You Let Him In Read online

  I ignore him because he doesn’t agree with me. I think about how in a short space she has changed and hope that she finds some inner strength to think about Daniel. He will need her more than ever as the only parent able to take on the role of mother and father. Every time I see Jenny, she appears to be looking more and more unkempt. When Michael first introduced us to his then, new girlfriend at the time, I was taken aback by how immaculate she appeared. Jenny was obsessive over how all her clothes had to match. There wasn’t even a crease on her. I wasn’t keen on her because she was so vain when we first met but now it’s like that woman no longer exists.

  I don’t know her mother and father that well; I’ve seen them a handful of times in the last few years but not enough to say I really know them. In fact, where are they now? If she were my daughter, I would be down here and moved into that house to support her like a shot.

  I’m not happy about those flowers I saw in the kitchen either. Something doesn’t fit right with what I saw.

  ‘Don’t you think this is a bit weird?’ I ask Pete, who turns to look at me curiously. ‘That Gary guy giving Jenny a small bunch of flowers. I know they’re only carnations and some of that cheap green leafy crap they fill the bunch out with but who does that – really?’

  ‘It is a bit strange if you ask me,’ Pete says. ‘What was he doing round there anyway?’

  I give Pete a full description of the events that led to me collecting Daniel from preschool, delivering him to Jenny and stopping over for a coffee and how Jenny mentions in conversation that Gary, the witness, had been round with a bunch of flowers as a friendly gesture while asking to attend Michael’s funeral.

  ‘Sounds harmless enough,’ Pete replies. ‘He was there for our son while none of us could be with him. I should thank Gary really for being there and giving a good description of the bastard that ran away. I don’t know how I would feel or react in that situation.’

  The stress and strain of the grief and torment we have all been through in the last couple of weeks has really taken its toll on both Pete and me. I also agree with Pete that Jenny is using Michael’s wedding ring as an unnecessary focus point for her grief. When I think about it, she is also distracting herself from the funeral arrangements and the bills. These were all things that Michael took care of but now he’s gone she should become more responsible. I’ve seen the massive pile of unopened mail in the hallway. Letters too, piling up on the mantelpiece and random envelopes in the kitchen. I’m nervous about their contents. Michael had his own way of dealing with things and I’m sure some of the bills might come as a surprise to Jenny. I should be more supportive and mention something when I see her. We could go through them together and that way I can see if my son was up to any of his old tricks.

  Pete is dealing with his grief differently to me. I go through stages of wailing at night, random times in the day. At other moments I tell myself to stay strong because Michael would want that. Pete is focusing on the business; I am sure he’s doing that to allow me to have some time to myself. It keeps him busy but the hardest part of all of this is that there is nothing we can do other than accept it. I had even wished that I had died instead of Michael so I wouldn’t have to feel this loss. I’d swap places any day as any mother would.

  To make matters worse, Jenny wants Michael to be cremated. I’m annoyed that she hasn’t even consulted his father or me as his parents about what we should do as a family. Jenny was straight in there, demanding a cremation over a burial. I can never recall having a conversation with Michael about his death wishes. I don’t think he would be that bothered either way but I want somewhere I can visit. Somewhere I can feel Michael is present. Something physical to remember him by.

  The thought of him being burnt and then scattered across a field like waste dust could make me cry harder. I think about myself watching her let him drift off into the wind. I can’t stop her either because she is his next of kin. Pete is not bothered about Michael having a cremation or a burial. Either way nothing will bring our son back. I need to tell Jenny how I feel about the arrangements. Maybe she will let me help organise it as she is struggling to cope. Maybe I can change her mind?

  Maybe if she hadn’t argued with him, my son would still be alive?

  Seventeen

  Jenny

  The post thuds to the doormat. It follows the snap of the letterbox which alerts me it has been delivered. I let the letters lie there and listen with the hope that Daniel has not been woken up. I daren’t make a sound to disturb him. Not yet. I’m not ready to start the day with a false smile over a boiled egg with bread soldiers. The minute I look at his little smile and remember that he loved his dad preparing his breakfast soldiers it will tug at my heartstrings.

  I’m sat in the kitchen alone with my thoughts, staring at the walls and cupboards – all the places where Michael once stood. The familiar shuffle of his footsteps when he was around has been replaced with utter silence. It’s so quiet that I can hear my own breath echoing in the confines of the kitchen. This kitchen has become a safe place: a seat, a kettle, a fridge, my wine and the food all in one place at close proximity. I can escape to this room and become lost in my daydreams. Sometimes a bottle of wine or two helps me through the emotions and my loneliness.

  My body aches. The heaviness is all part of the grief. I discovered more about it by looking up a few online blog posts on the stages of loss – but everyone is different, aren’t they? This emotional rollercoaster feels like a stab in the heart every time I wake up and face my reality. I go to bed with heavy eyes reddened from the hours of crying and I awake to sadness. If it weren’t for Daniel, I think I would pack a bag and head right back up to Leeds but I want to keep things normal for him and to have Donna and Peter nearby who are a stable part of his daily routines. I don’t want Daniel to be unsettled.

  I expect Michael to be here all the time. Sudden moments pop into my head. I hear the post; Oh, Michael will get that. The door will knock; Michael, will you get the door? The pile of unopened letters have built up so much over the past weeks that they’re overflowing across the mantelpiece. I’m worried and scared about the bills. Finding that unpaid credit card statement in his car knocked me back. I don’t want the extra pressure and stress before the funeral. For Donna and Peter and for Daniel’s sake I have to stay strong and prepare to say goodbye to my husband: the husband that I knew – and the side of him that I didn’t. I’m still coming to terms with him hiding something from me but I’ll know in time. I’ll get to the bottom of it. I wonder if there were other women?

  Victoria’s picture on Facebook: I thought about that some more as I sent her another friend request last night. I checked this morning and her profile has disappeared. She’s blocked me. Something about that picture of her with Michael sets alarm bells ringing. It’s like they knew each other already. I’m annoyed with myself for not picking up on this sooner. I should have looked at it in more detail but I was blinded by trust. I don’t even have her phone number and she lives on the other side of the world. I can’t even ask her if anything happened between her and Michael. Maybe her actions speak louder than words?

  I think back to Donna asking me about Michael’s hotel visit. I assumed it was a birthday surprise but now I know that letter he was hiding from me was a credit card bill, I’m trying to join up the dots. Donna implied that he looked like he was going for a job interview but she knows he is an accountant. A job interview for a hotel doesn’t make any sense. This was a different hotel than the one he visited on the night of his death: two hotels, two separate times, credit card bills – it makes me wonder if he was seeing another woman. Is that what Donna’s question was suggesting?

  Was she testing me?

  I remember arguments Michael and I had in the past about his controlling ways. He was very organised and proud of that fact but complained at times that I didn’t contribute much. He didn’t mean it in a financial sense but he said that I never organised anything and that when something nee
ded doing, it was always up to him to sort it. I told him that he never gave me a chance. He took things upon himself without asking for my input. Michael hardly ever liked to admit his own flaws but I loved him and tolerated his outbursts. I took a backseat in our finances because he was an accountant. After time it was easier to let him get on with it to keep the peace. He spent so much time switching companies to get deals, moving money to save interest and renewing the mortgage to save money on fixed rates that I lost track. I never expected him to die, nor to have created this web of deceit.

  I know Donna is worried too and has offered her support but I want to do everything in my own time. I have to do this step by step, with the first step to overcome being the funeral. Then, I want to find out who he was meeting that night. I also need to know who he was making cash payments to. I might have to question Lizzie again without Samantha around. See if there’s anything else she might remember.

  Michael’s cremation. I suspect that both Peter and Donna will naturally want a major role but I fear Donna will take over completely. This is where Michael gets his dominant personality streak from. Donna will chip in with her advice. Before I know it, she will take over everything behind my back. I don’t have the mental energy to argue with her or anyone else for that matter. I can’t shift this emptiness. I never even got to say a proper goodbye.

  The flowers that Gary kindly delivered in person have perked up on the kitchen window. He didn’t need to bring me flowers but it was a very kind gesture. I don’t how he can go to sleep at night either with what he witnessed and I feel embarrassed for crying in front of him: this stranger thrown head first into my grief. He seems really pleasant as a person and I feel like I should do something to repay him for his kindness. Perhaps I could text him later and thank him again.

  The chair rubs against the kitchen floor as I stand up and push it back in towards the table. I was hoping to avoid that annoying squeak noise so as not to wake Daniel. I quietly walk to the front door to retrieve the mail from the doormat. I don’t want him disturbed. I see the large brown envelope with the coroner’s office logo printed in the far-right corner with postage stamp marks. This should be everything we need to now make the funeral arrangements. Michael would have hated how long this is all taking to organise.

  When I look at myself in the hallway mirror I hardly recognise the aged emotional wreck that I have become. I can tell I have lost weight too but I’ve been forgetting to eat. Each day I make Daniel his dinner and think about making mine later. Later never comes.

  I head into the living room and slump back on to the chair that faces the window. I’ve already opened the curtains to let in the daylight and I am ready. With a quick tear, the envelope is open and I stare at the contents. I pull out a copy of the report. Certification of Coroner.

  My eyes scan it as quickly as possible as I try to read it all at once.

  Cardiac arrest?

  Michael died from a heart attack suffered from the trauma of the accident. I read further down the form. I can’t take my eyes away from it.

  In my opinion, there is not a need for further examination of the body.

  It’s printed, signed and dated.

  I’m upset – but not as emotional as I thought I would be when reading it and seeing it there in black and white. It’s a huge step forward in now being able to organise Michael’s funeral. That should come as a relief to Donna and Peter. I have no idea how much it will all cost but I know that Michael has some life insurance he took out when we bought the house. I’ll hunt out the paperwork from his files in the next few days. It’s hard keeping a focus and being bothered but I need to be better prepared for all this organising. I need to get my act together. I’m going to call Donna. I need some help.

  The envelope from the coroner’s office and its contents with leaflets are left on the arm of the chair. I look at the others and I see another with bold red lettering emblazoned across the front. Not again. Not more credit card bills. I only thought he had the one and Michael never mentioned his spending habits. It was something that was only meant to be used for emergencies. My hands are shaking a little as I tear open the end. I still feel nervous – and in an instant I am confronted by confusion. This can’t be real.

  ‘No,’ I shout, although no one is here to listen. ‘No, this can’t be true. What’s happening?’

  I’m trembling and there is nothing I can do. It’s there, staring at me as clear as day. It has to be wrong. I’m looking at the default notice for three months of missed mortgage payments. The shaking still continues but the anger has turned into numbness. I’m sure Michael paid the mortgage every month. Most of the main expenses are set up to come straight out of his bank account by direct debit. He would have told me if he hadn’t paid. There must be some misunderstanding?

  I read the letter again and total up all the missed payments. I’m reduced to tears. It’s as though my world is caving in on me and I haven’t got Michael near me to ask him why? Why was he missing the payments? Why was he keeping things from me?

  Daniel’s crying distracts me and reminds me that I have locked him in his bedroom. He’ll be upstairs trying to get out of the door but the baby-gate is locked shut.

  ‘Mummy’s coming up to get you now, Daniel,’ I say. ‘We’ll get you your breakfast.’

  I fold the letter. I will deal with it another time. I can’t bring myself to have to talk to people, to wait on telephone lines when I am not even sure what Michael’s passwords are. No one even knows he is dead yet.

  Why did Michael put us in a position where we could lose our home? And how am I ever going to fix this mess? What did he do with our money?

  Eighteen

  Gary

  The appointment reminder text is still at the top of my messages on my mobile phone. I stare at it for a minute, wondering if I should have even bothered to turn up. I thought speaking to a therapist would improve my mood but it’s made it worse by stirring up memories. Despite the success I have achieved in my life materially. It’s only now that I feel like a failure. Some days I can hardly believe my life has turned out the way it has. It is because of the actions of other people who have helped shaped the man that I am today. I’ve spent most of my adult life giving and forgiving others. But now this is my time.

  Fuck anyone else.

  Jenny has unsettled me. I wasn’t expecting to be greeted with such warmth and care from her. I don’t even really know what I was expecting but she’s managed to make me think that good people do exist in this world. She reminds me of my ex-wife, too. I thought she was a good person once. I believed her too when she said she cared for me.

  What can I do to make Jenny contact me again?

  I was a successful man who had everything I could ever need: a loving wife, a beautiful home, a constant stream of income to provide a lifestyle for her no other man could afford – but it still wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. She said I was the only man she would ever need – before leaving me for him.

  That day hit me like a ton of bricks. I was even contemplating suicide. I felt worthless, useless. I succumbed to the thought of ending my life. But I changed over time; I had to move on with my life. The man I used to be is dead. It can be vile how the actions of one person can impact on another even to the point of no return. She played me for a fool.

  I still have the photographs from the private detective. Images I paid for and of them both embracing each other. How could they have done that to me?

  I know my symptoms; I know how to deal with them. I sit down in front of the doctor with not a care in the world. He speaks, I listen, he shakes my hand, I smile and walk out of the office door. On top of everything else, I know I have depression, but nothing matters anymore, nothing has more importance than the hatred that has ravaged its way through my mind. It eats away at me daily yet the tablets are meant to control these demons.

  Why should the doctor really care about someone like me?

  I still keep my thoughts directed to my
ex-wife and to the exact moment that ruined everything we had together. I can pinpoint it to the day I caught her with another man. I followed her after my instinctive suspicions and watched as she leant in for a kiss. I forgave my wife but I never knew that the effects of her leaving me would come back to haunt me two years later. I accepted that I wasn’t around much for her either. I thought showering her with gifts would make up for my distant relationship. I apologised for all the times I shouted at her and expected her to be a better wife. I wanted her support. I forced her to work with me even though she hated it. In the end I drove her away – to him.

  We should have both admitted that it was over long before the divorce hearing. She was the only woman I ever loved and probably the only woman I ever will. I still miss her but I mourn more for the life I thought I could have had. Fate, consequence and coincidences ensured I was dragged down to my lowest levels. Destiny dealt me a bad hand on this earth and I’m now running with that hand freely and unapologetically.

  If I could rewrite the past it would have me walk away there and then rather than beg her to stay. I believed her when she said it was over. I wanted to trust her again but she couldn’t help herself. Whatever it was that he had that I didn’t – I might never know now because I have no idea where she lives. We’ve not spoken since the divorce. I made sure she stayed at home, working, with little contact to the outside world. I thought she would learn her lesson.

  ‘He’s like an addiction,’ she told me during the last conversation I had with her. ‘I don’t love him but I sometimes need him.’

  ‘Why did you do this to me?’ I asked, pleading for explanations while blaming myself. ‘Am I not enough for you?’

  Letting my wife go was a struggle because it made me feel like a failure. I no longer blame myself. I blame him. He came along and destroyed my life and I shall never forgive him.

  After my wife deserted my life the stress took over – along with guilt and emotions and anger I never knew I could feel and which I blame for my illness. And it all started with them.