The Woman in the Dark

by Vanessa Savage

  “What’s this?” he says, picking it up.

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “A book someone gave Mia. I thought…”

  My voice trails off as he flicks through it, his face blank. If he grabbed my sketchbook as well, he’d see the notes I’d jotted as I read that stupid book, scribbled insane thoughts on the author’s ridiculous theories. He’d see his name with a question mark next to it. He’d see Ben’s name, Tom and John Evans, Ian Hooper, arrows joining them.

  “Why are you reading this?”

  “I was going to throw it out, but… I was curious.”

  “Curious? What on earth kind of curiosity do you believe is going to be quenched reading this crap?”

  “What do you expect me to do?” I say, my rising voice surprising even me. “You never told me about Ian Hooper being out of prison. You never told me you were friends with John fucking Evans. It’s supposed to be a fresh start, but how can it be? All these lies, all these damn secrets.”

  Caroline as well, another secret. My friend Caroline.

  “Sarah, stop it. Just stop. I barely knew John Evans—that’s irrelevant. All of it means nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? Hooper’s out—I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen, that it isn’t still happening.”

  “But it’s not happening to us. None of that and none of them matters. What matters is us. Our family. Here and now. And you just won’t let it go; you won’t let this work. You’re the one ruining it, filling the children with rot, with your ridiculous obsessions.”

  He turns another page in the book and starts reading aloud. “‘Hooper has always insisted he is innocent. Did the police look elsewhere in their investigation? Did they question everyone who knew the family?’”

  He looks across at me. “So what’s your theory, Sarah? Do you think the whole town lined up to murder them? Or do you think I sneaked here with my mother, killed an entire family, then poured a bucket of blood over Ian Hooper and put a knife in his hand?”

  “No, of course not. I—”

  “You what? You fucking what?” He starts tearing pages out of the book, crumpling them and letting them drop. “These evil, vicious, whispering lies almost killed my parents. Did you know that?”

  “How could I? You never said a word—wouldn’t even talk about the murders.”

  After the murders, didn’t we visit his parents less? Weren’t there months and months when we didn’t go there at all?

  “The press found them. Hounded them for weeks, wanting background on their damn Murder House.” He stops and takes a deep breath. I can see sweat shining on his forehead. “It upset them. My father had heart problems. And now I find you reading this vile garbage.”

  The pages of the book now litter the room, like giant confetti, and Patrick holds nothing in his hands but the cover. He closes it like it’s still a book. “Please don’t,” he says. “Please don’t read anything like this again.”

  He pauses on his way out of the room. “Clear this up, will you?”

  I bend to start picking up the torn pages, words and phrases jumping out at me as I gather them up, whispering and settling in my brain.

  Murder House.

  Crying and bruised.

  It was the house. The house changed him.

  Neglect.

  Bloodstains.

  Horror.

  Damage.

  Was it the house?

  Was it the house?

  I hug the torn-up book to my chest and stare at the wardrobe, thinking of the empty space in my treasure box where my mother’s jewelry should be. Patrick tried to persuade me to sell it after she died. We didn’t argue exactly, but he didn’t understand why I wanted to keep it when I never intended to wear any of it. I look at the mess of paper in my hands. I should throw it away now, give it to Patrick for burning. That’s what he’ll expect. Instead I put it under the mattress, tucking it away so it’s hidden.

  I follow Patrick downstairs, picking up Mia’s coat from where it’s fallen on the floor.

  Joe comes down the stairs and tries to edge past us to the front door, but Patrick reaches out, pushing him back toward the stairs. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says to Joe. “No one is, not anymore. It’s nearly dinnertime and dinnertime is family time.”

  “Since when?”

  “Go back to your room and stay there until dinner.”

  “No. I’m going out,” Joe says.

  “Don’t you dare take that tone with me.”

  Mia comes running downstairs. “What’s going on?”

  Joe goes to shove past his father, bumping me on the way, but Patrick hauls him back, pushes him against the wall, his hand clutching his T-shirt, pulling him away and slamming him back so Joe is gasping for breath, his arms flailing, scrabbling to push Patrick off.

  “Patrick! Stop it—stop it.” As soon as I touch him, Patrick lets go, breathing hard as Joe bends over coughing.

  Mia’s crying and I crouch next to Joe. “Are you okay?” I whisper, and he stares at me, tears in his eyes.

  “No,” he whispers back, his voice raw. He staggers up, pushes past all of us, and runs out the front door.

  Patrick wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “That boy is out of control,” he says. “He almost knocked you over. Are you okay?”

  I stare at him. “Me okay? Jesus Christ, Patrick, what the hell was that about?”

  “I know,” he mutters. “I went too far, but did you hear how he spoke to me?”

  “He spoke to you like an angry teenager. A boy. Our son. You lost control.” I’m saying it through clenched teeth, aware of Mia behind me. I’m shaking and I want to scream at him, push at him like he pushed at Joe.

  Patrick’s gaze flickers past me to Mia. He brushes his hair back. “Okay, I’ll go out and look for him. I’ll sort it out, I promise.”

  “No! I won’t have you chasing off after him angry. Leave him alone. You need to calm down.”

  “Calm down? I’m perfectly calm. I’ll find him, bring him home, and we’ll talk—calmly.”

  I follow him to the door, disquiet building, my stomach somersaulting. I put my hand on his arm and he looks down at it. “Patrick…”

  “What?” He lifts his head and smiles at me, calm Patrick again, hair smooth, jacket buttoned.

  “Don’t go. Stay here. Joe will come home when he calms down. Or I’ll go and find him.”

  A gust of wind rattles the letter box and Patrick frowns. “It’s raining out there and blowing a gale. It’s not a good night to be out. Don’t worry, I’ll find him.”

  He’s gone before I can say that Patrick finding him is exactly what I’m worried about.

  Joe’s door is open, his sketchbook lying on the bed. I sit down and pick it up, chewing my lip as I flick through the pages. I’ve never seen this one before and I can understand why Joe hasn’t shown it to me: the first few are all sketches of me. Every page has two drawings, happy/sad, smiling/crying, asleep/awake; me divided, split in two, like he’s trying to work out which is real. I wondered before how he would draw me and now I know: poised on the cusp, torn, pulled in two.

  I expect the next pages to be Mia, but they’re not. Instead, there are half a dozen pastel drawings of a boy with brown eyes, a stranger with a beautiful smile. It’s not the boy I saw him with on the beach—this one is older. A man, really, not a boy. I look at the sketches Joe has done and I feel like I’m intruding. Is that where Joe’s gone tonight?

  Unsettled, I put the sketchbook away and go to my room, staring out the cloudy window, hoping to see Patrick’s car returning, Joe safe in the passenger seat, Patrick still calm, storm all played out.

  Instead, I see someone across the road, walking next to the seawall, almost lost in darkness. The figure stops and turns to face the house. I lift a hand to wave in case it’s Joe but lower my arm as I realize it could be the watcher. Who is it—Ian Hooper or Tom Evans? Both of them tied to this house by a terrible crime. Whoever it is doesn’t mov
e and we stare at each other as the sky gets darker. It’s like they’re disappearing, eaten by the night. I wait until they’ve completely disappeared before I pull the curtains closed.

  I look at the glowing numbers on the alarm clock. It’s ten—Joe has been gone two hours and Patrick nearly as long. I try their phones, but they both go straight to voicemail.

  Mia opens her door. “They’re still not back?”

  I shake my head, go back to my window to lift the curtain, and look again. Mia joins me. “Did you see someone watching the house earlier?” She speaks in a whisper, as if her voice could carry across the road.

  I nod and she sighs. “Who do you think it is?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I was wondering… I wondered if it was the boy,” Mia says. “The one who survived. Not a boy anymore, of course, but I sometimes think… Could you ever really get free of this house? If you’d gone through such horror here? If you’d lost your entire family here?”

  I think of Tom Evans—Seeing people I know in the house, it’s almost like you’re family. Could it be him out there? Still hiding under the bed from the monster, yearning for the family he lost? Or is it Ian Hooper, freed after nearly twenty years? I haven’t told Joe and Mia he’s out, and I’m starting to think I should have.

  Mia shivers. “I’ll never be able to see this house as anything other than the Murder House. Doesn’t matter what Dad does to it, or how many stories he tells about how bloody wonderful it used to be, it’ll only ever be the Murder House.”

  I let the curtain drop. “I’m not sure this house has ever been as wonderful as your dad remembers.”

  We pretend to watch TV, but I don’t think either of us could have said what was on. I’ve tried Joe’s and Patrick’s phones again, but they’re still not answering. Mia got out her homework, but she hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

  It’s half past ten. The storm outside is getting worse and Joe has been out in it for two and a half hours.

  We both jump when someone hammers on the front door. All of Mia’s books and notes spill to the floor as she gets up and runs out, me behind her.

  It’s Anna, soaking wet and gasping for breath. “It’s Joe,” she says, and I can see she’s shaking. “Oh, fuck, it’s Joe. I called an ambulance, but I got there too late. I’m sorry…”

  What? What is she talking about? She doesn’t know Joe, she’s never met him, only seen the old photos I keep on the wall and the sketches in my book.

  She staggers as Mia pushes her out of the way and goes racing down the street.

  “Mia!” I run out to call her back because Anna must be mistaken and that’s when I see. I see someone lying sprawled under the streetlight halfway down the road, in a dark pool of— Oh, God, is that blood?

  I got there too late, Anna said. “Joe…” I whisper. But as I try to run to Mia, to Joe, all the strength goes out of my legs and I fall to my knees. I want to slump like him, my boy, I want to lie on the cold pavement, but Anna’s there, her hands digging into my arms as she drags me up again.

  “Get up,” she says, and there’s anger in her voice as she digs her fingers in harder. I can hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. She shakes me and I stagger. “Get up and go to your son. Wake up, Sarah. For fuck’s sake, wake up.”

  Part 3—Waking Up

  Headline from the South Wales Echo,

  a week after the murders:

  Ian Hooper and Marie Evans Were Having Affair

  A source close to the family has revealed that the affair had been going on for several months and that Marie

  was poised to leave Evans for Hooper. Is the alleged affair

  connected to the murders? Local writer Wayne Matthews, who’s working on a book about the Murder House, believes so.

  CHAPTER 18

  I’d thought he was dead. I hunch, my arms crossed over my belly to hold in the pain. I can’t breathe, I can’t… I’ve been here before, after my mother died, and when Joe crashed the car.

  I thought he was dead, but he’s not. He’s not. I repeat that to myself and stand up straight again. He is not dead. This isn’t the same hospital I was in, but the smell is the same, same endless, windowless echoing corridors, same dry air, same creeping claustrophobia closing my throat. The wall is cold on my back as I lean against it. I’ve come out for air, but I can’t find any, not here in these corridors. Mia’s still in with him, holding his hand. She hasn’t let go since we got here, while I hover useless on the edge.

  I close my eyes and see the scars on Joe’s arms. Mrs. Walker? the doctor said. I was waiting outside and I was on my own. Mrs. Walker, we want to talk to you about these marks. Does he self-harm? I press my hands against my closed eyes, trying to push away the images embedded there.

  “Mum?” Mia tugs my sleeve. She’s white-faced, makeup smeared under her eyes. Younger and older. “He’s awake.”

  I pull her close in a hug and feel her trembling, still in shock. She gives me only a second before she pushes me away. I’d thought he was dead. When I came running out of the house and she was screaming and holding his head and there was all that blood. I looked for Ian Hooper in the darkness, Ian Hooper and his bloody knife. And, God, worse than that, worse than Ian Hooper, I looked for Patrick. I thought my son was dead and I fell, bloodying my knees and forgetting how to breathe.

  Anna picked me up and handed me the contents of my pockets, which had scattered across the street. Part of me still feels like I’m there, boneless and numb, sprawled in the street, watching my son bleed on the road.

  I help Mia to a chair and drape my jacket around her shoulders, but it’s not the cold making her shake.

  “Is it the house?” I say. “His arms—the cutting, the self-harming. Is it the house?”

  She stares at me, like I’m mad. “You don’t know a bloody thing, do you?”

  “What?”

  “He’s been doing it for months.”

  What?

  “Your precious boy—it’s always been so bloody obvious who your favorite is, and Joe liked being someone’s favorite for once. So he was never going to tell you he was struggling and fucking up, and would you have seen it even if he’d tried? Would you have listened?”

  Of course I would have. Of course I… But I wasn’t there when he crashed the car, was I? I was in that dark place, out of reach of everyone.

  “It’s your fault. All his scars are your fault!” she shouts, pale and shaking. “This? Now? All of it is your fault. You have no fucking idea what’s happening to Joe, to me—and Joe’s too scared you’ll try to kill yourself again to tell you. But you’re fine, aren’t you? Tripping around with your new friends, feeling better. You’re supposed to be the mother, the grown-up. You’re supposed to protect him.”

  I reach out for her, but she shoves me away. “For God’s sake, go and see Joe. Or are you going to run away again now that you know the truth?” She picks up her bag and rummages inside it, pulling out a crumpled box of Tylenol.

  “Here,” she says, throwing the box at me. “Just in case the urge overcomes you again—take the fucking lot and get it over with.”

  Joe is staring at the ceiling when I enter. They’ve cleaned away the blood, stitched his split scalp. I can’t look at the shadowy bruise on his neck. He has two broken fingers where someone stamped on his hand and his face is bruised and swollen. He was lucky, they said—bruising, yes, the broken fingers, but nothing else broken, no internal injuries. Lucky? He’s been beaten so badly he doesn’t look like Joe. How could anyone describe this as lucky?

  The scars on his arms are patterns of pink and white, new and old, faded and fresh. Mia’s right: I’ve been hiding, I’ve been asleep. This is all my fault. I should have thrown away those pills sooner. I should never have started taking the damn things. The lump in my throat is so big it aches, but I take a deep breath and swallow it. I can’t cry. I can’t lose it in front of my boy. I have to be strong.

  “Joe?” I
say, leaning down. I run a hand over his hair, but he pulls away, then gasps in pain.

  “Sorry.” I go to move away.

  “Don’t.” Joe whispers.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t leave.”

  “I won’t. I’ll stay as long as you want.”

  “Please, Mum,” he says. “You know what I mean. Please don’t leave me. Promise me.”

  He stretches out his unbroken hand across the gap that’s grown between us since my overdose and I hold it. “I will never leave you, Joe. Never.”

  I want to just sit with him now, holding his hand until he falls asleep, but there’s something I have to ask him. Before anyone else comes in.

  “Joe? I need to know who did this. You told me before you were worried about your dad, him shouting at you…” I lean in closer, but I can’t say the next words. I can’t ask him if Patrick did this. I can’t believe Patrick would have done this to his own child.

  “I don’t remember what happened.” He turns his face away, but I can see he’s crying, salty tears weaving through the bruises. I’d thought he was dead. The ER doctor said he was lucky, but I’d thought he was dead.

  “We have to get out,” I whisper as Joe drifts back to sleep.

  “Get out of what?”

  I gasp and bump into the bed at Patrick’s voice. He’s right behind me, staring at me, not at his broken son in the bed.

  “… of the room,” I say. “To let Joe sleep.”

  He’s still staring. “What happened?”

  He looks… crumpled. His hair is wet and his shirt is creased. It could be because he got the message and rushed right here. It could be because he’s been frantically searching the town for his son. But I’m thinking of him pushing Joe up against the wall, a look I’ve never seen before on his face. I’m thinking of his hands slamming on the steering wheel after we got turned down for the kitchen, of him ripping that book apart. I’m thinking of the dozen cracks in his control that have grown since we moved here.