The Son-In-Law (2 page)

‘And Dad carried you away?’

‘Well, in a manner of speaking.’

‘Like Prince Charming?’

Dad was listening to all this, chuckling as he laced up his shoes. Mum reached out and touched his face with her long fingers. ‘Charming shmarming! Your dad was
much
more glamorous than that big girl’s blouse! Hang on.’ She danced over to the cupboard and found her photo album. Then she made room at the dressing table, patting the chair beside her. Dad rumpled Theo’s messy hair and said he’d read him a story before the babysitter arrived, and the two of them pottered off. Theo was a miniature Dad, really, except that he had a button nose where Dad’s was heavy and strong. They both looked old-fashioned, with slate-coloured eyes and serious expressions that seemed to burst into sunshine when they smiled.

Mum and I looked through her album, though I’d seen it many times before. In my favourite picture, my parents were standing by a fountain. They’d just got married.

‘See?’ she said, smiling at it. ‘Look at him! I still think he might turn out to be a lost Russian prince, only he doesn’t know it yet.’

I agreed, because I loved her. But I remember thinking that Dad looked just like Dad, even dressed in a posh tailcoat which I’ve never seen him wear in real life. He was gazing at her as the photo was taken. She was talking, and whatever she’d said was making him laugh. He was pushing his glasses up his nose and looked like a nice, very handsome history teacher and not like a murderer at all. Mum’s wedding dress clung to her body and gathered in white folds around her feet, like double cream when you pour it out of a jug. She wore a lace veil with a circle of flowers. This had been my grandmother Hannah’s, and Great-Gran’s before her, and I could wear it one day.

I ran to my bedroom and fetched my library book
, Maid of
Sherwood.
The illustration on the jacket was of Maid Marion riding into the forest to look for Robin. She was wearing a blue gown and a white cloth over her head, held on by a circlet of gold. She had huge eyes and a thin face.

‘Maid Marion’s you,’ I said.

Mum clutched me to her chest. Actually, it was a bit too tight. ‘Oh, Scarlet.’ She sounded as though she was running out of breath. ‘Don’t you ever change. Don’t ever be horrid and sulky like I was. You absolutely have to stay just the way you are right now.’ Then she kissed both my cheeks—
mwah, mwah
—quite hard, almost angrily. It gave me dark pink kiss marks.

I later wondered whether that was why she let him kill her. Perhaps she didn’t want to see us three grow up. I thought if she’d really wanted to be with us she would have found a way to stay alive. Then we wouldn’t have had to live with Hannah and Gramps. Now, of course, I realise this is nonsense. Mum couldn’t help dying. Her brain was flooded with blood which made it swell up.

I never did take that book back to the library. Eventually they sent a grumpy letter and I paid the fine out of my Christmas money. So
Maid of Sherwood
was my Christmas present to myself. I’ve still got it under my bed. I’ve got the photo album too, but I’ve made a few changes there.

Two

Joseph

The prison was carefully designed to look grim, dwarfing the streets as a dour warning. On a bitter December day, when gusts knifed in from the Pennines, it could have been the brooding castle in a horror film.

It was on such a morning that a metal door swung quietly open. It led into an open area festooned with yellow signs announcing that this was
HMP Leeds,
as though Armley Jail was a jolly tourist attraction. A man in his thirties stepped out into a world that whipped and churned with icy particles. He wasn’t dressed for the Yorkshire winter; a lightweight cotton suit hung, crumpled, from broad shoulders. The fingers of one hand were rapidly turning red as they gripped the handle of a plastic bag, and round-rimmed glasses disappeared beneath a film of sleety particles.

The door banged behind him, shutting him out. For a second or two he seemed unable to move. He turned his head and watched a prison van as it swept towards massive vehicle gates. Then he raised a forefinger, pushed his glasses up his nose, and set off past the yellow signs, past the eyeless walls and into the city’s streets. A car honked and swerved as he seemed about to step out in front of it. An elderly woman edged past with her eyes averted. Finally he crossed the road and took refuge in a bus shelter.

Four schoolgirls in uniform perched on the narrow seat, smoking and gossiping. They cast sidelong smirks at the stranger as he stood examining a timetable on the wall. One of them—obviously the clown of the group, a ponytail sprouting from the side of her head—whispered something, and the others erupted into giggles.

As time passed, the smoking girls began to stare openly at the newcomer. He looked vampire-pale and faintly exotic. His cheekbones were high and Slavic, tinged blue in the bitter air. After much nudging, Ponytail spoke up.

‘Want one?’ she offered, holding out a packet of cigarettes.

His eyes were blue-grey, bloodshot under heavy brows. ‘I don’t smoke. Thanks.’

‘’Scuse me,’ she persisted, with a do-or-die glance at her fellows. ‘We’ve got a bet on about you. Not being funny or anything.’

‘Not being funny,’ echoed the stranger dryly. His voice carried a hint of Geordie. ‘Go on then.’

‘Did you just get out of jail?’

‘Been a free man for . . . ooh, twenty minutes?’

‘Thought so!’ she screamed. ‘Whassit like? My boyfriend’s uncle was in there. He reckons the food’s terrible, worse than bloody Hull and that’s saying something.’

The newcomer shrugged discouragingly, and turned back to the timetable.

The girls were not put off.
You ask . . . No you ask . . . I asked
last time . . . Go on, Karin.
Ponytail stepped closer, wrapping her striped school scarf across her mouth.

‘’Scuse me . . . erm, look don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but my mates want to know what you was in for.’

He was shivering now, shoulders hunched, forcing his hands into his trouser pockets.

‘
She
reckons you’re a nonce,’ said his interrogator, pointing at one of her cronies. ‘But I reckon—’

The stranger never heard what she reckoned. Her voice was drowned out by the furious blast of a car’s horn as a black four-wheel drive mounted the pavement.

‘Scott!’ yelled the driver, leaning across to open the passenger door. ‘Scott, you fuckin’ tosshead, where d’you think you’re going?’

The tosshead managed a strained smile. ‘Akash, where’d you get the wheels? Tell me you didn’t pinch it.’

‘Company car. Now stop asking bloody stupid questions and get in. You must be freezing your tiny bollocks off out there.’

The girls had watched this exchange with fascination. Ponytail had one last shot. ‘C’mon! Can’t have been that bad. Bet you didn’t kill nobody.’

The stranger looked over his shoulder, one foot in the car. ‘You bet I didn’t?’

‘I’ve just bet two quid you didn’t.’

‘Then you’re two quid out of pocket,’ he announced calmly, before ducking inside.

The four truants stood watching as the heavy vehicle lurched off towards the dual carriageway. There was a thoughtful silence. Eventually, Ponytail ground her cigarette stub out on the pavement. ‘What a load of shite. I reckon he was in for something really boring. Looked like a friggin’ undertaker.’

‘Sexy eyes though,’ said the smallest one, fanning herself comically. ‘Whew! I’ve just been smouldered at by a murderer.’

Ponytail made an obscene gesture. ‘People with little round specs don’t do murders.’

•

Joseph Scott huddled in the passenger seat, blowing on his numb hands.

‘You’re as pig-ugly as ever, Scott,’ remarked his companion affably. He was young, white-toothed and hair-gelled. ‘Let’s turn up the heating . . . That better? Fuck’s sake, tell me those aren’t the only clothes you’ve got?’

‘The suit I wore to court when I got sent away. Symbolic.’ Joseph looked out of the window, flinching as cars flashed past, dazed by the sheer speed of the outside world.

Akash smiled at the back of his friend’s head. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? You think you’re going to be all woo
hoo
! You fantasise for months about chasing skirt and getting totally ratted and filling your face with Mum’s home cooking. Then you step out that gate and . . . what next?’

‘Feels like a foreign country.’ Joseph rubbed his face. ‘How did you know I was coming out today?’

‘I phoned your solicitor. Got to the gate complex, they said you’d already gone. I’ve been driving around bloody Armley looking for you, silly prick.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Joseph turned away from the window. ‘You rescued me from some monstrous ladettes. Shouldn’t they be in school?’

Akash put on a plummy accent, which seemed to come easily to him. ‘That’s modern gals for you. Country’s going to the dogs . . . It’s the parents I blame. Anyway, where to, mate? Pubs are open, barmaids are lined up and waiting.’

Joseph imagined the taste of a pint. ‘You’re on.’ He hesitated. ‘In a bit. I need to get to York first and see my solicitor. I was planning on catching a bus. I’ve got a travel warrant.’

‘You’re out of your tree! You don’t want to spend your first hours of freedom sitting in some lawyer’s office. Me, I never want to see another one again as long as I live. Look, there’s the Prince Albert. Shall we—’ ‘After I’ve paid a visit to my solicitor,’ Joseph insisted. ‘He’s expecting me.’

‘Is this about the kids?’

‘Of course it’s about the kids.’

‘Mate, is this a good idea? You’re on licence, right? I bet you’ve got a condition on there about not contacting your family.’

‘True.’ Joseph had a copy of his licence conditions in his pocket. ‘I‘m not supposed to go anywhere near their house—which is in York, admittedly. But nobody said I couldn’t visit my solicitor.’

‘Let’s get some decent food and a pint down you. You need to think this through.’

‘You can feed me caviar and champagne if you like. Bathe me in ass’s milk, I won’t change my mind.’

‘You’ve waited all this time, Scottie. Another couple of days won’t hurt.’

Joseph’s jaw tensed dangerously. ‘I’ve been counting down the hours until I can walk into that solicitor’s office. It’s all that’s kept me going. Come on, Akash, you know what it’s like in there—nothing to do but think. If you don’t want to nip across to York, fine—I’ll catch a bus.’

Akash capitulated. ‘Okay. York, here we come. Where are you staying tonight?’

‘I told the probation guy I was planning to look up my sister in Gateshead,’ said Joseph unenthusiastically. ‘He wants to know my new address by Friday.’

‘Have you phoned her?’

‘No. She’d dance on my grave, given half a chance.’

‘Any other family?’

‘Just my old man. Last I heard he was living it up on the Costa Blanca.’

‘I’ve got a sofa. You’re welcome to it for as long as you need.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Joseph. ‘That would be . . . Thanks.’ He stared down at his hands, and after a moment Akash turned on the radio. A boy band was playing.

They’d reached the outskirts of York before Joseph spoke again. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Thanks for picking me up. I’ve got a discharge payment of sod-all, so we’ll blow it on a pint.’ He pulled some notes from his pocket. ‘So, is this your car?’

‘Yeah . . . well, technically it’s Dad’s. He set me up in a business. You’re looking at the managing director of Squeaky Clean Offices and Domestic. The good news is, I’ve got a load of women to boss about. The bad news is I work half the night.’ The young man forced his way into the overtaking lane between two cars, gesticulating when one of them flashed its lights.

The wind had dropped by the time they arrived in York. So had the temperature. ‘I’ll wait for you in the pub over there.’ Akash blew out his cheeks, rubbing his hands together. ‘Fuck, it’s brass monkeys.’

Joseph looked around, getting his bearings, still disoriented. The air seemed oddly opaque.

‘I think it’s going to snow,’ he said.

Three

Hannah

I don’t know where to begin. Not with him, that’s for sure. How can he be the beginning, when he destroyed everything that gave my life meaning?

She was our only child, you see. There was no understudy. Joseph Scott brought down the curtain forever. She was extraordinary from the moment she was born—a delicate creature with the brightest eyes the midwife had ever seen. I was twenty-six years old, and euphoric. My baby was a crumpled thing of wonder, an alien creature from outer space, the most precious object in the universe. Things that seemed vital a week before had become irrelevant. The skiing holiday? Ridiculous—of course we couldn’t go, not until Zoe was old enough to join us. My battle for promotion to departmental head? Who cared? My alcoholic sister Eliza wanted to stay for a few days? No, she bloody well couldn’t. Nobody could. We had a new baby.

Zoe was born in a cottage hospital, near where we were living at the time. In the next bed a girl called Jennifer nursed her eye-watering eleven-pounder, Bradley. Jennifer had pink cheeks and a pinker towelling bathrobe, and her bedside cabinet was covered with cards screaming
It’s a boy!
As though she didn’t know.

‘What you calling yours?’ she asked, eyeing the scrap of life in the cot by my bed.

‘Zoe,’ I said. ‘Zoe Eliza.’

‘S’nice. This your first?’

I nodded, a grin of idiocy plastered across my face.

‘Bradley’s my third,’ she said. ‘And believe me, he’s my last!’

Freddie held Zoe as though she was made of crystal, his foolish smile his matching mine. His hair was already in retreat, leaving shiny temples. I thought it looked distinguished, with his long face and fine bones.

‘Is that the granddad?’ whispered one of Jennifer’s visitors.

Freddie and I pretended not to hear, while Jennifer shushed and the visitor giggled.

Jennifer’s husband came to take her home the next morning. I watched as she organised her things, chattering amiably. Minutes later, she had gone. The midwife came to make her bed. Funny thing: I missed her terribly. In fact, that was the day I began to cry, for no reason at all. Freddie found me snivelling in the nursing chair. Zoe had fallen asleep in my arms, heart-shaped mouth open, dribbling milk onto my blouse.