God, I was stupid. Stupid and naïve. I sink down onto the floor, my limbs liquid, my innards twisting and aching with regret. I don’t have the strength for this. I really don’t.
I have no idea what time it is when I finally drag myself back up. The light around me is fading, dark clouds scudding across the sky, their bellies engorged with rain. Small splashes hit the window as I rise and lean against the sill, my arms outstretched, my head still heavy with sleep.
The droplets increase, growing in size and rapidity, turning into a downpour within seconds. Water runs across the road, bubbling down the gutters in a swirling eddy. The wind picks up, battering the window. The noise and intensity of it forces me to step away.
In the kitchen, I open a packet of painkillers and take two, swallowing them down with water. I can’t decide whether to pursue this issue with Warren and the letters, delving further into his life, the life I thought I knew, or to leave things as they are. Why torture myself any further? Images of him wrapped in the arms of another woman, smiling and stroking her hair tenderly, gouge at me, scooping out large portions of who I am, leaving me empty.
I need to bring myself round, drag myself out this low mood. Carrie is calling here later. I have to be prepared, put on a brave face. Be who she expects me to be, not a browbeaten wreck of a woman whose world is continuing to fall apart months after the premature death of her husband.
After a quick tidy up of the downstairs, I head up for a bath. I am grimy after lying on the floor for so long, my hair smelling of dust and a petrichor type of odour that I cannot seem to shake.
The water is hot and I emerge refreshed, my skin squeaky clean, my mind still clogged up with my recent find. A chat with Carrie is what I need to clear it all away – all the seediness and misery that is doing its damnedest to engulf me and drag me away.
I put on some make-up, wincing at my reflection. Pale, wan, lined. A middle-aged woman with sad eyes and a downturned mouth. A deep groove between my eyes makes me look as if I have a permanent frown, like a disapproving Victorian school ma’am.
I used to enjoy wearing make-up, painting my nails, preening myself until I glowed. What happened to that positive-minded creature? Where did she go? Buried, I suspect, amidst the years of worry and anxiety along with a healthy helping of apprehension at what the future holds. A future without Warren. A future with no Simon, his body still out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Maybe what I see before me is what drove my husband away.
My stomach rumbles, a loud, insistent growl. I can’t remember when I last ate anything. Breakfast perhaps. A slice of toast and a swig of coffee. Is it any wonder I look so washed out and am constantly lacking in energy? Warren was a good cook, always making sure we ate healthily. The thought of him, even the sound of his name as it rolls around my head, forces my stomach into a tight knot, the memory of earlier, that note, those words, continuing to bash into me, knocking me off balance.
I want to get on with things, get on with my life, my writing, settling into this house. I want to get into a routine, forge out a new path for myself. How can I do that when I have this hanging over me? How am I supposed to pretend it never happened and get up every day with a smile on my face? It doesn’t feel possible. It was difficult before, dealing with Warren’s death, my recent bouts of sleepwalking. Now it is intolerable. Beyond my capabilities. And yet, I have to cope. What are the options – curling into a ball and turning my back on everyone and everything? I have a life to live. There is a world out there I need to face, people I need to see, writing deadlines to meet.
And meet them I will. I will make sure of it. I’ve endured plenty in my life. A little more hurt isn’t going to squash me. I won’t let it.
12
Her smiling face is the tonic I need. Carrie pours us both a glass of wine and we relax on the sofa in the living room, the rain still lashing at the windows, small, liquid bullets hammering against the glass.
‘I daren’t drink too much,’ she says mournfully, ‘I’m driving back up to Edinburgh tomorrow morning.’
‘Just a couple each,’ I reply, my worries beginning to melt away in her presence. Having another person around is enough to take my mind off everything. My insular existence is a double-edged sword, allowing me time and space to write whilst also allowing my mind to ponder over worries that are often best left untouched. It’s a less attractive trait of mine, treading over old ground until the furrow is a yawning abyss.
‘Oh,’ Carrie says suddenly, rummaging in her bag. ‘I almost forgot. Dad says you might want to take a look at this.’
She hands me a small memory card, placing it on my upturned palm. I glance at her quizzically.
‘He said it’s from the wildlife camera in his back garden.’ Her face flushes. She blinks and bats away a rogue eyelash, squinting and looking away. We both avoid the inevitable conversation, the reason she handed it over. That night. All that blood.
‘Ah, okay. Tell him thank you. I’ll take a look at it for sure.’ Part of me wants to put it into my computer immediately and part of me is so full of dread at what I might find that I am overcome with a bout of dizziness. Would Mr Waters really hand me footage of me doing something dreadful to an innocent animal? I cannot believe he would ever do such a thing.
‘He said you were probably worried so he wanted to put your mind at rest.’ Carrie zips up her bag, her manner brightening.
I sigh, a softness taking hold deep in my abdomen. Good old Mr Waters. And good old Carrie. I slip the memory card into my pocket, take a sip of wine, rest my head back against the cushion. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember how to relax, to feel normal and just be me, not Grace the grieving wife, not Grace the distant mother and isolated author working alone day after day, and not Grace the younger sister who needs to be kept in her place with sharp words and tight, unforgiving glances. I am going to have to learn how to just be me, to be comfortable in my own skin, not a jagged version of myself, all angular and ill fitting, limbs and bones protruding from stretched and badly fitting flesh slung around my frame.
We chat about anything and everything, promising to stay in touch as the evening draws to a close. Everything feels so easy with Carrie, so effortless and comfortable.
I find myself wishing it was this way with Kim. It is as if the age gap between us makes it more difficult for us to bond. Or perhaps it’s because she refuses to get drawn into conversations about our past. There are always shadows there with Kim, things we cannot speak about. I often wonder if she is simply too fragile to open up about what happened, that her tough veneer is simply a mask concealing a frightened woman who finds it all too traumatic to confront.
We head into the hallway, our footsteps in sync with each other, our chatter drawing to a natural close.
‘I’m hoping to visit Dad more often so hopefully we’ll see a lot more of each other.’ Carrie leans forward and gives me a hug, her breath misting into a tiny sphere as we stand on the doorstep.
‘I’d like that. I really would.’ Something moves inside me, a spark of hope exploding in my belly, giving me a warm glow.
‘And anytime you feel like getting away from it all, you are more than welcome to come and visit us up in Scotland.’
We exchange numbers and she heads back into her Dad’s cottage, giving me a brief wave before disappearing completely.
There is an unfamiliar lightness in my step as I close the door and lock it. Even Warren’s philandering doesn’t drag me down. Having a new friend has filled a gap in my life, renewed my sense of purpose.
I make a coffee, biding my time and preparing myself mentally before I view Mr Waters’ footage on my laptop. I pull up a chair, flop down into it, my knuckles white as they grip the base of the cup. The boom of the clock in the background is an eerie echo as I sit, waiting for the computer to switch itself on, the black screen flickering to life.
It loads up. A picture fills the screen. It’s a dark setting but I can see Mr Waters’ back garden and a section of my lawn. I wait for two or three minutes, a thrumming sensation building in my temple and am just about to fast forward it when I see a sudden movement at the bottom end of my garden. Two small creatures scuffling, their shadowy outlines prominent against the pale grey of the grass that is silvered by the moonlight. A sudden jerking movement then a parting of the outlines as one of the shadows scurries away, disappearing into the shrubbery. The mound on the grass is still. No movement.
Another minute or so passes before I see it. I swallow, rub at my eyes, nerves tingling under my flesh, fluttering in my belly, exploding in my head. It’s me, my outline, walking towards the amorphous lump laid on the lawn. All around me is still. A slight swaying of the trees but nothing else. I watch myself bend down and suppress a shriek as I pick it up, the limp body of the dead fox. I stand cradling it, rocking it like a baby, holding it close to me before sitting down and placing it on my lap. My head is rested against its body, my legs forming a shelf on which I lay it. On and on it goes, the same motion of rocking and cradling, cuddling and attempting to soothe a dead, bloodied animal.
I have no idea whether to be relieved or horrified. What in God’s name did Mr Waters think when he watched this? Shame and revulsion pulse through me.
And yet I am also immensely relieved. I didn’t kill it. I definitely did not kill that fox. As Mr Waters suggested, it was another animal, possibly a badger or maybe another fox. I couldn’t quite make it out in the darkness but what I do know is that it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. Why I decided to pick it up and curl it around my body will always be a mystery but at least I can rest easy knowing I am not the one who brought that poor animal’s life to an end.
I pull out the memory card, having seen enough, with a promise to myself that I will go and see Mr Waters tomorrow after Carrie has left. I will thank him whilst also trying to explain why I was there in the garden in the early hours of the morning. He must think me unbalanced and that troubles me. I want to reassure him that I haven’t taken leave of my senses and am not going down the same route as my mother. Having that conversation is important to me. My deep-rooted fear of developing dementia has bothered me a great deal since Mum took ill.
I am constantly having to prove to myself that my mind is as alert as ever. That’s why the bouts of sleepwalking have caused me so much anxiety. Being out of control frightens me. It makes me feel vulnerable and exposed, like a small child left alone, frightened and dazed. Unable to cope.
The room is plunged into darkness as I flick off the lights and head upstairs, ready for my bed. I pray I stay put as I slip in between the sheets. On impulse, I get back up, pull on my dressing gown and head back downstairs. I check both the front and back door are locked, slide the bolts across and place the keys up on a shelf in the kitchen, covering them with a heavy, precariously placed vase. If I manage to move that in my sleep, it will surely slip and fall, waking me with a start. This is what I need to do to guard myself from my night-time wanderings. Nobody else is going to do it for me. I am the only person who can protect me from me.
I climb back into bed, tiredness washing over me, the wine, the conversation, Carrie’s kind face and words taking me off to a place of warmth and safety where nothing and nobody matters.
