Chapter Seventeen

Marilyn’s car caught up with me halfway down the HCC driveway, assuming my trembling, half-frantic state was due to having confronted Larissa. Perry called a few minutes later, as Marilyn drove me home. Struggling to be coherent, my mind spinning with thoughts of Kane, I babbled an apology, blaming pre-wedding nerves combined with pre-five o’clock wine tasting. The next few days were a plummet back into nightmares and constant nausea, and yes, I did spend one evening weeping in the back of my wardrobe.

I left a rambling message for Gwynne.

She called back the next day. Kane had attended his latest parole meeting. He had no car, a minimum wage job, no means of gallivanting about the country terrorizing past victims. Could I be sure it was him, after all this time? Could my fear have taken the splintered memories of a man I hadn’t seen in twenty years and superimposed them onto someone else? Could I accept the possibility I had been mistaken?

Yes. No. Maybe. Urgh. Yes.

No.

Having asked Marilyn for a lift to choir practice that Wednesday, I fumbled my way through the new songs we were learning in preparation for October’s national final. Hester had asked us to pick songs that made us feel strong. That evening they simply reminded me of how vulnerable I felt.

Songs about independent women were banned, on the basis we were “fools” if we still hadn’t realized we were stronger together. Ebony shyly played us a country song: “This One’s for the Girls”. It was snappy and fun, and Hester could hardly refuse lyrics about being beautiful the way you are, standing your ground when everyone is giving in, and dreaming with everything you have. She probably would have written that song herself if Martina McBride hadn’t got there first.

There was an overwhelming vote in favour of Katy Perry’s “Roar”, but then an argument broke out about whether we needed a song with some spiritual context. Yasmin stole Millie’s bobble hat (red, in the shape of a strawberry), and in the ensuing scuffle no one noticed the new arrival until she reached the front of the room and whacked the music stand with Hester’s baton.

“Hey.”

Polly. A tiny, scrunched-up baby strapped to her chest.

“Where did you come from?” Uzma asked.

“Marilyn’s house.”

Marilyn coughed. “Ahem!”

“Sorry. Our house. I wasn’t sure if she’d finish her feed in time, so Marilyn left me the money for a taxi.”

We crowded round to see the baby, still unnamed at a month old. If Polly waited any longer, she’d have to register her as “Baby”, like the girl from Dirty Dancing. We petted and aahed, asking all the usual questions. Yes, Baby was putting on weight, no she wasn’t sleeping well, yes Polly was eating properly and resting enough, no she wasn’t going to miss the national finals.

There were some non-usual questions we didn’t ask but wanted to. Was she still pressing charges? Had she seen Tony? Was she going to? Did her bashed-up hand and cracked ribs still hurt? Was she getting a divorce?

She offloaded a twitching Baby to Melody and waited for us to stop fussing. “I heard you’re looking for a song. How about this?”

And then she started to sing “Listen”, the Beyoncé song. About not being at home in her own home, and being more than what he made of her. Starting again, moving on, writing your own song.

Whew. We had not heard Polly sing like that before. Could breastfeeding affect your vocal cords? Could unwrapping the fear and anxiety and secrets and shame that wound so tightly around your whole body do it?

Of course we cried. Some (me) more than others. Cried, even as we joined in, stood with Polly, held her hand, rocked her baby, believed her, and believed in her. Sang her song.

A tentative answer to the biggest unasked question: Polly would make it. One day, she would be okay.

I grabbed a coffee at break time. Barely able to force down sips, I skulked in the corner, wanting Marilyn and Polly to hurry up and finish chatting so I could get home and stop having to fake being fine, wanting the evening to last all night so I didn’t have to go home to a house empty save for dark crannies, mysterious creaks, and ominous shadows.

Eventually, Dylan extracted himself from the flock of broody women cooing over Baby and made his way over.

“Not into babies?”

I managed a crooked smile. “I love babies. Especially Baby. But I had a big cuddle when I minded Nancy and Pete yesterday.”

“Marilyn’s still training with Anton?”

“Twice a week.”

“It looks like it suits her.” He gestured at her grinning with Leona by the serving hatch.

“She’s lost nearly four stone.”

“No. It’s more than that. She looks… happier. More comfortable in her own skin. When she first came along, Marilyn was mostly bluster. Now she seems like Marilyn.”

“She did get a bit lost for a while amongst all those sleepless nights and nappies.” I nodded at him. “You’re a pretty perceptive man, Pastor Dylan.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.” He looked at me and smiled, blue eyes softening. “So you won’t dodge the question when I ask what has you so rattled?”

I studied my feet for a minute, unable to handle his gaze. “If I talk about it, I’m going to start blubbing. Or screaming. Either way, it’ll make a scene. And you know how I feel about scenes.”

“Do you want to come into the office? They could be passing Baby round for a while yet.”

“No.” I flapped a hand in the direction of everyone else. “If they caught me in the office with the minister I’d never hear the end of it.”

“You mean Marilyn would want to know what was up.”

“That too.”

“What can I do to help?”

I shook my head and shrugged.

He gave my arm a fist bump, gentle enough not to spill my tepid coffee. “If you think of anything, or just want to talk, you know where I am.”

The next day, I spent two hours on buses getting to a hotel that would have taken me forty-five minutes to reach along public footpaths, and then spent the whole journey on the verge of panic anyway. At least if I was walking I could run away. The thought of being trapped on a bus with Kane gave me palpitations. I waited nearly an hour for a taxi to show up at the end of my shift, and then forked out most of my tips on the fare.

As I climbed out of the taxi, the red car glinted in the evening sunlight. I stopped and looked at it for a moment. It had sat there useless on the road for months now. Was I being an idiot, resisting Perry’s overindulgent present? If I daren’t walk anywhere, that heap of shiny metal might end up being the only way to keep my independence. I bet it had really good safety locks to keep killers out. I marched inside, kicked off my work shoes, dumped my bag on the kitchen counter, and picked up my phone before I could change my mind.

Perry set up a driving lesson for me the next day with a guy he’d met at a business conference. Bob Chase, a forty-something instructor wearing a crumpled pair of shiny trousers and a Formula One cap, turned up in a Vauxhall Corsa. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw my car. He had a change of heart about my first lesson being in his specially modified vehicle, spending the first twenty minutes driving the sports car to a suitable location to start me off (I suggested a few quiet roads and empty car parks nearby, but for vague reasons he picked one a good few miles further away).

Groaning with delight at every twist and turn, closing his eyes way more than the Highway Code must surely recommend, he slid to a stop in a large layby in the middle of nowhere. A couple of times he began explaining something about the driving process, only to get sidetracked by the apparent amazingness of the car.

Eventually, we swapped seats and he talked me through how to turn the engine on and get moving. Hands and legs trembling, I gave it a go.

Screeeech!

Bob yelled in alarm over the hideous sound of scraping metal, diving across to undo whatever I’d done. I opened my eyes to find the car hadn’t moved a millimetre.

“Promise you won’t do that again,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Okay.” I had no idea how to keep that promise. My frayed nerves were not coping well with being pushed further out of their comfort zone by a man they didn’t know, and certainly didn’t trust.

“Right. Let’s have another try. Be gentle with her now. This princess needs to be stroked. She’ll refuse to play if you treat her rough.” He caressed the dashboard with his fingers.

I swallowed down my urge to vomit. Who knew what Bob would do if I threw up on the princess?

We tried a few more times, Bob’s increasing distress at my ineptitude only pushing my stress levels higher, making things worse. When he let out a whimper, I’d had enough.

“I think we’d better call it a day,” I said, climbing out of the driver’s seat and moving back to where I belonged.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Funny how the journey home took half the time.

He made a lukewarm attempt to book a second lesson, but even Bob wasn’t convinced another drive in the princess was worth the pain of watching me mistreat her.

I stomped inside, whipping open the fridge door and taking out an enormous piece of Marilyn’s butterscotch tart. Spooning off a huge chunk, I wolfed it down furiously before calling Perry.

He found the whole thing hilarious.

To be honest, if it hadn’t been for my underlying urgency to be able to drive, I would have done, too. He did coax a smile out of me by the time I’d finished venting.

“Do you want me to find someone else?” he asked.

“No. I don’t think learning with a stranger is going to work.”

“Well, you know I’d happily do it, but the Hampton deal is reaching the crucial stages. I’ve got a load more trips coming up in the next month or so. Is there anyone else you can ask? Someone just to get you started, help you over the initial nerves?”

I thought about it: the few people I knew, the even fewer number who had a car and were available during the day, and the fewer still whom I would feel comfortable having driving lessons with. That left approximately two people. And there was no way on earth I could be in control of a moving vehicle with one-year-old twins strapped in the back seat. But hadn’t the other one recently offered me help, with eyes so honest I genuinely believed he meant it?

With Perry’s approval, albeit coated with a layer of bemusement, I called Dylan.

Knowing something of the situation with Kane, suspecting even more, and detecting the desperation in my voice, he cautiously agreed.

The following Saturday I had my second driving lesson. Sat in Dylan’s truck on a deserted back lane (he said the sports car would cost a fortune to fix if I happened to bump into anything, whereas the truck was so dented one more scrape wouldn’t make any difference), I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, checked my mirror, gingerly lifted one foot off the clutch while pressing down on the accelerator with the other, and stalled. Again.

“It’s no good.” I threw my head against the steering wheel. “I can’t do it. This is a waste of time. I’m too old for this. You might as well take me home.”

“And how old is too old to learn how to drive?” He tried to keep a straight face, but the smile showed in his voice.

I mumbled against the steering wheel. It was nice down here. The sun shone through the windscreen onto my hair. It smelled of leather and machinery. In fact, it smelled a lot like Dylan.

“What was that?”

Hello? Earth to Faith? I quickly pulled myself back up again. “I’m twenty-five.”

“Really?”

“Why?” I turned to look at him. “How old did you think I was?”

“Err.” He shifted in his seat, and scratched his stubble. “Well. Um. You don’t look older than twenty-five. You just act like, well… you’ve got a lot of life experience.”

My eyes narrowed.

“I mean, you’re confident.” He searched the roof of the truck, as if looking for inspiration. “Capable. Serious.”

Eyes: tiny slits.

“Reliable?”

“Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“No, I really don’t. Hence being single for the past hundred years.” He ran his hands through his hair, making it even more dishevelled. “Look, what I mean is, you know who you are, and you don’t try to be anyone else. That’s unusual in someone your age. So yes, it is pretty special.”

Hah! I started to laugh. “You are so wrong, Pastor Perceptive. Most of the time I don’t even know what to call myself.” My laugh turned bitter and slightly maniacal. I squeezed my eyes together and swallowed, hard. For goodness’ sake. Enough crying!

When I opened them again, he was watching me, his face blank. I wondered if this was going to be the moment Dylan realized I was internally unstable. About as far from confident and capable as it is possible to get.

“Right. Out.”

Excuse me?

“Come on. Out you get.” He climbed out his side and came around, opening the driver’s side door while I still sat there, hands on the wheel. Was Dylan throwing me out of his truck? Had he decided to leave me here in the middle of nowhere? Had my laugh been so disturbing he couldn’t risk taking me home? Or to a main road? Or a bus stop?

He held out one hand to help me down. Remembering how it felt the last time our hands touched, I ignored it and clambered out myself.

He jumped into the vacated driver’s seat, and turned the engine back on. Too stunned to move, I watched as he began to drive forwards. What? Was he really leaving me here?

No Faith, you bag of nervous nerves. He’s parking the truck on the verge.

Oh. That’s okay then.

“Right. This way I think.” He jerked his head in the direction of the road ahead, and began walking.

“Am I allowed to know what’s going on? Is the driving lesson finished?”

He turned round, and started walking backwards. “No. But it’s obvious even for Pastor Perceptive that you aren’t going to be able to concentrate on anything while you’re like this. You walk to calm down, and de-stress. So, let’s walk. And if you can bear to talk, even better. Then we might actually get something done today.”

We walked. Along prickled hedges that bore a sprinkling of fresh, tightly curled green leaves. Beneath a canopy of silvery branches, showering us with pale pink blossom in the breeze. After a while, we followed a signpost down a dirt track, the edges bushy with cow parsley.

I breathed in the pungent smells of spring – damp earth, new grass, the faint hint of pollen from the first flowers, the ripe warmth of the cows in the meadow beyond. I listened to the stillness – the faint hum of a tractor on the ridge above us, the whistle of brisk wind in the branches, the birds welcoming the change of season with their jubilant chorus. My heart began to slow as my mind eased and the tension that ached in every muscle gradually dissolved. For the first quarter of a mile, we just walked. Not that it was ever “just” walking in a place like this. But we didn’t talk until, finally reaching a lopsided gate at the end of the lane, Dylan stopped, leaning back against it, and I figured I had better say something.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning’ll do, if you can’t think of anywhere else.”

“Right.” I leaned on the gate beside him. “So the man who killed my mum, the one Sam thought he saw in February? Last week I think I saw him at HCC.”

I felt the gate creak as his body went rigid. Waited while he took a moment to take that in.

“Okay. I’m officially donning my pastor hat.” Dylan mimed putting on a cap and straightening it up. I raised my eyebrows at him.

“I’m wearing it because I’m guessing you still haven’t told Perry about this, and it is completely wrong for you to tell a friend before the man you’re going to marry. But you need to talk about it.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“Plus, the caveman in me really wants to hunt this man down and smash his face in. My pastor hat reminds me that wouldn’t be a wise or good thing to do.”

“He’d snap you in half before you got a chance. No offence. He’s seriously evil.”

“And you think he’s looking for you.”

“I think he’s just about found me.” I told him about what had happened, about what I remembered of Kane from before he went to prison, some of how it affected me then, and now. I even told him about hiding in the wardrobe – then, and now.

“Is there somewhere you can stay? With a friend? A relative who owns a fortress? On the other side of the planet?”

“I did consider joining Sam in his treatment centre.”

He turned back to stare out into the field, rubbing one hand over his face.

“Are you crying?”

“No. Absolutely not.” His voice cracked. “Not that I would be ashamed if I was. Real men can cry.”

“Because I’m holding it together by the wispiest of threads and if you are crying, tough man, I may collapse into a mushy pile of human jelly in this mud, and not only will that mess up your truck, I won’t get any driving done. And as you now know, I have a very good reason to pass my driving test as soon as humanly possible. So buck up, pull yourself together, and don’t you dare even think about crying.”

“I’m not crying! A fly flew in my eye. Both eyes.”

“Good. Now we’re going to walk back and I’m going to get the whole sorry saga off my chest. You are not going to cry, I am not going to cry, and you are going to teach me how to drive a car without stalling and how to change gear. Got it?” I set off, stomping down the track.

Dylan called after me, “Now that’s what I call a capable, confident, reliable woman.”

Nearly two hours later I had reached the heady speed of fifteen miles per hour. Fast enough that anyone chasing me on foot would eat my dust. Not quite fast enough to be let loose in the sports car, yet. I wasn’t sure my car could drive at only fifteen miles per hour. But it was a start.

Dylan drove us back to Houghton. We rode in silence, listening to a soft country music song about a man plucking up the courage to tell his girl he loved her. The gentle hue of dusk settled, bringing with it the nip of evening as we approached the village.

“Are you hungry? I accept driving lesson payments in pizza.” Dylan slowed down to let a family with three small children cross the road.

“I can’t tonight. I’m having dinner with Perry. But some other time?”

He nodded. “Sure. Do you want another lesson?”

“I don’t think I’m quite ready for my test yet.”

He smiled. “No, I meant do you want another lesson with me?”

“Do you have the time?”

“I can make the time. Tuesday’s probably best this week. I have a meeting in the morning, but I could do after lunch if you’re free.”

“That’s great, thanks. I really appreciate you doing this.”

He turned into my little street, dodging the parked cars signifying the other residents were settled in for the evening.

“No worries. I enjoyed it.” He pulled to a stop and I jumped out.

“Thanks again. I mean, not just for the driving.”

He nodded, one sharp down and up of his chin. “Do me a favour?”

I waited.

“Talk to your boyfriend.”

“Bye, Dylan.”

“Have a nice evening.” He waited while I let myself in, then disappeared into the sunset.

I went upstairs and took a shower, trying to wash away the vague sense of irritation that I suspected Dylan caused by wishing me a nice evening with Perry. Did I really want Dylan to feel jealous, knowing how completely that would screw everything up?

My head, absolutely not.

My heart? My hormones? They sat through a fancy dinner at the club, a moonlit walk along the green, compliments, and caresses, and all they could think about was pizza in a greasy two-seater truck with a man who smelled of leather and always looked as though he’d just finished a major demolition job. A man whose smile hit me right where it hurt and managed to make it feel better.

Did I think about telling Perry the truth about Kane?

A thousand times. With every bite of dinner, every sip of sparkling water.

Did I feel responsible for our relationship being built on secrets?

Yes. One hundred per cent.

But, and this is the honest truth, if he had paused once to ask me how I was, how my week had been – what’s going on with you, Faith? – I would have told him. I would have told him every darn thing.

Now he knew the real reason behind my wanting to drive, Dylan insisted on giving me lessons nearly every other day for the next two weeks. When I could shake off the spectre of Kane, stuff my wedding stress to the back of my brain, and stop worrying about the fact my brother had mentioned coming home, I actually started to find the lessons a lot of fun.

Concentrating on a new skill, like choir practice, became a useful distraction, as I focused on mirrors, signalling, and manoeuvres to the exclusion of everything else. Dylan was a good teacher, using all his minister skills of patience, kindness, and self-control to explain the same thing to me over and over again until I got it. Watching for the moment when the yuckiness started to creep back in, then ordering me out of the truck for a walk. Before long the walks became part of the lesson. One day, we met around lunchtime so Dylan brought a couple of sandwiches and a custard tart. The next time I brought a flask of homemade lemonade and a picnic pie, the recipe of which I’d been experimenting with and wanted an opinion on.

As we walked, and sometimes ate, we talked. About anything and everything. Dylan talked about his job. All the parts of it he loved, and the tough parts, the loneliness and the frustrations. How his faith somehow made it more than worthwhile. That led on to his past, growing up on one of the toughest estates in Leeds with a single mum working two jobs – getting into the kind of trouble that bored kids with no money and no parental supervision end up in. Finding himself running around with a crowd of boys who veered further and further into a life leading nowhere good.

“So how did you end up from there to here?” I asked one blustery day towards the end of April, as we paced through a newly ploughed field. “Something must have saved you.”

“Fear, mainly. Shoplifting and fist fights I could handle. But men in dark glasses asking me to drop a package at some dump under the cover of darkness? That scared me. My mates loved it – they were ambitious, and saw joining a gang as the way to earn power. Called us the band of brothers. The day we went to get our tats, I watched them playing at being big men, branding themselves for life, and knew I didn’t want that. Messing about as kids was one thing. But we weren’t kids any more. I felt like if I got that tattoo there’d be no going back.”

“And? What happened? Did you get it?”

“I’m stood in the back room of my mate’s uncle’s shop watching them go one at a time. Discreetly trying to wipe the sweat from my face, ready to claim a needle phobia if they see my hands shaking. To not go through with it would be unthinkable. Like, the worst kind of betrayal. And I had no escape route planned. No options left. So, I prayed. To a God I didn’t believe in, or want to.”

We had reached the river, and made our way to where a narrow bridge rose over the water. Leaning against the barrier, Dylan stuck his hands in his pockets, turning sideways to avoid the worst of the wind.

“I was up next. It was like one of those moments where your life flashes before your eyes. And I saw nothing to be proud of. My mum crying on her birthday because the police had been round again. Chucking the cake I’d nicked in the bin as she screamed at me to get out. I made a bargain with God right then. If he got me out of this I’d sort myself out. And then, just as the guy called me over, his phone started ringing. The shop was about to be raided. I went straight home, packed my bags, and caught the next train to my uncle’s in Cardiff. I didn’t go back for eight years.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.” He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment of how my life had been at seventeen.

Dylan pushed off the railing and began walking back. “My uncle set me straight to work in his renovation business. Flipping houses. He figured if he worked me hard enough I’d have no energy left for trouble.”

“And he was right?”

He quirked up one side of his mouth. “Nearly. He also dragged me along to his church every Sunday. I pretended to hate it, but something about the people there got under my skin. They had that something my mates back home had been looking for. It was a real band of brothers.”

“So you stuck around long enough to find God?”

“I stuck around long enough to find a pretty girl. God came later.”

“So what happened to her? The pretty girl?”

“I messed it up. She ran out of patience. I moved my broken heart here.” He paused to unlock a gate leading us back onto the road where the truck sat waiting. “Decided I needed some time out from pretty girls.”

He looked at me then, only a couple of feet away, and I swear some kind of weird vacuum in his eyes sucked away every last drop of air between us. My heart stalled, and it was one of those clichéd movie moments when time stopped, the sounds of the birds and the wind and the rushing water vanished, and for one crazy, awful, fabulous second I thought he might kiss me.

He dropped his gaze abruptly, and cleared his throat. Yanking open the gate, Dylan gestured for me to go through first, those ocean eyes now only able to meet mine for a glance before darting away.

Get a hold of yourself, Faith. He pours out his broken heart to you, and you decide he wants to kiss you?

We finished the lesson, trying to act normal. Dylan laughed too hard at my jokes, and I responded to his tuition over-earnestly. The truck crackled with electricity, the heavy, tangy air before a summer storm. After dropping me off at choir practice, he didn’t follow me in, or ask about another lesson. Nothing had happened, but it was something. And for the rest of the week, as I rushed about organizing Grand Grace Gala table decorations, chasing after the now toddling Nancy and Pete, addressing wedding invitation envelopes (one job Larissa actually trusted me with), and serving canapés to crowds of drunk, sweaty, over-friendly businessmen, my head swirled. Not with Kane, whose shadow had slowly begun to retreat, or with my future husband, busy working on his new deal. I thought about the nothing. And what I would have done if Dylan had made it a something. And I wondered what I felt most scared of – another nothing happening, or one never happening again.

I found myself trying to pray about it, asking God to take away these thoughts. These feelings. It didn’t work. I think God must have known I didn’t really mean it.

The following weekend, I packed up my rucksack with a change of clothes, my warmest pyjamas, a torch, a first aid kit, and a family-size bar of dark chocolate, and hitched a ride in Marilyn’s car.

It was time for our next choir activity. Two nights camping in Sherwood Forest. The air was damp and the ground muddy. The temperature might drop to near freezing. Our seventeen-strong troop included a wannabe sergeant major, a cosmetic addict who cried if she split a nail, two pensioners, a teenage delinquent, and fifteen-month-old twins. Twelve of us were camping virgins.

What could possibly go wrong?