The Woman in the Dark

by Vanessa Savage

  Ben’s telling me about his new series of paintings as we dry out in front of the fire—lost to me, his eyes turned inward to whatever he’s creating in his studio. I imagine kissing him, pushing myself against his rain-soaked T-shirt, imagine the solid feel of his chest and belly.

  What is this—a fantasy? Revenge for the hurt of what Patrick did with Caroline? A betrayal that festers inside me because I’m too scared to confront him? Is that why I’m sitting here with Ben, sipping wine, close enough to kiss, trying to stop myself from stroking the shorn ends of his hair?

  I’m the same as Mia, yearning for someone to come riding in on a white horse to rescue us. I’d thought, with the painting, with the exhibition, that I was doing it this time. That I was the one doing the rescuing. So why am I here?

  My gaze lands on a bowl of shells on his coffee table.

  Ben shifts closer and I jump up, put my wine on the table. “I’d better go,” I say. “I think the worst of the storm’s passed.”

  The door to his studio is ajar and I go toward it as I put my coat on, intrigued by a glimpse of the canvas I see propped up on the easel in there. It looks dark: a large, swirling painting, so unlike his usual calm seascapes and still lifes.

  “Can I see?” I ask, and he hesitates. But then he nods and pushes the door open.

  It’s a painting of two boys, children, but I recognize the half-shadowed face of the one on the left. It’s Patrick.

  I step away, almost stumbling, recoiling not only from the painting but from the artist. I’m alone with a stranger in his house and no one knows I’m here.

  “I told you I used to know him,” Ben says, halting my stumbling escape. I’m halfway to the door and I stop, turning to stare at him, at the painting still revealed through the open door.

  “Is the other boy you?” I ask, and he nods. “You said you weren’t friends, that you were just at school together.”

  “We were friends once, for a while. I met you and it got me thinking about him,” he says. “It got me remembering everything because I could see there was something wrong.”

  “What?”

  “I saw it that first day when you showed me your paintings. I saw it again when you came to the gallery. It’s why I offered you the studio.” He pauses. “I don’t… I haven’t seen Patrick for a long time, not since we grew apart as kids.”

  “You could have reintroduced yourself to him. You should have told me you were friends.”

  He frowns. “We didn’t end up on the best of terms. It wasn’t a friendship I wanted to revisit.”

  “But befriending his wife behind his back is okay?”

  He shrugs. “I never asked you to keep me a secret. The fact you have proves I was right. Something’s wrong.”

  He takes a step toward me, reaches out an arm, letting it fall before his hand touches me. Did he see me flinch?

  “The studio was an apartment once,” he says. “Basic, but livable. It could be again; I don’t mind.”

  Here he is again, this stranger, offering me an escape. Offering me sanctuary.

  “Well, I don’t need anywhere to live. I have a house.”

  “I never thought he’d come back,” Ben says. “When I came past the house and saw you, I worried for you even before I knew you.”

  He comes closer and touches my hair. I shut my eyes and imagine letting him kiss me, imagine going home to Patrick with the smell of my artist on me. Would that be enough to take away the sting of my mother’s stolen jewelry, the aching hurt that my husband might have taken it, or of Caroline kissing Patrick? But this painting… Is it you? I want to ask. Is it you, with your bowl of shells and paintings of Patrick, watching the house, leaving things on the doorstep? You, not Ian Hooper or Tom Evans? You, so suddenly friendly and always there.

  “I have to go,” I say again, pulling away from him. I let the wind push me faster and faster as I leave, until I’m almost running.

  I shouldn’t have stayed out so late. And I should have gone back via the jewelry shop to see if my shopping bag was still there—come in brandishing groceries and tales of long checkout lines as an alibi. But I didn’t think, I just went. Now I have to think. I hear footsteps echoing my own as I walk toward the house, the same reluctant, slow steps, getting slower as I approach the house. When I look around, though, no one’s there. A box sits on the doorstep. When I bend down to pick it up, I see an envelope taped to the top with Sarah written on it in scrawling, unfamiliar handwriting. I look around again, but the night has got darker, clouds covering the moon and stars, so even if someone is out there, I can’t see them. I swallow and push the front door open.

  I feel a hand tugging at my coat and I jump.

  “Where were you?” Patrick’s pulling off my coat.

  “With a friend, someone I met in town,” I say, and something, an expression I can’t read, flashes across his face. His hands come down to rest on my shoulders, and in our reflection in the mirror they seem to be resting around my neck. But they’re not squeezing, they’re stroking, and somehow that’s worse as I lie to his reflected eyes. Can he smell the oil paint? Did I scrub away the evidence hard enough?

  “Is it the woman you mentioned? Anna, wasn’t it?”

  I hesitate, and for a second the hands do squeeze. “Yes, that’s right. We had coffee in town.”

  The hands are stroking again, up to my neck, down my arms. I close my eyes.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Sarah?” he whispers.

  “Of course not.”

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

  “I don’t know—it was outside.” I reach for it, but he pulls it away from me, tugging off the envelope and crumpling it up.

  “Don’t,” he says. “I think it’s from an ex-coworker. Someone I got fired.”

  “But—”

  “Forget about it.”

  But the envelope had my name on it, not his. He turns to leave and I grab his arm. “Patrick, wait.” He glances back at me.

  I want to confront him about the jewelry, demand an explanation. But now is not the time. I need to tell him about Tom Evans and I have no idea how he’s going to react.

  “I’ve done something stupid.” The words come out in a rush. I want Patrick to reassure me, to make things right, like he always did.

  He doesn’t give me the indulgent smile he used to when I’d confess some silly cock-up. He looks at me warily. “What?”

  “When I found out Ian Hooper was out of prison, I—I contacted Tom Evans.” My heart is fluttering as I wait for his reaction. “I only wanted some answers,” I say into the silence. “I panicked. But…”

  “But what?”

  “I think… he came to the house. And there’s something strange about him. He was… He scared me.”

  Patrick stares at me. “What exactly did you expect, Sarah? You thought you could have a nice little chat about the man who murdered his entire family and that would be it? He’d make the bad man go away and everyone would live happily ever after?”

  “No, of course not—I wanted to understand…” I take a breath. “Why did he sell now? Just as Ian Hooper gets out?”

  “He sold because he needs the money. Why else? Even if he did sell because Hooper was released, does that matter? He’s a disturbed, traumatized little boy and it was incredibly stupid of you to go to him.”

  “He’s not a boy anymore.”

  “He’ll always be a boy. Permanently damaged by what happened. What are you looking for, Sarah? Another boy to save because you failed Joe?”

  I flinch as if he’d slapped me. “Don’t you dare. That’s not what this is. He said something else—something about you. About how you were friends with his father and that you know something.”

  “Know what? He was a kid when it happened. What exactly is it he thinks I know?”

  “You tell me,” I say, and hold my breath.

  Patrick shakes his head. “Can you hear yourself? Can you hear how paranoid you so
und? Fucking hell,” he says. “I do not need this at the moment.” He stops and sighs. “Okay. Do you have his number? Give it to me. I’ll have a word, make him back off. I’ll sort it out.”

  He’s doing what I wanted, telling me that he’ll sort out my mess, but I don’t feel reassured. He hasn’t answered my questions. I feel unsettled, fluttering nerves worse than when Tom was at the front door. As Patrick exhales in an angry sigh, I freeze. I can smell alcohol on his breath, a familiar sour-sweet smell but unfamiliar and wrong because Patrick doesn’t drink. I’ve never smelled it on him.

  “You’re determined to ruin this, aren’t you? Determined to destroy every effort I make?” he says as he copies Tom’s number into his own phone. “I’ve done all this for you, Sarah—moved us here, fresh start, a new life. I’ve done it all for you and you’re ruining it.”

  He’s done it for me? Moved us to the Murder House? How could I ever have thought for a second this could be the solution to our problems? It’s as realistic an idea as twelve-year-old me wishing a doll’s house could become real.

  “What are you going to do?” I step closer to him and there it is again. Not just a hint, it’s a waft, strong and heady. Spirits, whiskey or brandy.

  He frowns. “What do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to talk to him—make him see that stalking my wife is not acceptable behavior.”

  I feel a ridiculous urge to warn Tom, which is stupid. Tom’s the one I’m worried about, not Patrick. But…

  “Patrick?” I call as he walks away. “Have you…” My voice dies.

  “What?”

  I swallow past the dryness in my throat. “Have you been drinking?”

  I feel sick as I watch his face twist. I shouldn’t have asked. I was mistaken. It wasn’t alcohol on his breath, it was—

  “Yes,” he says, then walks away, shutting the living room door behind him.

  CHAPTER 23

  I’m drifting off to sleep when I hear the front door slam. The floating, almost asleep part of my mind tells me to ignore it, to keep drifting, to dream.

  But it’s late. I open my eyes and sit up. It’s way past eleven, nearly midnight. Who’s going out at this time? It’s a school night, a work night. I’m reaching for my dressing gown when I hear the first raised voice. Mia’s, answered by Patrick, not as loud but getting louder.

  I rush out onto the landing, tying my belt. Joe is out of his room too and I see he’s fully dressed. He disappears into his room every night after dinner, shuts the door tight behind him, only Mia welcome to knock and go in.

  “Wait up here,” I say to him, putting out a warning hand.

  Mia and Patrick are in the hall. Mia has her jacket on, a full face of makeup that looks smeared and blurry. It’s end-of-night makeup, not sneaking-out makeup, and for a second I’m relieved. Then I realize it means she sneaked out earlier.

  I look back at Joe and he shrugs. I think of all the nights she goes into his room, and his window, with the tree outside, that Patrick used to sneak out from. Not evenings spent together then, brother and sister, making me feel better, imagining them looking out for each other. Instead, Joe’s been on his own and Mia’s been out until God knows what time. Is that why Joe is still up now? Waiting to let her back in?

  Patrick has hold of Mia’s arm and I can see as I go halfway down the stairs that he’s holding too tightly: she’s wincing and his knuckles are white.

  “Patrick.”

  He whirls to face me. “Did you know she was out?”

  “No, of course not. She was in her room earlier. Mia, where have you been?”

  “I was locking up and I saw her walking past the house to go up around the back. Almost midnight, when we thought she was in bed asleep, she’s out walking the streets looking like this.” He shakes her and she stumbles.

  She smells of alcohol and cigarette smoke, her jeans are sandy, the hems wet and dark. Her feet are bare and she’s carrying those high-heeled shoes in her free hand.

  “Bloody hell, I was just meeting some friends at the beach,” she says, pulling her arm away from Patrick. “Like you used to do—you told us so.” She drops the shoes and rubs her arm where Patrick held her.

  “I never went out at this time, in this state. You’re drunk,” Patrick says, in the soft voice that makes me want to run back upstairs and pull a pillow over my head. “You stink of smoke and you’re drunk and you’re staggering around in the middle of the night.” He leans over and wipes his hand across her face, smearing the eyeliner and red lipstick. “All this crap on your face, you look like a cheap prostitute.”

  I gasp. It’s intrusive, intimate, the way his hand presses over her mouth and eyes. I was right about a younger Mia being hidden under the mask of makeup, but this isn’t how I wanted her back, a frightened, cowering child. Where’s the smile? Where’s the singing, smiling girl?

  This—his hand distorting her features, dragging at her skin—is a violation, and I’m running down the rest of the stairs, shouting, half-incoherent, Don’t, don’t you dare! and now they’re all looking at me, breathing heavily as I wrench his arm away from her face.

  “Don’t.” A whisper this time.

  I turn to Mia and reach for her, but she pushes me away hard enough to make me stagger. “Get off me,” she says, and pushes me again. “Don’t pretend you care what the fuck I get up to all of a sudden.”

  Her face is twisted in anger, but there are tears in her eyes as she looks at her father. “I could have walked out of the house naked for all the notice any of you take of me. It’s all her—her and this bloody house.”

  “How did you get out?” Patrick says. “When did you go out?”

  Her eyes flicker toward Joe, hiding in the shadows at the top of the stairs, and Patrick turns to stare at him. “I should have known it would be your fault.”

  “Dad, come on—Joe didn’t know where I was,” Mia says.

  “Stop lying for him, Mia. Why are you still up and dressed?” he says to Joe. “Have you been out as well? What—you climbed the tree back in and left your sister to get into trouble?”

  Joe’s shaking his head. “I haven’t been anywhere.”

  “Liar. You’d think you’d have learned your lesson.”

  “I fucking haven’t been anywhere.” Joe’s come halfway down the stairs and Patrick steps toward him.

  “Patrick,” I say, stepping in front of him, making him look at me. “Patrick, calm down. Let’s all sit and talk about this calmly. I’ll make some tea and—”

  “I don’t want any fucking tea,” he says.

  “Watch out, Dad,” Mia says behind me. “Don’t want to bloody upset her—she might try to kill herself again.”

  Patrick spins back around, pushing me out of the way. “Shut up,” he says, his voice rising. “Shut your dirty mouth.”

  Mia gasps. “For fuck’s sake, it’s true. It’s not me who’s the problem; it’s her. That’s all you bloody care about anymore.” Her words end on a scream as Patrick lunges toward her.

  Joe and I both lurch forward. Joe grabs Patrick’s arm with his good hand and I reach for Mia, wrapping her in my arms, cuddling her, cradling her. She fights for a moment, then relaxes, holding me as hard as I hold her, her breath hot in my ear. I hold on to my daughter and we cringe against the wall.

  “Patrick, stop. Stop it. Stop now,” I say, and Mia’s crying, weeping, and I think that gets in. I think that’s what stops him.

  He’s shaking and Joe has to hold on less tight. “Okay,” I mutter. “Okay, we’re all okay now.” I don’t know what the hell I’m saying. I’m shaking as much as he is and Mia’s still crying, and when I look, Joe has sunk down onto the bottom stair and is holding his head in his hands.

  Joe follows me into Mia’s room. This was one of the first we finished decorating. Patrick did most of it, painting the walls apple-white and putting a new pink-and-pale-green rug over the bare floorboards. Looking at Mia hunched on the bed in her skinny jeans, black eyeliner, and red lipstick, I
think how wrong it is because it’s a little girl’s room and that’s not who Mia is anymore. But then she reaches for the battered old stuffed bunny she still keeps at the bottom of the bed.

  I get a cleansing wipe out of the packet on her dressing table and sit next to her, carefully wiping away the smudged eyeliner and mascara, the smears of red around her mouth.

  “Sorry, Mum.” She sniffs, burying her head in my shoulder. All the fight has gone out of her and she sags against me.

  I sigh and stroke her hair, dropping a soft kiss on the top of her head. “It’s okay, baby. I’m sorry your dad lost his temper—I’ll speak to him. We’ll sort this out.”

  Mia lifts her head to look at me. “It was my fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Joe says, coming over to sit on the other side of her. “He lost his temper and nearly hit you. How can that be your fault?”

  “He didn’t, though,” Mia says, her voice rising. “He wouldn’t have. He just wouldn’t.”

  Joe looks at me over Mia’s bowed head and I think of his whispered question when I was in the hospital after the overdose. Did Dad do something? I want to reassure him, to echo Mia’s words, tell him Patrick would never, has never… but Mia’s sitting between us, shaking, her arm red where Patrick’s fingers dug in.

  And this house. In this house, his tight control seems to be slipping. When I close my eyes now, I see Patrick painting the cellar at three a.m., I see him burning my sketchbooks, then that plate of fucking calamari. I smell alcohol on his breath.

  I find Patrick in our room, standing by the window. He hasn’t put the light on, but the streetlamp outside casts enough of a glow that I can see him. I don’t know what he’s looking at: on cloudy nights like this, the sea is just a black hole, like the world ends across the road from the house. I think I see someone outside under the light when I join him at the window, but before I can lean closer to see if it’s the same watcher as before, the figure fades into the shadows.