The Woman in the Dark

by Vanessa Savage

  Inside it all looked so nice. Then you showed me your room with its brand-new wallpaper and you showed me what was behind the wallpaper and you laughed like it was the funniest joke.

  CHAPTER 14

  From Murder Houses of the UK, Page 44:

  When did Ian Hooper come into the picture? Rumors put him in the house almost from the beginning, his affair with Marie Evans long-standing and ongoing at the time of the murders. But Hooper himself insisted during the trial that the affair only began a couple of months before the murders. He claimed that he was drawn to Marie when he found her crying and bruised after being attacked by her husband.

  This was denounced in court by the prosecution, backed up by John Evans’s parents, who were adamant their son would never have hit his wife. But what never came to light in the trial, because charges were dropped, was that Marie Evans did once call the police to report her husband for domestic abuse. Marie’s sister, Loretta Anderson, claims it was she who advised Marie to call them, but by the time an officer came to the house, Marie was claiming it was a mistake—she’d been angry over an argument, but John hadn’t touched her.

  Loretta, however, states that it wasn’t the first time John hit his wife. But only after they moved into the house on Seaview Road. “It was the house, that’s all Marie kept saying. The house changed him.”

  I put the book away, hiding it this time at the bottom of my bedside table drawer. Tom Evans’s words and different bits from the book keep coming into my head as I shower and dress, each one setting off a stream of nagging worries. I can’t get out of my mind the look on Patrick’s face as he turned my sketchbooks to ashes. He’s always been so in control. I want to believe him burning my books was an accident because the alternative, for him to have done it deliberately… The anger I felt has faded to hurt, almost grief at the loss of all those years of drawings. It had to have been an accident or, at worst, a momentary flash of anger that I believe, I really do believe, he regrets. But that’s what feeds my worries: Patrick doesn’t have flashes of anger. Or he didn’t before we moved here. It’s one reason Caroline can’t get along with him. She finds him cold, but she’s never seen him like I have. But if she’d seen him burning my books, if she’d seen him banging the steering wheel and shouting after we left the kitchen showroom, would she still mock him for being so cool? And what would I say to her? It’s the house. The house is changing him.

  We were in the park once, talking about some film Patrick and I had been to see, a comedy, and Caroline said, I’ve never seen him laugh. Not properly, not a doubled-over belly laugh. I defended him—of course he laughs. He’s not a bloody robot. But she went on, still digging. I can’t imagine him as a child either, she said as we watched our children muck about in the falling leaves, shoes wet from the long grass. I can’t imagine him cutting loose and having fun.

  I know his parents were always remote, detached—the opposite of my mother. They were well into their forties when they had him and from the stories they told on our few visits before they died, and the way they were with infant Joe, they’d had no idea what to do with their surprise baby.

  Patrick grew up in a beautiful house, in this idyllic location, and I believe, from the things he’s said, that they loved him. But I could sense, too, in the pleasure he took from our family outings, Christmases and birthdays when the children were younger, what he might have missed out on with those older, awkward parents.

  Everything Patrick has told me about his childhood relates to this house and the perfect life he lived in it. But if I think about it, they’re more images than stories. As a boy, he couldn’t have been so cool and in control, could he? Or as a teenager, that age of raging hormones and confusion, the roller-coaster age.

  “Sarah?” Patrick calls as I walk downstairs. He’s at the door, coat on, tapping something into his phone. “Don’t forget about tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I echo, confused. But he’s gone.

  Once the house is empty, I pick up my phone to call Caroline, then put it down. If I call now, will I reveal too much? Will I confess that in the last few weeks I’ve sometimes looked at Patrick and not recognized him? That people keep telling me stories so at odds with what he’s always told me. Or, worse, that as I watched him rage and bang on that steering wheel as we left the kitchen showroom there was something… familiar. Like déjà vu, like a didn’t-I-dream-this-once moment.

  “Mrs. Walker? Sarah?”

  I’m walking, head down, into the wind and don’t hear him at first. He puts a hand on my shoulder and I spin around, heart beating fast. “Tom?”

  He smiles and steps back, buffeted by a gust of wind. I put out my own hand instinctively, to pull him away from the cliff edge. I was stupid to come walking up here on such a stormy day. I should have stayed in town, gone to Anna’s café.

  “I saw you and tried to catch up—you walk fast,” he says, laughing.

  “You were looking for me?”

  “I wanted to apologize for freaking out the other day. It was being back here. It affected me more than I thought it would.”

  I shake my head. “It’s me who should apologize. I had no right to contact you and bring up Ian Hooper and the…”

  “The day my family died.”

  I nod.

  “Can I walk you back into town?” he asks.

  I don’t really want to go home yet, but if I say no, will he follow me farther along the cliff path, farther away from town? Besides, clouds are gathering. I don’t want to get caught in the rain. I’ve wasted another day, done nothing but doze between pills. Patrick will be home soon, wondering where I am.

  “Sure.”

  It’s easier walking down into the wind. Reassuring to see the town getting closer. It doesn’t feel right, being up here alone with Tom—he’s still a stranger even if it was me who made contact with him. He’s walking too close, his arm brushing mine.

  “I’ve not been sleeping,” he says.

  He’s keeping up with me easily—was I really walking so fast before that he couldn’t catch up to me before I got to the cliff-top?

  “My doctor thinks it’s to do with the sale of the house.”

  “Doctor?”

  He smiles. “Head-doctor. I’ve been seeing him for years. I’ve been talking through everything with him. I think he’s encouraged by the fact I finally sold it. I had to, when I found out Hooper was going to be released. Needed to.” He slows almost to a stop as we reach the end of the coast path. “I almost didn’t go through with it, though,” he says. “When I found out who wanted to buy it, I didn’t know whether to pull out or not. But I wasn’t sure I’d ever get another buyer.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek, wincing as I bite too hard. “Why would you have pulled out?”

  “I know Mr. Walker used to live there when he was a kid, and maybe the house was different then, but by the time… by the time of the murders, I wouldn’t have wished that house on anyone. Especially not another family.”

  He leans in close to me and it unsettles me again, his way of invading personal space. “I was only a kid, so maybe I’m not remembering it right, but everything seemed to go wrong when we moved there. Dad changed, started fighting with Mum all the time. Billy got these awful nightmares, woke up every night screaming. We thought, me and Billy, that the house was haunted.”

  I think of the cold spots and take a deep breath. I thought any hauntings were the memories of the murders of Tom’s family, that they were the first. Who else has died there? Who else is making those cold spots, and why weren’t they apparent when Patrick lived there?

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “You probably don’t want to hear all this, do you?”

  Maybe I do. It makes me want to drag Tom in front of Patrick and say, See? See what this house is?

  “I felt I should tell you, though. Warn you. Because you seem so nice. And since your husband and my dad were friends.”

  “What?”

  “They were mates, weren’t t
hey? Mr. Walker and my dad? I recognized the name, of course, so I looked him up. I remember him, from when I was a kid.”

  “Your dad and Patrick?”

  He cocks his head. “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

  I can feel my face grow pale and I’m light-headed. “No, that’s not right. He never…”

  “I don’t have any family left. Seeing people I know in the house, it’s almost like you’re family. I just want you and your kids not to have any trouble there.”

  We’ve almost reached the house and I’ve broken into a cold sweat. He’s lying. Delusional. Family? I’ve met him twice, for five minutes. And Patrick has never mentioned that he knew the Evanses.

  The house is in darkness and there’s no one out on the street. Neither option feels safe—going into the dark house or staying out here with this man, who is feeling more and more like a stranger. “I need to go in,” I say as it starts to rain, fat drops that get heavier by the second. My heart is galloping again and I’m scared he’s going to ask to come in.

  “Of course,” he says, stepping away from me. As I move toward the door he turns back and adds, “Stay safe, Sarah.”

  I double-lock when I get in and put on the security chain, rushing through the rooms to switch on all the lights. When I go into the living room, I can see Tom Evans walking away, hunched against the rain. He glances back, staring up at the house. I feel as if the cold spots themselves are snaking under my skin.

  I jump when someone hammers on the front door, then hear Mia’s voice calling. I hurry through to the hall to take off the security chain.

  “Bloody hell, Mum! I’ve been standing outside for ages.”

  “Sorry—I didn’t hear you from the kitchen.”

  “What’s for tea?” she asks as she hangs up her schoolbag.

  What time is it? Six thirty. Christ, Patrick will be home any minute.

  “Sorry, Mia—I haven’t… I forgot. I went out and… Where have you been?”

  “For God’s sake, Mum, you need to bloody wake up. I left a message to say I was going to the library. I’m starving.”

  “Library? Is it still open at this time?”

  She glances at me, then away. “Well, I went to the beach after.”

  “Where’s Joe?”

  “He went to the beach too. He’s still there.”

  I look out at the darkening sky. “Still?”

  Mia’s scowling at the empty fridge shelves.

  “I’ll cook now. I’ll find something,” I say.

  “Forget it. I’ll have a bloody sandwich.” She turns back before she leaves the room. “Seriously, though, Mum, what are you going to say to Dad?” She’s biting her lip, an anxious child again.

  I haven’t just forgotten to cook, I’ve forgotten to shop. Patrick said to do an internet shop if I didn’t want to trek to the supermarket, but I never got around to it. The fridge and freezer are almost empty and I can’t put a cheese sandwich in front of Patrick and call it dinner. I think of that story I used to read Mia, about the tiger who came to tea and ate everything in the house. I imagine saying that to Patrick and I laugh, an edge of hysteria to it. My hand is over my mouth and I’m laughing in front of the open empty fridge when I hear the front door open, Patrick’s voice calling hello.

  It’ll be fine. We’ll get takeout or something. “I’m sorry,” I’ll say. (The tiger ate it all.) “I forgot to do the shopping.”

  I go into the hall to greet him. He looks me up and down. I’m still in the jeans and sweater I put on this morning, the jeans paint-spattered. My hair’s coming loose from its ponytail, so I tie it up again.

  “You haven’t forgotten, have you?” Patrick says.

  “Forgotten?”

  “David and Elly are coming for dinner. I told you about it days ago.”

  Did he? I don’t remember. I mean, I know he’s talked about having them here for dinner, but did he ever specify a day? We’ve only been here three weeks—why would he do it now, with the house still so unfinished?

  Oh, God. I haven’t shopped. I haven’t even found the good plates and glasses. I’m trying to think if there’s anything in the freezer, but Patrick’s already opening the fridge, looking at its empty shelves.

  “You forgot.” It’s not a question and his voice is heavy.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I have no excuses. I glance at the calendar on the wall—there it is, today’s date circled with “David and Elly” written underneath in red. But I’m sure—sure—it wasn’t written there before. Didn’t I look at the calendar yesterday, to check when Joe’s parents’ evening was?

  “It’s fine,” he says, closing the fridge door. I can tell it’s not. In the wave of his hand, the single crease that deepens on his forehead, I can see it’s really not fine.

  “We’ll go out,” he says. “I’ll call them. Tell them there’s a change of plan, make something up about a power cut or a broken oven.”

  My throat gets tight again with guilt. “We don’t have to do that—I can find something quick in the freezer, or order takeout, or…”

  “We’ll go out.” Two lines on his forehead now, so I know not to say anything else.

  We march to the restaurant in silence. He gave me five minutes to change, so I’m aware I’m a mess. I put on a skirt and heels, but the skirt’s creased and the shoes are already pinching. My hair is limp, and I’m not wearing makeup. Patrick has changed his shirt, but he’s still in his work suit. David and Elly, already waiting outside the restaurant, are, in contrast, shiny and groomed. Elly looks like she’s spent a week in the hairdresser’s as she hands me a gift-wrapped housewarming present and kisses my cheek. David holds up a bottle of wine. “Sorry—I guess we should have left these in the car.”

  “It should be us buying you wine to celebrate,” Patrick says, and I look at him.

  “Celebrate?”

  “David got a big promotion. Didn’t I tell you?” Patrick’s voice is light as he rests a hand on the small of my back and steers me into the restaurant.

  David? David with his butter-blond hair and fake-tanned face, his BMW and kid-free life? David is thirty-two and was once Patrick’s junior. Does this big promotion mean he’s now Patrick’s boss? I look from one to the other: Patrick seems smaller, shadowed by David’s golden, glowing success. Clearly I haven’t been listening enough when Patrick has talked about troubles at work.

  Tonight was obviously important to Patrick, a chance to show off his dream house, a chance to keep some ascendancy. The guilt sits sour in my gut, and I stare at the menu the waiter puts in front of me, no longer hungry.

  He’s telling them all about the house now, about his plans for it and everything he’s done so far. He makes it sound like I’ve done nothing. There’s no mention of the damp or the state of most of the rooms. No mention of our disastrous trip to the kitchen showroom. No mention of his fifteen-year wait for it to come up for sale. No mention of the murder victim with whom Tom seemed to think Patrick had been friends.

  “Excuse me a minute,” I mutter, cutting across David’s loud anecdote about some obnoxious client.

  I wind my way across the restaurant floor toward the sign for the restroom at the back. It’s crowded and hot, the air damp and filled with the aroma of frying fat, redolent with a stink of stale fish that’s probably embedded in the foundations of the place. We’ve been seated in the middle of the room, at Patrick’s request, surrounded by other couples and groups of tourists, fractious families keeping their kids up too late, all within elbow-jabbing distance.

  It’s not a good restaurant to show off to dinner guests. It’s not a good substitute for a dinner party in a new house. Good wine in crystal glasses, soft music, and flowers in a house by the sea: that was what Patrick wanted, not scampi and fries and house white. I rest a pill on my tongue, lean over the washbasin to swill it down with water from the tap.

  “I took the liberty of ordering for both of us, darling,” Patrick says when I come back. “They had a special on the
calamari.”

  The waiter goes past, carrying a small cake topped with a lit sparkler. Everyone at the next table starts singing “Happy Birthday” and they’re loud enough to cover my gasp.

  Once, when I was eighteen, on my one and only girls’ holiday—eight teenage girls, one week in Crete—I ate calamari and was ill to the point I thought I was dying. Two days in a sweatbox of a room, crawling to the bathroom, unable to sip water without throwing it up, shaking, lips cracked, stomach racked with cramps, and, I swear, hallucinating by the end of it. I remember sobbing to my friends, Just let me die, make it stop, kill me now.

  Now, the word, the sight, the smell, the very thought of calamari is enough to make me sick. Patrick knows this, I’m sure he does. I must have told him.

  The calamari, when it comes, lies on a bed of brown-edged shredded lettuce drizzled with oil. I try to breathe through my mouth, but I can’t close my eyes, not with them all watching me, so I’m forced to look at the glistening white rings. Sweat is trickling down my forehead under my hair. Beads build under my hair and I keep my breathing shallow as nausea curdles my stomach.

  “Patrick, I…”

  “Eat,” Patrick says, his voice pitched low so no one else at the table can hear. There are red spots high on his cheekbones and I realize David and Elly are watching me with a weird look on their faces. Patrick watches as I raise a forkful of oil-drizzled salad to my mouth and he smiles.

  It’s that smile that makes me scoop up the smallest ring of calamari, put it straight into my mouth. Everyone relaxes and the conversation starts up again. I try to swallow without tasting, but then I breathe in through my nose and the smell combined with the rubbery texture in my mouth makes me gag. I drop the fork and put both hands over my mouth. It’s Patrick’s turn to hold his breath as he watches me. David and Elly have stopped eating and talking. They’re all watching me, concerned.

  I swallow, both the calamari and the surge of bitter bile that stings my throat. I pause to drain my water glass, then return my attention to the plate, concentrating on spearing tube after tube of maggot-white squid, in, swallow, in, swallow, no time to think, no time to taste, no time to breathe.