by Katie Lowe
He takes the glass from my hand, and sips. ‘She hasn’t met him yet,’ he says, finally. My stomach drops, the floor slipping briefly out from under me. ‘I don’t think it’s anything to be too concerned about,’ he goes on. ‘Apparently they have mutual friends, or what have you – but that’s why she’s been cagey about it. She figured as soon as we found that out, she’d be banned from talking to him.’
As soon as you found out, I think he’s saying.
And he’s right.
Because that is my gut response. I’ve seen too many girls broken in two by predatory online relationships – catfishing, they call it – on the part of much older men, hiding behind clean-cut teenage profiles. I know the worst that can happen in these situations. I’ve seen it first-hand, multiple times.
‘So you’re saying we can’t ban her from talking to him?’
He laughs, faintly. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I just … Don’t you think it’s dangerous? With everything going on … He could be anyone.’
‘From what she’s told me, they’ve been talking for a while now. At least six months. She showed me a few photos, and … I don’t know. I think we should keep an eye on it, but … he’s making her happy. And they don’t seem to want to take it any further at the moment, so …’
I sigh. ‘Fine. But I don’t want her meeting him unaccompanied, when they do.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He smiles, his brow crinkling. I feel myself begin to thaw.
‘Give me that.’ I take the glass back. ‘I needed this tonight. So … thanks.’
‘It hasn’t gone quite how I intended it to, I’ll be honest.’
A pang of guilt rings through me. ‘I’m sorry. Really.’ This time, I mean it. I wonder if he can tell. He reaches for the ring and slides it into his pocket. ‘It’s just … the timing’s off. That’s all.’
He stands, placing a kiss on my head. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’
It’s an invitation, though I choose not to hear it. I smile, and watch him leave. He climbs the stairs as though he’s weighted; like a man dragged down into the earth.
I rest my forehead on the table, exhausted. I close my eyes.
You’re meant to be looking after her, Graham mutters, his voice rabid with disgust.
And he’s right. Of course he is. But when I sit up – a retort vicious on my lips – he isn’t there.
EPISODE THREE
23
London, 2004
The crackle of keys in the lock wakes me. I sit upright, hands gripping the edge of the sofa. My heart flutters like a caged bird.
‘Hannah?’ he calls, his voice echoing through the hall. I scan the living room. The toys scattered across the floor; the empty plate, a half-eaten banana browning in the air. The crust of wine at the base of my mug.
I’m unsteady on my feet as I stand, grabbing the cup and plate. ‘In the kitchen,’ I call back, my voice sharp.
When he enters, the mug is submerged, the bubbles scalding. I tip the banana into the bin and smile. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’ His eyes skim over me, looking for the lie. He knows me well enough to sense it. This is something that works both ways.
‘You’re back early,’ I say, brightly. ‘I’ve just put her down for her nap.’
He looks over his shoulder into the living room. ‘It’s a mess in here.’
‘She’s a toddler. They’re messy.’
He murmurs something non-committal in response, and drops his bag down on the counter.
I feel him step towards me. My back is to him; the hairs on my neck prickle, a shiver that ripples down my spine. I wonder if he sees it.
He places both hands around my hips, snaking around my waist. ‘I missed you today,’ he whispers. ‘I kept thinking about it. Coming home to my wife.’ He says the word with a bite, with relish. I hate myself for responding to it; for feeling a warmth thread through me, making me weak.
‘Did you?’ That makes a change, I keep to myself.
‘Mmm-hmm.’ I hear the ribboning click of his zip, his knuckles nudging my spine as he paws at my waistband. ‘I was hoping I’d get you to myself, for a change. Looks like I got lucky.’
For a moment, I think it’s a trap. But it isn’t. He only wants what he wants, right now. And so, I bend for him. I let him have just that.
When he’s done, he wraps his palm around my chin, and turns me towards him for a kiss. I watch the inevitable disgust creep over his face as he pulls away.
He wipes his lips. ‘Have you been drinking?’
I wonder, briefly, whether to lie. But I know he’ll catch me out, somehow. He always does.
‘I’m tired.’ The excuse curdles the air between us. ‘I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days, and …’
‘So you decided to get drunk while our daughter’s—’ He catches himself, his tone rising. He lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘While she’s sleeping?’ He steps back from me, as though burned. ‘I just …’ He zips up his trousers, a thing that’s almost comic, so wholly at odds with the fury in his expression. ‘I can’t believe you. You’re meant to be looking after her.’
‘It was one glass of wine. I wasn’t drunk. Don’t act like—’
‘Oh.’ He laughs. ‘Oh! Well, in that case, it’s fine. You weren’t drunk. Just lightly incapacitated. That’s OK then.’
A silence falls, and I stare at him. I say the words I’ve been rehearsing for weeks. The ones I didn’t think I’d have the nerve to say.
‘I don’t want to do this any more.’
‘You don’t want to do what?’
The venom in his tone makes my resolve buckle.
I grip the sides of the counter, and steady myself. ‘I want to go back to work.’ He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. I go on. ‘We could easily afford childcare with my salary, and … I think it’d be good for me. To get out again. To do something …’
‘Something … what? Fulfilling? Worthwhile?’
‘Don’t twist this, Graham. You have no idea what it’s like, being here all day. I love her to death, but … I need some adult company. I’m starting to feel like I’m losing it.’
I see some piece of him crack, at this. I wonder if I’m getting through. He leans against the counter, arms folded. ‘What about those mother-and-baby groups? Don’t you go to those?’
I try to steady my tone. He’s being reasonable. ‘I tried, but …’ I think of the crime shows I watch, in the early hours: the ones he says make me stupid. ‘Cheap thrills for fat housewives,’ he calls them. But I find them riveting.
‘Anything you say can and will be used against you,’ they say. I feel that, keenly, now.
‘They’re not really my kind of people.’
‘Hmmm.’
I watch him turn this over in his mind. He reaches into the fridge for a beer; removes the cap with his teeth in the way he knows I hate. ‘Not your kind of people how?’
They’re obsessed with their babies, I want to say. They’re better mothers than me, because somehow they never get bored. They don’t want to do anything but compare designer buggies, and brag about sleep routines. I love my daughter to death – but I need other things in my life, too.
I don’t say this, of course. Instead, I lie. ‘They’re just … All they do is bitch about their husbands and gossip about each other.’ The reality is the opposite – a kind of warfare, a competition around whose husband is the most involved, the most loving. The next part, though, is entirely true. ‘I can’t take it. They drive me nuts.’
He nods, though there’s something in his expression that makes me wonder if he really believes me. I feel braced, waiting for him to trip me up. But he doesn’t.
‘Darren’s at a clinic in Notting Hill at the moment. I’ll give him a call. He might be able to find you something part-time.’
I bristle at this: at the idea of him talking to Darren on my behalf. Of finding me an appropriate job. But I know better than to argue the details. This is the best o
utcome I could have hoped for. Better than I’d dared to hope for, really; in the weeks and months in which I’ve toyed with asking the question, the only answer I imagined him giving was ‘no’. I wonder, briefly, if I’ve been too hard on him; if I’ve let my anger get the better of me. If I’ve projected too much, turning my husband into a monster he’s not.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I love you.’
‘Mmm.’ He scoops up his bag, and walks away.
Moments later, I hear Evie’s giggle through the baby monitor. ‘We’ll find someone who can look after you properly,’ he says, his voice sing-song, teasing.
It’s a jab I know he wants me to hear.
24
Derbyshire, 2018
‘Don’t be so melodramatic. You’re not a bad mother,’ Sarah’s voice crackles through the phone. ‘You never met mine, did you? She was a bad mother. We’re talking full Mommie Dearest.’
I look out of the window at our ancient apple tree, whipping in the wind. ‘From what you’ve told me, that’s a low bar.’
‘Well, yes. But it’s true. You’re overthinking it. You’re hardly Vicky Barker, are you?’
‘Also a low bar.’ I pause. ‘I’ve arranged for her to come in, by the way. I want to talk her through Amy’s treatment plan.’
Sarah gives a derisive snort. ‘Ever the optimist. It isn’t going to help, and you know it.’
‘It’s worth a try, surely.’ The hurt – the wounded pride – in my voice shows through. I brush it off. ‘We at least need to say we’ve tried. Remember the complaint she made, last time?’
‘Ugh, yes. “I find it incredible that I am not more involved in my daughter’s recovery.” As though she isn’t the reason the poor girl’s sick.’
I think of the way Evie stared at me, when I screamed at her; the wary way she’s eyed me, in the days since. The hollows under her eyes, the exhaustion in her posture at the dinner table. The awful comments she’s no doubt read in response to her post; the replies to Conviction’s announcement that their third episode would be called Another Version of the Truth.
Hannah Catton was the only other person in that house except for a five-year-old girl. She did it. It’s obvious. This series sucks.
Just spill what you have on the wife so @MetPolice can FINALLY arrest the right person!!!
Lock her UP. Lock her UP.
I wonder what’s going through my daughter’s head when she reads these things. I wonder if she blames me for all this.
‘Maybe she’s just not great at communicating how she feels,’ I say. ‘If she’s—’
I’m cut short by Sarah’s bark of a laugh. ‘She isn’t you, Hannah. Stop trying to relate to her. It’s my professional opinion that she’s a sociopath with no soul, and … you’re not.’
The hot swell of a sob rises in my throat, unwelcome. I’m embarrassed at being so transparent; at being caught. But then, Sarah is my oldest friend – and a talented doctor. If anyone was going to catch that, and pull me up on it, it’d be her. ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’
She lets this slide. ‘Look – all I’m saying is, don’t go in there trying to build some kind of identification with her. She’ll use it against you, I guarantee it. Just give her the facts, but … don’t expect too much. OK?’
My phone vibrates against my ear. ‘Hold on a sec,’ I say, glancing at the screen.
Conviction: Episode Three is now available to download.
‘—looking at,’ Sarah says as I put the phone back to my ear.
‘What?’
‘I know what you’re looking at. I got the notification too.’
I think of all the other people – the millions of them, as Anna Byers so proudly reminds me, at the start of every episode – all glancing at their phones at the same time. Every one of them feeling the same fleeting prickle of excitement. Some of them already listening; already typing their thoughts in real time online.
I pull out a chair and sit. ‘I don’t think I can do it.’
She’s silent for a moment. I wait for her to tell me, once again, that I’m being melodramatic; that I’m overreacting. But she doesn’t. ‘I don’t see any way you get around it, honestly. It’s going to be traumatic – there’s no avoiding that. But I think not knowing what’s on there is probably going to be worse.’
I nod. Then, remember I’m alone. ‘I know. I just … I’m going to wait for Dan. I promised him I would. But if you listen to it first, will you … will you let me know how bad it is?’
She sighs. ‘Sure. But don’t kid yourself, Han. She’s gunning for you. She all but said that at the end of the last one. I can’t exactly sugar the pill.’
In spite of everything, I laugh. It sounds bitter, hateful. ‘You’ve never once done that, anyway. I wouldn’t expect anything else.’
‘All right, all right. I’ll text you later then.’
‘Thank you. Really. For everything.’
I practically hear her wince. ‘Whatever. I’m hanging up now.’
And she does. I’m alone, in the cottage, once again. Alone, but for the eyes I feel watching me, all the time. I close my own, and tell myself again: he is not there.
25
‘Let’s go back to the scene of the crime, shall we?’ Anna Byers says. I can hear her relishing this. Can practically see her licking her lips in delight.
Dan gnaws at his thumb, a habit I’ve never seen before, though it’s one I’m getting increasingly used to. I unclench my fists under the table and reach for his hand. He gives me an unfixed smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Since our argument – since I felt Graham in our home (though he isn’t – I know that, but this doesn’t make the feeling go away) – I’ve been trying to make things right. I’ve been forcing a closeness between us, something that feels futile, but compulsive.
Every night, I press my body against his. In the mornings, I kiss him until he wakes. I settle myself over him, and make him hold me.
And yet, I can’t seem to traverse it: the distance that’s settled between us. The way he looks at me a little differently. Like he’s trying to blink someone else away. Just as I’ve been doing, to him.
‘If you know how to do a cached search on Google, you can find the original advert for the Catton house: a “luxury home” with “three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a large open-plan living space”. And it was luxurious. A perfect balance between the townhouse’s own original features – a gorgeous moulded fireplace, hardwood floors, and tall, ornate windows – and those quintessentially modern requirements. Granite countertops; steel everything in the kitchen. White everything in the bathroom, bedrooms, and … well, pretty much everywhere else.’
I smell the fresh paint, the day we moved in. I feel the tread of my trainers on the tile.
‘In fact, that’s one of the things that struck police, when they arrived on the scene. The resolute perfection of it all. It reads almost like a children’s story. In the neat, white sheets, in the neat, white bedroom of the neat, white house on the neat, white street … the body, the violent spurt of blood from the single wound to Graham’s carotid artery seemed like some kind of aberration – a thing so awful, it couldn’t possibly be real.’
I see it, in my mind.
I’d never seen death, face to face, before then.
When my mother died, I’d looked away. I couldn’t face it, being confronted with her loss.
But I looked at him. I looked until I was absolutely sure he was dead.
‘But here’s the thing,’ Byers goes on. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been in any homes that have five-year-olds in them lately, but they don’t exactly lend themselves to pristine white furnishings. No parent I know goes to bed with an immaculate house – let alone one scrubbed from top to bottom. It’s just not possible with kids that age. They’re mess-making machines. You either accept that, or you go insane.’
‘There was definitely something a little off about it,’ a new voice says, with more aut
hority than he’d had, before, when we met; with an arrogance, now, that chills me. ‘It was too clean – you could smell the bleach in the air.’
‘This is DCI Mark Stevens,’ Byers says coolly. ‘He was one of the first on the scene, and one of the lead officers on the Catton investigation, working alongside Rachel O’Hare.’
‘She said she was a “clean freak” …’
Dan’s expression changes. He catches himself, almost – but not quite – before I can see it. All at once, I hear every joke he’s made about the mess that seems to trail Evie and me everywhere we go; the way he could use it, if he ever lost sight of us, to track us down.
My claim to be a ‘clean freak’ was a lie – and he knows it.
‘… but we performed a thorough search of the house, and the bins outside, and found only the usual waste – nothing to suggest there’d been an attempt to clean up, beyond what we could already see. So we chose to focus on what we had – lots of blood, and a murder weapon.’
Byers chips in again. ‘That weapon: a knife. A very good knife, in fact: a top-of-the-range eight-inch Messermeister Meridian Elite Stealth Chef’s Knife. Light, and low-resistance, with a razor-sharp blade. To quote their website: “You can chop, slice, dice, and mince your way through extended cutting tasks without fatigue.”
‘That knife had Hannah Catton’s prints all over it.’
I hear a hiss, a slice. I feel it stop in my hand as it meets something hard.
My breath catches in my throat.
I hear the discomfort in Stevens’s voice as he speaks. ‘We were reasonably certain she had used the knife, earlier that evening – again, we’d searched the bins, and found evidence that she’d prepared food, so it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility for there to be prints on the handle. I would say, though …’ He pauses, choosing his words carefully. ‘I don’t want to get into a game of professional mudslinging, but … there were some flaws in the report we received from forensics, of which I, personally, was unaware until they were recently brought to my attention.’