Our House

by Louise Candlish

  ‘It’s really expensive, 350 Pokédollars,’ Leo said, needling him. ‘Can you even count that high?’

  ‘Of course I can!’ As Harry began to count the money in his slapdash way, I sensed my impatience grow and feared the rage I might unleash: I pictured myself overturning the table, roaring like a monster, throwing myself through plate glass. It frightened me that the violence I felt towards Mike, Wendy, myself, might expose itself to the two people I most passionately wished to protect.

  A child was dead. The charge would be upgraded from causing serious injury to manslaughter or death by dangerous driving – I didn’t know what the hell it would be called, only that I would be found guilty.

  Not four years in jail but ten. Maybe more.

  ‘Give me a minute, boys, will you, while I just go to the loo? Help Harry count his cash, will you, Leo?’

  ‘But he’s not on my team!’ Leo whined.

  ‘Just do it!’ I yelled.

  Defiantly opposed though the two of them were, the shock on their faces was identical as I ran from the room and vomited in the downstairs toilet.

  ‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:41:20

  On my return to Trinity Avenue that Sunday, Harry was the first one I saw as I let myself in. Though by now accustomed to the comings and goings of his separated parents, he always came into the hallway to announce the news headlines.

  ‘Leo hurt his eye!’

  ‘Did he? How?’

  ‘Totally by accident, it wasn’t my fault. And we’ve finished marking everything with the special police pen!’

  ‘Well done! Did you do all the phones and iPads and things?’

  ‘Yes, every single one. Oh, and Daddy’s being sick again,’ he remembered, as Bram appeared from the bathroom.

  ‘Really?’ I said. Again? ‘Are you all right, Bram?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of food poisoning. How was your weekend, Fi?’

  ‘It was good. I . . . I spent it with a friend.’ We held each other’s gaze and I surprised myself by blushing. Bram’s response was peculiar to say the least: one side of his face began to convulse, as if sustaining blows from an invisible opponent. He looked, in fact, just as a more vengeful ex-wife might fantasize about him looking: at her mercy, crushed.

  Hypothetically – because I wasn’t that woman – it didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as I might have expected.

  ‘Let me go and have a look at Leo’s eye,’ I said.

  29

  Bram, Word document

  I was ready with my next move even before the inevitable provocation came on Monday morning:

  I take it you’ve seen the latest news? Whole new ball game now.

  If I were really paranoid, I’d think Mike had arranged for the poor child to die for his own benefit. I couldn’t countenance seeing him again and so I phoned.

  ‘Nice to hear from you, Bram,’ he said. ‘You’ve finally seen the error of your ways, have you?’

  ‘I got your text,’ I said, coldly. ‘Your compassion is overwhelming.’

  He sniggered. ‘I’m not in the business of compassion, you must know that by now.’

  ‘Then you’re a sociopath.’

  He sighed. ‘Must we go through the same routine every time? Is this really all you called to say?’

  I collected myself. ‘I called because I have a proposal for you.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Then we should—’

  ‘No, I have no interest in meeting again. I’ll tell you now, over the phone. Take it or leave it.’

  His scornful puff of laughter made me want to hunt him down and smash my phone into his face.

  ‘Go on then, let’s hear it.’

  I sucked in a lungful of air, enough to deliver my piece without pause: ‘You do what you need to do. If you’re crazy enough to steal passports from me or whatever else you need, then I won’t stop you. But I’m having nothing to do with it. You commit the crime and if by some miracle you succeed, you do whatever you like with the cash, go wherever you like. Either way, I’ll play dumb. I’ll have never met you, never heard your name.’

  Steal passports from me . . . I won’t stop you: that was the offer, buried in the speech, and I knew he would unearth it straight away. Take what you need from me, just don’t ask me to be an active conspirator.

  In the twenty-four hours since I’d read of little Ellie Rutherford’s death, this scenario – absurd, foolish, wicked though it was – had established itself as a comparatively desirable option. I would be the victim just like Fi. We’d lose the house but we’d lose it together, we’d have each other. It might be the making of us – the re-making of us. I imagined myself comforting her, telling her we would get through it together, that material possessions were nothing next to health, family, love. It would take years, but I would start to forget that poor girl and the family she left behind. I might even find a way to atone.

  ‘Is that it?’ Mike said.

  Another long breath and I sped on: ‘In return, I’ll need the photo from the incident and whatever this recording is that Wendy made. I’ll need your word that there’s nothing left that could connect us or incriminate me.’ Even as I spoke, I understood how flimsy any such promise would be: he and Wendy were blackmailers, of course they would keep copies, with or without each other’s knowledge. Fresh anxiety followed: there was also a text message I’d overlooked. The one I’d received from Wendy after our night together, with the link to the news piece about the cash reward, before Mike had entered the frame, had been sent to my ‘official’ registered phone, the one provided by my employer. I’d deleted it, of course, but couldn’t messages and files be recovered by police even after deleted? Even if those fools were satisfied they’d fulfilled their side of the bargain, even if Mike gave me a convincing alibi in the event of capture, would technology betray me?

  Having felt close to euphoria when devising this solution, I was now freefalling through its holes, my soul screaming.

  ‘Hmm.’ Mike’s voice slid into my ear, sticky, poisonous. ‘I really don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, Bram, even if you’ve deluded yourself into thinking what you’re actually making is an offer.’

  ‘But I don’t see why you need me,’ I said in a whine, already reduced to a pleading child. ‘You can do it without me.’

  ‘Oh, but we can’t,’ Mike said. ‘I thought we established that last time: you’re inimitable.’ A pause as he relished having pulled off the word. ‘So why don’t I make you an offer: stop the crap and we’ll keep this between the adults.’

  I swallowed. My throat was raw from the retching I’d been doing several times daily – any time I tried to eat, basically. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means we won’t need to involve the kids. How about that?’

  ‘What?’ My stomach contracted.

  ‘Leo and Harry, isn’t it? Dog lovers, I’m guessing.’

  Of course, he’d seen them at the dog show, if only fleetingly. The thought of his having been close enough to touch them brought bile to my mouth.

  ‘I’m sure you’d like to keep them safe, wouldn’t you, Bram? So would I, and like I say, that’s my offer.’

  ‘It’s not an offer, it’s a threat, and you know it.’

  ‘Interpret it how you like, I’m trying to be nice here. Now, let me remind you what you’re going to do first.’

  ‘No, I need to know—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up now, Bram, all right? I want those shots of your wife’s passport photo and signature by the end of the day, do you understand? If they don’t arrive, the evidence from Silver Road goes to the police at nine a.m. tomorrow. I reckon you’ll be arrested before midday, what d’you think? And with you in a police cell, those two boys’ll have only their mum to look out for them. Let’s hope she’s up to the job, eh?’

  He hung up, leaving me to swear into a dead line that if he mentioned Fi and the kids one more time I would kill him.

  ‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:42:33

&n
bsp; When Bram asked to drop in on the Monday evening for some documents he needed for the car insurance claim, I reminded him that the file was empty. ‘You took all the paperwork months ago.’

  ‘I did, but I can’t find the original no-claims certificate from when I switched the policy last year. I must have put it with the house insurance stuff. It won’t take me a minute to find it.’

  ‘When do you think they’ll pay up?’ I asked him, when he reappeared from the study. It was now two weeks since the Audi had been reported stolen and it had still not been recovered. I’d heard nothing more from the police officer who’d come to the house. ‘Is it like missing persons, a certain period has to pass before you can be declared dead?’

  He looked so suddenly, so inexplicably sad, that I reached to put a hand on his arm. Normally, I was careful to avoid physical contact with him, but this was instinctive, almost maternal. ‘I know you loved that car. Leo’s upset too. But we’ll get a new one or, as you suggested, try managing without one for a bit. We could spend the insurance money on something else? You know I want to have the house repainted. It’s been years since we did upstairs. Whatever happens, I’ll definitely need to keep the hire car for the half-term trip to Kent,’ I added. This was a long weekend at Alison’s holiday home on the coast, an end-of-October tradition for mothers and kids now in its fifth year.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d go to that this year,’ Bram said.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  He grappled visibly with a response before saying, finally, ‘I don’t know, Fi. It’s entirely up to you.’

  Well, not entirely, I thought. Bird’s nest custody was about give and take and I needed his co-operation just as much as he needed mine. ‘When we’re away, you should just decide yourself where to hang out,’ I told him. ‘I don’t know if you prefer to be based in the house or the flat? We didn’t discuss this with Rowan, did we?’

  It was clear he couldn’t remember who Rowan was. ‘Our bird’s nest counsellor? Are you going to the rugby with Rog and everyone on the Saturday?’

  Traditionally, the husbands marked the same weekend by going to Twickenham or, if the dates didn’t fit, to Crystal Palace for the football. In previous years, Bram had been in the thick of it, leading the pub crawl, censoring the war stories (I usually got the more colourful details care of Merle or Alison).

  ‘I’ll probably stay in the house,’ he said, continuing his new habit of conversing at a half-minute delay. ‘I might have some friends from work over. A few of the guys and their wives.’

  ‘Good idea, you’ve looked a bit stressed out lately.’ I thought about the previous time I’d seen him, when his face had begun twitching uncontrollably. ‘And I realize you’ll be missing two nights with the boys, so we can swap with some weekday nights, if you like? When would be good for you?’

  The way he looked at me then was so grim, he might have been a man who’d just been diagnosed with an incurable illness.

  ‘Sooner rather than later,’ he said.

  Bram, Word document

  Her passport was exactly where it was supposed to be, with the rest of the family’s in the drawer of the filing cabinet at Trinity Avenue, where they’d remained, I suspected, since our return from our last family holiday. A week at Easter on the hot volcanic beaches of Lanzarote: it might have been a submarine trip to the bottom of the Mariana Trench for how fantastical it seemed now.

  The drawer was marked ‘Confidential documents’ and had I still had a sense of humour, I would have pointed out to Fi the helpfulness of this to the tsunami of criminals who’d swept Alder Rise. But I did not, possessing only the sick, humourless knowledge that I was the most wicked criminal of them all.

  The enemy within.

  *

  I sent the photos to Mike by the deadline and received an immediate acknowledgement:

  That’s better, Bram. Your next job is to ring this estate agent and make an appointment to get the house valued.

  He added the details of the private sales arm of a branch of

  Challoner’s Property in Battersea.

  Are they in on your plan?

  NO. You, me, Wendy, NO ONE ELSE. Understand?

  Yes.

  The thought of a normal person, a third party, becoming involved in this insanity made me nauseous. What if this agent grew suspicious of me and came back to the house when Fi was in to double-check?

  Just as I was about to shut down the phone, a final text popped up:

  Don’t fuck this up or you know who will pay.

  30

  Bram, Word document

  Act natural. Normal. Just be yourself.

  I opened the door, smiling as I would with a new client. ‘Hello, I’m Bram. You must be Rav?’

  ‘Challoner’s Property. This is a beautiful house, Bram.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is. Come in and see it properly.’

  Mike had done his research and found that Challoner’s in Battersea was one of the foremost staging posts for buyers priced out of more central areas and open to migrating to the next zones out, to neighbourhoods that included Alder Rise.

  I’d arranged the valuation for Wednesday morning, when the shared diary showed that Fi was leaving early for a trade show in Birmingham and I could claim easily enough to be working from home. I wasn’t worried about neighbours mentioning my presence to Fi – most who knew us well enough to have been briefed on the custody arrangements were at work, and even if the odd one was at home, she (it would only be a ‘she’) was hardly likely to know I didn’t have Fi’s consent to be there or that my guest was an estate agent.

  Still, letting myself into the house had felt exactly like the violation it was, even before I’d made a cursory sweep of the place, picking up clothes from the floors and removing – at Mike’s instruction – all photographs of Fi. At least he had not insisted that images of Wendy be inserted in their place or, worse, that she should be by my side for this meeting. ‘You’ll be fine on your own,’ he said, magnanimously, the subtext being, I’ll be the first to know if you’re not.

  If Rav picked up on my subdued mood during the tour, it was to interpret it as reluctance of a more conventional kind. ‘How certain are you and your wife that you want to sell?’

  ‘Oh, one hundred per cent certain. As quickly as possible, that’s why we want to price realistically. And we want to be discreet to the point of secrecy, that’s why we’re doing it through your private sales department. We don’t want neighbours to know we’re selling, so there mustn’t be details in the shop window or online. We can’t have people here on weekday evenings, either. The boys have an early bedtime on school nights.’

  ‘Understood.’ Clearly Rav, noting this last request in his obliging, attentive manner, had met more troublesome sellers in his time. ‘I would propose an open house. Get everyone in and out in one fell swoop. Anyone who needs a follow-up viewing can come at a time convenient for you or perhaps when you’re at work?’

  I told him the day that suited us best was a week on Saturday – 29 October.

  ‘That’s the last weekend of half term,’ he said. ‘Not ideal, some of my candidates will be travelling back from holiday and won’t be able to come.’

  It had been a jolt when Fi had started talking about arrangements for half term, as if the world held a future to be anticipated with pleasure, while I was living – breathing – by the day, my only emotion towards tomorrow abject dread. But from a fraudster’s point of view the timing was helpful: half the street would be away on holiday or visiting relatives, including those who would be with Fi at Alison’s place in Kent.

  Admittedly, the husbands would be left behind, but in my experience men noticed very little.

  ‘There’s no other day that works for us,’ I told Rav.

  ‘Then that’s the one we’ll go for. There’ll still be plenty of interest. A lot of people have younger children, not in school yet, so half term won’t be an issue for them. They’re after the catchment for Alder Rise
Primary, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed.

  I didn’t think about my own boys and whether they would continue at the excellent state primary with the pet guinea pigs and the teaching assistant whose eyes teared up when her class sang to their parents at the end-of-year concert. I didn’t think about them as I discussed commission percentages and, when an agreement was produced on the spot, signed my name. I told myself that the legal system, law and order, morality, something would intervene to bring an end to the lunacy into which I’d plunged. To stop Mike holding my head underwater until my lungs burst.

  ‘As soon as I get back to the office, I’ll start calling my candidates,’ Rav said.

  Candidates, he kept saying. Candidates for our lives.

  After he’d gone, I returned the clothes to the bedroom floors and the photographs to their rightful spots.

  *

  Mike was loitering outside my office building when I arrived just before lunchtime.

  ‘How much?’ he demanded.

  ‘We agreed two point two.’

  ‘Undercutting the neighbour, good work. Accept any offer over two mil.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He didn’t move. One of my colleagues passed, a lunch bag from the sandwich bar next door in her hand. ‘Hi, Bram!’ she called.

  Great. She knew my name even if I’d forgotten hers. And she’d seen me with Mike. Though he wore a black woollen hat low to the eyes, his bony facial features and brick-wall build were distinctive. (‘Yes, that was definitely the man I saw Bram with. They looked a bit shifty together, to be honest.’)

  ‘Look, Mike, you need to go. We can’t be seen together like this. Can you contact me in the usual way next time?’

  He gave me a long look that said, You don’t give orders, I do. ‘Just make sure you keep on top of this agent, okay?’ he said, finally. ‘And we need the money from the car by the end of next week – I’m meeting a guy.’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Trust me, better if you don’t know.’