Her Turn to Cry: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming. Chris Curran
Joycie took a huge bite of her sandwich to give herself time to think, waving her hand so he knew he’d have to wait. He smiled and folded his arms as if prepared to sit in silence for as long as it took.
When she could stand it no longer, she spoke through the food still in her mouth, and Marcus handed her a tissue from the bedside cabinet, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘The same thing he told me: that she left him, and he didn’t know where she was.’
‘So what do you think now?’ When Joycie shrugged and carried on chewing he said, ‘I mean, if she left him for another man, who was the guy?’
‘I’ve no idea. Over the years I realized she had other men, but it didn’t affect me and never seemed to bother Dad either. I don’t remember anyone being around at that time, but he must have been special if she left us for him.’
Marcus went over to the window and pulled the curtain so that the sun streamed in, making a bright halo of his hair. ‘You think it was something else, though, don’t you?’ She didn’t answer, her heart beating hard, as if by telling him it could make what she dreaded true. He faced her, half sitting on the dressing table. ‘Come on, Joycie, whatever you say I can tell you don’t really believe she deserted you.’
She put the plate down and began pleating the crumpled sheet between her fingers. ‘I couldn’t, not for a long time, even though everyone said so. Eventually I just learned to accept it because there seemed to be no other explanation. But my aunt, she’s called Susan, says Mum really loved me. She doesn’t think she would have left without me for any reason. But who knows, perhaps this bloke wouldn’t let her bring me, and she had to make a choice.’
‘What did your dad tell you?’
‘That he was a rubbish husband, and he didn’t blame her for going. He always said Mum left me with him because she couldn’t provide for me, and because she knew it would have broken his heart to lose me too.’ She rubbed her nose with the tissue Marcus had given her, but it was greasy and smelled of bacon, and she scrabbled in the box for another.
Marcus came back to sit on the bed and pulled her into his arms. They sat for a while, her head against his chest as she breathed in his lovely, familiar smell and listened to the steady beat of his heart. He smoothed her hair until she moved her head so that it rested in the curve of his warm palm, and he kissed her forehead.
‘I’m scared, Marcus,’ she said. ‘But I can’t leave it alone now.’
‘I know,’ he whispered.
Then they kissed properly; a long soft kiss. His heart began to thump faster against her thin nightdress. Her own heart was speeding too, and when his lips pressed harder and his fingers twined into her hair she felt a throb of longing for him.
‘Little cock-teaser, that’s what you are, just like your mum.’
The words echoed in her head along with the memory of cloying Brylcreem and smoke-clogged tweed, and Joycie flinched back. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she managed to gasp, turning away to hide her face in the wall, gulping down the bile, afraid he would guess how she felt. For a few moments she had wanted him so much. But that voice was in her head again, and she knew she could never let go with any man, even with Marcus.
He hadn’t moved, and after what seemed an age she felt his hand touch her shoulder. It stayed there for a moment before sliding down her arm. When he reached her hand he gripped her fingers. ‘It’s fine, come on, sit up and look at me, Joycie. It’s only me.’
She grabbed more tissues and scrubbed at her face saying sorry over and over. When she was finally able to look at him, he smiled, and she longed to hold him again and tell him she loved him and one day it might work between them. But that was impossible.
‘This’, he made a gesture that seemed to take in her tear-stained face, the crumple of tissues on the bed, and even himself, ‘is all because of what happened to your mum, isn’t it?’
She met his eyes. ‘I used to think someone, or something, might have forced her to go away.’
‘This guy she was having it off with, you mean?’
A flicker of memory. ‘Or someone else. I just don’t know.’ He squeezed her forearm and for a moment she longed to lean into him again. Instead she climbed out of bed.
‘You’re not going to leave it at that, though, are you?’ he said. ‘You’ll see this aunt again?’
‘She’s sending me some letters they got from Mum.’
‘Good, and in the meantime why don’t we try to find out if there was another guy and have a go at tracking him down? I’ve got Sid Sergeant’s phone number, so we could get in touch with him. He and your parents were close so I bet he’ll have some idea.’
Her dressing gown was on the end of the bed, and she pulled it round her, swallowing to get rid of the sick feeling in her throat. ‘No, I don’t want anything to do with him, with either of them.’
Her voice came out louder than she meant, and Marcus raised his palms in front of him. ‘Fine, fine, no need to scream at me.’ She fastened the dressing gown, her fingers fumbling on the buttons, as he went on, ‘I wish you’d tell me everything, Joycie, it might even help you. It’s not just your mum, is it? Something happened to you as well.’
She went to sit at the dressing table, wincing at her reflection. God, she looked awful.
‘Sid is obviously a lecherous old bastard, and it doesn’t take a Sigmund Freud to see you can’t stand to be near him,’ Marcus said.
With her hands in her hair she stared at herself in the mirror, trying to see the whole truth in her own face. Brylcreem, stale beer, and rough tweed smelling of sweat and wee. ‘There’s things from when I was a kid I just can’t remember and other things that …’
‘You don’t want to remember or even think about?’
A deep breath, pushing her hair back and meeting his eyes in the mirror. ‘Please, Marcus, let it be for now. I think if I can find what really happened to my mum the rest might sort itself out.’
He picked up the empty cup and plate. ‘OK.’ At the door he turned. ‘What about talking to Deirdre then? She and Irene were your mum’s friends.’
Joycie had lived with Irene and Deirdre after her dad died: shell-shocked by what had happened to him. And although Irene was full of stories about her life in the theatre, they rarely mentioned either of her parents.
‘We could take those photos of you wearing the jewellery Irene left you. I’m sure Deirdre would love that.’
‘Yes, let’s. I should go and see her anyway. I ought to have visited her and Irene more often. They were so good to me. But, Marcus, please throw away the card Sid gave you. I want to forget all about him.’
***
Marcus handed Deirdre the brown envelope with the photos of Joycie wearing Irene’s necklaces. As she looked at them Deirdre’s tiny hands shook and her eyes, when she raised them, were full of tears. ‘Oh, Joycie, you look lovely. Irene would have been so pleased to see them on you. She always loved them, and she loved you too, sweetheart.’ She reached over and gripped Joycie’s hands. Her own were cool, the skin stretched paper-thin over the bones.
Joycie looked around at the room. It hadn’t changed at all, still too warm and too crowded. Little tables covered with knick-knacks, empty candlesticks, and photo frames. More pictures on the upright piano, which was still open with some sheet music propped on it. Deirdre couldn’t play, but Joycie could see she’d kept everything as it was when Irene was alive.
The time when Joycie lived here after her dad died was mostly a blur of misery, but Irene with her stories and songs, and Deirdre with her fry-ups and stodgy puddings had made it a bit more bearable. Irene had paid for Joycie to go to