The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  It felt colder down on the floor and Emma looked behind her towards the en-suite bathroom. There was a draught coming from inside the room. She tentatively made her way across and looked inside. The window was wide open, the wind blowing the top of the raised venetian blind against the glass. She stepped over and looked out. Down on the patio, smashed into a thousand tiny pieces, was her laptop. She gasped. Stunned by the revelation, she suddenly realized she’d been standing there in the bathroom too long. She pulled herself together, grabbed her toothbrush and gel, and peering back out onto the darkening landing, saw it was empty. Softly she made her way to the top of the stairs. Below her, in the shadowy hall, she could see the front door. Only a few steps then she was free. But first she needed to go back into the dining room, get rid of the bucket, the screw. She cursed herself for not doing so earlier.

  Carefully she placed her foot on the top stair, and that was when she heard the noise. A muffled sound, barely audible, coming from below.

  Adrian was somewhere downstairs.

  NINETY-ONE

  Monday 26 February

  Emma considered making a run for it. She’d race down the stairs, fling open the front door and bolt across the driveway. But the electronic gate would take too long to open, and the alternative, to climb over, well, Adrian would be on her in seconds. She gazed longingly at the short distance between her and freedom but knew it was impossible to cross.

  Her mind quickly began to run through alternative options, but there were no other stairs, and jumping from a first-floor window would likely end in a broken ankle or worse. She was trapped.

  A faint light outside suddenly caught her eye, startling her; the lighthouse had started its nocturnal vigilance. She stood rooted to the floor as it went through its five-second cycle. One second of light and then darkness. Then, to her horror, in the fleeting glow cast into the house, she saw the kitchen door open the tiniest amount.

  The house suddenly went dark again as the lighthouse came to its rest period. She could no longer see the door and imagined it opening wider, Adrian coming out and catching her on the stairs. She backed away, terrified. Hide. She had to hide. She quickly dived into the closest room to her and found herself in Adrian’s office. There she waited, heart pounding. The noise in her ears was deafening and she strained to listen – had he heard her? She started to look for somewhere to hide.

  NINETY-TWO

  Monday 26 February

  Carrie pulled into the North Foreland Estate, with Rory asleep in the back of the car. It had been a long drive, made longer by the fact she’d had to stop and feed him. As she drove along the estate’s genteel roads, she saw Geraldine up ahead waving her down. She slowed the car, and Geraldine, who was out walking her dog, looked delightedly into the back. Carrie lowered the window.

  ‘Oh, but he’s a darling!’ exclaimed Geraldine in a loud whisper. ‘Look at him! Is he good? Keeping you up at night? Have you got him into a routine? Oh, look at those tiny hands!’

  Carrie smiled. ‘He’s not too bad. Allows me a few hours every now and then.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ said Geraldine. ‘I’ve been dying to clap my eyes on this little man. And you, of course. Are you staying a few days? Perhaps I could come over and see you both?’

  ‘Um . . . sure,’ said Carrie. She wasn’t certain whether she would drive back that night but didn’t want to get into a discussion on it with Geraldine.

  ‘I’ve hardly seen Adrian the whole time he’s been here. Holed up writing by all accounts.’

  Carrie nodded vaguely. She wanted to get away, go to the house. ‘I really ought to get on . . .’ she started apologetically.

  ‘Of course. Need to get this little one in the warm, eh?’

  Carrie smiled. ‘That’s right.’

  She was just about to raise the window when Geraldine put her hand on the glass.

  ‘It’s funny – I thought I saw you earlier,’ said Geraldine. ‘Same blonde bob. But it must have been that assistant person. Funny how alike you two look.’

  A piercing ringing sound was screeching in Carrie’s ears. Her worst fears were realized: Emma was here. She was vaguely aware of Geraldine still jabbering on, but her brain had tuned it out. She suddenly needed to get away.

  ‘I must get on,’ she interrupted. ‘Before Rory wakes.’

  ‘Oh, does he need a feed?’ asked Geraldine, looking at the sleeping Rory in puzzlement.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Carrie, taking her cue. She said a very rapid goodbye and drove off. As she turned into her street, she knew she wouldn’t park in the driveway. She wouldn’t give Adrian the benefit of any warning. She’d leave the car in the street and walk up to the house from there.

  NINETY-THREE

  Monday 26 February

  Emma frantically glanced around the room. The only place to hide was behind the sofa and she scrabbled round the back of it as quickly as she could. There she crouched, vulnerable, kicking herself for not picking something up – even the glass paperweight from Adrian’s desk. There was no time to get it now, as she could hear him climbing the stairs. Creeping footsteps, those of a predator stalking its prey. Then, at the top of the landing, he stopped. She curled herself up as small as possible, tried to still her breathing. Adrian walked across the landing and paused outside the office door.

  Emma tensed – Please no. Please no – but then miraculously she heard him move on, towards what she estimated to be the bedroom she’d been sleeping in. Blood was pumping in her ears, thunderous, and she knew it was only a matter of minutes before he came back. Maybe not to the office first, but he’d methodically work his way through each room, one by one, until he found her.

  She had to get out. Petrified, she started to back away from behind the sofa until she was visible again. She stood in the corner of the dark room and listened, trying to work out where Adrian was, but she couldn’t hear a thing other than her heart thudding. She forced herself to step towards the door, slowly, silently, one foot then the next. Suddenly she froze. She’d heard a sound, but it had come from downstairs, in the hallway. Confused, she stood stock-still, straining her ears. What was going on?

  NINETY-FOUR

  Monday 26 February

  Carrie closed the front door softly behind her, careful not to wake Rory, who was still sleeping in his car seat over her arm. She looked around at the dark house, puzzled as to why no lights were on. She turned on the hall light, but it didn’t work. She frowned – had there been a power cut? Geraldine hadn’t mentioned anything.

  She went into the living room, but the lights weren’t working there either. There were tea lights in the dining room, she knew, in the sideboard. She placed the sleeping Rory in his car seat on the living-room rug, and with a last look to make sure all the movement hadn’t woken him, left the room.

  NINETY-FIVE

  Monday 26 February

  Emma could hear another sound, this one much closer. Adrian was creeping back along the landing, heading towards the office. She could sense he was a metre, maybe two, from the door. Sweat broke out under her armpits and she was rigid with fear. Then his footsteps continued and she heard him begin to descend the stairs. She realized she’d stopped breathing and gulped silent lungfuls of air. He must have heard the sound too, and she realized he probably thought she had gone downstairs.

  Very, very quietly she crept to the door and opened it the tiniest fraction, then peered out. Through the gloom she thought she saw him enter the dining room. Two near-misses were enough. She knew it was dangerous but she had to get out of there. Her bag still clutched to her side, she started to creep down the stairs, praying he wouldn’t come out and ambush her.

  One more step. And another. Soon she was halfway down. The lighthouse cast its momentary glow and she cowered against the wall. But on she went, and then miraculously she was at the bottom. She could see the dining-room door was open and knew as she crossed the hall to get to the front door she’d be in the line of vision of anyone
who was inside – but only if they were looking her way. It was risky, but she had to chance it.

  Her legs were shaking. Just go, just go, and she began to walk towards the front door when suddenly a piercing scream came from the dining room. A female scream. Startled, she was thrown off course. Everything then began to run at great speed, as if it were on fast forward. A baby began to cry. She looked around in confusion. Rory? But if he were here, then . . . She automatically glanced towards the dining room and saw two figures – a larger one with his back to her who seemed to be wrapping something round the neck of someone else. Carrie. Instinctively, Emma ran into the room and launched herself at Adrian, climbing onto his back like an animal. With a roar he reared up, and the last thing she saw was the fury in his eyes turn to confusion before she felt herself fall backwards and everything went black.

  NINETY-SIX

  Monday 26 February

  Carrie held her throat, still choking, trying to breathe. She needed to get to Rory, to save him. She’d fight to the death before he was hurt, and she turned to face her attacker—

  Adrian.

  Stunned, Carrie couldn’t take her eyes off him. She didn’t understand. She clasped her throat again in fear and utter bewilderment.

  ‘I’m . . . It wasn’t supposed . . .’ stuttered Adrian. ‘I thought you were Emma. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. It was Emma.’

  Carrie backed away, frightened. She glanced at the floor where Emma lay prostrate on the ground.

  ‘What?’ she whispered hoarsely.

  Adrian began to step towards her, arms outstretched.

  ‘Get away from me,’ she snapped.

  ‘No, you don’t understand.’

  She looked at this man who was once her husband and barely recognized him. Unkempt, dangerous. The skin on her throat burned. He’d tried to kill her. She could hear Rory screaming for her now and every sinew in her body strained to get to him.

  Adrian took another step towards her and in fear she shoved him away with all the force she could muster.

  He stumbled backwards, crashing into the side of a chair. Losing his balance, he continued to fall, arms windmilling, trying to regain his footing, but his body had gone past the tipping point and he plunged towards the fireplace, his bewildered eyes on hers as the back of his head landed on the marble hearth.

  His eyes, fixed forever wide in shock, suddenly and instantaneously became lifeless. A small pool of liquid that looked black in the shadows began to trickle from under his head and ran ominously along the hearth.

  PART FOUR

  Rory

  NINETY-SEVEN

  Tuesday 27 February

  Emma stared at the pale olive hospital walls, watching the pattern of light as the sun shone through the venetian blinds. She still had no idea how she’d got out of that house – how she was still alive. She had a flash memory of Adrian throwing her, a nightmarish vision that came to her again and again when she slept, waking her with a start, heart racing, head pounding. It did nothing to help mend her severe concussion and she’d lain in bed in the dark for hours, aching from a grinding headache, which never seemed to diminish, despite the copious amounts of painkillers she’d been administered.

  She’d asked the nurses, but they’d been unable, or unwilling, to say anything, brushing her off with claims of ignorance as they bustled from her to the next person. Whatever had happened, she didn’t want to talk to the police. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. However, the police were here. One of the nurses had asked if they could come in and she knew she’d have to speak to them sooner or later and so reluctantly agreed.

  She saw them approach, two detectives in plain clothes, a woman and a younger man. They introduced themselves as the woman sat down beside her. She was Detective Sergeant French. There was only one chair, so Detective Constable Baker stood awkwardly as the nurse pulled a curtain round them all, enclosing them in a fabric bubble.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us,’ said DS French. The smile she gave was designed to put Emma at ease, but it was so over-practised, it didn’t reach the detective’s eyes. Emma stiffened. She had been told they only wanted a statement, but from the look of DS French, she was planning on being here a while.

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about the events of last night,’ continued the detective.

  Emma looked down at the bed sheet, inspected her hands.

  ‘We believe that a man, Adrian Hill, attacked you and that you fell and hit your head.’

  Well, that was true. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Can you tell us why?’

  No. It’s too long, too complicated, too sad. She turned her head towards the window. Sensed DS French glance at DC Baker, exchange a look.

  ‘Were you trying to stop him from hurting his wife?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Had he mistakenly identified her as you? Was he in fact trying to hurt you?’

  Please go away.

  ‘You know he’s dead?’

  Emma froze. Her heart started to pound. She looked back at them, eyes wide.

  ‘How?’

  ‘He had a fall, in the dining room of his house, and a loose screw that had been left on the ground unfortunately entered his skull. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘It was one of those things no one could predict,’ said DC Baker, on seeing Emma’s eyes widen in horror. ‘Just the wrong combination of timing and luck.’

  Goosebumps erupted on Emma’s skin. She turned her face away. ‘One of those freak unlucky accidents,’ she thought, twisting the line Adrian had once used to taunt her.

  ‘What about Carrie?’ she asked. ‘And Rory? Are they OK?’

  ‘Both fine,’ said DS French, but she didn’t elaborate. ‘So perhaps you’d like to tell us your version of events?’

  She seemed impatient to get on, to hear what Emma had to say. She was hiding something, Emma thought. Not telling her the full picture. And Adrian was dead.

  ‘There are a few unexplained things we’d like to clear up. We think you might be able to help us.’

  She tensed.

  ‘You went to the house daily – is that right? To help Adrian with his work?’

  Geraldine would confirm this, thought Emma. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where would you work with him?’

  ‘Mostly in the office. Sometimes the kitchen.’

  ‘What about the dining room?’

  ‘Not really.’

  DS French nodded. ‘So you didn’t ever spend any time with Adrian in the dining room?’

  ‘Well, I might have gone in there at one point, and he might have been there too, but it wasn’t where we worked.’

  ‘OK.’ DS French paused. ‘Adrian had weals on his right wrist consistent with being tied up for a significant period of time. Can you tell us anything about this?’

  Frightened, Emma shook her head.

  DS French watched her. Then continued. ‘There was an iron ring on the hearth in the dining room, and we believe that the screw that went into the back of Adrian’s head was at one point used to hold the iron ring in a brick in the fireplace. There is a hole there, and brick dust, as if the ring had recently been removed.’

  Her mouth was dry and she had to force herself to stay calm. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘A bucket was found in the room, partly filled with urine. We believe this to be Adrian’s urine. It’s as if he was tied to the fireplace for so long a bucket was deliberately left there for him to relieve himself.’

  Emma kept her expression blank.

  The look on DS French’s face was indecipherable. Emma held her gaze for as long as she could, knowing all she had to do was not crack. If she denied everything, then she had a chance. The only person who might know what had happened was Carrie. Had Adrian told her before he’d fallen and died? She thought not by the way these detectives were questioning her. If Carrie didn’t know, no one did. No one would know what had happened.

  Emma was suddenly exhausted, fright
ened. Tears inexplicably began to run down her face. The stress of the last few days crashed over her like a tsunami and she refused to say anything more, asked them to leave. When she kicked up a fuss and called the nurses, they did.

  NINETY-EIGHT

  Tuesday 27 February

  Miraculously, Emma had managed to sleep. She woke groggily to the sounds of the ward at visiting time, and on checking her watch, was amazed to see she’d been out for an hour. She pulled herself upright and blinked at the room. A scattering of visitors with flowers and foil balloons. People dressed in coats bringing the outside world in.

  Emma wanted no part of the outside world. She had no one she wanted to see, no place to go back to. Her mother had called, alerted by the hospital that she’d been admitted, but Emma had played her injuries down. She’d insisted Alice and Brian shouldn’t rush over and had managed to persuade them to wait until the following week before visiting from Italy.

  She leaned over to the cabinet at the side of her bed to pour some water from the jug. As she sat back, she nearly spilled the entire glass over herself.

  Carrie was standing there, beside her bed. Emma watched as she sat in the chair next to her.

  ‘Hello, Emma.’

  Emma found her hands were shaking and she replaced the glass, then tucked them under the sheet. ‘Hello.’

  ‘How are you? The nurses said you’d hit your head but should be discharged soon.’ It was warm on the ward and Carrie took off her coat and draped it on the back of the chair. ‘I wanted to have a chat with you. You see, there are a few things that have happened that I can’t quite make sense of. The first thing I’d like to know is what you were doing at our beach house. I didn’t get a chance to ask Adrian and . . .’

  Emma could hear her voice cracking and saw the gargantuan effort she took to get herself back on track. Carrie looked her square in the face. ‘Were you two having an affair?’