As I cuddle the leather close to my chest, curiosity drags on my fingers akin to the pull of a Tolkien ring. The possibility of easing back the zip, of reaching inside, is like holding an invitation to a wildly inappropriate party, a car crash in waiting that you know is bad news but are powerless to resist. With an immense effort, I fix my gaze on the ordinary day outside the window – shops, pedestrians, the occasional leaf-bereft tree – resolving to hide the gun as soon as I get home and forget about it completely, unless the guy with the white ponytail and his mate really do make an unscheduled appearance.
* * *
Angus and I have placed the Victorian chest beside one arm of the sofa to provide a surface for wine glasses or, assuming one day we actually have a social life, bowls of upmarket crisps and those odd little Japanese crackers. The key is small and tarnished and slots snugly into the lock. As the lid swings upwards I wonder if the box might conceal some other Mark-related memorabilia, but the interior is disappointingly bare and smells only of sap and dust and the camphor-like prick of mothballs. Carefully, I extract the gun from the briefcase and lay it inside. Considering the weapon, stark and black against the yellow of the timber, it occurs to me that if someone were to kick the trunk, knock against the wood, perhaps with a shoe, the impact would betray the fact that the interior is not as empty as Angus believes.
After a moment’s thought I go upstairs. It takes me a while to locate what I am looking for but eventually I find the object of my search, a blanket, an item Angus has never seen and will never miss, folded tenderly inside an old suitcase. Returning to the chest, I squat down, and retrieve the gun as gently as if I am lifting an infant out of its crib before swaddling the weapon within folds of white wool. I begin to squish the bundle back inside the box, however, very soon my hands fall still. For a second or two I stare, undecided, at the package, and then I unravel the blanket again.
The casing appears to be made out of some kind of plastic with ‘Glock 17 Gen 5 AUSTRIA 9 x 19’ stamped at intervals along the barrel. At first glance it looks pretty real, but I reason there isn’t much point in making a replica that can’t act the part, not unless all you want to do is play cops and robbers in the playground. Straightening up I curl my right hand around the grip and raise the gun to shoulder height. It’s a nice weight, not too heavy; it feels like an extension of my arm, something I could become used to rather easily. I let my forefinger settle momentarily on the tab that protrudes from the trigger, imagine yelling at ponytail man to fuck off and leave me alone. It must be so easy to get what you want with a gun. I wonder if it would have helped me five years ago, whether it would have stopped Daniel, prevented him from hurting me, before it was too late.
Eventually I drop my arm and turn the casing over. Surprisingly, the grip has been worn quite smooth and on close scrutiny I see the barrel is pockmarked with dents and nicks. As I absorb the implications of this, a prickle of anxiety ripples through my bones. How the hell does a dummy gun get this much attrition? Waving a replica in someone’s face to frighten them off is one thing but it doesn’t inflict wear and tear. This particular fashion accessory appears to have had a whole unsavoury life of its own. I wonder if there’s a way to know for certain whether or not it really is a fake, other than actually firing it.
Slowly and uneasily I wrap the gun back inside the blanket. Careful not to leave an ivory silk-bound edge trailing over the side, I place them deep inside the box and turn the lock. Once the chest is secure, I use copious amounts of tape to make certain the key is stuck firmly to the underside of the mirror frame, just as Mark directed, and then I am done. For a while I sit on the sofa, automatically choosing the end furthest from the scene of my endeavours. My head is dense with the throb of an afternoon hangover and my palms are tacky with sweat. I am horrified and enthralled – and both emotions seem unnervingly interchangeable, it feels like losing the ability to differentiate hot from cold, or up from down. Or possibly, and perhaps more appositely, right from wrong. Maybe I am particularly susceptible to that type of confusion.
At last I get up and go to the kitchen for a glass of water. I let the tap run until the flow is practically glacial and then drink to the point my throat aches with the chill of it. I tell myself the gun is a replica and there for my protection; that it is capable only of frightening somebody, not of doing actual damage. I tell myself I did not have sex with Mark today and that is a good thing; the fact I may have wanted to is a lot less admirable, but generally on this side of the pearly gates we are judged on our actions and not on our desires. I tell myself I am getting married and that I had better start behaving that way.
I chuck the last dregs of the water down the sink, rinse the glass and head upstairs with a renewed sense of purpose. It is Wednesday, not a Viktoria day, so our bedroom is exactly as we left it this morning: the half-pulled curtains reveal a slice of pebble-dashed sky above the roofline, the duvet is tossed and rumpled, and the wardrobe spills a scuffed pair of my ankle boots and a couple of fallen coat hangers onto the carpet. I make the bed the way Angus likes it, tightening the bottom sheet with proper hospital corners and plumping the pillows. I tidy away the abandoned clothes and clear the bedside tables of mugs and the tangle of dirty tissues, crumpled receipts and spare chargers, which has been accumulating for weeks and Viktoria has obviously not dared to touch. After that, I turn my attention to the washing basket. It is a wicker affair and lacquered white, suggestive both of cleanliness and, so far as is possible with such an item, sophistication, and it lives in the corner of our bathroom.
I am on my knees sorting the darks from the whites in true housewife style, seriously debating – believe it or not – whether a blue-and-white striped shirt belonging to Angus could be put on an existing heap or requires me to begin a third pile, when I glimpse a piece of black fabric lodged deep into the space between the basket and the wall. I guess it is a stray sock belonging to Angus, the sober tone consistent with his equally sober suits, but my assumption turns out to be misplaced. On extraction from the hidey-hole, it is immediately apparent that the item does not belong to Angus or, for that matter, to me. What there is of it – which frankly is not much at all – consists of black nylon: a tiny, stretchy crotch backed by the equivalent of a shoelace that appears to be designed with the main aim of shearing apart the wearer’s bum, and is now coated with grime from the length of time it has spent wedged on the skirting board. I am holding it up to the light, my stomach churning, wondering if a fully-grown woman could actually fit inside it, when the telephone rings.
I get up slowly and go to the extension in the bedroom.
‘Hello,’ Angus says. And then, with remarkable, if misplaced, relevance, ‘How are you feeling?’
I glance at the thong, still in my hand, blink back the final flicker of the arak. ‘I’m fine,’ I say, automatically. Oddly, in an empty, disengaged sort of way, I do feel fine.
‘Really?’ Angus sounds surprised too. ‘I thought you left work because you weren’t feeling well?’
Did I? It seems such a long time ago I almost struggle to remember my departure but I’m pretty sure I told Agatha I was taking an early lunch. I hesitate, uncertain what to say. Luckily, Angus fills the gaps.
‘I couldn’t get hold of you on your mobile this afternoon and so I called the office number. Agatha told me you had to go home because you had one of your headaches.’
I remember switching my phone to silent on my way to meet Mark, which was probably the last time I thought about communicating with the outside world. I offer a silent prayer of thanks to Agatha. ‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘I did have a headache. I’ve taken a couple of tablets and I feel OK now, although it’s probably too late to go back into work.’ My voice trails away and I feel Angus processing my explanation, sifting through the words and the tone as if he knows there is something amiss but he can’t quite identify the flaw in my explanation.
After a moment he says, ‘Well, I was phoning to say I’m going to be late home again
tonight. I’m Skyping New York at eight. We’re thinking of buying a property in Brooklyn. Don’t bother to wait up, the call could drag on a while.’ Recently Angus’s work has become more demanding – apparently there is an international market for small, edge-of-town hotels – which has meant an escalation of these inconveniently timed meetings. Now I am wondering if this change of routine has any connection with the revelations of the laundry hamper.
Stabs of angry hurt begin to penetrate the anaesthetic of shock. I scrunch the pants, the lingerie, into a ball, a very small ball indeed.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, Claire?’
‘Angus, what would you say if I were to tell you that I’d found a black thong in the bathroom?’
A fragment of a pause.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I’ve found a thong, some knickers, behind the washing basket.’ The tips of my knuckles are little icebergs in a sea of blotched pink.
‘For God’s sake, Claire, I really don’t have time to talk about the washing. You probably dropped them—’
‘They’re not my pants.’
This time there is a full second of silence.
‘What are you saying? They must be yours.’ Angus speaks very deliberately. His voice has become weighty, like a cloud burdened with rain.
‘They aren’t mine, Angus. I don’t own anything like that, and besides they’re far too small for me.’
‘They must be an old pair, you must have forgotten—’
‘They don’t belong to me!’
There is silence again. Then, ‘Surely, you can’t think I have anything to do with them?’
‘Well, I doubt complete strangers are breaking into our house simply to use the laundry basket, so by a process of elimination I guess you must have some idea where they came from.’
‘Jesus, Claire! You think I fucked some little tart and brought her knickers back home?’
‘Well, no… I don’t know…’ The fury in his voice rocks me backwards but is reassuring all the same. ‘Where can they have come from?’ I add, lamely.
‘Maybe they belong to Viktoria?’
‘Viktoria? Why would her underwear be in our bathroom?’ As I speak, I wonder if Angus could be right. I know that Viktoria makes herself coffee, sometimes a sandwich; maybe she takes a shower too, in our beautiful marble bathroom? I picture her large, sad, uncertain eyes – it doesn’t seem very likely.
Angus sighs. ‘Look, Claire’ – his tone is suddenly rich with patience, and something else, the satisfaction, perhaps, of the problem-solver – ‘I expect it was from my trip to Frankfurt. I got some laundry done while I was at the hotel. The knickers, thong, whatever it is, were probably in someone else’s load and got mixed up with my stuff. I must have packed them without noticing.’
I don’t say anything.
‘OK?’ he prompts.
‘OK,’ I say eventually.
‘So, I’ll see you later.’
‘Right.’
I wait for him to hang up first, which he does after a moment, as if he has first counted steadily to three in his head.
I put back the handset and uncurl my fingers holding the thong. It sits limply in the palm of my hand like a dead tarantula. If Angus is right, if he is telling the truth, then the knickers should be clean: dusty, of course, but still lightly fragrant with anonymous beach-fresh perfumes. Tentatively, I raise the spider to my face, I hesitate for only a second before I bury my nose deep into the gusset and inhale. The smell is rancid and stale and overpoweringly familiar, the lived-in stench of skin and sweat and sex.
I transport the thong downstairs, holding it at arm’s length between my thumb and forefinger and release it into the kitchen bin. My hands are shaking and all the nerve ends on my scalp are screaming, as if somebody is yanking hard on my hair. I would love to call up Angus and explain to him the flaw in his Frankfurt explanation, the trouble is I am so very far below the moral high ground myself that my accusations would probably morph into a stream of teary confessions. As I stare into the bin the black nylon puddle gazes back from the slime and stain of eggshells and teabags. Although I am living in the most fragile of glass houses, I wonder if I should hang on to the evidence of Angus’s infidelity, just in case, after all, I decide to lob a little stone, and I go in search of a plastic bag.
To my annoyance, the kitchen drawer where we keep those sorts of bit and pieces is stuck and I have to wrench it hard. When the runners finally glide free the culprit becomes obvious, a creased and torn piece of correspondence that was caught down the back of the panelling. The letter is from the Post Office to Mark, confirming the redirection of his mail. As communications go, this one is not terribly exciting. However it does at least reveal Mark’s new address – in Newham, E12. I fold the page in half and tuck it thoughtfully into the pocket of my jeans before turning my attention back to the task in hand.
Removing the knickers from the waste, I drop them into a plastic bag, extract the key from underneath the Spanish mirror and unfasten the chest. The blanket is still there, pure and white, the Glock tucked safely inside. My fingers wriggle under the wool and rest for a moment on the reassuring flank of the barrel before I fetch the carrier, lock it inside the trunk beneath the blanket, and return the key to its hiding place.
Once that job is done, I haul a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush up to the bathroom and wash the floor, lifting the laundry basket clear of the slopping suds and scouring with particular diligence in the vacated space that Viktoria’s efforts have obviously missed. When I am finished I take a shower and clean myself, tipping my face under the jet and bathing away the last contagion of Mark, the impress of his lips, the texture of his tongue. They say that two wrongs don’t make a right, but maybe in this instance they can neutralise each other, combine like matter and anti-matter to annihilate the guilt and leave nothing in their wake save a last gasp of energy. I have strayed and it appears that Angus has strayed. And now we have both tumbled down the neck of the snake, back to square one.
* * *
I deliberately stay awake, reading rather absently, until at about eleven thirty I hear the rattle of Angus’s key in the lock. At that point I turn off the light and roll onto my side. I am curious to see whether the state in which Angus has returned home is consistent with a late-night, transatlantic business call, but I have a better chance of sticking to my plan if I feign sleep, rather than risk picking up the thread of our earlier conversation with the reek of black nylon lingering in my nostrils. I hear Angus’s tread on the stairs and, despite my closed eyes, become aware of him standing in the doorway. I sense his gaze on the coffin-shaped mound of my body and the rearrangement of the air that signals the arrival of another person, a second breathing chest. After a moment the darkness shifts once more and I listen to him move towards the bathroom. It is then that he trips. Somewhere near the top of the stairs, I think, the sudden weight of him causing the floor to reverberate in alarm.
‘Fuck! What the hell…?’ His howl would have woken me however deeply I had been slumbering.
‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’ I sit up and switch the bedside lamp on.
‘Yeah.’ He limps back into the bedroom and slumps down heavily on the edge of the bed. ‘The bloody washing basket is on the landing. I walked straight into it.’
‘Oh, my God!’ There is an explanation for that, of course, but it is not one I want to volunteer. I slip my arms around his shoulders. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’
‘I don’t think so. It was a shock more than anything.’ He eases off his shoes, examines his left ankle, and then stands up to take off his trousers. I see from the buttery glow of the single bulb how tired he looks. Lit from the side his profile is preoccupied and pale. He yawns, as if confirming my assessment.
‘You’re back very late.’
‘Jesus, you’re telling me. I thought the lot in New York would never get off the phone.’ Pulling back the duvet he climbs into bed. ‘Sorr
y I woke you up. That bloody basket nearly had me down the stairs.’ He leans close and kisses me lightly. His breath is sour, laced with coffee and possibly nicotine but not, I think, with alcohol, and while the shadow of tomorrow’s stubble is rough against my cheek I can only detect a ghost-like trace of aftershave, no female scent. ‘Go back to sleep, babe,’ he murmurs.
Under the covers my skin smarts like a cat whose fur has just been stroked the wrong way. Angus has never called me babe before; it’s at least five years since anyone has called me that.
Chapter Twelve
The next day at work Maggie intercepts me on my way to my desk. She is wearing a red silk shirt and a navy skirt, a rather striking combination that shouts competence and ambition, unlike my could-do-with-a-clean beige suit that I’m quite certain doesn’t shout anything at all but might murmur something less complimentary if anyone cared to listen carefully enough.
‘Can I have a quick word, Claire?’
Like all of the offices on this floor Maggie’s bureau consists of a transparent box, although since she has added an assortment of pot plants it has the feel of a conservatory or greenhouse.
I perch on a chair on the opposite side of her desk. ‘About yesterday afternoon, I’m really sorry I missed the Wednesday meeting. I’d be happy for it to count as part of my annual leave, or work some extra hours to make up the time.’
Maggie frowns, brows knitting together in genuine confusion. ‘There’s no need for that, Claire. I don’t expect my team members to work when they’re ill.’
The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 11