I remind myself that Natalie has never given me any reason to doubt her. Up until this moment, there’s nothing I can pinpoint that even hints at her having wanted to look elsewhere, and the strength of my instinct about this makes no real sense. Of course, I can’t help thinking it’s probably true what they say: guilty people are often the most suspicious. It’s an uncomfortable thought, and I shake it off. What’s past is past.
In any case, I know I won’t be able to rest until I’ve satisfied myself that she has nothing to hide. The only way I can think of to do that right now is to go back to the house. Look through her things, whatever might be left of them, and see if there’s anything to fuel my suspicions. It’s not a pleasant thought, but it beats sitting around in the hospital unable to see my daughter for hours while the doctors perform tests, or heading back to the hotel for another barbed conversation with my wife. I shrug on my coat and make for the exit.
Twenty minutes later I’m at the top of the hill and staring down at our street, searching for the house. I can see the flickers of red-and-white tape blowing in the breeze, and the dark, jagged outline that already looks oddly familiar, overwriting the memory of what used to be there. Slowly, I walk down toward it. As I get closer I see that there are two men there, dressed in coveralls and patrolling the building; one is holding a hammer and chisel, bent over a jutting expanse of wall. A vague stirring of memory; something the woman from the housing association said last night. They’ll be carrying out a structural assessment of damage, trying to determine if the foundation is sound, deciding whether to rebuild or rip up.
“I’m Alex Carmichael,” I say as I near the men, and the elder of them turns round instantly, obviously recognizing the name. “This is my house. You’re doing the assessment?”
The man nods, wiping a dust-blackened hand on his overalls before extending it for me to shake. “We’re just finishing up. Got some tests to do back at the lab, but we’ve done quite a bit on-site. The deterioration isn’t too bad,” he says. “The majority of it’s cosmetic. Could have been a lot worse.”
“That sounds positive,” I say automatically. And yes, I can see that it could have been worse, on almost every level. But right now, standing in front of what looks like wreckage, it’s hard to feel grateful.
I glance up at the house, and when I look closer I can see the staircase through the burned-out windows, stained and charred but apparently still solid. “Is it possible to go in?” I ask. “I was hoping to take a look round. See if there’s anything I can salvage, to take away with me for now.” It’s true enough, but it’s not the whole truth. The reality is that I’m looking for more than keepsakes. I’ve never been through Natalie’s things—have never had any reason to—but I can’t shake the feeling that if she’s hiding anything, then now might be the time to find it.
The man half shrugs. “Not for me to say. It’s at your own risk, like.” I can tell he’s going through the motions. I nod briskly and turn away, my hand going automatically to my pocket for the front door keys before I realize that I don’t need them anymore.
I step into the hallway, and the smell of smoke is still there, collecting instantly in my throat and making it hard to breathe. Out of the corner of my eye I see the kitchen—a nightmarish collection of blackened rubble and stripped wallpaper, with bizarre patches of random clarity: the silver utensils pot on the countertop with a green spatula poking out of the top, seemingly untouched. I remind myself of what the man said—and yes, I can see that a lot of this is cosmetic damage. But still, I can hardly connect it to the room where we all used to gather at the end of the day and chat: Jade on the kitchen stool swinging her legs, recounting the latest exploits of her hapless friend Susie and making us laugh; Natalie stirring a pot on the stove with her hair tied up at the nape of her neck, the steam rising up and flushing her cheeks pink. I remember just a few days ago, when Jade had left the room to call a friend, stealing up behind my wife and putting my lips to the place where her hair met her skin, sliding my hands easily around her waist, feeling that spark of desire as she pushed back against me. It’s like another country, viewed on a TV screen from far, far away.
I move on, reaching the staircase and gingerly making my ascent. It’s our bedroom that I really want to look around, but as I step on to the landing my eye is caught by Jade’s room first. The carpet is stained and there’s a jagged hole burned into the far wall, but as I scan the room I note with relief that a lot can be saved. The little collection of swimming trophies she keeps on the windowsill is almost clean, and so are the bundles of jewelry and makeup on her dressing table. Gingerly, I ease open a drawer and find a sheaf of papers, and the sight of them pristine and untouched is enough to bring senseless tears to my eyes. I’ll come back here tomorrow with a couple of cases, I decide, collect more of her possessions and take them to the hospital.
Swinging round again, I notice her mobile, poking out from beneath her pillow—I have no idea if it will be working, but I slip it into my pocket anyway along with the charger that is plugged into the wall. Nestling on the pillow is Sidney, the soft toy rabbit that Heather bought for Jade when she was only a few months old. It’s covered with a fine layer of ash and when I raise it briefly to my face I can smell that the cotton is permeated with smoke. Undecided, I stand holding the rabbit for a moment, then stuff it into my bag. I can try and get it cleaned, and in the meantime perhaps I’ll buy a substitute, something to take Jade when I next visit. She might be fourteen, but she’s still my child.
Carrying Jade’s things, I turn and go to my own bedroom, and I wince. It looks more brutal in here—the wallpaper ripped away in streaks, the floorboards charred and jagged, every surface stained with soot that feels smooth and oily against my skin when I touch it. I almost walk straight out again, but my eye is caught by the wardrobe—the door hanging open, and a collection of Natalie’s scarves and bags bundled toward the back, looking at first sight to be undamaged.
I hesitate, and then I pick my way toward it, walking softly and slowly as if the room is a coiled snake that could unfurl and strike. Crouching down, I pull some of the handbags from the wardrobe, then retreat to the landing, emptying them into my lap as I sit down on the floor. I sift through the contents: a couple of compact mirrors, an almost used-up lipstick, a spiral-bound notebook full of shopping lists and half-written reminders, a load of train tickets and supermarket receipts. And then I find something else.
The photo is faded, a thick white line across the center as if it’s been folded hard in two, then smoothed out. It looks to have been taken inside some kind of bar or nightclub: slick metallic surfaces, spotlights picking out the rows of glinting bottles. I don’t recognize this place, and I don’t recognize the exotic-looking man lounging on the stool with his elbows resting idly on the bar. He’s young—in his late twenties, perhaps. His arms are bare and muscular, the skin taut and olive colored. He’s sitting next to a woman, and for one stupid moment I’m not sure whether or not this woman is my wife. She looks similar, at a glance, even if younger. But when I look more closely I see that she’s someone I don’t know. The curve of her mouth, the color of her eyes, the height of her cheekbones—they’re all slightly different. She’s looking straight at the camera but her expression is flat, as if she doesn’t want the photo taken.
I look back at the man beside her. By contrast, he’s barely looking at the camera, but there’s a kind of contemptuous curve to his mouth, a sly knowledge in his slanting, challenging gaze, that shows he’s aware he’s being watched, and that he expects it. The muscles of his arms are tautly defined. I can imagine those arms lifting weights in the gym; can imagine them swinging in a punch that finds its mark. I can imagine them pinning down my wife. Even in print, there’s an indefinable energy that radiates off him. I don’t know who this man is, but I don’t trust him. And I don’t want his picture in my wife’s handbag.
I fold the photo back along the crease and press i
t down hard, then shove it into the pocket of my coat. My heart is beating fast and unevenly, and I realize that the palms of my hands are slick with sweat. Of course this proves nothing. It’s just a photo of a man and a woman, probably from years ago. And yet it’s unnerving, this glimpse into something of which I knew nothing. I go back into the bedroom. This time I excavate further, pushing the tangle of bags and scarves in the wardrobe aside and reaching a small pile of folders. Most of them are labeled: FINANCES, HOUSEHOLD, BIRTHDAY CARDS.
I flick through them briefly but their contents are just as mundane as the labels suggest. All except for one, and even that is nothing exceptional at first sight. Just a few old documents: a certificate from a music exam, a couple of schoolbooks, a torn-out article from a newspaper. The only unusual thing is that they relate to someone I don’t know. The name that pops out at me from all the papers is Rachel Castelle. Rachel Castelle has passed her Grade 4 piano with merit. Rachel Castelle has meticulously annotated and put together a school project about Tudor history. Rachel Castelle has been honored in the paper for winning a local tennis tournament. There’s no reason for me to be worried by these things—they certainly aren’t the sordid evidence of infidelity that I feared I might find—but somehow they add to the strangeness. A childhood friend, perhaps, or a relative. Perhaps even someone who’s died.
The thought makes me replace the papers, feeling a little ashamed. Taking the photograph is one thing, but it feels wrong to be rifling through Natalie’s things like this, and besides I don’t think there are any more answers to be gained here, not yet.
Slowly, I pick my way downstairs and go back out onto the street, blinking in the sudden harsh daylight. As I shield my eyes against it, I notice that the workmen have been joined by a policeman, a lean man in his thirties with a shaved head who eyes me a little suspiciously as I emerge.
I stride up to him and offer him my hand. “Alex Carmichael,” I say. “This is my house.”
“Oh, right.” The policeman shakes my hand and mutters a few perfunctory words of condolence. “I was going to contact you in any case, now that the initial investigation into the damage is concluded. You’ve probably seen already that the house seems to be salvageable. If you want to rebuild and renovate then it should be doable. Are you sorted with insurance?”
I nod, mentally adding the need to contact the insurance company to my list. But we entered into a water-tight plan when we bought the place, and it’s the least of my worries. “That’s all fine.”
He nods. “The other major point of the investigation is locating the cause of the fire, of course,” he continues. “We’ve discounted all the usual suspects—shoddy wiring, that kind of thing. But we’ve turned up something else that is more unusual.”
“And what’s that?” I ask abruptly.
His narrow eyes flicker in my direction. “The burn pattern isn’t typical.”
I must look blank, because he turns and gestures up at the house, his hand tracing an invisible line down its center. “Normally, you’d see what looks like a V shape. It basically indicates the fire spreading out from a central point, almost like an arrow pointing to the source. As you can see, there’s nothing like that here.” I follow his gaze and see that it’s true; the external walls are darkly pockmarked with burns, like paint splashed randomly onto a canvas. I stare at them as if I’m trying to make sense of an optical illusion, expecting to see some order rising from the chaos.
“The reason for that is clear when you look a bit deeper,” the policeman says. “What we’ve established is that this fire had multiple points of origin. It wasn’t caused by a freak localized explosion or anything of that sort.”
Multiple points of origin. I turn the phrase over in my head. “And that indicates what exactly?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know.
“It’s usually a good indicator that we’re dealing with a case of arson. Not a certainty. Not at this stage. But enough to kick-start a deeper investigation. It’s best for you to be aware.”
“Right,” I say again. “But you’re not suggesting—I mean, obviously you’re not suggesting that we set fire to our own home, are you.” I deliberately don’t make it sound like a question.
The policeman twists his mouth briefly in a smile, standing up and moving a little away from me, signaling his detachment. “You’d be surprised what some people do,” he says. “Mostly to cash in on the insurance, you know. Get a nice new reno on their property.” His tone is casual, but there’s an inference I don’t like.
I smile back tightly. “That is surprising, yes.”
“Well,” he says as he begins to stroll up toward the workmen, “we’ll be in touch.”
My head is whirling as I walk back up the hill, trying to take in the implications of what he’s said. If someone did set fire to the house deliberately, then surely it’s a sign that the man Jade saw was an intruder, and that he’s the one responsible. When I think of my family under threat in this way, my suspicions of Natalie seem reprehensible and irrelevant. But then I think of the man in the photograph, my sense that there are things about my wife of which I know nothing—and I’m unsure again, my thoughts spinning off wildly, taking me down paths I don’t want to follow.
When I get back to the hotel our room is empty. I lay down on the bed and switch the TV on, let the noise roll over me for a while without really paying attention. When the film has finished I go over to the minibar and take out a miniature of gin and a bottle of tonic, pour myself a glass, and swig it down in three gulps. For a few seconds there’s a buzz, but it soon fizzes into nothing. I could drink my way through the entire minibar and it wouldn’t solve this. I need to find Natalie and talk to her.
I already know where she’ll be; when we’ve argued in the past, she’s always told me afterward that she went down to the seafront to be alone with her thoughts. There’s something calming for her in facing the water and forgetting that anyone else exists. I walk quickly down the esplanade. The sun is sinking on the horizon, a blaze of virulent pink and gold splashed against the darkening sky, and I can barely see the coastline beyond the rocky beach. I strike out across it all the same and make for the water’s edge, sea-slicked pebbles crunching against my boots, my breath blowing out ahead of me in fine clouds.
It’s only a few minutes before I see her, sitting huddled on the rocks with her knees drawn up. Her dark hair is blowing behind her and as I get closer I can see her profile as she looks out to sea. She looks shut off, absorbed in her thoughts.
“Natalie,” I say, but she’s already turning her head and I know she’s seen me. More than that, she’s expecting me.
NATALIE
SEPTEMBER 2017
I see him from a way off but I pretend I haven’t. It’s ridiculous, because I’ve been waiting for him for hours, but all of a sudden I feel like I need more time. I’ve been so lost in thoughts of the past that returning to the present, with all its sudden complications, is jarring.
“Hi,” he says quietly, perching awkwardly on the outcrop of rock. He reaches out his hand to where mine is resting, but in the same moment I’ve brought my own hand up to push my hair away from my face, and he’s left grasping at nothing. It’s just a silly little hiccup of misalignment but his expression flickers with hurt and he curls his fingers swiftly back into his palm.
“Look,” he says after a moment. “I’m not stupid, Natalie. I know how traumatic the fire must have been for you, and I hate the thought of you going through that, but it seems like there’s something else going on here. And I have to say, when I think about it, it isn’t even just since the fire. You haven’t seemed yourself for . . . for a while now.”
His gaze is serious and intense; he’s not playing around. And for an instant it’s as if I’ve spiraled out of my own body and am coolly looking down at myself, my own voice clear and present in my head: This guy loves you, but he doesn’t know who the hell you are. He
doesn’t know you at all. And yet he’s right—he’s not stupid. He senses something.
I must take longer than I think to formulate an answer, because Alex shrugs impatiently, and then, as if he’s made a snap decision, he rummages in his coat pocket and pulls something out. “I found this in the house earlier.”
I peer forward in the semi-dark and when I see what it is my heart stops. It’s strange, because of course I’ve looked at this photo hundreds of times. I probably only looked at it last week. But this time I wasn’t expecting it, and it’s bizarrely and painfully out of context—here on the rocks in the cold with my husband, whose hand is trembling ever so slightly as he holds it out to me.
“Are you having an affair with him?” he asks bluntly. His tone is a challenge but the look in his eyes tells a different story. He’s terrified I’m going to say yes.
Something washes through me; a kind of darkly amused horror. He doesn’t know just how improbable—impossible—this would be. I can’t help giving a brief, humorless snort of laughter. “God, no.”
“Then why do you have this picture?” he asks. “And who’s the woman? You’ve never mentioned either of these people to me, have you?”
Slowly, I shake my head. “No, I haven’t.” My mind is whirring and I realize I’ve thought about this moment several times, or variations of it, and yet I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say. When you’ve kept so many secrets from someone for so long, it changes the shape of your life. I can’t imagine how it might shift again if I let them out, and I’m not sure, not at all sure, if I want to, or if I even can.
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