“They’re framed on his wall. In any case, if I carry you it won’t take long. No need to bring the wheelchair.” Without waiting for my response he swings out of the car and within seconds I’m in his arms and we’re standing outside Max’s front door.
I push against his shoulder in panic. “Please. I don’t want to go in there.”
“All that’s missing is a white dress and a veil, eh? Oh, and a bouquet of roses.”
“Sorry? Roses? What?” My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears as I watch him unlock the white PVC door that I can’t take in what he’s saying.
I glance over his shoulder to see if any neighbors are around, anyone watching us enter the house. I’m suddenly filled with a cold sense of dread: if no one sees us go in, no one will be any the wiser if we don’t come out. I try to tell myself that I’m getting in a state for no good reason. But something has definitely shifted in Dom’s mood. I remember the signs all too well; back in the bright-dark, I relived every single one of them, and they crawl sickeningly back into my mind now.
“Something old, something new. Takes you back, doesn’t it? Me carrying you over the threshold,” he says, striding in to the small, dark hallway and kicking the door shut behind him. It gets caught on the latch and doesn’t close properly, so he gives it a final heavy kick with his boot to slam it shut. The sound echoes through the empty, bare-boarded hall.
“Oh.” The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach intensifies. The house is freezing cold and it smells damp and musty, but it’s the look on Dom’s face that’s making me feel faint, nauseous—and suddenly very afraid.
THIRTY-SIX
“Here comes the bride. Perhaps we should check out the master bedroom first. Pretend we really are newlyweds and this is a fresh start for us.” He winches me more tightly against his chest and begins to climb the steep stairs, slowly, one heavy footstep at a time.
“No! Stop! I don’t want to go up there,” I say, starting to panic in earnest now as he carries me up the narrow staircase and on to a dingy landing. He doesn’t reply but barges open the first door ahead of us with his shoulder, leaning against the light switch inside to turn on a single bare bulb. It must only be 40 watts as it hardly illuminates the surprisingly large square bedroom, but there is enough light for me to see a metal-framed double bed in the middle. A bed with a white mattress and nothing else: no bedding, no other furniture, no curtains or carpet on the stripped floorboards.
And absolutely no sign of any photos on the wall.
“Are you sure, though, Maddie? Because I thought you’d love one last chance to roll around on my brother’s bed.”
“Dom . . .”
“Make you feel good, did he? Treat you better than I do? Good old Max. Always itching to get his hands on whatever’s mine. Always hanging around, ready to step into his brother’s shoes.” He tosses me down on to the bare mattress and reaches deep into the right-hand pocket of his trousers. “Always ready to climb into my bed and fuck my wife.” He roots around for a few seconds more before pulling out a key and striding back to the door.
The grinding crunch of the lock echoes ominously in the empty room; I feel it low down in my belly.
Dom turns to me with a smile on his face and I lurch to the side of the bed, duck my head over the side, and throw up.
* * *
“Why, Dom? Why are you keeping me here?” I know I shouldn’t plead. That’s not the way to get through to him. But I can’t play his mind games any more.
“To give you time to think, of course.” He stands next to the bed, legs spread, hands on hips.
“About what?”
“About everything you’ve done. What you’re going to do next.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us. I just don’t get why you thought Annabel was dead. Where did such an idea even come from?” It’s the third time he’s asked me, jacket off, crisp white shirtsleeves rolled neatly back, looming over me while I cower at the head of the double bed, my back pressed against the cold, peeling, white-painted wall.
“I told you, I don’t know.” I rub my hands over my face, trying to ignore the acidic smell of vomit in the already stuffy room. Dom doesn’t seem remotely bothered by it; he stands like a bodyguard, big body arrogantly upright, shoulders back, watching me with that same small smile.
There is no way I can explain to him how my mind has played tricks on me. It’s not that I don’t think he’ll understand; he’s clever. Too clever. He’s clearly laid a trap for me and he’ll turn everything he can against me. One hint of the guilt I’d been feeling on the morning of the twins’ birthday—the guilt that my shattered mind transformed into an incredibly powerful, incredibly real image of Annabel’s death—and he’ll have me cornered. I can’t admit the choice I made because I know he’s going to use every last bit of ammunition he has against me: to confess my deepest shame now would be like handing him a loaded gun.
Yet he won’t take no for an answer; same old Dom. I thought tragedy had changed us both. He’s been giving a first-rate impression of a concerned, devoted husband. He had me—and everyone else, I think despairingly—utterly fooled.
“You must have had a reason. What did Max say to you before he pulled the trigger?” he persists, leaning towards me now.
I press myself harder against the wall, desperate to keep some distance between us. “He said nothing at all. The twins must have told you that.” It’s a calculated risk: I want to know what Annabel and Aidan saw, what they heard. I’m hoping I can bluff Dom into telling me.
“Is that right? Max said nothing. Just wandered in to our back garden with a gun in his hand, a balaclava over his head, and shot you for not running away with him, and then in an agony of guilt and despair shot himself?” His laugh is an angry bark. “He was more stupid than I thought, then. I can think of any number of ways to punish you that don’t involve me ending up with my brains splattered over our rose bushes.”
“But why would you want to punish me? I didn’t leave you. I’m still here. I’m still willing to give our marriage another go, in spite of—”
“In spite of . . . ?” His face is only inches away from mine; his blue eyes squint accusingly at me.
“Nothing,” I say, not wanting to incite him further by mentioning the physical and emotional cruelty that colored the last year of our marriage.
“It’s a curious delusion, though, wouldn’t you agree? I wonder if maybe you were—I’m not quite sure how to put this.” His voice softens but without tenderness; he is taunting me. “Losing your mind?” His brow creases as he ponders the possibility.
“No! I was just . . .” So many words bubble up, overwhelming me; I can’t begin to explain what I was. I only know what I am now: frightened, desperate, yearning for my children. If Dom keeps me here, locking me up while he returns to our home, to the twins, that means they will be alone with him—and in the state of mind he’s in . . .
Lucy is there too, I remind myself urgently, trying to quell my flash of panic at the thought of the twins being in danger. She won’t let any harm come to Annabel and Aidan; I know she won’t. But would she really be able to protect them? Is she even there—or is Dom lying? It wouldn’t surprise me. His behavior has been so plausible, so conciliatory up until now, but it’s clear that it’s all been an act. I have absolutely no idea how many lies he’s been telling me, and everyone else. What lies he’s still telling, or what he intends to achieve with them. He clearly has an agenda; I can’t even begin to guess what it is.
I suddenly wonder if there’s another, darker reason for Lucy’s mobile number not being recognized by the network. But even if it was simply a fault on the line, I don’t have a phone to call her . . . I don’t have anything but the soft Ugg boots, black leggings and gray hoodie Dom brought for me to wear. My oldest round-the-house clothes; it feels somehow symbolic. As if he’s reminding me of my place in life.
“I know you’ve been through a trauma. I understand tha
t.” He’s pacing the room now, his footsteps heavy on the wooden boards.
“I’m not mad, Dom,” I say desperately, scrabbling to my knees, guessing where he’s going with this. “You don’t have to keep me locked up. I’m not a nutcase, a danger to society—or my children. Professor Hernandez explained to me—”
“Ah, the handsome Spanish doctor,” he says. “What am I going to do with you? Flitting from one man to the next.”
“That’s not fair. He’s old enough to be my father, and in any case he’s been helping me.” My voice is a dry croak.
How I wish I hadn’t left that hospital before I’d spoken to Professor Hernandez. But I was so desperate to get home to the twins . . . I was completely fooled by Dom’s concern. Three months ago he walked out in anger. I thought he’d returned with an olive branch, but it’s just another stick to beat me with.
“What’s not fair is that you were leaving me.” Legs planted wide apart, he moves to stand at the end of the bed, his finger jabbing accusingly as he lists my crimes. “You’d packed your bag, hidden your little photo, bought your train tickets . . . You’d been plotting and planning with Max right under my nose. Sneaky, deceitful—”
“I’m sorry. I have no memory of any of that.” I hold out a hand to him, but he ignores it.
“So convenient, isn’t it, memory loss? And yet I was willing to forgive you. I know I’m to blame for not being the perfect husband, the dream man you fantasized about. But good old Max was, wasn’t he? The dark horse. Never saw him with a woman of his own. Turns out he had his eye on mine the whole time.”
“I have no idea what was in your brother’s mind, but I’m sure I’ve never thought of him in that way. I never compared you with him,” I tell him urgently. “If there was anything between me and Max . . .” I shake my head in disbelief, drawing a mental blank. “I just can’t even imagine it.”
“You can’t? The trouble is, I can. All too easily. The bored housewife stuck at home. Max always coming round, always available to help out while I was caught up in meetings or working late. He lacked my flair, of course. He was rough around the edges,” he says bluntly, “but some women like that, don’t they?”
“He was the twins’ uncle. I never thought—”
“That’s the trouble with you. You don’t think. I bet you’ve never even stopped to ask yourself how I feel about all this.” He darts round the side of the bed again and instinctively I lurch away from him, falling back against the thin mattress. He bends over me, arms braced either side of my head.
“Of course I have,” I tell him, trying to stay calm. “I know how dreadful it’s been for you—and for the children. It has for me too. It’s like a living nightmare. Being in hospital all this time. Being apart from my children . . .” My voice cracks and I fall silent.
His big hands grip my shoulders, shooting pain signals into my brain. I’ve lost so much weight that my usual curves have all but vanished; there’s hardly any padding of flesh to protect my still-fragile bones.
“Surely you don’t expect sympathy from me? Ha! That’s rich. You plot and scheme to disappear from my life, breaking up the family I’ve done so much for, then you have the nerve to ask me to feel sorry for you?”
His voice is getting louder now. I hope he starts shouting; I hope a neighbor hears and comes to investigate. For a second I feel hopeful, then I remind myself that no one ever knocked on my front door in Hampton. The most attention our endless rows ever attracted was a few sympathetic glances from old Mr. Cooper next door when I popped round to take him a hot meal. And if no one in my leafy, comfortably middle-class street bothered to find out what was going on behind closed doors, what chance is there of anyone being bothered here—on this unloved estate where families come and go and everybody knows to mind their own business and not ask too many questions?
“I don’t want pity. I just want to go home. We can work it out. I know we can.” I try to inject as much sincerity and conviction into my voice as I can, but I shrink away from him as I see his face harden.
“I can’t let you do that, Maddie. Not yet.” His voice is soft but his blue eyes are chips of ice. “You were leaving me. You were leaving me and you were going to take the twins with you. Sneak out after their birthday party with me none the wiser, looking like an idiot surrounded by gossips and pity.”
He’s glaring at me but at the same time there’s that hint of a smile on his face still. I remember this Dom; he feels familiar to me now. He’s finally dropped all pretense. The gloves are off.
Smile, punch, smile, punch . . .
“I’ve raised the twins,” he continues, his big hand jerking out to cover my mouth when I open it to respond. “I’ve given them everything I had in me, and you were going to take all that away from me. So I have to be sure, you see? You have to prove to me that you’re not going to do that again before I let you come back. If you can do that, if you’re a good girl and do everything I ask of you, then I might—perhaps—be prepared to let you see Annabel and Aidan again.”
I squirm and choke, unable to catch my breath against the pressure of his hand. I smell cigarette smoke on his fingers; I didn’t know Dom had started smoking. The stench of it makes me feel sick again; nausea rushes up into my mouth and everything starts to go black.
“You mustn’t worry, though.” Softly now, feeling that my resistance is gone, my body turning limp. “Lucy is taking excellent care of the kids. They love her, and she loves them. They’re safe with us now, and that’s precisely where they’re going to stay.”
He pulls on my ponytail, jerking my head back until I gag on the vomit rushing up into my throat. He waits until I’ve stopped coughing. Barely conscious, I hear his rasping voice in my ear: “They don’t even know you’re awake.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
I’m still invisible.
My first thought on waking up is that I may have unvanished as far as the rest of the world is concerned, but my world is the twins—and they believe I’m still unconscious, trapped in that unknowable limbo between life and death. As does Lucy, no doubt. And if they don’t know I’m awake, they won’t be expecting me to come home; they won’t know the difference if I never come home. No one will know; no one will care.
Will Lucy? For a time, I was suspicious of her, petty jealousy spiraling out of control in my unconscious mind. But now I simply don’t believe Dom’s hint that they’re a couple. I was wrong about my friend—now I’m frightened for her, not knowing where she is or whether she’s all right . . . Not knowing whether my children are all right . . .
I start panicking and call out, my heart pounding in my chest as I scream my frustration into the darkness, begging for someone, anyone, to please help me. But there is no one to hear; no one to notice my absence and wonder what’s happened to me.
Professor Hernandez. Will he miss me and wonder where I am? I’d like to think so, but perhaps I’m kidding myself. I was never close to my own father, but I have a sense of having formed that kind of relationship with the doctor, and it meant everything to me. I think of Stash saying she’d have given up many times if it hadn’t been for him, and I feel the same. He saved me. In more ways than one. I was probably just another patient for him, though; I’ve been discharged and I will be forgotten. There will be another patient in my room now; another poor soul in need of his help. After all, he’s an expert in his field . . .
Second to none.
That’s what DCI Watkins called him. I think of the detectives and wonder if they will try to visit me again. Will they want to follow up on our interview, check in with me to see if I’ve remembered anything? Would they be surprised to find I’ve left the hospital—would they come looking for me at my home? But the case is closed, nothing more to say. What were the detective’s words? No further action is required . . .
No one is looking for me; there is no way out. I am completely at Dom’s mercy. Nobody knows I’m here and I have no phone, no food . . . I’m still too physically weak to attemp
t any kind of escape, even if I stood the remotest chance of overpowering Dom. I’m not sure I can even get myself to the bathroom and I really, badly need to go. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here but my bladder hurts. My face feels glued to the rough mattress with saliva, sweat and tears; the inside of my mouth feels like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. I must have slept but I don’t feel rested—I feel crumpled, aching and weak with thirst, hunger, terror and despair.
I try to concentrate on lifting just one leg, but my body feels wooden and heavy. I didn’t make it as far as having physio sessions at the hospital, and it’s still a considerable effort to move my limbs freely. After the long drive, no sustenance and an uncomfortable sleep punctuated by nightmares, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk without assistance.
“You may as well stop struggling. You’re not going anywhere.”
I can’t hide the bolt of shock that makes me jump, and I hear Dom’s chuckle in response. How long has he been standing there watching me? As I turn my head to look for him, a memory flashes into my mind of the night we first met, Dom staring at me just so from between the bookshelves. I shiver and it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dark, to be able to make out his tall body tucked inside an alcove where a wardrobe may once have stood. I’m convinced I’ve never been in this room—in this house—before, but I can tell that everything has been cleared out, all sign of Max erased.
“I need to . . .” I grimace, embarrassed.
“Ah, the little girls’ room. I’m not sure my brother went in for luxury toiletries, but then you’d know his tastes better than I ever did. Let’s investigate, shall we?” He steps out of the shadows and moves swiftly towards me, digging one arm under my legs and bracing the other behind my back; with the ease of lifting a child, he hoists me up against him.
Instantly I’m reminded of his comment when we arrived, and for the briefest moment I think of the days when there was nowhere I felt safer in the world than cradled against Dom’s broad chest: carrying me over the threshold of our first home together; holding me against him as we both cried tears of joy when the twins were born. He used to be my protector, and then he wasn’t. Now he’s my enemy: every fiber of my being screams out that I was right about him in the bright-dark, and that nothing has changed.
The Perfect Family Page 20