All I can do is watch.
And when Nikki rushes up to him, plunging the knife into his back, I don’t do anything. Don’t even try to stop her. I just watch as she stabs him over and over as he writhes, helpless, on the floor from the flames and the pain.
Blood spreads quickly, pooling around his twisting body as he squirms and thrashes. Nikki pants and screams as she keeps on stabbing him front and back – even when his movements subside, even when blood streams from his mouth, his eyes, and even when his body finally stops moving, she’s still sinking the knife into him. She’s covered in blood, hysterical, her face contorted with hate and rage. She kicks him, spewing out all the malice stored up inside her.
He twitches. A final groan.
I let her have this.
Let her get it all out.
It’s good therapy.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Nikki
I’m breathless, spinning, out of my mind. He was right – I am a crazy bitch! What have I done…
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…
‘Nikki, Nikki,’ she says, grabbing my shoulders. ‘It’s OK. Stop now, calm down. Stop, please…’
I feel her breath on my face, her hand on my wrist as she gently takes the knife from me, dropping it on the floor. I look down, seeing the last of the flames on Mark die out.
Along with him.
She pulls me close, not caring that blood gets all over her. I’m sobbing, convulsing, blood, tears and snot all over my face and hair, smearing it all over her as she holds me tight.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘Breathe. It’s OK, just breathe. Let me think. We’ll… we’ll sort this somehow.’ Her voice wavers. She’s as terrified as I am.
We rock back and forth, standing in the kitchen, our feet paddling in the mess around us. Mark’s blood. Each of us can feel the thumping heart of the other – two lives synchronised, attuned, somehow understanding.
I don’t know how long we’re like this. It feels like an eternity.
‘You need another bath,’ she says, holding me at arm’s length. Then the laughter. Not proper laughter, but hysteria fuelled by shock. We’re shaking uncontrollably – our legs, bodies, arms, heads. Not knowing what we’re doing. Freezing and scared.
We drink more brandy. From the bottle.
‘I told you this dress was a good colour,’ I say, my voice broken, warped, not sounding like me. Stupid things coming out. Nothing real.
‘Let me think,’ Lorna says, releasing me, pacing about. But there’s an air of defeat about her, as if she already knows our fate. ‘I want you to wash, Nikki. Wash well. Take everything off in here and go back up to the bathroom and scrub yourself. Get some clothes from my wardrobe.’
‘What?’
‘Just do it,’ she says, pulling at her hair, hugging herself. Her face is white.
I look down at Mark, his body unmoving. I can’t take in what she’s saying.
‘Do it,’ she says more sternly, looking me square in the eyes. ‘I’ll sort this. I just need time to work it out.’
‘But—’
‘Nikki – Maria,’ she says earnestly. ‘Please.’
I don’t know what she means.
‘No, I should deal with it. I did it. And… and I’m already dead,’ I say, clutching her arms.
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘So do as I say.’
The bath is still warm, but the bubbles have gone. I step in, sinking down under the water, rubbing my hands through my hair. When I resurface, the water is pink. I scrub myself with the sponge, adding soap, using a brush to get the blood out from under my nails, around my cuticles. I end up draining the water, whipping the curtain closed and showering. I need to be clean. Really clean.
Afterwards, I dry off and do as Lorna said, finding some clothes in her wardrobe. I take out some sweatpants, a T-shirt, a zip-up top. Her feet are a size bigger than mine, but the trainers fit OK. I lace them up tightly.
I grab my old clothes, the clothes I came in, and stuff them in my bag. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to put them back on; would have felt like stepping back into my old life. Now, it feels as though I’m striding into Lorna’s. What I wanted all along.
Just as I’m leaving the room, something on the dressing table catches my eye, something on a pretty china dish glinting in the sunlight. I pick it up.
‘My necklace,’ I whisper as the white gold chain slips through my fingers. I clutch the diamond pendant in my fist. He gave it to me when Jack was born but must have since given it to Lorna. I shove it in my pocket, knowing how much he paid. The money will be useful.
Downstairs, nothing much has changed except Lorna has lit a fire in the living room hearth. The smell makes me gag. ‘Your boots, underwear and my dress,’ she says, pointing to the flames. She’s tracked blood all over the carpet, not seeming to care. ‘Don’t step in it,’ she says, catching me looking. ‘You weren’t here. Ever. OK?’
I stare at her, no idea why she’s doing this. ‘What?’
‘My mind’s made up. I want you to go to Jack’s college at six this evening. His coach is due back then. He’s been on a trip. Go to him, Maria. Explain who you are. Tell him everything, like you told me. What you do after that is up to you, but please, look after him. He’s your son, but he’s been my son too. He’s a good boy.’ She seems determined, urgent, no stopping her. Tears fill her eyes as I go to hug her, but she holds up her hands, halting me. She’s still covered in blood.
‘I’ll write down the college’s address for you.’
‘I already know it,’ I say with a small smile. ‘But what are you going to do?’ I ask, my eyes flicking back to the kitchen.
‘Maria, trust me,’ she says, glancing at her watch. ‘You should go now. The longer you’re here, the riskier it is. In time, your story can come out. People will understand. You’ve done nothing wrong. As long as you keep quiet about this.’ She points to the kitchen.
I stare at her, having no idea what she’s planning. Then she shoos me towards the hallway. We stand near the front door, staring at each other.
‘I know what it feels like to be dead inside,’ she says. ‘Hiding things from yourself, denying what’s there, what’s happened in the past. But all it does is prevent you from having a future. I want you to go and have yours, Maria. Because none of this ever belonged to me.’
Our eyes stay locked for a few moments – hers glistening with tears. It’s equivalent to the hug we’d share if it wasn’t for the blood. And then she opens the door, hiding behind it so no one in the street sees her. The sunlight streams in through the gap, and I step out – leaving her in the darkness.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Lorna
I close the door, not bothering to lock it or put the chain on. I stand in the hallway for a moment, my heartbeat slow now, strangely calm as I listen to the echoes of our lives here – the children, their friends, our friends, my family, Mark and me. Feet thumping up and down the stairs, bags and clutter left in the corridor, mail on the doormat, the smashed lamp, friends round for dinner, play dates for Freya, Andrew grabbing me, not even letting me get upstairs before he’d had his way.
I cover my face.
I loved him.
And now it’s too late.
Shaking, I go back into the kitchen, my stomach turning from the stink of congealing blood and scorched flesh. Mark’s face is red and blistered, his eyes open with his cheek pressed on the floor as he lies half on his side, his arms and legs splayed out.
I nudge him with my foot. There’s no need to check his pulse. I can see he’s dead. The kitchen knife is still on the floor, so I pick it up and wash it thoroughly in the sink, rubbing away all traces of Maria’s fingerprints. Then I take the handle, getting my prints all over it instead, gripping it, smearing some of Mark’s blood on it again.
I lay it back on the floor where it had been and grab the brandy bottle, swigging from it, relishing the searing heat down my throat.
When I’ve wiped
down everything Maria touched with a tea towel, I slide down onto the floor, sitting in the blood beside Mark, my knees drawn up as his face leers awkwardly at me, his fingers splayed out close to the knife. ‘We fucked up good and proper, didn’t we?’ I say, knocking back more brandy, pulling a face, almost expecting a response from him. ‘Bloody hell, I can see why I saved this for cooking.’ I look at the label, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘It’s a bit shit.’ How stupid to think of something so trivial as I sit in the aftermath of my husband’s butchering.
I gaze around my kitchen: at Freya’s paintings taped on the fridge, Mark’s sticky note saying ‘Get toothpaste’ underlined a dozen times, Jack’s shoes left near the back door, and my lunchbox on the counter – I forgot to take it to work this morning.
Then I remember the police coming to my office earlier. It seems an age ago that I lied to them, twisted the truth. I bet they’d like to speak to me now.
‘You know, I really loved him,’ I say to Mark, hating that I’d never told Andrew. I’d always held back, not allowing my true feelings out. Some kind of pathetic attempt at guilt management. I gulp down more brandy, then make my way out to my car. I don’t care who sees me any more. I need to get my phone.
I stumble back up the front step, feeling drunk, banging the door back too hard against the wall. There are a few missed calls – just work. Plus, a couple of texts. One from Mark earlier, saying he’s coming home to check on me as he had a quick break. Another from Annie asking if Freya can stop over the night.
That’s when the sobs come. A deep, painful eruption for my little girl. My eyes feel as though they’re going to split open from the pressure as the tears stream down my cheeks.
Great idea, I text back, my hand shaking, hardly able to see the screen. Actually, would you mind if she stayed with you for a little while? Calling on her fairy godmother here! Will explain soon xx I gulp up a couple of erratic breaths as I tap send. It has to be done.
Then I drop down onto the floor again next to Mark, his hand midway between me and the knife now, making me wonder if he’s moved. I prod him. Nothing.
‘Freya will be fine,’ I tell him, hearing myself slurring. ‘She’s better off without the both of us.’ Then I tap out a text to Jack. Someone else picking you up from college later. Please listen to her. Please trust her. Please do as she says. I love you, Jack. L xx
I stare at my phone, my eyes fixated on the yellow and pink Double Take icon. I open up the app, going to my messages with Andy_jag. With Mark. I scroll back, my eyes swimming with tears as I read. Then I find them. Those messages, from over a week ago.
Andy_jag: I’ve got some trouble going on in my life. Stuff needs sorting.
Abbi74: Oh, sounds serious?
Andy_jag: If I tell you a secret, do you promise to keep it?
Abbi74: Of course. You can trust me.
I remember how much my heart thumped then, as I finally thought I was going to get a glimpse inside Andrew’s mind, unravelling the man I loved.
Andy_jag: I’ve been seeing a therapist.
Abbi74: That’s OK. Lots of people do.
I’d smiled to myself, wondering what he was going to reveal about me – wondering if he was going to tell Abbi that he was in love with me, that he couldn’t live without me, that he’d do anything to be with me.
Andy_jag: Trouble is, my therapist is obsessed with me. Won’t leave me alone. Stalks me day and night. She’s a nightmare.
I’d gone cold then, shaking, a sense of disbelief washing through me. I couldn’t bring myself to reply before the next message came in.
Andy_jag: I’m going to report her to her boss. She’s done enough damage. Her career will be over. Her personal life too. She’s going to get what’s coming to her.
I’d shut my phone down after that, dropping onto the couch in my office. I was too numb for tears. I didn’t understand. I stared at the wall for ages, trying to take in what he’d said. I knew I needed to talk to him. As me, as Lorna. It was ridiculous – I wasn’t stalking him. What we had was wrong, but always mutual. And whatever happened, I had to stop him reporting me to the clinic, reason with him, make him see sense. I couldn’t run away a second time.
‘You know what,’ I say, looking down at Mark’s body as he swims in and out of focus. I wipe my nose on my sleeve. ‘I thought things were shit then.’ I laugh, swigging the last of the brandy. ‘I had no fucking idea, did I?’
All I’d wanted was to go to Andrew’s place to talk, to work something out, to gauge his mood, to see if he really was going to report me. Persuade him otherwise. I couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.
‘I didn’t really go to the spa with Cath that day,’ I confess to Mark, hiccupping. ‘Just so you know.’ It was always a risk, I realise, with seeing Annie later that night, but thankfully she hadn’t spoken to Cath for a couple of days. I blustered my way through the lie.
I already knew where Andrew’s house was. I decided to surprise him with a visit, perhaps even catch him out with his lodger, have something to throw back at him for a change. It was always a battle of wills, despite our passion. But that wasn’t the main reason for my visit. Truth was, I was scared. I had to smooth things over, convince him not to destroy my career – even if that meant carrying on with him in some way if he insisted or, hopefully, ending it calmly.
I tap the first number.
9
‘He was shocked to see me, of course,’ I say to Mark, prodding him. ‘But pleased too. He eventually invited me in and I couldn’t see any sign of the lodger. He said she was out. Kept saying he didn’t know why I was so hung up about her, why I couldn’t just leave it be, why I had to go on and on and on about her.’
I drink more brandy, nearly emptying the bottle, tapping the next number.
9
‘He told me he thought she was unattractive, just some farm girl trying to make it in the city. Not his type. But I wouldn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him. It was ingrained and stuck. From somewhere.’ I trace my finger through Mark’s thickening blood on the floor, my hand close to his. Close to the knife. ‘He said he hadn’t wanted me at his house because he didn’t want you finding out where he lived, in case you followed me. He said he did it for my sake, but still, I didn’t believe him. Besides, I couldn’t forget what he’d said to Abbi about reporting me to the clinic – even though I now know it was really you.’
I spit on him before resting my head back on the side of the kitchen island, my finger tapping out the final number.
9
It connects instantly. ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’
I pause.
‘Hello, which emergency service do you require, caller?’
‘Police,’ I say, but then the scream comes, and I drop my phone. His hand is quick, lunging for the knife, grabbing it, raising it towards me, his half-dead eyes staring at me as he bares his teeth. Mark drags himself half up, sliding in his blood, taking a stab at my leg. He misses but tries again and again – me pulling myself out of the way, pushing myself back across the floor with my feet, frantically slipping in the mess. He’s getting closer, wheezing, coughing up blood, his eyes demented. I scream again, my back pinned up against the cupboard as he reaches me.
He sinks the blade into my leg.
‘Oww… nooo… you fucking bastard!’ I kick his hand hard, pulling the knife from my muscle, yelling in agony. Then, with one swift stroke, I plunge it into his throat, hitting his artery first time. What little blood is left in him drains out, his head finally hitting the floor.
‘Fuck, fuck… oww, oh God no… help me. Someone help me, please.’ The pain in my calf is unbearable, ripping through every nerve. I slide across to my phone, panting, breathless, shaking. I grab it, holding it to my ear.
‘Hello… caller, hello, are you there?’
‘I’m… I’m here,’ I say, sobbing uncontrollably, knowing what I have to do. ‘I… I want to report a murder…’ I cry. ‘I just… I
just killed my husband.’
Chapter Sixty-Five
Lorna’s Journal
3 May 2018
It’s not like my journal before, of course, but it’s all they allow me in the cell – a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Guess they don’t think I’m a suicide risk, about to stab myself with the point – but then I know exactly the right things to say. Anyway, writing this helps pass the time. And God knows, I’ve got plenty of that while I wait for the trial. Bail was refused several weeks ago.
I once wrote that journaling is the best therapy for the therapist, for self-reflection, for personal growth. A measure of change. And I stand by that. I never expected Mark to find any of my diaries, let alone the one about what happened with Andrew. I should have destroyed it last year, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I thought I’d hidden it well enough. It was me clinging on, unable to let go. Not moving forward at all.
But life doesn’t always go the way we expect. If it did, I’d have been out of a job long ago.
It wasn’t until I got to Andrew’s place that day, the day I was meant to be at the spa with Cath, that it all came back, hit me head-on like a high-speed train.
An eclipse of everything.
Though I still didn’t see it, even when it was coming at me full speed. Some things are too close to focus on clearly. Besides, there was no time to get out of the way. (Keep your writing legible, Lorna. You know what your solicitor said about this being used in your case. He’s going down the mental health plea route. Ironic.)
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