The Ice Cream Girls (50 page)

‘Right, so where are we going?’ I ask my husband. He also told me to pack a dress I wouldn’t mind wearing to get married in.

‘OK, you’re going to love this,’ he says, turning to us. ‘We’re going to . . . pick up our new motorhome!’

He is greeted with silence.

‘Our
what
?’ I say.

‘I thought, what can I spend that money on that will be for all the family, and will mean that we can always afford to go on holidays? So I invested the cash in a motorhome.’

‘Mum, is Dad joking?’ Vee asks me desperately. Not as desperate as me, I’ll wager.

‘Yes, Vee, your father is joking. Because he has known me for ever and he has to know that I am not the type of person who uses a “chemical toilet” – especially not a second-hand one.’

‘It is going to be fantastic,’ Evan says. ‘We can go off on holidays whenever we like: we don’t have to worry about hotel bookings, we can sleep wherever we fancy. We can read the streets whenever we like. It’s going to be fabulous, I promise you.’

‘Wow,’ breathes Conrad, ‘we have a chemical toilet?’

‘We certainly do, son, we certainly do.’ Evan slaps and rubs his hands together, then reaches for his seatbelt. ‘Let’s go, let’s go. I can’t wait to get there.’

‘And where is “there” exactly?’

‘Wales: well, Portmeirion. Where there is a lovely little church, right by the beach, where we could get married tomorrow if you want?’

‘So, that’s the choice: motorhome and wedding, or no motorhome and no wedding?’

‘Yup.’

I reach for my seatbelt. ‘Portmeirion, here we come.’

‘Ah, Mum!’ Vee complains.

‘Mum, are there whales in Wales?’ Conrad asks.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Why don’t you ask your clever big sister? I bet she’ll know.’

‘Vee, are there whales in Wales?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘Mum, she said she’s not telling me.’

‘That’s probably because she doesn’t know.’

‘I do, too.’

‘She does, too.’

I reach over and squeeze my husband’s knee as he begins to take us into our future. ‘We made two good ones, there,’ I whisper so as not to disturb the arguing in the back. ‘I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.’

poppy

They open the door the second I unhook the gate and they come running at me, flying into my arms, almost knocking me over as our bodies connect halfway up the path.

None of us even attempt to speak, we just cling to each other: holding on and holding on.

My precious, precious sister. My precious, precious brother.

My arms do not seem wide enough to hold them as close as I want to, my words would not be deep enough to tell them everything in my heart. For nearly twenty years I’ve wanted nothing more than this. To hold them. To be near them.

Now is the time for us to set things right, for me to concentrate on what is truly important. Not
that
past,
this
future.

They’re here now, we’re here now, we do not need anyone or anything else.

Bella slips her hand in mine and Logan wraps his arm around my shoulders and we head back into the house, so close that every step we take is a step in time, a step that sews up the years we were apart, pulling the seams together until they can barely be seen, and we can pretend that they never really existed.

Daily News Chronicle
, June 1988

marcus

I never thought she had it in her.

After those bitches left me bleeding, I knew I had to get to the phone. It was on the other side of the sitting room, but I knew I could make it. It was only really a nick in the side – looked worse than it was. But I wasn’t going to tell those two that. I was going to tell them I’d nearly died, make them feel as guilty as they should.

Who did they think they were, saying no to me? To me! I was going to teach the pair of them a lesson they’d never forget. And I was going to make each of them watch while the other got her lesson.

I managed to roll on to my front, even though it hurt like hell. It hurt like nothing on earth. I really did need an ambulance before I lost any more blood. I slammed my hand down on to the carpet, dug my fingertips in and then heaved myself forwards. It worked – I moved. Only a small distance, but I was that bit closer to the phone. It wouldn’t take long to get help. And once I was at the hospital, I would think it over slowly, clearly, soberly. I would find the perfect punishment.

Suddenly she was standing there, framed in the doorway, staring down at me. I should have known, by the look on her face, but I didn’t ever think. Not her, not her of all people.

‘Marlene? How did you get in?’ She’d obviously turned up on one of her ‘leave me alone or else’ visits, but that didn’t matter right now. She was there and she could get me help. ‘Arggh,’ I groaned, clutching my side and willing the pain to go away. ‘Never mind, never mind,’ I gasped. ‘Just get me an ambulance.’

She did not move and she did not speak. She stood still and watched me. Maybe she was in shock, seeing all that blood.

‘Marlene!’ I shouted, trying to snap her out of it. ‘The phone. It’s over by the window. Call me an ambulance. NOW! MARLENE! NOW!’

She nodded and then the stupid bitch went towards the sofa. No wonder I divorced her. Couldn’t take an order that one. I never did manage to knock any sense into her, either. ‘Not the sofa. The window. The window!’ I told her.

I couldn’t see what she was doing so, screaming out in pain, I rolled over on to my back as she came towards me again. She had my knife in her hand. And then she was holding it up above her head with both hands.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, even though it was obvious.

‘Goodbye, Marcus,’ she said.

‘Marlene? Marlene?!’ I screamed. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop her because I couldn’t move, I had no strength left in my body. She said that about me once. During the divorce, during the pack of lies she told the judge to get full custody of Jack, she told the court that I had
forced
myself on her. Me, her husband, had forced her. And when my solicitor had rightly asked why she didn’t stop me, she replied, ‘I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop him because I couldn’t move. It was as if all strength had left my body.’

‘I’ll make sure Jack remembers you as a good man,’ she said. ‘Not the low-life, violent, rapist scum that you are.’

‘Marlene?! Marl—’ I hate that I died with tears on my cheeks and her name on my lips.
Her
name. After all those girls who had adored me over the years, she was the one I was with when death us did part.

From right beside her I watched her lean over and use the hanky in her pocket to wipe the handle clean. To erase all evidence that she was ever there and she did this.

She wasn’t good enough, of course. Like I always told her, she wasn’t good enough: she missed a bit. The little bit that Poppy had touched. I could see into the past, into the present and into the future, now that I didn’t need to. I could see that Poppy would be blamed, Poppy would be convicted. I could see that Poppy would always think it was Serena and Serena would always think it was Poppy. And no one, not even Poppy and Serena, would think to ask Marlene if she killed me.

Marlene would have admitted it if anyone had ever bothered to ask her. She was that weak, she would have cracked. But no one did, because all the evidence pointed to Poppy with Serena’s help. What they asked her was where she was the night of my murder. And she told them. She told them that she came to see me to tell me to leave her alone, but I did not answer the door when she knocked. Which was true. And she told them that she went home. Someone even remembers her going back to Birmingham on the 9 p.m. train. She had already killed me by then, but only she knew that.

Marlene wiped down the door handle and checked she had not stepped in any blood.

She even remembered to wipe her fingerprints off the spare key and return it to its place under the mat. She looked around and around, and was quite calm considering what she had just done. Maybe it was true what she said in court. Maybe I had broken her. Maybe living with me had turned her into a person she did not recognise. I did not recognise her, that’s for sure. She never looked at me again. Once she had done it, once she had stepped back, she did not survey her handiwork; she did not look at me for one last goodbye. But that is understandable. If she had, she would not have been able to walk away. She would have called the police, she would have confessed. In her mind, the reason she never did confess was because she did not want to leave Jack.

I could see the years ahead, and I could see that she would allow Poppy to take the blame. First she would reason that Poppy was innocent, so they would find out the truth. And after Poppy was sentenced, she would think that Poppy was not a mother, Poppy didn’t have a young child relying upon her, so it wouldn’t matter as much as it would if she went away. Jack’s life would be ruined to know that his mother had killed his father and then she would not see him outside of jail until he was an adult.

But, in all honesty, she was a coward. She was scared of prison, she was scared of being labelled a murderer, and most of all she was scared of Jack hating her for what she had done.

And what she had done, stupid cow that she was, was to unintentionally commit the perfect murder: she had killed someone and someone else had been arrested, tried and sentenced for it.

I was glad in the end that it was her who did it. Because she would never sleep again. Every single night for the rest of her life she would wake up in a cold, terrified sweat. She would spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder in case she got caught. She would always hear the sound I made as I called out her name that one last time, and she would always feel the sickening give as the knife went in.

Marlene thought she was getting rid of me by doing what she did but, in truth, she was doing the opposite. She was making sure I would haunt her for ever.

About the book

By Dorothy Koomson

One of the best things about being a writer is that you have the
chance to experience other people’s lives. One of the worst
things about being a writer is that you have the chance to experience
other people’s lives. I felt like that time and again when
I was writing
The Ice Cream Girls
.

First of all I should tell you that I absolutely enjoyed writing
the book. It was challenging and difficult and pushed me as a
writer, but I loved putting down every single word and I love
the final product. I could not have hoped for a better story to
come out of all that hard work – I put my heart and soul into
creating it.

Now, let me tell you about the book.
If you have read it, and I’m hoping you have and haven’t
skipped to this bit (which may contain spoilers), you will see
that the theme of domestic violence – physical, emotional and
psychological – is explored. This subject is a prime example of
what I love about writing and what tears me up about writing.
Many, many times while researching for the book and
hearing people’s stories, I felt as if I had experienced what they
had experienced, lived through what they had. And it had a
fundamental effect on me. Every book I write changes me in
some way, and this was no different – apart from making my
feelings about a subject I already held strong views on even
stronger.

Every story I heard or read made me angry, scared and determined.
Angry because people go through these experiences
every day – they are abused by people who are supposed to love
and care for them.

I became a little scared by what I discovered, because most of
us are only a few wrong decisions from being in a situation like
Poppy and Serena. We only have to believe the wrong person a
few times; we only have to accept as fact the negative things that
a supposed loved-one is slowly and carefully pouring into our
ears on a regular basis; we only have to
not
tell after the first time
they raise a hand to us, and we are there – mired in a situation
that will (slowly or quickly) damage us.

As a result of the stories I read and heard I also became determined.
I decided to try to make the story of
The Ice Cream Girls
one that will help to shine a light on an area of life that thrives
on secrecy. Domestic violence continues so prevalently, I
believe, because we do not speak of it enough. To paraphrase
John Philpot Curran: evil continues to prosper when ordinary
people do and say nothing.

With
The Ice Cream Girls
I wanted to enlighten those who
haven’t been in such a situation as well as accurately reflect what
it is like to be a ‘Poppy’ or ‘Serena’ in real life. I wanted to take
everyone who read the book on a journey of discovery. I hope
I have done that.

What I also hope is that the book – as readers have said of my
other books – will give those who need it the courage to change
their situation. Escaping an abusive relationship is in no way a
simple case of ‘just leaving’. If it was then wouldn’t all those
abused people do it? I hope that those who need the courage to
leave will realise that talking, reaching out,
telling someone
is the
second
step on the road to escaping an abusive situation.
Understanding that it is not your fault and you deserve better is
the first step. And once you’ve taken the first step, taking the
second step – and all the other steps away from the person who
is doing you harm – should be that little bit easier.