Tell Me I'm Wrong Page 5

‘It is a joke,’ the officer says, after what seems like an age. ‘One thousand, nine hundred forty. Okay. Come.’

  He pockets the cash, stands and opens the door. Chris looks at me, then we stand and follow him.

  When we get out into the main body of the police station, the officer calls to one of his colleagues and they speak in loud Arabic.

  ‘We wait here. He will open the doors.’

  Chris stands closest to the door, and I behind him. As we stand and wait, I start to feel my dress being lifted. The light fabric brushes against my backside and I’m frozen to the spot. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Then I feel the officer’s hand on my backside, two fingers parting the cheeks as he manoeuvres my underwear and slips a third inside me. I feel his breath, hot and sticky on the back of my neck.

  Chris is standing right here, in front of me. If he turned around, would he see it? Why won’t he turn around? What good would it do?

  It lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like an age. Then, just as suddenly as it started, he removes his hand and my dress falls back around my legs.

  The other officer opens the doors and lets us out into the sticky afternoon air. As we step outside, I turn around to look at the moustachioed officer, who stands in the doorway with his hands on his hips.

  ‘Give my regards to England,’ he says, before putting his middle finger in his mouth.

  14

  Megan

  The sound of the front door closing jolts me awake, before a huge surge of adrenaline runs through me. All the thoughts hit me at a million miles an hour. Where’s Evie? How did I fall asleep? Shit, Chris is home.

  I look down and see Evie asleep in her Moses basket. I don’t remember putting her there, but I’ve been so tired recently. Chris walks into the living room. I try to look normal, try not to look as if I’m staring into the eyes of a potential child killer.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, before sitting down in an armchair. ‘She been down long?’

  ‘A little while,’ I say, although I really have no clue. ‘How did it go?’

  He shrugs. ‘About as well as can be expected.’

  ‘They must be devastated.’

  ‘Yeah. They are.’

  I watch his face carefully ‘The police called round while you were out.’

  He looks at me. ‘Oh?’

  ‘They wanted to speak to you about Riley.’ I pause for a couple of moments. ‘They said they want to speak to anyone who knew him. To try and piece together what might have happened.’

  ‘Oh. Oh right.’

  There’s no way I can deny the flash of relief that crossed his face when he found out the police wanted to talk to lots of people. But then again, who wouldn’t be a bit panicked if they came home and found out the police had been looking for them? Surely the only person who wouldn’t be surprised is the killer.

  ‘Tea?’ he asks.

  ‘Please.’

  He gets up and walks into the kitchen. After a few seconds, he calls me. I go through into the kitchen and see him tidying away my breakfast plates.

  ‘How many times do we have to go through all this?’ he says. ‘It’s not difficult to tidy up after yourself.’

  ‘It is when you have to look after a baby, actually.’

  ‘Come off it, Megs. She’s asleep. It only takes a minute to tidy up. If you’re not asleep as well, that is.’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘And what’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I said. Maybe if you weren’t sleeping on the sofa and actually tried to get the house in order, this place wouldn’t look like a bomb’s hit it.’

  I don’t know what’s got into Chris, but he’s rarely this unreasonable.

  ‘Chris, I sat down for five minutes. For the first five minutes today — probably this week.’

  ‘Come off it. Evie doesn’t do anything. She just shits and cries and sleeps. You’re bored, that’s what it is.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You need something to focus your mind on. We all do. Maybe it’s about time you went back to work. All this leisure time isn’t good for you.’

  I really can’t believe where this is coming from. The man who gets six weeks off work and spends five and a half of them out fishing, before cramming all his planning into the last few days. And he’s got the cheek to lecture me about going back to work?

  ‘Leisure time? Chris, I get no leisure time whatsoever. I spend my entire day looking after Evie and trying — trying — to keep the house looking slightly more appealing than Beirut. And what have you done for us recently?’

  ‘This again,’ he says, ignoring my question and deciding instead to empty the dishwasher.

  ‘I mean it, Chris.’

  He rounds on me. ‘I’ve got enough to deal with at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed. Or have you been too wrapped up in yourself to have bothered to think about anyone else?’

  I try to hold my temper. ‘Oh no. Oh no you don’t. You don’t get to use that. You’ve been like this for months now, if not more. You can’t use Riley as some sort of “I get to do what I want” bargaining tool. That’s not how it works.’

  Chris stops and looks at me. ‘A bargaining tool? Do you think that’s what it is? Seriously, Megan, you need to take a look inside your head at some point. You know, I’m actually pretty worried about the sorts of things Evie is picking up from you. Maybe I should stay home more in the holidays. Maybe I should do the parenting and you can go out. Get a job. See some friends. Breathe in some fresh air. Sitting around the house all day seems to have addled your brain.’

  ‘I do not “sit around the house all day”. I cook. I clean. I look after Evie. Or at the very least I try to do all those things. And what help do I get from you?’

  ‘Well pardon me for having a bit of time off in between working twelve-hour days the rest of the year. I can sit around here and fester with you if you prefer? Or maybe pile a load more work on top of myself and end up snapping and losing the plot? Which would you prefer? Sooner or later you’ve got to face it, Megan. You have it pretty easy.’

  I have a thousand things I could say back to that, but I choose not to. I don’t see what good it’ll do me. He’s too stuck in his ways to accept anything but what he’s already accepted as fact.

  I shake my head, turn around and go back into the living room to look after our daughter.

  15

  Chris

  It isn’t doing Megan any good sitting around the house, moping.

  I almost snapped. I almost went for her. I was this close to breaking and doing something I would have regretted. And I wonder how long I can carry on before I finally do it. Before I can’t keep that side of me at bay any longer.

  There are ways I can keep it down, though. Now I have a channel for my frustrations. It’s wrong — it’s so wrong — but it’s got to be better than the alternative. If the truth got out it would ruin my family, but in many ways I’m protecting them. It gives me a huge release and ensures I don’t take out my frustrations on them.

  It’s like a dog that needs exercising. A big, black dog. If you don’t let it out to run around and kill rabbits every once in a while, it’ll go for you or your family instead. So fuck the rabbits. They’re cannon fodder.

  Heartless? In some ways. But I prefer to look at the deeper repercussions. This road is far less bumpy than it looks. It’s certainly smoother than the alternative. And when you’re only faced with two options, what are you expected to do? Snap your fingers and hope it all goes away?

  Sometimes I think of what I stand to lose. And then I realise that I would lose it all anyway if I didn’t keep the demons at bay. At least I’ve found a way to hide my secret. For now. I don’t think anyone suspects. And yes, people will get hurt. People will get hurt either way. But this way, I hope, I can keep it to a minimum and keep the hurt well away from my own family. At the end of the day, you’ve got to look after number one.

  The kitchen starts to feel colder, and I decide to
make myself that cup of tea. Look at me. Mister Normal Family Man. What a joke.

  I’m sure everyone else sees us as the perfect close-knit household. The stay-at-home mum and the village teacher who spends the holidays with his young family. In many ways there’s nothing I’d like more than to go into the living room right now, pick Evie up and give her a huge, warm hug. But, as bad as it sounds, I don’t want to face Megan at the moment. Sometimes we need our time apart to cool down.

  It doesn’t make me a bad father. At least I don’t think it does. I look after my family in other ways. I provide for them. I protect them. I protect them from the truth. And that’s worth more than any hug in front of bloody television cartoons.

  I know I need to keep a lid on my anger and frustrations. I can’t let it boil over and become visible. I’ve become accustomed to that as a teacher, so it’s something I’ve had a lot of practise doing. There’ve been so many times I’ve just wanted to smash their heads off a wall when they’ve done something stupid, but you can’t. You have to push it all under the surface and be professional. And that’s what I have to do now.

  Looks can be deceiving in many ways. You never quite know what’s going on under the surface. When it comes down to it, we’re all actors. We all deceive. Many of us deceive others; sometimes actively, sometimes passively. Most of us deceive only ourselves. When that’s the case, how can you possibly know what’s true? You end up living a lie.

  I don’t like getting philosophical. I tend to come out of it with the impression that nothing’s real anyway, and that there’s no point in even worrying about it.

  I think about walking round to the local village pub for a drink or two. It’s not something I tend to do often — Megan and I used to pop in every now and again, usually either for a meal every couple of months or a few drinks at Christmas. Neither of us are heavy drinkers. Sometimes I wonder if we should be.

  I decide not to. Storming out of the house everytime there’s an argument isn’t going to do any of us any good — and it’ll wear the doormat out pretty sharpish, too.

  Sometimes you have to stick these things out, no matter how painful it is. All couples have their ups and downs. We’ve been having some pretty major downs recently, but there’ve been ups in the past and I have no doubt we’ll have them again. We just need to remember what’s important in life.

  I’ve been too bogged down with work, Megan’s been too bogged down with Evie. We’ve drifted slightly because of it. I wonder how much I’ve used that to my advantage. Some days I imagine she barely notices me leaving the house. I could get away with… Well, you get the picture.

  I look out the living room window and decide the car needs a wash. It’ll give me something to do — occupy my mind while I calm down — and at least it’s productive. Can’t beat the ‘perfect family man’ image, can you?

  16

  Megan

  It’s now two days since Riley was killed. It’s amazing how quickly gossip dies down. I’d like to think if something horrible happened to my child, people would remember it for a bit longer. Perhaps it’s one of those situations that ‘rocks the community’ even though talk has turned to other matters. No doubt there’ll be a candlelit vigil within a week. For all the good that’ll do.

  Mum called again this morning. She hasn’t even mentioned it once. It’s been all over the national news, never mind locally, but she still hasn’t brought it up. Then again, it’s not about her or Lauren, nor is it something she can offer advice on, so what’s the point? They’re the only things she ever opens her mouth for.

  Thankfully, she offered to take Evie out today. She said she was heading into town to get some shopping and wouldn’t mind a bit of company. I said I wouldn’t mind the peace and quiet either.

  Chris has gone to speak to the police. He was meant to contact them when he got back yesterday, but he didn’t. After the rest of the drama and the argument, he decided he’d wait and go this morning. I don’t know how that’s going to look for him. But what’s done is done.

  The cap in the bin has been playing on my mind again. Of course it has. But at the same time I’ve been trying to force it to the back, knowing I need to believe there’s an innocent explanation. I’ve used distraction as a tool — kept myself busy — but how can you possibly distract yourself from the nagging suspicion that your husband could be a child killer? I think it’s the fact that it seems so ridiculous. Chris and I have known each other since we were kids, and he’s never said boo to a goose. In a way, that’s what worries me the most. If, somehow, it turns out that there’s some truth in this, it’s going to be even more devastating than it otherwise might have been. Choosing to put my complete faith and trust in Chris leaves me vulnerable to a fall from a great height.

  I’ve taken the opportunity to clean the house from top to bottom. I woke up feeling more energised than I have in recent days, so I thought I might as well take advantage of it. It’s been a while since this place has had a proper spring clean, so I don’t think August is too late. Half of the cleaning products I got out of the cupboard and onto the kitchen floor have probably long been discontinued, but at least if I use a few of them up it should give us more cupboard space.

  In our bedroom, I even decide to hoover inside the wardrobes. It’s difficult in mine, because there are all sorts of things cluttering up the bottom of the wardrobe — shoe boxes, storage cartons and a random carrier bag full of Christmas decorations we bought one year and didn’t put up.

  Chris is far neater and more organised than I am. He always has been. He has one pair of shoes he wears to work and one pair he wears when he goes out fishing or for walks. The work pair live by the front door, the fishing pair by the back door. I wish my life could be that simple.

  His wardrobe is just as clutter-free and organised. There are four suits he wears for work (always taking the suit jacket off the second he arrives at school and just wearing his shirt and tie for the rest of the day, until putting the jacket on again when he leaves) as well as a few casual shirts, three or four t-shirts and a couple of pairs of chinos. It really is about simple living for Chris. I have to drag him out of the house to buy him new clothes once a year, and even then he’ll only ever come back with an extra t-shirt or perhaps a tie. As far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t need much.

  I open his wardrobe and poke the hoover around, and it’s then that I notice a shoebox tucked away at the back of the wardrobe. Has he secretly bought a third pair of shoes? Shock horror.

  I pull the box out and open it. It takes me a few moments to register what’s inside, but when I do my blood turns to ice and a cold shiver runs down my spine.

  These are drawings and notes, drawn and written by a young child. Not just any young child, either. They’re all named. One’s a picture of a man standing in front of a whiteboard, dressed in a suit and tie, with a big beaming smile on his face. MR MILLER is written in blue felt-tip pen above him, and the words BY RILEY are scrawled at the bottom.

  There’s more. Short notes, telling Chris he’s the ‘best teecher in the werld’ and ‘grait fun’.

  As I look through the items in the box, I quickly realise they’re all from Riley. There’s nothing from any other child. All teachers occasionally bring home things the kids have given them, and Chris is no different — although he hasn’t done it for years. This is all from Riley Markham, though. And it’s hidden away in a shoebox at the bottom of his wardrobe. Why?

  Again, there might be a perfectly innocent explanation, but at the very least it’s just weird. At the worst... That’s not something I want to countenance right now. We should be pulling together as a family, supporting each other and the rest of the community. It’s the police who catch killers — no-one else.

  A thought crosses my mind. I could ask him about it. After all, it’s only a box of drawings and notes. There’s nothing incriminating as such. Not in itself. If — if — Chris is involved somehow, I’m not going to raise any suspicions by finding this. The cap
would be different. Very different.

  When I have thoughts like that, I wonder how much trust and faith I really do have in Chris. If I thought there was an innocent explanation, why would I be worried about asking him about the cap?

  And that’s when I force myself to come to the realisation.

  That I believe my husband could be a child killer.

  17

  Megan

  I hear the sound of the front door closing, then Chris kicking off his shoes and walking into the living room.

  ‘How did it go?’ I ask. I presume fairly well, seeing as he’s back home a few hours later and not banged up in a prison cell somewhere.

  ‘Fine. They wanted to find out more about Riley from a school point of view. Asking about his friends, whether we had any safeguarding concerns over him, all that sort of thing.’

  Safeguarding. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Could Riley have been killed by an abusive uncle or relative? It must happen all the time.

  ‘And what did you say?’

  He shrugs. ‘What can I say? He was a normal little boy. Cheeky and cocky from time to time, but I had no concerns.’

  ‘No safeguarding issues?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  I sit down on the arm of the sofa. ‘But I don’t get why anyone would want to kill him. A little boy of his age can’t have any enemies. And if there were no family issues...’

  ‘That we know of,’ Chris says. ‘You can never be totally sure. You can only ever make a judgement based on what you observe.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Chris lets out a huge breath, and I can almost see the tension releasing from his body. ‘Just stuff. The sort of things anyone would spot. Comments they make, things they do.’

  ‘Such as?’

  He looks at me. ‘Why are you so interested?’

  I shrug. ‘I dunno. It’s fascinating, I guess. I don’t know anything about it, and you don’t talk about work.’