistan.’

And then she said it. ‘Chrissy, what would he be doing in Afghanistan?’ Her voice was strange. She almost sounded pleased.

‘He was in the army,’ I said, but even as I spoke I was starting to doubt what I was saying. It was as if I was finally facing something I had known all along.

I heard Claire snort, almost as if she was finding something amusing. ‘Chrissy,’ she said. ‘Chrissy darling. Adam hasn’t been in the army. He’s never been to Afghanistan. He’s living in Birmingham, with someone called Helen. He works with computers. He hasn’t forgiven me, but I still ring him occasionally. He’d probably rather I didn’t, but I am his godmother, remember?’ It took me a moment to work out why she was still using the present tense, and even as I did so she said it.

‘I rang him after we met last week,’ she said. She was almost laughing, now. ‘He wasn’t there, but I spoke to Helen. She said she’d ask him to ring me back. Adam is alive.’

I stop reading. I feel light. Empty. I feel I might fall backwards, or else float away. Dare I believe it? Do I want to? I steady myself against the dresser and read on, only dimly aware that no longer do I hear the sound of Ben’s shower.

I must have stumbled, grabbed hold of the chair. ‘He’s alive?’ My stomach rolled, I remember vomit rising in my throat and having to swallow it down. ‘He’s really alive?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes!’

‘But—’ I began. ‘But – I saw a newspaper. A clipping. It said he’d been killed.’

‘It can’t have been real, Chrissy,’ she said. ‘It can’t have been. He’s alive.’

I began to speak, but then everything hit me at once, every emotion bound up in every other. Joy. I remember joy. The sheer pleasure of knowing that Adam is alive fizzed on my tongue, but mixed into it was the bitter, acid tang of fear. I thought of my bruises, of the force with which Ben must have struck me to cause them. Perhaps his abuse is not only physical, perhaps some days he takes delight in telling me that my son is dead so that he can see the pain that thought inflicts. Was it really possible that on other days, in which I remember the fact of my pregnancy, or giving birth to my baby, he simply tells me that Adam has moved away, is working abroad, living on the other side of town?

And if so, why did I never write down any of those alternative truths that he fed me?

Images entered my head, of Adam as he might be now, fragments of scenes I may have missed, but none would hold. Each image slid through me and then vanished. The only thing I could think was he’s alive. Alive. My son is alive. I can meet him.

‘Where is he?’ I said. ‘Where is he? I want to see him!’

‘Chrissy,’ Claire said. ‘Stay calm.’

‘But—’

‘Chrissy!’ she interrupted. ‘I’m coming round. Stay there.’

‘Claire! Tell me where he is!’

‘I’m really worried about you, Chrissy. Please—’

‘But—’

She raised her voice. ‘Chrissy, calm down!’ she said, and then a single thought pierced through the fog of my confusion: I am hysterical. I took a breath and tried to settle, as Claire began to speak again.

‘Adam is living in Birmingham,’ she said.

‘But he must know where I am now,’ I said. ‘Why doesn’t he come to see me?’

‘Chrissy …’ she began.

‘Why? Why doesn’t he visit me? Does he not get on with Ben? Is that why he stays away?’

‘Chrissy,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘Birmingham is a fair way away. He has a busy life …’

‘You mean—’

‘Maybe he can’t get down to London that often?’

‘But—’

‘Chrissy. You think Adam doesn’t visit. But I can’t believe that. Maybe he does come, when he can.’

I fell silent. Nothing made sense. Yet she was right. I have only been keeping my journal for a couple of weeks. Before that, anything could have happened.

‘I need to see him,’ I said. ‘I want to see him. Do you think that can be arranged?’

‘I don’t see why not. But if Ben is really telling you that he’s dead then we ought to speak to him first.’

Of course, I thought. But what will he say? He thinks that I still believe his lies.

‘He’ll be here soon,’ I said. ‘Will you still come over? Will you help me to sort this out?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course. I don’t know what’s going on. But we’ll talk to Ben. I promise. I’ll come now.’

‘Now? Right now?’

‘Yes. I’m worried, Chrissy. Something’s not right.’

Her tone bothered me, but at the same time I felt relieved, and excited at the thought that I might soon be able to meet my son. I wanted to see him, to see his photograph, right away. I remembered that we had hardly any, and those we did have were locked away. A thought began to form.

‘Claire,’ I said, ‘did we have a fire?’

She sounded confused. ‘A fire?’

‘Yes. We have hardly any photographs of Adam. And almost none of our wedding. Ben said we lost them in a fire.’

‘A fire?’ she said. ‘What fire?’

‘Ben said there was a fire in our old home. We lost lots of things.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. Years ago.’

‘And you have no photographs of Adam?’

I felt myself getting annoyed. ‘We have some. But not many. Hardly any of him other than when he was a baby. A toddler. And none of holidays, not even our honeymoon. None of Christmases. Nothing like that.’

‘Chrissy,’ she said. Her voice was quiet, measured. I thought I detected something in it, some new emotion. Fear. ‘Describe Ben to me.’

‘What?’

‘Describe him to me. Ben. What does he look like?’

‘What about the fire?’ I said. ‘Tell me about that.’

‘There was no fire,’ she said.

‘But I wrote down that I remembered it,’ I said. ‘A chip pan. The phone rang …’

‘You must have been imagining it,’ she said.

‘But—’

I sensed her anxiety. ‘Chrissy! There was no fire. Not years ago. Ben would have told me. Now, describe Ben. What does he look like? Is he tall?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Black hair?’

My mind went blank. ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. He’s beginning to go grey. He has a paunch, I think. Maybe not.’ I stood up. ‘I need to see his photograph.’

I went back upstairs. They were there, pinned around the mirror. Me and my husband. Happy. Together.

‘His hair looks kind of brown,’ I said. I heard a car pull up outside the house.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes,’ I said. The engine was switched off, the door slammed. A loud beep. I lowered my voice. ‘I think Ben’s home.’

‘Shit,’ said Claire. ‘Quick. Does he have a scar?’

‘A scar?’ I said. ‘Where?’

‘On his face, Chrissy. A scar, across one cheek. He had an accident. Rock climbing.’

I scanned the photographs, choosing the one of me and my husband sitting at a breakfast table in our dressing gowns. In it he was smiling happily and, apart from a hint of stubble, his cheeks were unblemished. Fear rushed to hit me.

I heard the front door open. A voice. ‘Christine! Darling! I’m home!’