The Second Wife

by Rebecca Fleet

  I pay for the groceries, then go outside and perch on the wall, taking a picture of the bags of fizzy sweets and marshmallows that I’ve bought to indulge Jade’s sweet tooth. I write, Incoming delivery!! Next time I come, and send the message along with the photo. Within moments, she’s texted back, also with an accompanying picture. It’s a selfie—her thumb up, eyes widened crazily in only-half-joking glee. I smile; she’s looking pale, the skin almost translucent, but I can see something of her old energy returning. As I gaze at the picture, I notice a new bunch of gaudily colored flowers behind her on the table. She hasn’t mentioned any other visitors, but maybe one of her schoolfriends dropped in. I text back: Nice flowers. Who are they from?

  There’s a brief hiatus, and then the reply appears. Don’t be mad, but they’re from Jaxon . . . !!! He sent them this morning. It’s clear that she knows I won’t be happy, but can’t resist letting some of her excitement slip.

  I frown down at the phone, my fingers moving quickly. What? The boy you were messaging? You told me you would slow things down.

  Can’t help it if he wants to send me flowerrrrrs . . . she replies smartly.

  I know, but all the same. You’ve got to realize, Jade, he could be anyone. I’m uncomfortably aware of the hypocrisy in what I’m saying. I can’t help thinking of secretroom, and my interactions with Cali. Distasteful though the thought is, she, too, could be anyone: a precocious schoolgirl, a fat fifty-year-old trucker. But of course there’s a world of difference between fantasy and reality, and for Jade this definitely seems to be moving into the latter.

  There is a longer pause this time, and then her message pops up. Dad you don’t understand. He’s not some weirdo off the internet. I HAVE met him. Wanted to tell you yesterday but thought you might be even more mad. But maybe not . . .

  I hesitate a moment, and then I simply hit 1 on my speed dial and call her. This isn’t a conversation for text.

  She answers guardedly. “Ye-es . . .”

  “Hi, Jade.” I try to soften my voice, but I can’t help a slight brusqueness creeping in. “Now, what’s all this about? You’ve met this boy? How? When?”

  Jade sighs down the line. “You remember a few weeks ago when the dishwasher broke? And we called someone out to fix it? Well, I came home from school and he was still there. We, um, got talking, I guess. And before he left, he kind of asked for my number.”

  With difficulty, I do recall the dishwasher breaking down, and my asking Natalie to look up a local tradesman and call them out. “Did Natalie know about this?” I ask.

  “No,” Jade admits grudgingly. “She was out of the room when he asked me. I mean, he’s not going to do it in front of her, is he. Imagine if I said no.”

  “How old is this boy?” I ask. “I mean, to come out on his own on a job like that, he’d have to be . . .”

  “Seventeen,” Jade supplies. “He’s on an apprenticeship.” She sounds inexplicably proud, as if being on a learning curve to fix other people’s broken-down appliances is some kind of badge of honor, but I bite back the social snobbery, which, after all, isn’t the point.

  “That’s three years older than you,” I point out. “It might not sound like much, but at your age, it’s a lot . . . There are things he might be into, or might want, which you, well . . .”

  “Dad,” says Jade, embarrassment creeping into her tone. “Look, he’s, um, respectful, all right? I told him my age and he was happy to just message for a while, get to know each other, before meeting up. So that’s what we’ve been doing. Honestly, it’s no big deal. Sophie’s had a boyfriend for four months, I’ve mentioned him to you loads of times, and you don’t care about that.”

  “Well, it isn’t my job to care about that,” I respond automatically, but nonetheless something in her words has struck home. “Look, I’ll be in to see you a bit later,” I say to buy myself time. “We can talk more then.”

  “OK,” Jade says meekly. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I say, and then I hang up. Does the fact that Jade has met this boy make it better, or worse? I’m not sure. And is she right in what she’s intimating, that under more normal circumstances I wouldn’t be so up in arms over it? It’s true that she’s spoken to me about friends’ boyfriends lately, more than once, and I’ve thought little of it. I remember myself at fourteen—a typical teenager, all mouth and no trousers, embarking on romances that were ultimately pretty tame, no matter what I liked to tell my friends. Jade is growing up, and this is a natural part of that.

  The more I consider it, the more I can’t help suspecting that my judgment is off at the moment. It’s hardly surprising if I’m paranoid, but the hardest thing is that I have no idea just how much is paranoia. I have no way of judging the real level of any threat to us. I can feel frustration rising in me, tightening my throat. This isn’t sustainable—I can’t carry on in this limbo, walking in the dark, waiting for something to happen because I know so little about what’s going on around me. I think again about talking to the police; perhaps it will help, but I still can’t muster up much faith in their ability or willingness to act fast.

  I can’t stop thinking about the man in the house. I don’t know his name, but I do have one other fact at my fingertips: the location of the club. From what I’ve read online, it sounds as if it’s changed both hands and image since those days, but nonetheless, it’s possible that there may still be people around the area who remember Kaspar and his associates.

  I look up Blackout again and find that it’s a bar as well as a club, and that it opens at 5 p.m. I could go up there this afternoon, see what I can find. I might not have got far with Kaspar himself, but if I can track down this guy and talk to him man to man, convince him that Natalie and I just want to live our lives without trouble, then maybe it could help. Whatever’s going on here, it’s been sparked by ancient history: a pointless exercise in raking over old ground. This might be about revenge, but I’m willing to bet that like most crimes, it’s just as much about boredom, frustration, lack of choices. I can’t help thinking that there must be some way it can be resolved.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN WE COME BACK from the hospital that afternoon I tell Natalie that I’m going into town and that then I’ll meet up with Gav from the office later, and she doesn’t question it. Now that we’re confined to a claustrophobic hotel room, there’s a tacit understanding that we need more space.

  “Late one, do you think?” she asks as I kiss her good-bye.

  “Maybe. Gav’s broken up with his latest girlfriend,” I say. “Might want to drown his sorrows, you know, or come up with a game plan for how to get her back . . .”

  “Tell him to try walking on two legs.” Natalie’s always been of the opinion that Gav is a bit of a Neanderthal, but this sort of banter has been pretty scarce of late, and I realize that I miss it.

  The train to London is delayed on the approach to Victoria and I end up staring out of a grimy window at piles of grotty industrial buildings. Already on edge, when my phone buzzes in my pocket it makes me start. I pull it out and see that another message from SRUK has arrived. Remembering that last conversation with Cali, and the strangeness of her words—I want to know everything—I’m tempted to delete it without reading, but something makes me open it.

  Sorry about last time, the message says. I shouldn’t have asked about your wife.

  I hit reply, seeing that the green dot beside her name is already lit. Don’t worry about it. To be honest, I’m just not sure why you’re back in touch at all.

  The reply is swift. I’ve been thinking about you, that’s all. Wondering about you. You’re not afraid of me, are you, Alex?

  As soon as I see the line of text I know that something’s wrong, even if it takes me a few seconds to put my finger on it. It’s not just the oddness of her question. When I realize, it makes my heart pound, though whether with pan
ic or adrenaline I’m not sure.

  How do you know my name?

  I stare at the screen, waiting. Secretroom is anonymous. That’s the whole point. There’s nothing that could possibly link me to this locked-down profile on an under-the-radar site. At last I see the line of dots start to move, indicating she’s typing a new message.

  I’ve known who you are for a while.

  How?! Why? I type back. What’s going on here?

  Look, don’t worry. I was curious, that’s all. We live close, you know. I’m only a few miles outside Brighton. I heard about what happened. About the fire. I was worried about you.

  I exhale, wondering where to start with this. It’s increasingly starting to sound like this woman is some kind of obsessed stalker, which I can really do without. Well, you can stop worrying, I type back. I can look after myself. I’m sorry, but I find this unsettling, and I don’t want to be in contact anymore.

  She fires back quickly. Has something else happened?

  I frown, and I’ve replied without quite considering what I actually want to say. A lot of things are happening right now.

  A long pause this time. I have no idea if what I am saying is hitting home with Cali, or whether she thinks this is all just part of some weird erotic game. I’m fidgety and restless, gnawing at the side of my thumbnail, and I’m thinking about logging off and blocking her, just drawing a line under it. But then I see that she’s typing a new message.

  When it appears, it knocks the breath briefly from my body.

  She’s told you, hasn’t she?

  I stare at that line of text for a few seconds. I try to think logically and fast to find the perfect reply, but before I can, the green light next to her username grays out. She’s gone.

  “Shit,” I say aloud, tapping uselessly at the keypad. Come back. But the automatic response just flashes: Cali will receive your message when she is next online.

  * * *

  • • •

  THOSE FIVE LITTLE WORDS go round in my head all the way to Camden Town. I still don’t understand what she meant, but it feels significant, and it makes me oddly uneasy. It’s tempting to dwell on it further, but I force myself to put it to the back of my mind. I have other things to concentrate on right now.

  I get off the tube and set out toward Blackout. It’s been over a decade since I’ve been to a place like this. I don’t even know if I’m wearing the right clothes—I’ve played it safe with a gray T-shirt and dark jeans, but for all I know this is the kind of environment where you won’t be let in unless you’re wearing some kind of ridiculous fluorescent trance getup. I should have checked the dress code. For a moment I entertain the stupid but attractive thought that perhaps I should just turn around and go back to Brighton, but in the next instant, I see the club.

  It’s a tall black building, the word BLACKOUT flashing relentlessly in bright neon lettering. There are a few people filtering through the doors already; mostly student-y types in jeans and leather jackets. It doesn’t seem like a particularly niche crowd, but I still feel out of place. The door is half open, and as I peer past the hulking doorman I think about my wife being inside these walls a long time ago . . . a young woman with a different name and a different life. It’s only a trick of the light, but for an instant I think I can see her, moving swiftly and fluidly across the floor, her shoulders bare and her long hair falling down her back, elusive as a ghost.

  I linger for a moment; then, making a decision, I stride up to the doorman.

  “Go on in, mate,” the doorman says in a monotone. He’s a shortish, thickset man with a shaved head and shoulders twice their natural size, squeezed into an ill-fitting suit.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I say. “I don’t know if he’s in there or not.”

  “Go on in,” the doorman repeats with exaggerated patience, “and then you can find out.”

  I glance through the doors again. I could do as he suggests, but now that we’re talking, I think it’s worth pushing my luck; this man looks to be in his early forties at least, and pretty at home here. “Look, you might be able to help me. Have you been around here for a while? Did you know this place back when it was Kaspar’s?”

  Up until this point the doorman has been regarding me coolly and with minimal interest, but when I say Kaspar’s name he folds his arms and I see something change in his posture, as if he’s standing to attention. I register the power this name has, even after all this time, and a quick shudder passes down the length of my spine.

  “Who’s asking?” he says.

  “I’m not looking for any trouble,” I say. “I’m just trying to look after my family.” The man is wearing a thick gold wedding band, and I let my gaze drop to it for an instant before looking him full in the face again. “This guy I’m looking for, he’s quite—” I’m going to say short, but I stop myself. “He’s about your height, I think. Blond, cropped hair. Muscular. He’s got an unusual sort of face, kind of . . . doughy. You know? He was a friend of Kaspar’s. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  His face gives nothing away. He regards me steadily for a few seconds, but seems to reach some kind of internal decision, and I see the shutters go up. “Can’t help you.”

  This feels like a closed circle, but I can’t help pressing the point; something tells me that he’s recognized my description. “Please. Trust me, it’s important.”

  The doorman regards me thoughtfully, then turns his attention to a few more gathering people briefly, ushering them through into the dark mouth of the club. He nods at his young associate by the coatroom, beckoning him forward. “Cover me for five minutes.” Without checking to see if I’m following, he strides down the road. I do follow, albeit cautiously. I have no idea where he’s taking me, but to my surprise we come to a halt outside an all-night supermarket. He stands in front of the fluorescent frontage, arms folded, looking at me impassively.

  “What . . .” I begin, and then my gaze strays to the left of where he’s standing and I see the hole-in-the-wall ATM. “Okay. I see. How much?”

  “Two hundred.” There’s a challenge in his tone and I suspect he’s expecting negotiation. I think about it, but in the end I decide it’s pointless. I may as well show him how important this information is to me.

  Under his watchful eye, I take out my card and withdraw the cash. I hold the wedge of notes tightly in my hand. “Well?”

  The man puts out his hand in silence. The tension between us stretches. For a moment, that ever-present instinct kicks in; if this turned nasty, could I win? I’m taller, but he’s broader, and there’s a dull glint in his eye, that kind of brute, primal stupidity that can be dangerous. Slowly, I uncurl my fingers and pass him the notes.

  “Dominic Westwood,” he says flatly. “You’ll find him in one of the pubs down Gordon Street. Who told you this?”

  I don’t immediately catch what he means. “What?”

  “Who told you this?” he repeats, this time with more menace.

  Finally I get it. “Not you.”

  “Right answer, rich boy.” Without a backward glance, the doorman turns and walks off, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking with a rolling gait that speaks of cocky satisfaction.

  Gordon Street turns out to be long and winding, crammed full of pubs and bars, and I curse myself for not trying to get a bit more information for my money. It’s already starting to feel like a wild-goose chase, but nonetheless I make a start. I quickly develop a system: work my way clockwise around the room, keeping my eyes open for any man who even vaguely fits the description—of whom there are surprisingly few—then stay close by until I either satisfy myself that he doesn’t match it closely enough or hear him called by name, and then move on.

  I’ve already combed through six or seven pubs this way when I start thinking about what I’m doing. I’d planned to be up front with this man—Dominic—lay my cards on
the table and see how he responded. But I’m having second thoughts about the wisdom of this strategy; perhaps it would be better to engage him in conversation somehow, find out a bit more about him and where he lives or works now, so that I can simply take the information back to the police and ask them to investigate him. The more I think about it, the more sensible this seems.

  The eighth pub on the street is the King and Coaches, a shabby black-fronted building with a peeling gold sign. It is half empty. A few groups of men sit huddled around pints in the dim lamplight, several of them scowling across at the door with brief animal suspicion as I push it open. The change in atmosphere is palpable; most of the bars I’ve been in so far have been packed with amiably drunk revelers, but this doesn’t feel like the kind of place you come to celebrate. There’s an odd, hushed quality to the stale air, and I feel the hairs rise on my arms in prickly discomfort. This is the place. I’ve never been one for premonitions, but I know it at once, and when I see the man sitting alone at the bar, his back turned to me, his face reflected in the mirror on the far wall, I feel no surprise.

  He’s about my age, maybe early forties, with thickset shoulders under a khaki bomber jacket. His hair is cropped close to his skull, so fair that it looks almost white. He’s nursing a pint, his hands clamped around the glass as he stares into space. I see now what Jade meant about his features; he’s not ugly, but there’s something rough and slightly unfinished about his face, as if it’s been inexpertly sculpted. I stand silently for a moment, fighting the rush of anger. Breathing deeply, I force myself to step forward calmly. I’ll order a drink at the bar and stand next to him, then start a conversation—ask if he’s got the football scores maybe, then take it from there.