I am sorry, Helen, about your beautiful house. I’m sorry about the dreams you must have now. I hope they are nothing like mine. I’m glad that, unlike me, you are still able to wake up from your nightmares.
My lawyer tells me that our son, our precious boy, is all right now, that you are both doing well. He told me the name you had chosen for him, Leo James. I say his name to myself before I go to sleep. I am sorry I was never more interested in your lists of names. I am sorry I could never think of ideas, of any names of my own. I wish I had, now. I wish a lot of things. I wish I had listened, that I had been a better husband to you, Helen. Leo James. I would never have thought of anything even half as beautiful.
I long to see him, Helen. I know I have no right to ask, but I am asking anyway. I would give anything to see my son. Even just a picture of his face. I dream of him. I dream of you both.
I am sorry, Helen. More sorry than you can ever know. Forgive me, Helen. Please, forgive me.
Daniel
HELEN
I push the playground gate with one hand, the pram with the other. Katie rushes to help me, while Charlie lifts Ruby down from the climbing frame. ‘I’m fine,’ I insist. I am learning to manage things myself.
The trees are shedding again, the golden leaves dusting the playground like confetti. There is a cool, watery sunlight, a smell of burning leaves, bonfires. I can hardly believe it’s been a year already.
Ruby wants to play with Leo, to push him on a swing. I haven’t tried him on a swing yet. I wonder whether he is still too little for it – he is still not sitting up fully yet, still toppling forward, a look of surprise in his huge blue eyes. He should be crawling by now, pulling himself up, starting to take his first steps. Every time I see him wobble over, it feels like a fish hook snagging at my heart.
Charlie says it doesn’t matter. They all do everything eventually, he says. He shows me how to ball up a blanket from the pram to wedge him into the swing, instructs Ruby to push him gently. Leo is stunned, an amazed smile lighting up his face. He giggles, kicks his legs for more. And in this moment, I try not to worry. About whether he is too hot or cold, whether he should be wearing a hat, or a thicker coat. Whether he is damaged, forever. I try to just stand and smile. To see it as a gift. To be here, despite everything. Me and my son. My brother. My friend. My niece. In the park, in the sunshine.
Later there are thunderstorms. We pile back to the house. Katie and Charlie play with Leo. Ruby watches cartoons and I make her hot chocolate. When Charlie goes home, Katie follows him to the door. I think I hear him kiss her, but I can’t be sure, and I don’t look. It’s none of my business.
Leo is rubbing at his eyes, pressing his forehead against my legs. I gather him up in my arms and take him upstairs. He settles in his cot, his arms thrown over his head, the way he always sleeps. I watch his eyelashes fluttering until they rest on his chubby cheeks. Until his breathing slows.
Downstairs, Katie is sitting at the kitchen table we share. We’ve been here nearly a year now. The decor isn’t what I’d have chosen, the garden tiny, overgrown with ivy and cow parsley. But it’s cosy, and warm, and the landlord let me repaint Leo’s room, put hooks in the ceiling for the elephant mobile Katie bought for him. New curtains, with a dandelion pattern. A soft carpet he can play on. It’s home, for now.
Katie has put some thick socks on, made a pot of tea, arranged the remains of the misshapen cupcakes Ruby brought us on a plate. The thunder cracks overhead – I close the kitchen window, yanking it hard to stop it sticking. I check the washing line is empty.
‘So,’ she says. ‘Are you going to show me this letter?’
I hesitate, unsure at first whether this is a good idea. Eventually, I reach behind the coffee pot, retrieve the envelope from the shelf. The paper is pale blue and cheap, flimsy in my fingers, the hand unmistakable. My husband. The murderer. Katie’s eyes widen at the sight of it.
‘How did he find your new address?’
I shrug. ‘No idea.’
‘I thought they checked their letters, made sure they weren’t sending stuff like this. Especially when there’s a court order.’
‘I know.’ I toss the letter at her. ‘I don’t know how it got to me. Or what to make of it. Maybe you will.’
Katie unfolds the letter and reads it. Every so often she makes an expression of incredulity.
‘I picture you in your kitchen! As if you could have ever lived there again!’
I sigh. There are times when I long to go back. Some nights I dream I’m back there, in my lovely house on the park, everything back the way it was before. But then some nights I dream about other things. The buzz of the dehumidifier, the smell of smoke. A crack opening up underneath my feet. A body, hollowed out and rotting, underneath.