39
I run into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I don’t want Matthew following me in here. I don’t want to see him right now. He has never told me there is a rats’ nest. I would remember that. Who could forget a thing like that? Why did he call my friends instead of speaking to me if he’s worried about me? I turn off the taps, as the bath is almost full to the brim now. Hell, if the call had lasted any longer, it would have overflowed. I’d forgotten it was running. Another accident, another problem. Is it possible that I am losing my grip? I spot a wine glass by the basin. It’s almost empty. I don’t recall bringing wine upstairs with me. My God, what is wrong with me? I throw off my robe and step into the bath.
The pain is excruciating. Impossible. I want to scream and scream, but something stops me. Instinct protects me. I open my mouth wide, so wide I think my face will split in two, but I don’t let out a sound. My right leg has turned scarlet. I’m out of the bath in a second, but the scald is so intense that I can already see blisters forming on my shin. I go to the shower and run cold water, but the pain shimmies through me, the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall. That bathwater was near boiling. How is that possible? It can’t run from the tap at boiling point. It is not possible. I did not do this. I am not imagining this.
I concentrate on aiming cold water at my burnt flesh. I know that the first aid recommendation is to cool the burn under cold running water for at least twenty minutes, and that doing so will reduce pain, swelling and the risk of scarring, but with every minute that passes, I weigh up whether reducing potential scarring is a priority when I might very well be fighting for my life here. What the hell is happening? Fear and disbelief skitters down my spine. Which would be the least horrifying explanation? A vengeful spirit? An abusive husband? Or, as my eyes fall on the near-empty wine glass, I have to ask myself, am I drunk?
I curl my fingers into my palms. Clench and unclench my hands, count down from one hundred. Get to the end, count again. This act takes extraordinary self-control, extraordinary presence of mind and resilience. I want to run, I want out, but I need to let the water soothe me so I can move to the best of my ability. And I need my head to clear. What is happening here? The house is almost silent; there is no music drifting through the rooms, up the stairs. Not the cheerful Spanish salsas that Matthew favours, or the low-flow remixes that I like. There’s no TV or radio, not even the sound of food being prepped or pans clattering. Just the pattering of rain on the windows and the roof again.
I pat myself dry, then pull on baggy linen trousers and a jumper. I look around for a pair of trainers but can’t see any. Maybe it’s better to be barefoot as I sneak downstairs. Normal practice would be to cover the burn with cling film to help prevent infection, but I believe Matthew is in the kitchen and I want to avoid him. My leg is stinging with a ferocity that makes walking difficult, this on top of the pain in my ribs, but I have to get out of this house. I have to get away from here.
Carefully, silently, I edge down the stairs. The design of my open-plan house now strikes me as exposing, not cool or clever. An icy sense of anxiety spreads through me, inching slowly from the top of my skull, enveloping my face, where it seems to pull the moisture from my throat and mouth, making it difficult to swallow. It settles in my chest like a heavy weight. I can hardly breathe. I see Matthew at the dining room table. He’s not eating or drinking. He’s not reading. His laptop is open in front of him; I can’t see what is on the screen. Maybe he has been editing some photos, something ordinary and non-sinister. I don’t know, and I don’t know if I can even risk hoping for so much. He’s not striking any keys. He’s simply staring out into the night, his shoulders hunched, arched like a viaduct. He’s so still it almost seems as though he is in a daze or a trance. The black night is framed by the window, and I see my reflection as I inch down the stairs. If he moves his focus just a fraction, he will notice me too. I have to hope that whatever is whirling around his head holds his attention just a little longer.
‘Where are you going?’
I jump. His voice is cold and clear. The calmness horrifies me.
‘I’m just going for a drive.’
‘Don’t. You shouldn’t.’
I edge down another stair. My thoughts are pulled to the back door. I imagine reaching it, opening it. Then running.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ I try to keep my voice light.
‘You’ve been drinking.’ I haven’t. I don’t think I have. Have I? There was that glass. ‘Plus you’re injured.’ How does he know I’m burnt? I didn’t scream. ‘Your ribs must still be aching. Are you due another painkiller?’
‘I just need some air.’ I walk with as much faux confidence as I can muster towards the console table where I keep the car keys. I pretend I’m feeling breezy despite the pain I’m in as I open the drawer and pick them up.
Suddenly he is bounding towards me. ‘It’s too wet to drive!’ he shouts.
I am exhausted, depleted, but fury is a great cheerleader. I back myself. I am on my own; maybe I always have been, but that’s OK. Right now is not the time for self-pity. I bolt for the back door. I feel his fingers snatch at the ends of my hair, which trail behind me; a caress, or was he grasping? Would he have taken a fistful and yanked me to the floor? Would he have straddled me, stopped me from running? I wrench open the door with all the strength I possess. I feel his breath and threat through the door as I pull it closed behind me and dash towards the car. I am barefoot, so the jagged stones on the driveway dig into my feet, stabbing like needles.
It’s raining hard. I’m almost immediately drenched. The car is parked at a distance from the house, down the drive, where the charging station is. I’m pleased to see that Matthew lazily neglected to plug it in when we returned from the awkward Sunday lunch yesterday. I start to run towards it, as fast as I can manage with my injuries. My lungs burn with the effort. I’m a good runner, and good runners are used to pushing through pain. I am grateful for all the times I’ve got up in the morning and run in the dark, wet and cold. I hear Matthew’s footsteps behind me, heavy and firm; he must have paused to put on his shoes. I’m glad that slight delay has given me a brief advantage, but he’s quickly making up ground. Instinct takes control. I just have to act. To move. To save myself. I point the key fob towards the car, press hard, my fingertips turning white. It beeps, the lights winking a welcome. I fling open the door, throw myself inside. Matthew is right behind me. He yanks at the door handle. But it’s locked. He slams his hand on the window, on the car roof.
‘Get out of the car!’ he yells. ‘Get out of the fucking car.’
The lights on the dashboard flash. I press my foot hard on the accelerator and drive. He stumbles after the car, wide skirts of rainwater arching up from the wheels as I speed through puddles, soaking him. I urgently press the button on the fob that opens the gate. It rolls back slowly, but the time it takes allows him to reach it, and he stands in front of it. Guarding it. I keep driving at speed, heading for the road. At the last second, he jumps out of the way. My heart is beating so fast, I think it will burst out of my body. Would I have ploughed into him? I don’t know. I’m so scared. I just need to get away from here. From the danger, whatever it is.
My view is obscured. The world is nothing but a watery blur, the window is fogged under my breath. I scrunch my body close to the steering wheel and put my foot down heavily. I won’t look back. The windscreen wipers slip right and left, a constant motion, but they’re useless against the ferocity of the downpour. I can’t hear myself think as the rain pelts on the roof, bang, bang, bang, bang, endless, like a toddler with a drum. I know these narrow, serpent-like roads well, well enough to realise that I’m driving too fast. There are warning lights blinking on the dashboard in front of me. I should slow down. I daren’t. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles transparent, ghostly. The headlights slice into the slick darkness, but I’m going at such a speed that each pothole causes the car to bounce, the lights flickering into the wet trees, revealing only a sliver of the deluged road ahead.
Suddenly I see her. She just steps out of nowhere. She’s soaking and pale, her face as white as the moon. Translucent, ephemeral. I hit the brakes, press my foot hard against the floor of the car. I scream for her to get out of the way. To move. She doesn’t, and I glide towards her as though on ice. Time changes. It slows and swells, it speeds and concertinas. The impact throws me forward.
And then there is nothing.
40
Two days later
Matthew
‘Thank you for coming in to talk to us, Mr Charlton.’ He didn’t like the fake politeness. Why were they pretending he had much choice in the matter? He’d gone to the hospital to see Emma, and there was a policeman at the door to her room. He hadn’t been allowed to enter. He’d been advised to go to the station. They said if he didn’t go to the station, they would call in on him later that day to explain where inquiries were at. They were perfectly polite. Solicitous, even, aware that he was a devastated husband dealing with a very difficult situation.
Maybe.
Or maybe they thought something altogether different; they were holding their cards close to their chest.
He had thought of running. He could go back to Woodview, pick up anything of any value that he could carry and get the hell out of there. He was stung by the bitter memory that a simple robbery had been the first plan, way back when. So far from where they’d ended up. This thing was a mess. He could go to the train station, get to London, and from there, wherever. Liverpool, Newcastle, Glasgow. A big city where he could vanish. Or maybe a port. He could go abroad. Disappear. But Becky was the one who knew how to offload hot valuables; he didn’t know where to start. And hadn’t she said stolen stuff only ever fetched a fraction of its worth? That money wouldn’t last. Besides, he would look as guilty as hell if he ran, and then they would come after him. He didn’t have a car, obviously, since it was wrapped around a tree. He was using Emma’s Uber account, so they’d find out he had gone to the train station, and as soon as he used one of their credit cards, the police would track him. He couldn’t run. He shouldn’t. This was a fucking mess, yes. But he was her husband. There was nothing illegal about getting married. They couldn’t prove intention; they couldn’t prove he had done anything wrong. He just had to hold his nerve.
At the station, he was led into an interview room. It was exactly as he’d seen on television. Windowless, dank. The policewoman flicked on the overhead light even though it was daytime. He wondered if the room was specifically designed to be depressing. It was empty other than a table and four chairs. On the table was a hefty pile of files – that was intimidating – but there was no recording device, which was a relief. There were two police officers. A man in his mid-fifties who clearly ate and drank more than he should and as a result had a huge belly that hung over his belt. Matthew couldn’t imagine him running after a criminal, but he could imagine him sitting on one. The other officer was an Indian woman in her early twenties. She had a gap between her teeth and wore her hair up in a greasy ponytail. She looked very young and he felt very old. They offered him a cup of tea, but he declined. He just wanted them to say what it was they had to say. Whatever it was, it was better to get on with it.
The female officer placed a picture of Susan, Becky’s mother, on the table between them. ‘Do you recognise this woman?’ Her tone was firm. It surprised Matthew that she was leading the conversation. He assumed this slight disruption to the stereotype was part of their routine. They didn’t want to be predictable.
He wondered what he should say. He ran through the facts in his head. Susan was his fiancée’s mother. No, that wasn’t right. He was married; he couldn’t have a fiancée as well as a wife. Obviously. He realised that, but his head was clouded with panic. He didn’t know how to reply. What would Becky tell him to say if she was here? He had known Susan for sixteen years, although it wasn’t a consistent relationship. She’d tended to drift in and out of Becky’s life, absent for months, sometimes years. The last few years she’d been a fixture. Something Becky was happy about; Matthew less so.
He tried to buy time by fingering the edge of the photo, peering carefully, as though really giving it his full attention. He more or less lived with Susan; she was practically family, albeit difficult, troubling, awful family. He concentrated on the fiction they had constructed. In that world, he knew this woman vaguely, barely. That was the world he had to stay in. ‘Yes, I know her. She was Emma’s cleaner until a few months ago. Then we had to let her go.’
‘Right. According to the cleaning agency, the Mop Mob’ – the policewoman paused to check her notes, and smiled whimsically, even though it couldn’t be the first time she had heard the name of the company – ‘Susan Morden and a second cleaner, Shyla Mahar, were both asked to leave their jobs rather suddenly after several years working for your wife. Can you explain that?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘I took over the cleaning. Tried to make myself useful.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘More?’
‘We’ve talked to Shyla Mahar.’
‘Right.’ He wondered what Shyla might have said. She’d been upset when they let her go. Felt accused, and mentioned her colour. It was nothing to do with her colour; it was nothing to do with her. Her being fired was just part of the plan. It had been awkward, though. He didn’t want to get into that. Better there was no talk of unpleasantness.
