‘Like, fell on top of her?’ I queried.
‘No, because it was then put back up against the wall.’
‘Oh.’
‘She certainly thinks she’s losing her mind now.’
I paused, gauging how far to go. ‘Well, that’s a good thing. That’s what we wanted,’ I reminded him gently.
‘You should see the state of her.’ He looked shaken and furious at once. His words came out in a snarl, a tiny spray of spittle landing on my cheek. I went to the bar and ordered him a pint and a glass of wine for me, bought some crisps too, as I thought about what to say next. My mother went to prison for killing my father. It’s not just possible she’s responsible for this, it’s probable. I’d go as far as to say a certainty. Mattie wasn’t aware of all the circumstances of my father’s death, not exactly. I certainly did not think this was the moment to enlighten him.
We found a table in the corner of the pub, as far away from the happy-go-lucky clientele as possible. He took a long draught of his beer, downed almost a third. When he put his glass back on the table, he jumped out of his skin; we both did, because my mother was looming over us. She’s not a big woman, shorter than average, in fact, but we were sitting down and so she seemed overwhelming.
‘Everything OK?’ she asked.
‘You know it’s not, Susan,’ snapped Mattie. ‘You pushed her off the ladder and then threw it on top of her. You could have killed her.’
My mum smiled slowly. Honestly, it made my blood turn sluggish. ‘Not dead, then,’ she muttered.
‘You didn’t push her off the ladder, did you?’ I said, hurriedly interrupting before she could do anything stupid like outright admit it. Mattie snorted with impatience.
My mother shrugged, and they stared at one another, seeing who would blink first, literally or metaphorically. The noise of the pub bounced around us: chatter, laughter, chairs being scraped, some inane pop music from the nineties that I recognised but never liked. So much noise, but we seemed to be stuck in a silent void. ‘What was she doing up a ladder anyway?’ I asked.
‘Cleaning the gutters,’ Mattie replied.
‘Why? She could pay someone to do that. Maybe she is a bit mad.’ It was a weak joke, but I was trying to break the tension.
‘Not everyone wants to pay people to do things for them. Some people get a sense of satisfaction by doing things for themselves.’
‘They do indeed,’ said Mum. Her tone was dark, ominous. Mattie and I shared a look. Neither of us wanted to think there was a deeper meaning behind her words. What was she prepared to do? What else?
‘I don’t want her dead. We’re going to have her committed. That’s the plan. You’ve gone too far,’ said Mattie.
Mum hissed her response. I had to lean in to hear it. ‘It’s not me who’s gone too far, it’s you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mattie asked. He looked flustered.
I eyed them both, unsure as to exactly what was going down. Something was, though. I had a strange feeling that if I stuck out my tongue, I would be able to taste the tension in the air. It would be metallic, like blood.
‘Just don’t get too cosy with her. I won’t tolerate that,’ warned my mother. Then she abruptly said she was going back up to the flat to watch television and left. I watched her cut through the crowd. She didn’t head upstairs; she headed straight out the pub door. I didn’t point out as much to Mattie; he’d just panic. To me, it made sense. Emma was alone in her house; it was the perfect time to pay her a visit.
‘Fuck. You’re all mad, I don’t know who to trust,’ muttered Mattie. He laid his head on the pub table and banged it. Not hard, but enough to draw attention. I smiled at everyone who looked our way as though I thought my boyfriend was a really funny man.
‘Sit up, pull yourself together,’ I instructed. ‘Look, Mum might have done us a favour here. You should call her friends. Tell them you’re concerned about her.’ I stared at him, waiting for him to pull out his phone.
‘What, now?’
‘Yes. Make out you’re really worried. That you think she’s in danger.’
‘I am,’ he muttered darkly. ‘I think she is.’
I ignored him, and added, ‘Maybe mention you think she had a drink earlier when she was on her own.’
‘I just want to get pissed,’ he said wearily. It was ironic that his reaction to this stressful situation was to want to drink heavily, the very thing he was going to accuse Emma of – an over-reliance on alcohol, leading to unreliability.
‘Go outside, make the calls, I’ll get more drinks in.’
37
She’s lost it.
That was the plan.
She thinks you’re haunting her.
What?!!! That’s perfect. Batshit crazy is better than alcoholic.
Can’t talk now. She’s right next to me. See you tomorrow.
I’ve been rereading these words all day. They look different now that there’s a big crack across my screen. Sort of traumatised, shadowy, not quite real. He said See you tomorrow, but he hasn’t sent another text since to tell me when he’s free. I might have to suggest they get a dog, one that needs to be taken on long walks, then he’ll have a convenient excuse to get out the house. She must watch him like a hawk. Jealously guarding his every move. I thought she was more independent than that. I’d thought he was. Surely he could find an excuse to get out to meet me. He could say they needed a pint of milk, or that he was going to the tip. He could at least walk into a different room and send a text, for fuck’s sake. His silence bothers me, and I can’t settle to anything, not food, a book or TV. I pace around the small flat, wearing out the floorboards. Wearing out myself, actually. I tell myself it’s excitement that our plan is coming together, but as the day draws on and I hear nothing more from him, it feels more like agitation.
By 6 p.m. on Monday, I give in. His lack of response to my texts means I have no choice other than to go around there. I don’t tell him I’m coming. I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Mum’s bedroom door is closed; it has been all afternoon. She’s most likely napping. She might be awake, though. Sometimes she hides away in her room. Her time in prison has led to her valuing alone time. Some days, if she hangs out in the pub for too long, she gets overstimulated, overwhelmed by the constant noise and crowds of people around her. It can make her jumpy. In case she is awake, I slip out carefully, silently. I decide to walk. If I take Mum’s car, she’ll want to know where I’m going, and I think it’s best she stays at home today. Whatever she has been up to at Emma’s recently has been effective, obviously, but maybe she’s done enough for a while.
Being outside in the fresh air feels good. I’m used to walking backwards and forwards between the Fox and Crown and Woodview now. I always take the overgrown path that runs alongside the well-trodden public right of way, as it’s masked by trees and bushes and I’m less likely to be seen by passers-by or anyone who might be looking out of their bedroom window. The route requires a level of attention and dexterity because it is narrow in parts and brambles are trip hazards at various points. Normally I’m careful and nimble. Today I’m in a hurry and don’t take as much care. Brambles tear at my jeans and scratch my arms. I rub impatiently at the thin bloody lines and stride on. At one point I disturb a fox and her two cubs. They spring across my path. The mother stops and stares at me. Her eyes flash as though communicating a warning, or even a threat. I suddenly think of the look my mother threw at Mattie on Saturday night. What did she mean when she said he’d gone too far? I stand still to show the mother fox I have no intention of hurting her young. She slinks away.
I stay in the woods and watch the house. Waiting for the day to flatten into dusk. I need the dark and the shadows. It’s been raining again. The ground is muddy and dank. I’m so stealthy now that birds barely stir when I crouch under the trees. They used to panic and scatter, but no longer. All the lights are on, as usual. She’d justify that by saying her energy is green, I suppose. You have to be rich to install solar panels in the first place, though, don’t you? I think of the Old Schoolhouse and the electricity we get because I paid a dodgy electrician to tap into someone else’s supply. It’s a fire hazard, but it’s free. I think of being at my mum’s and her constantly barking, ‘Turn off the bloody lights, am I made of money?’
Woodview looks like a doll’s house with one side lopped off to allow easy access. I’ve often thought that the design is conceited. Emma Westly is obviously brazen about being exposed. Confident that she has nothing to hide. No secrets. No shame. I can read the house – them – well by now. I know their domestic rhythms. At around this time she is likely to be in her home office, while he is in the kitchen preparing dinner. When he calls her to the table, he pours her a glass of wine, and they clink glasses, eyes meeting. They don’t watch TV while they eat. They talk. Laugh. It’s nauseating.
