Waterhouse And Zailer: The Carrier Part 18

"So," he says. "You decided to come back, then."

Tell him. Tell him youve only come back to explain that you have to leave.

I dont know how to say it. Its easier to fall into the familiar groove of petty point-scoring, at which I happen to excel. I have no experience of abandoning a partner and a shared home. Seans the only man Ive ever lived with. "Yesterday evening I decided to come back," I say in my best upbeat voice, looking at my watch. "I checked in for my flight home at six oclock, twenty-three hours ago. Its taken that long. Rubbish, isnt it?" I am still smiling, skin stretched tight. "I was furious with the German weather at first, but I got over it."

I force myself to look at Seans face as a way to avoid staring at his feet. I keep noticing new things about him that grate, and today its his socks-the same kind hes worn since I met him, but theyve never bothered me before: woolly, bulky as shoes, with things like "Extreme Precipice Crater Climbing" emblazoned across them. Which would be fine if he wore them for more adventurous missions than padding to the kitchen to get another beer.

"I havent made you any supper." He lifts his bowl. "If youd rung to tell me what time youd be back . . ."

"Im not hungry. Sleeps what I need. I didnt get any last night." Why did I say that? I dont want to go upstairs and get into a bed that smells of Sean; I want to pack a suitcase and leave. Except I might have to lie down and close my eyes for an hour first. The way I feel now, Im not sure Im fit to drive.

Sean knows Im a for-better-or-for-worse sleeper. Hes watched me sleep on airport floors, in loud train carriages, in nightclubs with deafeningly loud music blaring out. I wait for him to ask me what happened last night to keep me awake, but all I get is a mumbled "Sorry if Im keeping you up." It isnt a genuine apology; its sole purpose is to draw attention to the apology Im not offering him, the one hes convinced he deserves. He turns his back on me and heads for the lounge. Theres a lager can protruding from each of his back trouser pockets.

No. Not today. Not the beer-and-football routine.

I beat him to the remote control and mute the sound. "I got no sleep because I nearly had to share a tiny double bed with a weirdo who ended up running away in the middle of the night, but not before shed confessed to framing an innocent man for murder."

Sean puts his bowl and fork on the floor, pulls the two beer cans out of his pockets and stands them on the arm of the sofa. He sits down and devotes his silent attention to the equally silent television, as if he and it have arranged to meditate together.

Nothing. No response whatsoever. Unbelievable.

I shouldnt have agreed to such a huge TV. Even switched off, it would be the most commanding presence in any room. I regret all the arguments I let Sean win in the early days of our relationship: the too-soft mattress, the wet room hes always just had a shower in, so that the loo seat needs to be patted down with paper before I can sit on it. And last but not least, our picture-hanging policy. As a result of my l.u.s.t-induced weakness when Sean and I first bought this house, each of our paintings and prints hangs from a triangle of cord that in turn hangs from a picture rail. It looks fussy and old-fashioned, and I hate it nearly as much as I hate the fact that one of the pictures, framed for a mere 56, is a poster of some guy who used to play for Chelsea that anyone with a brain would see was hideous and chuck in the nearest skip.

"Is there no part of what Ive just said that youd like to explore further?" I ask Sean. "Murder, et cetera? I can elaborate if you want. That was my concise introduction, not the full story."

"Your plane landed at Combingham at eleven oclock this morning," he says.

"Yeah, I know. I was on it."

Its Seans turn to look at his watch. "Its five oclock. It doesnt take six hours to get from Combingham Airport to Spilling."

"No. It takes an hour and a half. Oh, hang on!" I fake a moment of enlightenment. Acting plays a central part in my relationship with Sean, in so many ways. "Youre angry that I didnt rush home straightaway, even though you were at work."

Hes communing with the mute television again, blocking me out. If he looked up, if he expressed even minimal concern for my well-being, I might tell him everything. The love of my life is in prison, charged with a murder he didnt commit. I thought Id be able to rely on Kerry and Dans help in getting him out, but theyre lying too. All of which has brought home to me that if Ive only got you, Sean, then Ive got nothing. Theres a book of poems by e. e. c.u.mmings in my bag that means more to me than you do.

Its probably best if I keep quiet about all the important stuff.

"You got back when?" I say. "Ten minutes ago? Five? And you found the house empty. Youd looked on the Internet, found out when my plane landed, and you were expecting me to be home before you. But I wasnt here. Which means . . . what? Im a heartless b.i.t.c.h who doesnt love you?" Is that what I am? Am I floating that description of myself to see if h.e.l.l recognize it and identify me?

"I rang here, rang your work," he says, tight-lipped. "No sign of you."

"For G.o.ds sake, Sean! I was out of touch for a while-its not a crime. I told you when we spoke yesterday Id be home as soon as I could. I needed to go to the police, so this is it, now: the soonest I could get back."

"I rang your mobile-no answer."

I cant take my eyes off his face. If he isnt embarra.s.sed to be wearing that expression then he ought to be. Its redolent of hopes cruelly dashed. I want to scream, "Nothing bad has happened to you! At all!"

"You didnt think to ring Spilling police station?" I say instead. There is no trace of mockery in my voice; I wouldnt be so careless. I am a master of domestic pa.s.sive-aggressive warfare techniques.

"Police station?" Sean says in a put-upon voice, as if its a huge inconvenience for him to have to hear about it. At times like this, I feel the presence of his selfishness as if it were a third person in the room with us, hulking and invisible: twice Seans size, sitting next to him on the sofa, refusing to budge.

Some people might expect a reference to murder to be followed by a reference to the police. If I relayed this conversation to an impartial witness, Im fairly sure he or she would be astonished to hear that Sean asked no questions about the violent crime Id referred to in pa.s.sing. "None at all?" they would say, and Id have to explain that Sean walks around-or, rather, lies around-wrapped in a thick cloak of No Concern Of Mine. It repels any kind of experience that isnt the sort of thing that happens to sensible people like him, or that doesnt affect him personally.

Except this murder does. If Francine Breary were still alive, Lauren Cookson wouldnt have followed me to Germany. If I hadnt met Lauren, I wouldnt know that Tim was in trouble and I wouldnt be thinking about leaving home.

"Thats right," I say breezily, taking off my coat. "Ive been daahn the nick," I put on a c.o.c.kney accent. "Where else would I go to sort out the whole innocent-man-charged-with-murder palaver?" I drop my bag on the floor by mistake and find Im too wiped out to bend and pick it up.

Theres no way I can get out of here tonight. Sean would find me in the morning collapsed on the doorstep, comatose. My eyelids start to slide closed as I imagine my blacked-out self.

"Thats it, pretend youre too tired to talk," he says bitterly. I forgot: Im not allowed to be too tired when I get home from a business trip-for anything. Its the price I pay for having been away. Sean expects me to come back full of energy for reunion s.e.x and fighting, one after the other. I never know what the order will be.

"You couldnt have made a quick phone call, let me know you were okay?" he persists.

My fingers itch to dig into him and gouge out chunks of flesh. On the plus side, at least the spurting fountain of venom inside me has woken me up. Maybe Ill be able to escape tonight after all.

I sink down into an armchair. "You dont care if Im okay, so why would I bother?" I say.

"I dont care?" Sean holds up his hands as if to say, "Then why am I sulking and yelling?"

"You care about a malfunction in your remote surveillance system, and you confuse that with caring about me," I tell him.

"What the f.u.c.k are you talking about?"

Im experimenting with telling you how I really feel. Ill probably regret it. I should stop.

"Remote surveillance system?" He shakes his head. At least he doesnt mind that his foods going cold-thats a point in his favor. "Put yourself in my position for two seconds, Gaby."

"If you want me to do that, youll have to shift your a.r.s.e off the sofa."

"I miss you when youre away," he says quietly. "I look forward to you coming back. Is that so terrible?"

I should tell him not to waste his time, that its impossible for the Affectionate Pitch Antidote to work at this late stage; my resentment is too far gone. The way I feel at the moment, Id prefer almost any other man to Sean. A stranger would be nice-he wouldnt expect too much in the way of conversation. I wouldnt care what characteristics he had as long as the first thing he always said when I got in from a grueling work trip was, "You look shattered. Ill stick the kettle on. Earl Grey with milk?"

Perhaps my next work project should be inventing my ideal man. Id make sure every last design flaw was eliminated before I let him move in. If I hadnt been so obsessed with work when I met Sean, Id have noticed that physical attraction wasnt a good enough reason to get stuck in a long-term relationship with someone.

And Tim? What about the design flaws there? A man who wouldnt leave the wife he didnt love for you, even though you begged him to? I force the thought from my mind.

"Weve been through this before," I say to Sean. "The me you miss isnt real. Its a different me from the one who has to travel a lot for work-you dont like that me at all, do you? If you did, youd be nicer to her."

"Gaby, theres traveling a lot and theres being a fanatical workaholic who allows no room for a personal life. Even when youre here, youre planning your next foreign jolly: looking at hotel websites, booking plane tickets . . ."

Foreign jolly. Thats a new one.

"Ive been away an average of three nights a week for the past six months," I trot out. I did my diary statistics on the plane on the way home, antic.i.p.ating that Id need to have them to hand. "That means an average of four nights a week at home in the same period." I rub the back of my neck, which aches from the strain of holding my head up. "What else can I do, Sean?"

Why do I never point out to him that my work-related gallivanting-and hes right, I do a lot of it-led to the creation of a company that eventually sold for 48.3 million dollars and enabled us to buy this house outright as well as a house for my parents, one for my brother and his family, and a flat in London for Seans sister?

Sean never mentions it either. When I told him that my new company might end up selling for as much or more if all goes according to plan, he said, "If it does, will you stop starting businesses and spend more time at home?"

Seans work doesnt involve any out-of-hours swanning. He adheres to a cla.s.sic routine: leaves the house at seven-thirty every morning, spends the day teaching secondary school pupils in Rawndesley how to play football and tennis and hockey, and returns home between four-thirty and five. His job has the good manners to confine itself to regular working hours; he doesnt see why mine cant do the same.

"Meanwhile, Im missing the football," he says, holding out his hand for the remote control.

I think of the choirgirl who sat behind me on the coach, the one with a brother called Silas. "Lets say Id been pregnant, and it was a boy," I say to Sean. "Lets say he grew up to be a famous footballer."

"Are you going to give me the remote?"

If Silas played for Manchester United, would you support them, or would you still support Stoke City? I never heard what Sila.s.s dad said in response; Lauren distracted me.

"If he played for Liverpool, would you still support Chelsea?" I ask Sean. "Or would you support the team your son played for, because hed matter more to you than football?"

"Dont be stupid." Sean opens a beer and his mouth and pours. Ive seen petrol pumps approach the transfer of liquid with more finesse. "You know the answer."

"The answer being . . . ?"

"Are you winding me up? No one who cares about football stops supporting his team just because his son ends up playing for a different one."

"That cant be true," I say, but Seans scornful laughter makes me doubt myself mid-sentence. Could he be right? Is the world really so crazy that millions of men would prioritize . . . what? A shirt and shorts in a particular combination of colors over their own sons? Female football fans wouldnt, surely. I like to think women are saner.

"If we had a son and he played for Liverpool, or for anyone, Id support Chelsea, till I drew my last breath."

"Right." How pathetic. "So, its Chelsea v. Liverpool in the FA Cup Final and your sons about to take a penalty kick for Liverpool and possibly score the winning goal. Youd know it was one of the most important moments of his life . . ."

"Id support my team. Chelsea. More to the point, so would he," Sean adds as an afterthought.

What? I must have misheard, or misunderstood. Im Lauren-lagged, thats my problem. "So would who?" I ask.

Sean rolls his eyes. "My son. Plenty of players play for one team and support another-its no big deal, just . . . your teams your team. Once a Chelsea fan, always a Chelsea fan."

I cant believe what Im hearing. "Your son, the famous footballer, taking a penalty kick for Liverpool, would want to miss?"

"Much as his professional pride would want to score the winning goal, Chelsea winningd mean more to him," Sean says with authority.

"Because . . . hed be such a devoted Chelsea supporter?" I think Im up to speed, but Id better check.

Seans nodding.

"How do you know?" I ask. "What if he supports a.r.s.enal?"

"For f.u.c.ks sake! Whats the point of all this? Give me the remote. Hed support Chelsea because hed be my son, and Id bring him up to support Chelsea."

Thank you for telling me everything I need to know. This might be the most useful conversation Ive ever had in my life. "Sean," I say. "I dont want to be with you anymore. Sorry to spring this on you with no warning." I stand up and nearly lose my balance, light-headed with fatigue. "I dont love you anymore. I dont want to live with you, or have children with you, and even if I did, I wouldnt stand by and let you tell those children what they are and what theyd better turn out to be." I pick up my bag and hold it against my body, forgetting for a second that it isnt a baby Im protecting from its fathers mind control. "Im going upstairs to pack some things," I say. "Dont follow me."

Thats when my life explodes in tears and swearing, and I realize that, having done nothing about my relationship crisis for years, I now have to move fast. Very. Seconds later were both running up the stairs, Sean reaching out to grab hold of my hair and my clothes. I sting and burn in different places; its hard to predict where the next pain will come from and whether it will throb or pierce, especially against a sound track of "b.i.t.c.h" and "wh.o.r.e" and "evil" and "monster." I keep my mouth shut so that I can concentrate on moving, slip out of Seans grasp twice on the landing and manage to get to the bedroom. Hes too close behind for me to slam the door, and then Im not in our room anymore because hes pulled me back onto the landing, and the only way I can think to stop him from really hurting me is to surprise him with words. "Theres someone else," I scream into the arm thats pressing against my face. "Im leaving you because of another man."

Sean releases me, slumps in a heap outside the bathroom door. Hes crying. Irrelevantly, I notice that its not sad crying; its angry, like Laurens at Dsseldorf Airport. Like all the moisture being squeezed out of a bloated grudge.

I sink down to my haunches, panting. I need to explain properly. Once Sean understands, he might not be so upset-once he realizes Im going mad and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up my life rather than riding off into the sunset with a new soul mate. "Do you remember Tim Breary?"

"Who?"

"He used to be my accountant, years ago. You never met him." And I didnt mention him unless I absolutely had to. "Nothing happened between us, nothing physical, but-"

"So something did happen!"

"I fell in love with him. I think he fell in love with me too. Maybe he didnt, but at the time that was the impression I had. But . . . he ended it. Not that there was anything to end, really."

"He dumped you?"

I nod.

"Good." Sean spits the word in my face. "I hope you suffered."

"I did."

I want to tell him more about my suffering. Ill try taking all the blame and judgment out of it, as I was once taught to do on a course for company directors that one of my investors suggested I attend, one whose suggestions I couldnt afford to ignore. "You didnt notice that I was discreetly falling apart. I hid it as best I could, but I couldnt hide all of it. I worked out that I was safe as long as there was football on telly. I could sit across the room from you, lean my elbow on the arm of the blue chair and cry behind my hand." And you never noticed.

Sean wipes his eyes. "I dont need to listen to this s.h.i.t," he says.

The course didnt cover what to do if you attempt non-judgmental communication and get an abusive response. Or perhaps it did after lunch; I had to leave at midday to fly to San Diego.

"Why dont you go, if youre going?" Sean says. "I doubt Ill notice the difference-youre never here anyway. s.e.x is a joke these days. You lie there like a dead woman, wishing I were him, probably."

"Silently going over my to-do list for work the next day, more likely. Sean, Im not leaving you to start a relationship with Tim."

Hope flares in his eyes. "You just said . . ."

"Yes, its because of him that Im going, but its not how it sounds. I love him, yes, but Ive no reason to think hes interested in a relationship with me. He didnt want me before, so why should he want me now?"

"Then what the f.u.c.k . . . ?"

"Hes in prison. Hes confessed to the murder of his wife."

"The murder of his wife," Sean repeats quietly. "Have you gone mad, Gaby?" Ive not heard this tone before. Ever. For the first time in eight years, is he genuinely concerned for me?

"He didnt do it. Tims not a murderer. I dont understand it, but . . . all I know is, until hes free and everyone knows hes innocent, this is what my lifes going to be about: helping him, doing everything I can for him. Until I know hes safe, I cant think about anything else, I cant be with anyone else. I cant even work. I know that probably makes no sense . . ."

Sean laughs. "Youre a f.u.c.king crackpot. Ive no idea who you are, do you know that?"

I nod. Of course he doesnt know me; Ive been hiding from him for years-me and my Saint Christopher together.

"Good riddance to you." He hauls himself to his feet. "Get out of my life, sooner the better, and stay away, because I can promise you one thing: I wont be having you back when it all goes t.i.ts-up for you."

"It already has," I say. "Tim behind bars for a murder he didnt commit is the worst thing that could happen to me, so theres no need to put your gloating on hold. You can start now."

"Go and waste the rest of your life on a murderer, be my guest! You and this Tim guy sound perfectly matched. Every killer deserves a callous b.i.t.c.h like you! Hoping you can persuade him he wants you this time round, are you?"

"Im hoping to save his life." As I hear myself say it, my mission suddenly becomes real, a tangible thing in my mind. Ive made my first official statement, declared my aim. I feel better for it. "I dont trust anyone else to get it right."