The Hidden Truth, page 17
‘All that was real.’
She shook her head at his dissembling. ‘Real, but not the truth. Why did you do that? Why couldn’t you tell me what really happened, for God’s sake?’ Her voice had risen, her words echoing sharply around the dimly lit room.
She saw the muscles around his mouth tense at her onslaught. It was a moment before he spoke. ‘The reason I lied … why I didn’t feel able to tell you … tell anyone … is that both Adam and I perjured ourselves. We lied to the police. For that alone, we could face prison. The courts take a dim view of people who pervert the course of justice.’ The calmness with which he spoke belied his wretched expression.
‘Fine, I get that. But you didn’t trust me?’
‘It’s Adam’s life we’re talking about, Sara,’ he said patiently. ‘In the heat of the moment, both of us were so stunned and horrified by what happened … I reacted almost without thinking. My instinct was to protect my son at all costs … I thought I was saving him.’ He stopped and added softly, ‘But I fucked up.’
Sara tried to take in what Bernard was telling her.
He was speaking again. ‘I realized I’d done the wrong thing as soon as I got the chance to calm down and gauge the situation. But by then it was too late. And now, how can I tell even one other person and keep him safe? I tell you, for instance. You tell your girls or Precious … she tells Sammi, he tells I don’t know who. And suddenly it’s not a secret and my son’s whole future is in jeopardy. All those years of study, the hard work he’s put in, gone for nothing. I just didn’t dare.’
Sara considered what he’d said. She saw that he had a point. The whole thing was so complex. But acknowledging the complexity didn’t soothe away her hurt.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he was saying. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, Sara. I absolutely do. One hundred per cent.’
‘I wouldn’t have told anyone, if you’d asked me not to.’
Bernard sighed. ‘I’m sure you believe that. But these things have a habit of coming out in the end. An unguarded moment … like tonight with Joe.’
A tense silence fell between them.
‘Were you really intending to just carry on with me never knowing?’ she asked.
Bernard bowed his head for a second. When he looked up again, his expression had hardened. ‘It’s not your child, or Joe’s for that matter. It’s impossible for you to understand, Sara, to put yourself into my position.’
She turned away, biting her lip. ‘So what’s happened with the twins? Why are they so angry with you?’
He looked as if the effort to explain was almost too much, throwing his hands into the air in apparent frustration. ‘Carrie was never on board with it. She thought, right from the start, that Adam should stand up and be counted.’ Bernard flopped back on the pillows, eyes shut. ‘But Adam went along with it back then. He was abject … and so grateful.’ He lifted his eyebrows in resignation. ‘But he was only nineteen. How could he have predicted the after-effects, the mental toll of such a terrible event … or the path I persuaded him to take? How could I?’ He gave a rueful shrug. ‘I’m honestly not sure what Adam is thinking now or how best to help him.’
Another silence, this one weary rather than tense. Sara pulled off her clothes and got into bed beside him. They lay stiffly apart for a few seconds, then turned to hold each other.
‘Isn’t it better, in the end, to come clean, go to the police?’ Sara asked gently. ‘Won’t it poison all your lives until you do?’ The notion of a nightmare of this proportion prising her own family apart, of her losing touch with Joni and Peggy, made her shudder.
Bernard stiffened. ‘With all due respect, Sara, you have absolutely no idea what that means,’ he said coldly.
Absorbing his rebuff as best she could, she asked, ‘OK, so, tell me. What does it mean?’
‘Well, in the last resort, we could both go to prison. Adam would have a criminal record – with all that implies for his future. It would be the end of everything for him.’ He fixed his gaze on Sara. ‘You think it’s as simple as “coming clean”? Believe me, I’ve lived with this nightmare for five long years. There is nothing simple about it.’ Taking a deep, fierce breath, he finished, ‘I am not going to let that happen to my son, if I can help it … whatever you think.’
Sara heard his dismissal but was too tired to argue any more. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Uppermost in her mind was the thought that, if nothing changed, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Living with this impasse, with the secret Bernard seemed determined to hold close, would, she knew, eventually break something.
The following morning she was in a daze, arriving at work scratchy-eyed and tense, still so stunned by Bernard’s revelation – and lack of sleep – that she could hardly think straight. When she’d surfaced from a short, heavy doze earlier, after a fitful night, Bernard had already got up without waking her and left for work. The note on the kitchen table said he had an early appointment, although she wasn’t sure she believed him. He’s avoiding me, she thought. It made her angry. And, of all people, Julian Cameron was her first appointment. She could have done with a less tricky start to the day, although she was pleased he was giving her another chance to help him.
Julian smiled sheepishly at her, however, as she welcomed him into her consulting room. ‘Apologies again for last time, Sara. I’m afraid I can be a stubborn old sod sometimes.’
She laughed. There’s plenty more stubborn than you out there, she thought, remembering the intransigent look in Bernard’s eyes the night before.
Waiting while Julian made himself comfortable, she was heartened to detect a definite shift in his appearance. Although he was still pale, the hollowness around the eyes was gone, and he seemed less gaunt. She thought he’d even put on a little weight. But she wasn’t going to make any assumptions and upset him again. ‘So, how have you been?’
‘Well,’ he said, cautiously, ‘I do feel a bit better … on your regime.’ He shot her a shy grin. ‘So, I’m back for more advice.’
Sara was gratified. But she responded to what he was telling her almost on autopilot. She tried to shake herself internally, get a grip on the session. She didn’t want Julian to feel let down again. But it was so hard to concentrate. What just happened with Bernard? she kept asking herself.
29
Bernard was heading home around nine, after what seemed like a very long day. He was tired from the previous sleepless night and still smarting from the row with Sara, trying to decide the extent of the damage to her feelings for him. The thought of losing her made him feel sick, although she had every right to question his cowardly behaviour in lying to her.
He knew, of course, that the key to everyone’s happiness – Sara’s, Adam’s, Carrie’s, his own – lay in sorting out his relationship with his children. But how the hell was he to do that? He felt paralysed, all at sea, the same old fears – arguments and counter-arguments – swirling around his brain until he was ready to go mad.
His phone rang, Bluetooth kicking in. Adam’s voice was suddenly loud in the dark car – as if he’d channelled his father’s thoughts. Bernard’s last communication had been the latest messages he’d left inviting his son for Christmas, which both Adam and Carrie had so far ignored.
‘How’s it going, Adam? Get my message about Christmas?’
Bernard, instead of turning right towards the narrow lanes that led to the cliff house, kept driving until he got to the beach, knowing there was a spot where he regularly lost signal close to his house. He couldn’t risk it, not when he finally had his son on the line. He pulled into one of the vacant parking bays behind the shingle bank that served the summer tourists, and turned the volume down a little on the call.
Adam, it was clear, had not rung to talk about Christmas. Ignoring his father’s query, he launched into a quiet, despairing monologue – almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘It’s not going well, Dad. I’m really struggling … It’s the pretence that’s killing me. I can’t ever be myself, not for a single second. Everyone sees this guy they think is me … and underneath is the real me – this totally other person – and they don’t have a fucking clue.’ There was a long sigh. ‘I thought it would get easier. You promised it would, back at the beginning … but it’s the total fucking opposite … and I don’t know what to do.’
Bernard, hearing the hopelessness in his son’s voice, felt his heart seize. But before he’d had a chance to work out how best to respond, Adam was speaking again.
‘We never talk about it, Dad. Never. There’s this … I don’t know … hole, and all the shit’s in there, but it’s like we stroll around the edge and totally ignore the stink.’ He stopped and Bernard heard him inhale sharply. ‘It isn’t that I don’t appreciate what you did. You know I do.’ Another audible breath. ‘But you never ask me what I’m feeling about it, how it’s affecting me.’
Bernard gulped. Still reeling in the face of Sara’s anger and bewilderment, it felt now as if, by telling her the truth, the catch on a dangerous portal had been loosed, letting out all the foetid feelings he’d gone to such pains to contain. ‘I’m sorry, son. I – I suppose I hoped you’d forget … Not forget, that’s stupid, of course, but put it to the back of your mind, get on with your life, your training.’
There was a frustrated snort. ‘Like I give a fuck about my bloody training. I just want to find a tiny bit of peace … Stop this endless, horrible churning in my mind,’ he finished softly.
His son’s words cut him to the quick.
‘You know that’s why me and Carrie don’t want to see you, right?’ Adam went on, relentless. ‘Because you keep pretending nothing ever happened, that life goes on, tra-la. That we’re all just fine. It’s fucking mental.’ His voice was vibrating like a taut wire. ‘What sort of family does that?’
The car had gone chilly now the engine was no longer blasting hot air. Bernard felt his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. ‘We can talk,’ he said eventually, remembering Sara’s words. ‘Come home in the holidays and we’ll deal with this then, face to face. It’s hopeless over the phone.’
He heard Adam sigh. ‘Talking’s not enough, Dad. We passed that point long ago. We need to actually do something.’
Bernard waited for him to go on, hugging his arms across his chest, his fingers pushed into his sleeves and freezing against his skin. ‘What do you mean?’ His voice echoed, reedy and uncertain, within the confines of the Mercedes. Although he knew what his son meant, of course. He just didn’t want to acknowledge it.
The silence was absolute from his son. Then a small sound escaped him. Bernard realized he was crying. ‘Adam? Adam, please, son … don’t get upset. I know how hard it must have been for you. And I haven’t handled it well, I admit, because I just didn’t know what was best for any of us. But we’ll find a way. I promise we’ll sort this out. Come home, Adam. Please …’
There was a soft sigh at the other end, then the line went dead. Bernard, distraught, pressed redial on the media system, listened to the burr of the ring tone blaring round the car, heard the click to Adam’s voicemail. Did it again, and again. He picked up his phone, tried from there, as if it would make the slightest difference.
Finally, he slung his mobile onto the passenger seat and hurled himself out of the car. Slamming the door, which reverberated loudly in the still night, he ran up the steps onto the dark, deserted beach. As his shoes crunched on the pebbles, his legs weak, his body shivering, he felt like the most useless specimen of fatherhood on the planet. Adam had reached out to him and he’d let him down yet again. And, worse, Adam was implying he’d got to the point where he might take charge and do what Sara was also advocating: go to the police. It was as if a huge truck was careering towards him and he couldn’t move out of its way.
But what his son was suggesting was completely out of the question. He would not allow him to go there. He would not. He felt the warm wash of tears sting his cold cheeks and began to run towards the water. As pebbles gave way to sand, he told himself firmly, We just need to talk. Everything will be OK if we can sit down and talk.
Joe had suggested, way back after Ilsa died, that the twins might benefit from some sort of grief counselling. But the accident had fouled up any chance of that. He wasn’t going to risk someone else finding out what had really happened that day. He didn’t know if a therapist would feel obliged to tell the authorities, but they might encourage Adam to do so.
He walked on, barely aware of the freezing wind coming off the sea, the mechanical tears it wrought only mingling with the emotional ones pouring down his cheeks.
He felt almost reluctant at the thought of relaying his son’s anguish to Sara. If Adam was a mess, it was down to him, Bernard. By contrast, she had such a loving, stable relationship with her own girls. And if he told her what his son had just implied, she would only side with Adam, nag him to do what every bone in his body told Bernard would be an utter disaster. We can sort it out, he told himself over and over. We just need to talk.
30
That evening Sara was late getting back to the house. Bernard’s car was not there and the place, looming sinister against the navy sky, was in darkness. She felt a surge of disappointment. She had not been in touch during the day, still smarting from the row last night and not knowing what to say to him. He had not messaged her, either. But as soon as she got inside, she pulled her phone out. His number went straight to voicemail. So she texted, Are you on the way? x
The usual close, padded silence greeted her. The space looked almost ghostly in the moonlight streaming through the windows, the kitchen surfaces gleaming empty, only the faint hint of rosemary on the warm air from the potted plant, standing by the stove, she’d bought the week before. Where is he? It was getting late and normally he would have called by now. Unable to settle to anything, she took a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured herself a glass, then stood leaning against the worktop as she sipped, listening for the sound of his car.
The clock ticked on. No other sound disturbed the silence. She checked her phone. Nothing. Rang him again. Voicemail again. Sent another text. A small gnaw of worry began to form in her gut. Knowing the level of guilt and blame that tormented Bernard on an ongoing, visceral level – only hinted at, but so obviously there – she started imagining catastrophic scenarios. In his distracted state, he crashed his car or slipped from the cliff edge on one of his regular walks, strode into the freezing sea. She knew she was being melodramatic, but she had no idea if Bernard was prone to suicidal thoughts.
‘This is Bernard Lockmore. Please leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you,’ said the frustrating recording, when she called for the third time. ‘It’s me, Sara … Where are you? Please call me.’ Staring at the screen, she willed him to respond. Is he having a drink with Joe, his phone in his jacket pocket? He wasn’t wedded to his device twenty-four/seven, as she knew well. She thought back to what he’d said about his diary this week. He hadn’t mentioned meeting anyone.
Sara nibbled the end of a French loaf with a slick of cream cheese. She felt twitchy in the dark room, jumping at the slightest noise. Even for the cliff house, the air felt unnaturally still and suffocating tonight. Stop being so stupid, there’s no one here, she told herself, swallowing the last of the snack. In the end, with still no word from Bernard, she trailed up to bed.
Even though she was tired out, sleep wouldn’t come. The gnawing in the pit of her stomach about Bernard’s whereabouts was sending adrenalin round her body, like a greyhound racing the track. She stared into the darkness and tried to implement a relaxing breath: in for three, out for five. It had worked in the past when she was anxious. Not tonight, though. After only one respiration, her thoughts spun back to Bernard and her heart began to race again.
Cold fingers resting fleetingly on her cheek, a voice whispering her name, dragged Sara reluctantly from an exhausted, fathomless sleep. Befuddled, she opened her eyes to find Bernard lying next to her, his face lit by the radiance of the moon framed in the skylight. Its beam sheened his skin blue, his eyes black. He was shivering violently.
‘Oh, my God. Where have you been?’ she exclaimed, fully awake now. She quickly reached out to him. He was still fully dressed, but his body was icy and stiff. She moved her own until she had wrapped him close in her arms, wincing at the chill through her thin cotton pyjamas. Rocking him, briskly rubbing his back, his head buried in her shoulder, she repeated her question.
‘On the beach,’ came the muffled reply.
The beach? On a night like this? She shook off the flash of her earlier catastrophizing. Saying nothing, she continued to hold him, waiting for her body heat to warm him through.
‘Walking,’ he mumbled.
After a long time, the shivering began to subside and she felt him slowly relaxing, the life gradually returning to his frozen limbs. She stroked his forehead, drew her fingers along the broken line of his eyebrow.
His gaze met hers in the moonlight.
‘I thought something had happened to you.’
‘I’m sorry. Adam called. He was upset. I got distracted.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ Bernard mumbled. ‘Talk about it in the morning.’
A few moments later, she heard his breath begin to slow, his body giving itself over to sleep. But she lay awake for a long time, unable to let go of all the things she wanted to say to him.
When she jolted awake the next morning, Bernard, unusually, was still in bed. At some time during the night, he must have stripped off his clothes, because he was now naked and sound asleep beside her.
Breakfast in the warm kitchen, after he finally woke, was a quiet affair. Bernard looked wrecked, his eyes hollow, his skin, normally glowing so tanned and healthy, now sallow.
