by Katie Lowe
‘Hi, Will? Thanks for picking up. It’s Hannah McLelland. I’m sorry it’s so late.’
There’s a pause. An intake of breath. He’s trying to piece a narrative together: a reason I’d call from Dan’s number. I see where it ends. The knife in the neck, the blood seeping into the sheets.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
‘Dan’s sick,’ I say, quickly. I glance over at him, his pallor a ghostly white; his lips dried-out, gummed. ‘It’s just the flu,’ he’d said, with a shiver, as he’d staggered to his feet. ‘I’ll be fine.’
But it doesn’t look like the flu. It looks like something much worse.
I blink the thought away. ‘I was going to call the station, but … Well, I knew they’d end up sending you anyway.’
He says something comforting, I think. Like he’s trying to soothe me, to calm me down. Evie scans my face as I speak. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes still bloodshot from brushed-away tears. I want to drop the phone and go to her. But Will’s voice interrupts me; pulls me back. ‘Sorry – what?’
‘What’s going on over there?’ His voice is taut: with fear, maybe. But there is, too, the slightest thrill, a bite of anticipation in it. I wonder if he’s aware of it himself: that little bit of bloodlust, the desire to be – just for a moment – at the centre of this case that seems to interest the world.
Or maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe he doesn’t feel that way at all.
‘Our house has been vandalized,’ I say at last. ‘Again.’
I close my eyes. The words remain. I can barely focus on what he’s asking, my mind fogged with anxiety – with outright fear. So I go on speaking without hearing his response. ‘It’s spray paint, right across the windows. I want to get it cleaned off, but … I don’t know what you need to do for me to officially report it.’
His next question is inevitable. ‘What does it say?’
Still, I feel the words catch in my throat as I answer. ‘It says “murderer”. And “whore”.’ I’m grateful that he doesn’t ask me to speculate whom they’re referring to, and why.
When I hang up, I hand the phone back to Dan. ‘Is he coming?’ I nod. ‘I …’ He seems to consider saying something. There’s a look in his eyes, some expression I can’t read. ‘Ugh. I’m sorry. I’m being no help, here.’
I stare at him, trying to work out what he’d decided not to say. What he’d held back.
Evie stands, sensing the tension. ‘I’m going to the loo. I’ll be back in a sec.’
I watch her leave. Watching her walk away sends a jolt of fear through me, even within the walls of the cottage. What small safety my family had felt in our home – if we’d felt any at all – has now disappeared. It’s a violation, a vicious cruelty.
I sit beside Dan. ‘What were you about to say?’
He blinks, slowly, as though he’s just been pulled from sleep. ‘What?’
‘Just then. You were about to say something, and then you didn’t.’
‘I just … It doesn’t make any sense.’ He wipes his forehead, grimacing at the sweat, the sheen of it on his palm. ‘You know I don’t take baths. I can’t work out why I’d run one, is all. I don’t remember doing it.’
‘You’re not well,’ I say, weakly. ‘Maybe you were a bit … I don’t know. Not all there.’
I know he doesn’t believe it. Nor, frankly, do I. I’d known it, from the moment we’d walked in. I’d felt the presence of something unwelcome. Of something uninvited, there inside our home.
‘You should go and lie down. I’ll wait for Will.’
‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘I don’t mind—’
‘Dan, look at you. You’re barely conscious. Take some paracetamol and go to bed. I’ll check on you in a bit.’
I expect him to argue, but he doesn’t. He stands, heavily, steadying himself on tables, on doorframes.
I listen to his halting footsteps as he tackles the stairs, the comforting groan of the mattress above. I hear Evie step inside, with him, and settle into the armchair; the soft mutter of her voice, soothing and sweet.
In the kitchen, there’s only our usual, comforting mess: the dishwasher door slightly ajar, a box of Rice Krispies open on the side. A used mug, black grounds dried to the base; a spoon with a darkening teabag propped on the rim.
And those words, painted scarlet across the glass, illuminated by the light within.
MURDERER.
WHORE.
I reach into the fridge for a bottle of wine and down a glass, a warmth spreading fingers through my chest. It’s a much-needed relief.
When the doorbell rings, I feel as though I’ve been dragged up for air. ‘Coming,’ I say to no one; to the empty hall, almost, as though warning something – someone – that I’m passing through.
Will stands on the doorstep in hoodie and jeans. ‘Sorry about the outfit,’ he says. ‘I’d just put a wash on, so …’
‘It’s fine.’ I step back to let him pass. I fix on a smile. ‘Do you only get one uniform?’
He laughs – not really a laugh, only a monosyllabic ‘ha’. He’s always had a boyishness about him, despite being the same age as Dan. But now, in his casual clothes, he looks younger still. Too young. The realization hits me: he looks afraid.
‘It’s my weekend off,’ he goes on. ‘So I’ve put the lot in.’
‘Oh, God – I really should’ve called the main line.’
‘Ah, it’s fine. They’d have probably called me out anyway.’
I gesture to the wine on the table. I’m desperate to put him at ease; to show him that I’m just who he thought I was. A friend of a friend. Not a suspect. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I can’t stay long. The wife, you know …’
I blush. I think of the words BLACK WIDOW on the poster board, mere minutes away from our door; on the front of every newspaper in Hawkwood. WHORE in red paint, in the kitchen, behind. ‘Of course. I won’t keep you.’
I lead him into the kitchen. He’s about to open the door to the garden when he stops. He leans forward and brushes his fingers against the window. Against the paint, sprayed on from the inside.
I wonder how I didn’t notice it, before; whether some part of me did, but refused to admit the possibility. But it’s unavoidable.
Now, I see them – feel them – as they let themselves in; as they spray MURDERER and WHORE across the windows. As they climb the stairs, treading softly; as they turn the bathroom taps, and let them run.
And then—
Will steps back; his presence, his sudden movement, drags the thought away, before I can quite make sense of it. He pulls his phone out of his pocket; steps back, again, to fit the words into the camera’s frame. ‘Well, that’s quite the statement.’
My heart thumps. There’s something like doubt in his tone. I go on. ‘And the bathroom … It’s flooded.’
‘Did they block the overflow?’
‘I didn’t check.’
‘Mind if I take a look?’
My stomach drops. I can’t say why. ‘Sure.’
I follow him up the stairs. I can hear Dan’s heavy breathing from the hallway. I’m relieved that he’s sleeping; that he’s OK.
There’s still a thin mist on the bathroom mirrors. I see Will in the glass, but not myself. He crouches beside the bath and peers into the overflow. ‘Do you have any tweezers?’
I reach over him for my make-up bag. I root through, the inside furred with powder, and hand him a dusty set. I think of the last time I used them, when I was a different person. A whole person. Someone who felt pulled together, instead of always cleaved in two.
I crouch down beside him, and he tenses. I pretend not to notice. There’s a greyish clump in the drain; the same in the overflow, seeping out through the gap. He tugs at the loose clot, and it tears, with a soft, wet suck. It’s stained black around the edges.
‘Looks like paper,’ he says, thinking aloud. He turns to me. I feel him searching for a reaction. I give nothing away, though I sense it: the s
low dawn of a realization edging through. ‘Do you have any sandwich bags?’
‘What?’
‘I could do with something to put them in. They’re evidence.’
He’s trying to get me to leave. I can feel it. But I can’t say I don’t: they were out, on the kitchen counter. If I lie, it’ll only make things worse. ‘I’ll go and get some.’
I run down the stairs, the painted words a horror, all over again. Grab the bags, and run back up.
When I enter, he’s spread two wet, curled scraps of paper along the base of the bath. I recognize them instantly. I see the letters spaced out, the typing erratic.
r e mem be r m e
Will looks at me. He knows the question’s answer, before he asks. I’ve done the same, myself, with patients I plan to catch in a lie. ‘Ever seen these before?’
I stare at the letters again.
r e mem be r m e
‘Mum?’ Evie peers around the doorway. My pulse leaps. ‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, quickly. ‘What’s up?’
‘Can I go stay at my friend’s house?’
‘Which friend?’
‘Lissa’s.’
I look for the lie, there, but I see nothing. She’s telling the truth. I nod, though I resent it. I want to keep her here with me. To keep her close. ‘Go pack a bag. I’ll drop you off.’ She slips away without another word.
‘Is that Lissa Wilson?’
I turn back to Will, and nod.
‘I can take her over. She’s only a couple of doors from ours.’
I feel a stab of anxiety. He wants to talk to her alone. He wants to know what she thinks – of this situation. Of me.
‘So, where were you guys tonight?’ he says, before I can come up with a reason to take her myself.
‘Evie had a netball match at the school. Dan usually drives her, but …’ I nod towards the bedroom. ‘You know.’
‘And you were there the whole time?’
I hear the creak of a floorboard. ‘I …’ Evie squeezes past me, reaching for her toothbrush. ‘I had to step away for a couple of minutes. To take a phone call.’
She stops. Something crosses her face, a flicker of doubt.
Will doesn’t seem to notice. ‘A couple of minutes?’
I reach for my phone, and bring up the call. I hand it to him. ‘Two and a half, thereabouts.’
Evie’s mouth opens, and closes again.
As she leaves the room, she’s pale. She doesn’t meet my eye.
It was only a couple of minutes, I tell myself. It couldn’t have been more than that.
But Graham’s voice counters: You’re a liar.
‘OK,’ Will says. He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. ‘Well, look. I’ve got some photos.’ He holds up the sandwich bag, r e mem be r m e pressed against the sides. ‘And I’ll take these for processing. I’ll give Dan a shout when he’s feeling better, and have a chat with the neighbours tomorrow – see if they saw anything.’
I nod. I feel sick with fear. ‘I’ve been getting death threats,’ I say. ‘From people listening to Conviction. Our home address has been all over the internet, so …’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And …’ I pause. ‘And the man who went to prison – Mike Philips – he’s been released.’
I know what this looks like: a woman with a guilty conscience looking for someone else to blame. Some stranger creeping in, in the night, to do unspeakable things, once again the wife who cried wolf.
‘We’ll look into it. You haven’t lost your keys or anything, lately?’
I know exactly what he’s saying. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t.’
Evie reappears in the doorway. She doesn’t meet my eye. ‘I’m ready when you are.’
I glance at Will. He smiles. ‘I’m all done here, unless you need me for anything else.’
I shake my head and follow them back down the stairs. I feel as though I’m drowning. Evie doesn’t say a word, and when Will opens the door, she slips out without saying goodbye.
‘Thanks, Will,’ I say, weakly. ‘Appreciate your time.’
‘No problem. Call me if you need anything else.’
‘Be safe,’ I call to Evie. She doesn’t look back.
I close the door and I stare down at the handle, my knuckles white around it.
After all I’ve done, I think, in my mother’s voice. After all I’ve sacrificed to protect her. And now she’s going to be the one to tear us apart.
I stand in the doorway, my shadow long in front of me. ‘Dan,’ I say, my voice ice-cold. I adjust myself, and step inside.
He rolls over and gives a pathetic cough. ‘Hi.’
I perch on the bed beside him. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve seen better days. Where’s Evie?’ She’s already told him about the match; I can feel it. I can hear it in his tone.
‘She’s gone to Lissa’s. Will’s taken her.’
‘He’s been and gone?’
‘Yeah.’
He rolls his neck around, sweat staining the pillow. ‘Did he have any ideas?’
‘I think he’s already reached his conclusion.’ I’m shooting for flippancy with this. It doesn’t land. ‘Best guess is I poisoned you, then left Evie at the match while I snuck back in here to flood and vandalize my own house, all within about five minutes. Motive is as yet unclear.’
He doesn’t laugh. It’s crossed his mind, I realize. He must’ve chosen not to believe it – if he did, he wouldn’t be here. But he’s thought about it. The anger I felt at the foot of the stairs floods through me, again. ‘Not helped by your headline today, by the way,’ I go on. ‘Thanks a lot for that. “Black Widow”? Really?’
I catch a blush cross his cheek, a brief crack in his composure. My chest constricts with an ache of foreboding. ‘Dan—’
‘I … I’ve been meaning to tell you … It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Dan, please. What is it?’
‘I was going to tell you after it was all sorted out. I’m not working there at the moment. It’s just temporary, but—’
‘What?’ My mouth turns dry. I think of my rejected loan application; my conversation with Sarah. ‘When?’
‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘It’s OK, it’ll be—’
‘When?’ My voice is taut, cold. ‘When did you – what, quit? Get fired? What?’
He closes his eyes. ‘After the … After the case was reopened. The consensus was that we should report on it, but I disagreed. The team thought I was too close to it, and I agreed to step away for a little while, so there wouldn’t be a conflict of interest. I thought it’d just be a week or so. But when I went back, they said … Well, there’s been a change of management. So I wasn’t needed any more.’
I feel my stomach twist, horribly. My income has long dwarfed Dan’s, though his would’ve been enough to support us while we waited for Hawkwood to open.
But now, that’s gone, too. All because of Conviction. Because of me.
‘Where have you been going every day?’
He shrugs. ‘Meeting sources, doing research … That’s why I started working on that book. I thought it’d help.’
We sit like this for minutes. I know I should tell him, now, about my job: about the partnership at Hawkwood House. I gather the strength to say it, and draw breath. But he rolls over and turns away.
All at once, he’s in the position I found Graham on that awful night, the blanket covering him in just the same way. I’m returned to that moment. The same rage in the back of my throat; the same sense of something lost that can’t be recovered.
‘All right,’ I say, with as much tenderness as I can muster. I lean in and kiss him, gently, on the cheek.
That’s what it means, to love someone, I tell myself. In sickness and in health. ‘OK. I’m sorry.’
I walk into the bathroom, turn the shower on, a scalding heat, and disappear. I wash the slick of him off my skin, and let it burn.
; 42
London, 2005
Evie’s breath is hot against my neck, her fingers knotted through my hair. I’d arrived home resolved, the outlines of a plan forming in my mind: a single bag for each of us, a stop at the bank on the way, a chunk of our savings moved to an account that’s only mine. Then, a train out of the city – to anywhere, so long as it’s far from here.
But Louise had handed her to me, my little girl feverish, unable to eat. So I’d steeled myself for one more night. That’s all. When she’s better, I swear, we’ll leave.
I bounce her up and down in my arms, and we circle her room in the dark, though she’s really too old for this, too heavy for me to hold.
But still, whenever she reaches up, I take her. I know that one day, without realizing it, I’ll put her down for the last time, and she won’t ask me to hold her again. And as the only child I’ll ever have, I know, when she no longer needs me, that’ll be it.
So, I prepare for my loss in the very worst of ways: by luxuriating in it, every moment I have alone with her tinged with grief. I take every slight as a heartbreak. Every time she chooses him, not me, I split in two.
‘Hannah?’
I flinch. I run through the calculations, the things I might’ve done to upset him, this time. I tidied the living room before bed; the dishes are done. I was here when he got home tonight. I said nothing about our fight, or what Darren told me. I didn’t ask him where he slept last night.
I hear him talking. He’s on the phone. The words are muffled, but I catch his tone: disappointment, frustration. Resignation. He appears in the doorway. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘She’s with Evie. I’ll get her to call you back when she’s done.’ He hangs up, and leans, heavily, against the doorframe. ‘That was Darren.’
Evie stirs on my shoulder. She can feel the tension running through me, the raised hairs at the back of my neck. I kiss her, gently, and put her down.
I turn to leave.
He doesn’t move. His figure fills the door.
‘Can we talk outside?’ I say, soothingly. ‘She needs to sleep.’
He looks past me, to Evie. He nods, and steps back to let me pass. He closes her door shut, behind.
Fear winds through my veins, sharp and cool. ‘What’s up?’