see.’ Connie thought about this new information. It sounded as though Alice feared her ex-husband, and coupled with what she’d told her in the last session about how her son had taken over where her husband had left off, Connie suspected that Alice Mann had experienced a lot of trauma in her past – possibly abuse from both of them.
‘I’m really sorry he made … makes you feel that way, Alice. I’m sure it must cause difficulties, and means it’s challenging for you to move forwards.’
‘He prevents me moving forwards, yes. I have to do my best despite him; pretend he’s not here. I suppose I pretend a lot.’
‘You shouldn’t have to pretend. I can help you work through these challenges, help with coping strategies. If your ex-husband is threatening you, causing you fear, there are people who can assist with that too – not only the police, but services who can offer practical support.’
‘No!’ Alice jumped up. ‘No, Connie. Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’m sorry. This wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about, not what I wanted help with.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry, Alice. Please sit back down.’ Connie got to her feet and reached out to touch Alice’s arm, but the damage seemed to have been done.
Alice turned her back and walked towards the consulting room door. She stopped in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder.
‘I’m wasting your time, I’m sorry.’
The door slammed behind her.
Connie screwed her eyes up. Damn. She must have gone too far.
She had pushed Alice away.
‘Yes, Mum, I promise I’ll be careful.’ Connie’s ear was hot from pressing the phone to it for so long.
‘I feel it’s a mistake, I can’t help it, love. You shouldn’t be going backwards, you should be concentrating on the future, moving forwards in your life. No good can come of this – your practice should be your focus, not those degenerates.’
‘I know, I know.’ Connie rolled her neck, attempting to release some of the tension stored there. Her mum had repeated this advice at least four times in the one call. ‘This will be the one and only time, I swear. I’ve done one session, I’m there tomorrow, then perhaps two more days next week, that’s it.’
‘Yes, you already said, dear.’
Connie closed her eyes and shook her head, suppressing the urge to say, it must be catching, saying instead: ‘Well, I thought I’d reiterate it.’
‘I don’t want any harm to come to you. That’s not a bad thing, is it?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Connie said.
There was a silence at the end of the line. Connie knew why. It wasn’t only the last few years she was alluding to. When Connie was fifteen, her mum had feared for her well-being, had told her she was making mistakes – but her words had gone unheeded. Connie dropped her hand to her stomach, thinking about how her behaviour back then had led to one of the worst things that had happened to her. It was no wonder her mum was always worrying about her. But in some ways, Connie could understand that. While she wasn’t a mother herself, she knew exactly how it felt to need to protect someone.
Because Connie was keeping the biggest secret of all from her mum – one that had come crashing into her own life last year, and that she’d worried about every day since. Twenty-one years ago, Connie’s older brother Luke was stabbed to death. And just eight months ago, Connie discovered that his injury had not, as they’d all been led to believe, been fatal. As a result of her involvement in the Hargreaves murder inquiry, her father’s lies had been spilled, their abhorrent nature made clear. Luke’s death had been faked to protect him from their father’s toxic business dealings, dealings that ensured Manchester gangs were out for blood. His, or his family’s. After Luke’s supposed death, Connie had spent years feeling she was the one her father would’ve rather lost. Anyone but his precious son. She’d fought for his approval throughout her life, even when he moved back to Manchester, leaving her and her mum in Devon. Connie strived to make him proud of her, to the point she began to hate him, or maybe even herself, for the way she allowed him to make her feel. And then she’d discovered that the bulk of her life was built on a lie. At the time of the revelation, Connie had been absolutely convinced she should go straight to her mum and tell her everything she’d learned. She’d wanted to resist her father’s control, his warped sense of protection over them.
It’ll kill her if she found out now. Don’t do it, Connie, he’d begged.
It’s killing her anyway, Connie had argued.
She would never forgive her father, but for her mother’s sake, as well as for fear of putting Luke and her family in further jeopardy, Connie continued pretending that none of it had resurfaced – that Luke was still buried.
‘So,’ her mum’s voice cut into her thoughts, ‘are you free to come over for a bite to eat on Saturday? I’d quite like some company …’
Connie drew in a large lungful of air. It was Luke’s birthday on Saturday. Her brother would’ve been forty-one if he hadn’t been taken from them at seventeen. Connie quickly shook away the thought. He is going to be forty-one.
‘Yeah, of course, Mum. Do you want me to bring anything? Wine? Pudding?’
‘Just yourself, dear … and your friend, if you like?’
That would make things easier. Lindsay would help with conversation, prevent it from slipping into the dangerous territory of family secrets.
‘If you’re okay with that, then yes. Lindsay would love to meet you properly.’
‘It’s a date, then.’
Connie could hear in her mum’s tone she was smiling. Maybe the fact Connie was keeping this huge secret from her was the right thing to do.
A chill ripples inside my body, shaking my foundation like a gust of wind through a tree threatening to shed its leaves. My fingers tremble as I flatten the yellowing newspaper page. I hide the tin full of cuttings from Nathan. He doesn’t think it’s good to brood over the past. Now, seeing the headlines again, I relive it all with frightening clarity.
I am there. Back on that day. I can feel all I felt then, only now it’s even worse. Because I know more now than I did when I was first told of my son’s death. His murder. I know far too much about Kyle Mann. I swallow the rising hatred.
Why does the media insist on displaying the faces of those who have committed such hideous crimes, name them, talk about them, dissect every area of their lives? Why give them the space, the attention? I can’t stand it. It’s the victims who should be the focus. I don’t want to read about how this murdering bastard had a hard life; a difficult upbringing. So what?
I had many of these thoughts back then. I told anyone who was willing to listen. Even those who weren’t. Looking at these articles again now, I’m aware my anger hasn’t subsided. I’ve just done a good job of distracting myself from it.
But now that distraction has gone, thanks to Marcie.
The