I limp to the downstairs loo, wash the grit out of my hands, chin, knees, all of which are bloody but, on examination, I believe only require TCP, not stitches. It stings to apply the antiseptic and I want to cry. I consider calling an ambulance, but decide that although I’m bruised and battered, my injuries are certainly not life-threatening. I may be diverting it from someone more in need. I decide it’s more community-spirited and all-round sensible if I wait for Matthew and he can drive me to A&E. Despite the adultness of this decision, I feel woefully sorry for myself, and it takes all the energy I can muster to limp to the sofa and lie down. I put my feet up on the armrest. There’s nothing to do but wait.
Matthew sends a text in response to my plea for him to come home. He doesn’t ask any questions; he simply responds, On my way, babe. He adds four kisses, and seeing them lifts me a fraction, despite the pain. He’s clearly missed me, and no doubt thinks my demand for him to come home quickly is nothing more than a keenness to climb into bed. I track him on Find Friends. I watch the little blue spot that represents his phone and his movements thread slowly through London traffic and then speed up when he reaches the outskirts. I feel enormously comforted. He’s coming. Help is coming.
I listen to the car approach, tyres scrunching on the driveway. The car door being opened and slammed quickly, his footsteps – one, two, three – as he dashes up the front step and through the door.
‘In here,’ I call. Seeing him in the doorway, I start to cry. Now that I can surrender my safety to him, the tears that I’ve held back fall freely. I’m not even embarrassed, and that’s new for me. I’ve been self-sufficient and self-reliant for years and years, but now Matthew will look after me.
‘Hell, babe, what happened?’ His face is taut with shock and concern.
I start to explain that I fell off the ladder and then it fell on top of me. I sob as he carefully, tenderly examines my cuts and bruises and then declares, ‘I’m taking you to A&E.’ He helps me to my feet and leads me to the car. He parked it (or in fact abandoned it) just outside the front door, so I don’t have far to walk. I’m limping, my back, head and ribs aching horribly. It’s only when I’m settled in the car that I notice the ladder is propped back up against the wall. I’m surprised that he paused to do that. I thought I’d monitored his progress from the car to my side. When did he have time?
‘You picked up the ladder?’
He glances at me as he starts the car, then does a three-point turn and sets off along the drive. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘But it’s up against the wall again. You must have.’
He shakes his head slowly. ‘That’s the reason I’m taking you to hospital. When you said that the ladder fell on you, it made me think you had concussion. It was against the wall when I got back.’
‘No, no, that’s impossible. It fell on top of me,’ I insist. Matthew keeps his eyes on the road and doesn’t reply. ‘My back is bruised from the impact. I can feel the lump on my head,’ I insist.
‘Let’s just get you to a doctor and then we’ll see what’s what.’
25
We don’t get home until almost 9 p.m. A heavy silence hangs between us. Exhaustion and discomfort tinged with resentment and confusion does not lend itself to chatting. I maintain the ladder fell on me; Matthew is maintaining that is impossible because he found it up against the wall. I too saw the ladder against the wall. I can see why he doubts what I’m telling him. The facts are against me. Doubting my memory, my account, leaves me feeling terrified. Loose in some odd way. I think I understand for the first time what people mean when they say they are falling apart. Normally I am so solid, so upright and firm. Now I feel like I am liquid. I might spill or evaporate altogether. These thoughts are fantastical, I can’t underline enough how unlike me they are, yet I am thinking them.
Because our accounts differed, the doctor took me into the consulting room alone, and insisted that Matthew remain in the waiting room. The doctor was younger than me by at least twenty years. He had cool hands that felt soothing against my wrist when he took my pulse, and he asked whether I felt safe.
‘Safe?’ I repeated the word back to him. I do not feel safe. But I do not feel unsafe in the way the doctor was suggesting. I’m not scared of my husband. He was in London when this thing happened to me. He is not injuring me or threatening me. But someone is. I am sure of it. I couldn’t say this to the doctor. I’d sound confused at best, mad at worst. I forced myself to smile politely; I even offered up a little laugh. But nothing too loud, nothing manic. ‘Oh, I see what you’re thinking. That’s very good of you. Always best to check for anything awful, but that’s not what’s going on here. No domestic violence. We’re newlyweds.’ I felt foolish using this term. Partially because being a newly-wed doesn’t necessarily disqualify you from domestic violence, unfortunately. But also confessing to such a thing at my age seemed irregular. Yet we are exactly that – how else could I describe us? We’re very new to each other.
The doctor’s face did not alter; it remained set in an expression that I couldn’t quite read. Scepticism, fatigue? He didn’t say congratulations, he just sighed and continued with the examination. After a sixteen-hour shift in A&E, I suppose there’s only so much empathy and energy that can be mustered. He agreed with me that the severe bruising on my back indicated that something had fallen on me, but later, when he spoke to Matthew, he added, ‘Or maybe she fell on her back and rolled over onto her stomach and can’t recall this. Either way, she was incredibly lucky.’ I felt he’d let me down.
Lucky: concussion, two fractured ribs, a lump the size of an egg on the back of my head, scratches and bruises on my forehead, hands and knees.
The house feels cold when we get back. Unfamiliar. I shiver. I detect that strange smell again, something rotting, dank. ‘Can you smell that?’ I ask Matthew.
‘Smell what?’
‘I’m not sure, like wet dog?’ That’s not an accurate description; there is nothing insidious about wet dog, and this smell is somehow devious, off.
‘I bought a new scented candle last week,’ he says. ‘That’s pretty herby. Maybe you can smell that. I think it had cedar and basil. If you don’t like it, I can throw it out.’
I stare at my new husband. He’s smiling at me, but it’s not a wide beam. His face oozes concern. I’m puzzling him. Perhaps even alarming him. I’d bet my house on the fact that all he wants to do is please me, help me, but he doesn’t know how to, nor do I. I am wondering how I can explain to him what I want to articulate; the theory that is starting to grow in my head and that doesn’t make sense. If I speak of it, it can only cause trouble, but it is the logical conclusion I am reaching. If logical is a word that can be used here. This thing I can smell is not a scented candle. It’s the same stench I came across when the plants were smashed, when the sauce was thrown about. I smelt it at my parents’ graveside. I don’t recognise the not-quite-human smell and yet I’m certain it must be the smell of whoever it is that is targeting me in this peculiar way. It’s not prankster kids. Kids are noisy, careless. This threat is silent, precise, focused. I shiver.
‘I can’t smell anything different,’ says Matthew, shrugging. ‘It is cold, though. I’ll check there isn’t a window open.’ Yes, the temperature dropping. I’ve noticed that too.
He checks all over the house but doesn’t discover an open window. He turns the heating on and tells me he’ll fix supper.
‘Thanks, but I just want to get to bed. These painkillers are making me drowsy.’
I go to bed alone and Matthew stays up, says he’s going to watch an arty film that he tells me isn’t my thing anyway. I thought I’d fall asleep instantly, but I don’t. Weird that after years and years of sleeping on my own, it’s only taken having a couple of months of company for me to miss Matthew’s solid, warm presence. The mattress seems too cool and flat, and I miss the slight dip he creates that causes me to roll towards him. I flick on the bedside lamp, pick up my laptop and start to google my impossible theory. That’s how I think of it in my mind. Impossible. Laughable. But I find myself looking anyway.
I’m disturbed by the accounts that make it seem possible, as much as I might have been if there was evidence to contradict it. I would like to share my thoughts with someone, but who? Not Heidi or Gina, obviously, and I don’t know how to have this conversation with Matthew.
After about an hour, I hear him on the stairs. My heart lifts when he says, ‘I just can’t get into the film. It’s really boring.’ I immediately close my laptop, assuming he’s going to come to bed too, but then he adds, ‘Would you mind if I popped to the Fox and Crown? I’ll take the car, so I’ll only have a half. I’m just not ready to hit the hay yet.’
‘We have beer in the fridge,’ I point out gently. I don’t want to be one of those wives who spoils her husband’s fun, curbs his social life, but nor do I want to be left alone tonight. It’s been an especially hard day.
‘I fancy some company, a change of scene. I won’t be long. I’ll have my phone on the whole time. If you need me, I’ll be back in a jiffy, but I know that’s unlikely. You’re always so plucky.’
Plucky. I let the word roll around my head. The old-fashioned word for determined or courageous appeals to me. It’s the sort of compliment I like more than if someone tells me my hair looks great or they like my shoes. I don’t want to let him down by appearing anything other than this strong version of me that he has in his mind, so I beam and say, ‘Of course you should go. I’ll be fine. I really am going to go to sleep now. If you decide you want a pint, just leave the car, get a taxi. You can pick it up in the morning.’ He doesn’t need my permission to do this, of course, but I want to look encouraging.
I swallow a couple more painkillers and then fall asleep almost straight away.
When I wake, the room feels swollen with a solid darkness that is only possible in the countryside, where there’s no light pollution. Matthew is not in bed. I assume he decided to sleep in the spare room, rather than risk waking me up when he came back from the pub. I automatically reach for my phone to check the time: 2 a.m. My head and ribs are pounding again. I count back the hours since I last took painkillers and decide I can allow myself the next dose, although strictly speaking I should wait. I see there’s a message from Matthew, sent at 11 p.m., saying his plans have changed. He has forgotten his keys, and rather than disturbing me, he has made friends with some of the locals at the pub and is joining them for a lock-in. He’ll see me in the morning, unless I text him to say otherwise. If you’re still up, I’ll come home. My guess is you’re in the land of zzzzz Don’t want to disturb you. He’s added a heart emoji and a sleeping face emoji and a pint glass emoji. No kisses.
I am too new to this wife-ing business to know what an appropriate response is. Honestly, I feel irritated that he’s left me alone tonight, but I can’t decide if that’s justified or not. I was asleep; is there any reason he should be here?
I answer my own question. Well yes, to monitor my concussion.
He’s sent me a snap of him with his arm round the publican, shiny brass beer taps in the foreground, colourful optics with spirits in the background. He looks flushed with booze, but happy, and I can’t help but smile back at his image. I won’t be the only one with a headache tomorrow. I shouldn’t feel jealous that he has struck up such fast and buoyant friendships with the locals. Since he moved in, he’s made an effort to be part of the community, something I’ve never really had time to do. He’s in a village WhatsApp group that I wasn’t even aware existed. He’s always texting someone or other, popping out to help programme a boiler, chop wood or pick up litter in public areas. He’s been welcomed by the locals in a way I never have. I’ve lived here seven years and never been invited to a cosy lock-in. Although, to be fair, the only time I ever visit the village pub is in the summer months, when Heidi and Gina and their clans come to stay. We go for long walks that occasionally end with a ploughman’s and a pint.
I lie back in bed. Frustrated, my mind whizzing, I can’t fall straight back to sleep. I probably shouldn’t have looked at my phone; everyone knows screens are detrimental to sleep. Woodview is extremely well built, so the windows don’t rattle when the wind blows. I can’t hear foxes baying or other nocturnal sounds that might spook me. However, I still feel unsettled. All houses have their own rhythms. Mine might not creak and groan, but it hums and buzzes, and even these familiar sounds – the fridge murmuring, the air filter clicking into action – keep me awake.
This time, it’s not the crash of things being smashed, but rather thumps, bangs. I hear them, and freeze. A frigid acceptance of another invasion. The thumps are repetitive and consistent. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Evenly spaced. Unhurried. A few seconds apart, deliberate, and all the more threatening for that. Each bang seems to swell around me, through me; I feel frightened and trapped. What should I do? What can I do? The noise closes in on me, sucks the air from me. Right here, next to my bed, is the panic button that will activate the alarm. All I have to do is reach out and press it to call for help.
But I don’t do that. I can’t. I am frozen.
