‘What is it?’ I ask, although I must know already because when he tells me there is no surprise, only a twisting, aching kind of thrill.
‘A gun.’
I stare at the briefcase, at the barrel projecting from its interior. ‘I can’t do that,’ I manage to say after a moment or two. ‘I don’t have a licence for a gun; it would be illegal. If somebody found it, I would lose my job, maybe even go to prison—’
Marks interrupts me. ‘It’s a replica, Claire. A good one, but only a dummy. It’s not against the law to own one of these.’
We stand in silence for a second. His attention flicks around the sightless walls before settling back on me.
‘Why do you want me to have it?’ I still can’t drag my eyes away from the open flap of the briefcase.
‘You’re clearly worried about those men returning, and to be honest I don’t think either of them will give up on me easily. If they do come back you can wave this at them.’
‘I don’t know how to fire a gun.’
‘You won't have to fire it. You won’t have to do anything other than show them you’ve got it. If they see you with it they’ll know you mean business. I doubt they’d ever bother you again.’
‘But—’
‘Claire,’ stepping very close Mark cups my chin in his left hand and impales me with his eyes, ‘it’s not just you I’m thinking of. The sooner they give up on you the sooner they’ll forget about me as well. The only link to me that they have is the house.’
I am within breathing distance of the shapes and planes of his face, the indefinable likeness to Daniel that makes him so entirely irresistible. It dimly occurs to me that neither the white-haired man nor the chubby guy has actually bothered me since they first came to the house, yet all I can think of is how badly I want Mark to kiss me.
‘Where shall I keep it?’ I don’t say the word gun.
‘In the wooden chest, the one I gave you with the mirror. You still have it don’t you?’
I nod.
‘Good. The key is in the bag.’
I remember my futile earlier attempts to open the box, the rattle of the metal lock as I jerked the lid in frustration.
‘Of course,’ he continues, ‘you mustn’t leave the key where somebody could see it.’
‘So where…?’
‘Beneath the mirror. Attach it to the underside of the frame. OK?’
I don’t reply.
‘Is that all right, Claire?’ Mark prompts after my silence has hovered in the afternoon air a fraction too long. When I still don’t say anything, when I don’t protest, he eases the black strap free of his shoulder and steps forward to place it over my neck as if presenting me with a victory medal or a garland of flowers.
‘What about the security at my work? They scan every bag going into a government building.’
‘You’re not going back to work, are you? It’s too late now.’ He doesn’t add that I’m in no fit state to sit at a desk and assess somebody’s right to a future. I watch as he takes his wallet from an inside jacket pocket and peels off four twenties. ‘Get a cab. Go straight home and sort this out before your boyfriend gets back.’
I stuff the notes into my purse, my movements made awkward by the fiddle of two straps, two bags: my handbag holding my purse, my Oyster card, my make-up pouch and the finer points of Finger Buffet: Option A. And the other containing the gun. The briefcase is heavier than I anticipated but the way its weight hangs against my chest is oddly reassuring, empowering even.
‘When will I see you again?’ I ask; perhaps the most pathetic question in the whole of human history.
‘Soon,’ he says. ‘I have to go away again for a few days, but it won’t be long. I’ll get in touch next week, I promise.’
‘I don’t even have a number for you.’
He smiles at me. ‘Yes, you do, I rang you this morning. And I also phoned you about the mirror, remember? Before you moved into the house. My number must be on your mobile twice now.’
I think back to the conversation in the female toilets at work, and it seems such a long time ago. I can’t believe I had forgotten about that call, and its ability to trace me to Mark, but in some ways I’m pleased about the memory lapse, I don’t think I would have been able to resist the lure of those eleven digits. I would have made a greater fool of myself than I have done already.
‘Look’ – Mark is reaching into his inside jacket pocket – ‘I’ll even give you my number again, in case you can’t find it for some reason.’ He takes out a pen and scribbles on the back of an old receipt, using the palm of his left hand for support. As I put the scrap of paper in my coat pocket, I see the ink is a bright, navy blue and the zero is scored with a diagonal line: the handwriting of a true showman.
He turns towards the passageway where we came in. ‘Shall we go?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m going to stay here for a little while.’ Partly I want to get my head straight, sober up a little: adjust to what has happened in the last few minutes. Partly I want the kind of parting he might not want to provide in public.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Say goodbye here.’ I tilt back my face, and after a second he obliges, kissing me long and deep and hard, as though we are long-term lovers, Bermondsey’s answer to Bonnie and Clyde. I want to ask if I will see him next week, however he is leaving already, walking quickly towards the narrow alleyway without looking back.
I decide to wait ten minutes to avoid running into Mark in the street and appear as though I’m chasing after him. Alone, I pace for a while beside the railings. Beyond them the surly river flows on but the surrounding windowless walls feel as attentive as a stand of spectators. Eventually, I come to a halt, unzip the bag and slip my right palm inside. My fingers make contact with the casing, tentative at first, barely daring to touch it, then slowly they enclose the sleek curve of the handle.
Somewhere across the water a hooter sounds, a ship, probably, blasting notice of imminent arrival or departure. It is enough to make me jump, to whip my hand from the briefcase and look around with horror. Nobody is here, of course, in this forgotten pocket of impropriety. I shiver once – an uncontrollable, violent shudder – then consult my watch, to see if the requisite ten minutes have passed, before I head for the street.
Chapter Ten
Five years earlier
‘Why don’t you contact the police?’
‘The police?’ Daniel sounds horrified, as if I’ve suggested hiring a hitman. ‘She’s not a criminal.’
‘The amount she calls you, the number of texts and messages, I think it amounts to harassment. That is a crime.’
We are both in his college bedsit, the light is draining from the day but so far neither of us has bothered to get up from the floor and resort to electricity, so the room has the appearance of a black-and-white photograph; an arty take on Cambridge university life: the view of spires and rooftops through the mullioned window, the jumbled duvet, the surplus of books and wine glasses, and two real, stressed-out students.
Daniel sighs, leans back against the bedframe and shuts his eyes. It makes me impatient, this attitude of his, which seems to fluctuate between laziness and something I can’t quite put my finger on. Whatever it is, he seems to be willing to bury his head in the sand and wait for the storm to pass. I wonder if perhaps he is secretly enjoying the situation, the thrill of being an object of obsession, the focus of a mania that places him incontrovertibly and irreplaceably in the centre of our universe. Perhaps it is more than that. Maybe he is keeping his options open, ready to ditch me as quickly as he dumped her.
I tell myself I am being unfair, that the situation is more stressful for him than it is for me. After all, I can tell he has lost weight and occasionally I glimpse lines etching into the skin around his eyes and mouth, a preview of the man he will be in fifteen years’ time. Still, I can't shake the sense I should be cautious, the belief that I am the one balanced on the tightrope, with the fall in
to blackness beneath.
I touch the toe of his outstretched trainer. The littered remnants of an impromptu meal surround us: coffee cups, plates dirty with toast crumbs, a tub of butter with a knife balanced across the middle and a large jar of Marmite pasted with the thought-provoking slogan, ‘Love it or Hate it’.
There is a ping as Daniel’s phone takes delivery of another message. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ He lifts his head with undisguised weariness and reaches for his mobile. There is no urgency in his actions any more. We are beyond that. I wait for the explosion, the bitter retort, but this time his mouth twists into a relieved, sardonic smile. ‘It’s Ned,’ he says, referring to a friend of his. ‘He’s asking if we want to meet in the bar later.’
I shrug. ‘Do you want to?’
‘Not really.’ Then he adds as though we have been following the previous thread of conversation without a break, ‘I can’t go to the police.’ He picks up the mug of coffee by his thigh, although I can see from where I’m sitting that it’s stone cold and the milk has retracted into a fatty, leaf-shaped puddle.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not like she’s a stranger. She’s my ex-girlfriend and I ought to be able to sort it out myself. I know who she is, what kind of person. She might be a bit of a nutcase, but she’s not dangerous. I can deal with her. It’s just fucking irritating, that’s all.’
I let his words sit for a moment and expand within the sepia tones of the room. It’s more than fucking irritating and I want her out of our lives.
Eventually I ask, ‘How many texts today?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t counted.’
‘Roughly.’
‘A dozen. Maybe fifteen.’
This isn’t as bad as I was expecting, but his gaze dips into his coffee and I can tell it’s not the whole story.
‘What about yesterday?’
‘Day or night?’
‘For God’s sake! Either. Both. How many texts did she send yesterday?’
He looks up. His eyes are closed. ‘Two hundred and fifty-eight.’
‘What? Two hundred—’
‘… and fifty-eight. Yup.’
The image of her hunched fanatically, permanently, over a screen, stops me in my tracks and the arrival of a still, shocked silence makes me want to turn on a lamp or light a candle to give chase to the shadows.
‘Daniel, you really should go to the police—’
He cuts across me. ‘She says she’ll wait. That’s the latest thing.’ His tone is conversational yet its very normality somehow adds to the sense of disquiet.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘In these recent texts she says she realises I didn’t appreciate what I was doing when we split up, that the stress of exams obviously made me irrational and unpredictable. She understands it’s just a matter of time until I recognise my mistake and she wants me to know that she’ll wait. And that she’ll forgive me.’
‘She’s crazy.’ I don’t sound as adamant as I would like and I try again. ‘She’s really crazy.’ After a pause I add, before I can help myself, my words tentative and badly lacking in humour, ‘I guess if she keeps it up long enough she’ll eventually get what she wants. Maybe you will go back to her?’
‘Of course I won’t go back to her!’ Daniel slams his cup down and glares at me. ‘For God’s sake, babe! We’ve both just agreed she’s behaving like a fucking lunatic.’ His eyes jump, suddenly, to the door. ‘What was that?’
‘What?’
‘I thought I heard something outside.’
We both freeze. I even hold my breath, ears straining to catch the slightest noise, but there is nothing, only a backdrop of traffic, the muted thud of a road drill, a distant car alarm; the constant soundtrack we block out from habit until we need to stop and really listen.
After a second, Daniel lets go of his cold coffee and says, ‘I’m going for a shower.’ His statement is one of practical intent, made without any hint of invitation. He is still dressed in cycling shorts and a red Lycra T-shirt that has sweat stains under the arms and across the top of his back.
His bike is a new passion. Most days he heads out for at least an hour, although recently I’ve noticed his rides have been getting even longer. When, a week or so ago, I asked him where he went he merely shrugged. ‘Nowhere. Anywhere. At least when I’m moving I can’t hear my phone all the fucking time.’ Yesterday, I was browsing the shops on the edge of town when a figure shot by, head down, knees pumping against the easterly breeze. It took me a second to realise who it was before I found myself shouting rather uselessly at his retreating back. He hadn’t seen me of course. I don’t think he could see anyone at the speed he was travelling.
As he walks past me now I catch hold of his calf. ‘Don’t leave.’
He looks perplexed. ‘I’m only going to the bathroom.’
‘I realise that.’ My grip tightens around the muscle of his calf. I don’t know how to say what I want to say. That these calls, these texts are like an unchecked tumour; that I’m scared the poison will spread through the roots of our relationship and upwards to engulf every green shoot, every last bud. That it will extinguish us completely.
He extracts his leg from my grip, touches the top of my head. ‘It’ll be all right, babe. I’ll sort it out.’
When I hear the shower start I move onto the bed and lie down. He stays under the spray a long time and the steady hiss of the indoor rain becomes wadding that muffles and dampens my thoughts. I must have dozed off because I’m aware of waking suddenly, as if someone has shaken my arm or yelled in my ear. The first thing I notice is the silence, louder and more acute than the monotony of the water. The next is the smell. Acrid. Smokey. Something, somewhere is burning.
‘Daniel?’ I yell for him as I sit up. The room is empty but it appears completely normal, there are no flames licking the curtains, no peeling of paint on the walls, no threat of heat on my skin. ‘Daniel?’
He comes out of the small adjoining bathroom with a towel around his waist. ‘What is it?’
‘Can you smell anything?’
He stares at me. ‘Can I… what?’
Although I swing my legs over the bed, my eyes are darting feverishly around the room. ‘There’s a fire. I can smell burning. Can’t you?’
He opens his mouth, eyes wide with incredulity, and then his expression abruptly changes. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ He points to the door that leads to the staircase, where thin, grey tendrils are curling beneath the wooden panelling. ‘Jesus! It must be on the landing!’
We both stare transfixed at the trails of vapour. My pulse is hammering in my throat. ‘How many floors up are we?’ I ought to know, I’ve been here often enough but the connections in my brain won’t work, fragments of memory are retrieved and immediately forgotten.
‘Three,’ Daniel replies.
I go to the window. There is nothing below but sheer brick leading to a concrete surface lined with bike stands.
‘I’m going to open the door.’
‘No, don’t do that!’ I shout. I can’t help myself. ‘You’ll let the fire in! We should get damp towels from the bathroom and roll them up to block the gap under the door.’ I start towards the bathroom, but Daniel blocks my way.
‘Wait—’
‘Why?’
‘Listen, babe, listen.’
‘What do you mean?’ The only sound I can hear is blood throbbing in my ears. ‘I can’t hear anything.’
‘Exactly.’ He takes hold of both my wrists and makes me meet his gaze. ‘Exactly. If it was a big fire there would be lots of noise, right? Flames and people shouting?’ He sounds like he’s talking to a child.
‘I guess…’
‘So it must be a small fire, right?’
I nod slowly.
‘So I’m going to open the door.’
I don’t say anything, but when he lets go of my wrists and turns away I make no attempt to stop him.
‘Christ!’ he says, as t
he door appears to open to nothing, no blaze of red and orange or fume-clogged stairwell.
I come up beside him. Lying behind the door are what appear to be the remains of a soft knitted garment, a cardigan or a jumper perhaps, although it is barely recognisable since a large section of the wool is blackened and charred while the rest is burning with a bright, carroty glow. Although the flames are modest there are scorch marks on the back of the door where they have begun to experiment with the paintwork.
It takes me a split second to process what I’m looking at, then I rush to the bathroom, grab a bath towel off the floor and stuff it in the washbasin to make it as wet as I can. When I return Daniel hasn’t moved from the doorway, he is still staring at the sorry inferno with a blank expression.
‘Take this.’ I pass him a corner of the sodden towel and together we drop it over the blaze, which capitulates with a final burst of black smoke.
I lean against Daniel, light-headed with relief. ‘What the fuck?’
He doesn’t reply. Instead, after a moment, he lifts the edge of the ruined towel with his foot. Stretching towards us are the remnants of a pale blue mohair sleeve, the stitched cuff still visible, the arm bending in a beckoning gesture, like an invitation or even a summons. As we both gaze, speechless, at the wool, I remember the last time I saw it – flecked with vomit, pressed against Daniel’s door – and I am saturated with a cold, dreadful unease.
‘You need to talk to her.’ My voice is alien with fear. ‘She needs to understand how serious this is. And then you need to go to the police.’
Chapter Eleven
Now
On my way home in the taxi I position the bag on my lap rather than risk it lurching around the floor of the cab. Although Mark said the gun was a fake I realise I have no exact idea what this means, whether it shoots blanks or doesn’t shoot bullets at all. How authentic is a dummy gun anyway? Would it be obvious to a casual observer, Angus say, if he were to stumble across it, that the gun isn’t actually the bona fide genuine article? Not that the presence of a fake firearm in the bosom of our marital home would be a great deal easier to explain than a real one.
The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 10