Without giving myself time to waver, I stride toward the staircase, no longer bothering to stay quiet. “Get the fuck out of my house,” I say loudly, with as much aggression as I can muster.
The house is quiet. No response. The echo of my voice lingers, and I feel immediately ridiculous. I’ve seen countless reconstructions of unprovoked attacks and break-ins on TV, and I’ve often wondered why the victims so rarely scream. Surely if you’re in danger, you react—make everyone in shouting distance know that you need help. But now I get it. We’re conditioned to downplay. Even now, I’m not quite convinced that this is any kind of emergency, and the instant those words leave my lips I’m embarrassed.
I walk fast down the stairs, my footsteps clattering on each step, and turn the corner toward the kitchen, thinking too late of the flashlight on my phone. Without the streetlight shining through the window, the blackness is even denser than it was upstairs, and my eyes need a few seconds to readjust before the outlines of the room form themselves into a more familiar shape. In those few seconds, I can’t be completely sure of what I see—whether the sense of something moving swiftly and fluidly through the dark like an escaping shadow is real, or just my nerves playing tricks. By the time I can see more clearly, it’s gone. The burned-out back door yawns open, the yard behind empty. I step outside, feeling the coolness of the night sharp against my skin. There’s no one around. But something feels different. A kind of tension, as if the air is holding its breath.
* * *
• • •
BACK AT THE HOTEL I manage a few fractured hours of sleep, simply by virtue of forcing myself to empty my mind. Whenever I wake I turn my head to look at Natalie, but she’s always motionless, her eyes closed, her eyelids unmoving and serene. I find myself reaching out in an impulse to hold her, circling my arm lightly around her waist and feeling the even rhythm of her breathing.
It’s almost eight a.m. when I reach across the bedside table and check my mobile. It’s been on silent and there’s a missed call and a new voice mail from work. It’s James. Heard the news. It’s no problem if you need a few days to handle things after the fire, Alex. Just let us know. I hesitate, then type him a quick e-mail saying that I appreciate it and that I’ll be back in soon.
As soon as I know the pressure is off, my thoughts return to what I found out last night. Once again, I consider asking Natalie about Kas and his imprisonment, but I’m still unsure, and the unpleasant realization dawns that it’s largely because I don’t trust her to tell the truth. Until a few days ago I wouldn’t have thought her capable of any major deception, but things are different now. There’s a small, hard nub of conviction inside me that tells me that if I want to find out more about Kas and his link to my wife, I’m going to have to do it alone, difficult though that may be. But as I think about it, it comes to me that maybe it’s not so difficult after all. If what I read on the YouTube video is correct, then I know exactly where this man is—he’s a sitting duck. I’ve never visited anyone in prison before, but there must be a procedure.
“Alex?” Natalie’s voice, very close. I start, twisting my head back over my shoulder and seeing that she’s lying propped up on her elbow, suddenly wide awake.
“Morning,” I say. “What’s up?”
She shrugs and rolls onto her back, passing her hands through her long, dark hair. “I don’t know. I was dreaming, I think. I thought you were saying something to me.”
I watch her fingers moving through her hair, combing it gently from root to tip. “Do you dye it?” I ask.
She stops mid-movement, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Yes. But so do a lot of women.”
“I know,” I say, but all the same I’m stupidly affronted. I’ve always loved Natalie’s hair, the way it shifts from dark brown to almost black, the perfect ripples of graded color. Too perfect, I realize now.
“Does that bother you?” she asks. The bedsheet slips from her shoulder, falling down to expose the curves of her bare breasts, the hardened points of her nipples.
“No . . .” I say.
“Everything else is real,” she says softly, “in case you’re wondering.”
In another second she’s in my arms, pressing herself up against me, her legs parting to wrap themselves around my waist. Her mouth is hot on my neck, the scrape of her teeth teasing my skin. “I know everything feels wrong right now,” she says, “but I really want this. Do you?”
I make some noise of affirmation, but even as I’m kissing her, running my hands over the smooth length of her back and feeling the softness of her skin against mine, I know something isn’t right. Maybe it’s the guilt of the thoughts I’ve just been having, the idea of making plans without her knowledge. I’m turned on, but the message isn’t getting through to my body. It’s an odd sensation—all the elements present and correct, the same beautiful body in my arms that has roused me countless times, and yet nothing’s happening. Her hand slips between my legs, and for a moment I think about falling back on some reliable kick-starting fantasy, but on some obscure level it doesn’t seem fair. To her, or to me.
Her hand lingers on me for a few more moments, gentle, exploratory; then she sighs and rolls away again. “Not in the mood, then.” Her tone is light, but she turns her face away and I see her shoulders tense, then hear a shaky intake of breath.
“God, don’t cry.” I lean across to touch her. This isn’t like Natalie—she’s always been practical about sex, finding the humor in it if things go awry, defusing any awkward complications. She sees it for what it is and she likes it; it’s something I’ve always been drawn to. “It doesn’t mean anything,” I try. “I’m just stressed, you know? There’s a lot going on.”
She sniffs, wiping a hand across her face. “I know that. But all the same, it feels . . . significant. Like you don’t want me anymore because of what I’ve told you. Because of who I was.”
“I don’t . . .” I begin, then stop. I don’t know who you were. She’s told me so little.
My silence seems to distress her even more; she’s pressing her fists into her eyeballs, sobbing unevenly now. “She’s doing it again,” I make out. “She’s ruining it without even being here.”
“Who?” I ask, confused.
She shakes her head violently, as if she’s driving unpleasant thoughts away. “Sadie, of course. Fucking up my life once clearly isn’t enough.”
I stroke her shoulder, trying to decide how to reply. “I don’t understand,” I start eventually. “What makes you think this?”
Natalie takes her fists away and wipes her face, then looks me full in the face, her eyes red and sore. “Because her own life’s been a disaster. She’ll want to ruin things for me. Whatever she’s doing, however she’s living, I can guarantee she’ll have made a total mess of it. She doesn’t know how to do anything else, and she’ll want to drag me down with her. This all has something to do with her. I know it.”
“I see,” I say slowly, although I don’t really, not at all. I’d assumed that in Natalie’s eyes, any threat to us might be from Kas, or at least his associates. But it doesn’t sound that way, not from what she’s saying. “But—why?”
For an instant I think I see something flicker in Natalie’s eyes, but then it’s gone. “Because she’s jealous,” she says simply. She sits up in bed, hugging her knees to her chest. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand. And it’s possible I’m wrong.” It’s a meaningless little platitude, this last one, but her tone clearly signals a close to the conversation. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “And then I might go to the bank, see if I can chase up my card and get some cash out. Do you need me to get anything while I’m out?”
“I’m OK, thanks.” I watch her get ready. I’m uncomfortably aware that I want her to leave. I want to be alone, to follow up on my idea about calling the prison.
As soon as she goes, I get up and search for the visitors�
�� number of Belmarsh. Repetitive hold music crackles in my ear until a bored-sounding woman answers, who simply asks me for the name of the prisoner I wish to visit.
“Kaspar Kashani,” I say.
“Prisoner number?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
“Have you got a VO?” the woman asks. When I don’t reply, she sighs and clarifies. “A visiting order.”
“No,” I say. I can sense she’s on the point of cutting off the call. “Look, I know this might be unusual, but is there any way that you or someone else can let him know that I want to see him?”
I can almost hear her shrug down the phone. “We can pass on a message, yeah. But it’s up to him. If he wants to send you a VO, then we can be in touch and you can set something up. Give me your details.”
I give her my name, number, and e-mail address. “Can you please also tell him that he used to know my wife, and that I want to talk to him about her?” I say quickly. “My wife’s name is—well, he knew her as Rachel Castelle.”
“All right.” There is a shuffling sound that I hope indicates that the woman is writing this down. “Got it. Don’t hold your breath, though, will you? I’m guessing that if he wanted to see you, he would have sorted it by now.”
“No, he couldn’t really have done that,” I attempt to explain, “because he doesn’t have my details and . . .” I realize I’m talking to no one; the woman has hung up.
I breathe out deeply, trying to collect my thoughts, and then I notice the new e-mail icon winking on my phone. With a shock I see that there is a new e-mail from SRUK. I always appreciated that little touch of discretion they employed at secretroom, but now it’s an embarrassment—a reminder that this kind of discretion is one I can do without.
Cali has sent you a new message, it reads. To read it, click on the link below. She’s seen that I was online yesterday, just as I thought.
I open up the message. So. You’re back?
That’s all it says. Just a monosyllabic little communication from a woman I spent a few months exploring my fantasies with awhile ago, idly looking to start things up again. I don’t even know why I bothered to open it. I’m on the point of closing down the window when the little green icon flashes at the base of the screen.
Cali is online. There’s something about the speed of it that makes it feel too coincidental. I’m not sure if there’s a way to set up an alert on the site to let you know if another member is active, but that’s twice this has happened now, and actually, this was always how it was. Whenever I wanted her, she was there. At the time, I’m ashamed to realize, that felt completely normal.
The chat box pops up, her words brief and inviting. Come to play?
I hesitate, then type a reply. No. Just checking back in.
Checking on me?
Maybe . . . I type. I’m stalling, unsure of what I’m doing.
You were gone for a long time. A pause, neither of us typing. Then a single question mark: ?
Thinking fast, I type: I’m married. Did you know that?
The little dots at the bottom of the screen roll for a long time, as if she’s typing a lengthier message, then freeze for a second, and in the end all that pops up is No.
I love my wife, I reply. I decided I didn’t want to do this to her anymore.
In the pause that follows, I try to project myself into her place, think about what a reasonable response might be if she had said something similar to me. I might simply log off—decide that this wasn’t worth the hassle, that there were clearly some emotional complications at work that didn’t warrant further trouble in a situation that was, after all, just about sex. Or at a push, if I was feeling horny and didn’t much care what she felt about it, I might ignore what she’d said completely. Write something dirty, something to entice her back in. Both scenarios sound plausible.
But Cali doesn’t do either of these. After a few moments, another message flashes up. Tell me about her.
I stare at those four words, their directness and their simplicity. Their motive doesn’t feel sexual. She hasn’t said, Tell me about what you do to her, tell me about what you do in bed. Something about it feels off.
She’s waiting for me to reply, and when I don’t, she doesn’t lose interest and drop it. Instead I see the little row of dots moving again, seeming slower this time, more deliberate, before another message appears on the screen.
I want to know everything.
My fingers move by instinct and I close the window down, logging off. I don’t know why, but there’s something about those five words that unsettles me.
I throw my phone aside onto the bed and go to the window, needing some air. The sea breeze blows into my face as I wrench it open and breathe in deeply, and I can taste the faint tang of salt on my lips. Leaning my elbows on the window ledge, I look out on to the quiet pier and count the black iron railings that flank it, my eyes leaping from one to the next. It’s an old trick, a way of calming myself and focusing on something bland and simple. But this time it doesn’t quite do the job.
It feels like only minutes that I stand there, but when the phone starts ringing I notice that it’s been close to an hour that I’ve been uselessly staring into space. I feel a quick flare of impatience with myself; giving myself the luxury of this kind of inactivity isn’t going to solve anything. “Hello?”
“Alex Carmichael?” a woman’s voice asks. “I’m calling from Belmarsh Prison. We spoke earlier? So, it’s your lucky day.” Her tone is flatly edged with sarcasm. “We passed your message to Mr. Kashani and he’s keen to have you visit. And he doesn’t have a lot of visitors, as it goes, so he hasn’t used up any of his slots this month. Do you want to set up a time?”
“I see. Right.” With difficulty, I try to focus. I’m vaguely conscious of a sickening, swooping sensation, not dissimilar to the point on a roller coaster when you near the top and know that the downward plunge is not far away. “Yes. Yes, that would be good. The sooner the better, I suppose.”
“You could do this afternoon,” she says. “At five.”
Despite what I’ve just said, I feel a pathetic desire to turn away from the situation. But this isn’t the time for childish histrionics. “That works for me,” I say firmly.
“You can look up the guidelines on our website,” the woman says. “Good-bye.”
I hang up, and lie down on the bed, rubbing my hands across my face. It’s faster than I had expected, but the timing works; I could go to the hospital and spend the morning visiting hour with Jade, then travel up to southeast London after lunch. I can feel a headache starting, aching in the depths of my temples. I have the sense that I’m straying too far into something I don’t understand, but the old adage flashes into my mind: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. That’s what I’m doing here—getting closer, trying to put myself in the way of anyone who might want to destroy what I’ve got left. I tell myself this, and try to ignore another peculiarly apt little phrase—that if you’re playing with fire, you run the risk of getting burned.
* * *
• • •
THAT AFTERNOON I take the train to Woolwich, then hail a taxi to Belmarsh. The prison stretches wide, a vast, dark monolith. I glance up at the row of small windows running across the lower walls, but the glass is dark and blank, offering no clue as to what is inside. I linger for a few moments by the entrance, wishing I still smoked and had a reason to delay. As I do so, a thought strikes me and I take out my wallet, fishing out the small photograph of Natalie that I keep there. She’s looking straight down the lens and laughing, standing by the sea in her bikini with the sunlight sparkling on her face. Having scanned the visiting guidelines online, I know I won’t be allowed to take anything in with me, but I want to show Kaspar this. The sight of her is bound to provoke some kind of reaction, and it’ll be more instinctive, more real than words. It’ll help me to unde
rstand what his feelings toward her are. And maybe there’s another reason, too; maybe I want to get a sense, if I can, of how much she’s changed.
I oscillate between possibilities for a moment, then decide to slip the photograph inside the waistband of my trousers, where it lies flat. I check my phone and see that it’s almost five o’clock. Shoving the wallet back into my coat, I turn and make for the entrance of the visitors’ center.
As soon as I push my way through the heavy doors, an impassive official asks to see my ID, takes my photograph, and scans the prints of my index fingers into the system. “First time?” he says. “You leave your personal possessions in a locker. You take in your VO and some money for refreshments if you want, that’s all.”
I nod, beginning to empty my pockets. The wallet stuffed with credit cards, a little pile of business cards, a pair of gold cuff links. I find myself lingering over these items, wanting for some craven middle-class reason to show the official that I am a professional, but he completely ignores me and I feel like an idiot. “Pound for the locker,” he mutters when I have finished, and I exchange my possessions for a smooth silver key that I drop into my top pocket.
“Thanks,” I say. The roof of my mouth is sticky and dry.
“No problem.” The official scratches the skin above his eyebrow, his fingers moving dully back and forth. He looks very young, no more than twenty-two. For an instant I wonder if he’s an inmate brought out on remand, or performing some kind of rehabilitation duty. As if he has read my mind, he looks up sharply and shuffles up straight. “Go to the main gate and show your VO,” he says. “They’ll scan you again and then show you to the waiting area.” He looks down, dismissing me.
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