“You aren’t like I thought you would be, you know.” Damian’s voice breaks our silence.
I glance at him, curious. “How d’you mean?”
“Julia said you were the sensible one: classic mum, salt-of-the-earth, heart-of-the-house kind of thing.” He hesitates. “I guess I assumed, before I met you, that you’d be a bit, I dunno, dull, maybe. With a small life.”
I offer up a wry laugh. “Small by name, small by nature. That definitely sounds like me. Compared to Julia, anyway.”
“No.” Damian frowns. “That’s not it, Livy. I can see why you and Julia worked. She did all the glamorous things and you lived them through her and she felt grounded through you. But that didn’t … doesn’t … make your life small.”
“No?”
The trees grow thicker as we walk closer to the houses. The music is louder here.
“Your life isn’t small,” Damian says . “You’ve just got too used to living at the edges of it.”
I stare at him. The song playing finishes and a DJ introduces the next track, but I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about what Damian has just said, instinctively feeling the truth of it. Then, as the floaty sound of a guitar drifts toward us, Damian gives a gasp of recognition.
“Julia loved this,” he says.
I turn my attention to the song. The mournful guitar has been joined by a man singing. The sound of his voice is vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place either him or the track. It’s yet another way in which my life has diminished. I can’t remember when I stopped listening to music; sometime after the kids arrived, I guess.
“What is this?” I ask.
“‘Why Worry.’ Dire Straits,” Damian says. “One of Julia’s guilty pleasures.”
I stare at him. “Julia hated this kind of ’80s music.”
Damian grins. “In public, she did. Hey, come here.” He reaches for my hand again and pulls me toward him.
I let him hold me and sway me. He puts one strong hand on my back. The other is still holding my hand. And we are dancing. The night is so dark and quiet. The music is haunting. We move together, slowly, and I close my eyes as the song floats around us. Desire fills me again and I let my cheek rest against Damian’s. I feel ridiculously excited, my pulse racing. I have no idea what I’m doing—the world and the rest of my life feel a million miles away.
The music fades away and a new tune starts up. The beat is stronger, rhythmic. Again it sounds familiar, but I don’t recognize the song.
“Oh yes.” Damian’s grip on my hand tightens. He presses his other palm more firmly against my back and moves me faster.
I open my mouth to ask what we’re dancing to now, when the vocals start and the unmistakable sound of Elvis Presley growls around us. I recognize the song, with its infectious tune and chirpy rhythm. I’ve no time to feel self-conscious as Damian moves me in time with the music.
It’s fun. I’d forgotten how much fun dancing could be. I haven’t danced in years.
I let Damian lead me as we spin through the trees. He’s a great dancer, his movements flexible and rhythmic. I’m breathless, laughing, all the terrors of the day forgotten as we glide over the soft grass,
And then the music fades again, to radio ads. And the world comes crashing back. A car passes in the street beyond. Another honks in the distance. Farther away, two men are shouting. Damian and I stop moving and stand, still holding each other. Seconds pass. The radio is still blaring out. The ad finishes and the station jingle sounds. I don’t catch the name of the station, but suddenly the music is over and a male voice announces:
“This is the news at eleven o’clock.”
I step back, away from Damian. He lets me go, but keeps his gaze on my face. There’s an expression I can’t read in his eyes: part longing, part misery. He moves, a slight inflection of the head. It’s barely there, but clear as the voice in the background: an invitation to kiss.
I move back farther, suddenly terrified. I bow my head, avoiding his gaze. And then I focus back on the radio, and I hear what the news announcer is saying.
“… has been identified as former escort, Shannon Walker, twenty-five. The body was washed ashore on the beach at Lympstone. Walker was under the influence of a cocktail of recreational drugs when she drowned.…”
“Oh, Jesus.” I turn back to Damian. He is listening too, horror in his eyes.
“He found her,” Damian says. Fear fills me to my bones. “He found her after all.”
SANDRA
I think that God in creating Man somewhat overestimated his ability.
—Oscar Wilde
And so we come to Sandra. I waited a long time to find her. There were other distractions in the meantime: simple affairs, disappointments at work, the onslaught of Amis’s time passing with its “ropes of steam” and “hoarse roar of power or terror.” But none of this really touched me at my core. There I slept, waiting, trusting my instincts and my belief that when the killer is ready, the victim will appear, to paraphrase one of my earlier entries.
It wasn’t a promising start. Unlike Annalise, Sandra had no veneer of intelligence or professional ability. In fact, she did not possess any obvious qualities at all. And yet … other than with Kara, of course, I have never felt such a desire to take a person in my life. It was overwhelming. Perhaps my ultimate challenge. You see, I could have killed Sandra within minutes of meeting her. And yet I waited. I waited to test myself. To see how far I could triumph over my own impatience. It was then I realized that I, myself, was the rival I had been waiting for. In that moment things fell apart and the center could not hold. As I dissolved, so I was reborn. Sandra was nothing in herself, but she represents my own second coming.
We met on Dartmoor one hot day a few summers ago. I was driving home from seeing a client, reminding myself that I needed to pick up some flowers as a present for my wife, and that I should probably buy some milk while I was at it, when I passed Sandra on a deserted road. She was with her two small children (both girls, born to different fathers) and I could see, as I passed her, the slouch in her walk that told me everything. I don’t really know why I pulled over. I was just suddenly sure that Sandra was next. My destiny. I got out of my car and waited for them to walk by.
“Hello.” I said.
Sandra looked at me suspiciously. Her hair was a mess of unspeakable highlights in dire need of a cut, and her clothes were desperate. The two little girls had grubby smears on their arms and legs. She was carrying one; the other was whining at her legs. All three of them looked exhausted.
“Might I offer you a lift?” I smiled disarmingly and indicated the cool interior of my car.
Sandra frowned.
I glanced at the picture I had placed on the dashboard, hoping her gaze would follow mine.
“Is that your family?” she asked.
”That’s right,” I said. “Quite the handful.”
Sandra hesitated. The older girl whined. “Please, Mummy.” Sandra still hesitated.
“It’s fine. I just stopped because you all looked so tired and hot and I wanted to help,” I said with a rueful shrug. “But I totally understand. You can’t be too careful these days.”
I headed for the car. I got inside. I took hold of the door handle, ready to pull the door shut.
“Okay, er, thanks.” Sandra blushed.
And in they came. Easy as pie.
I put on my best face as I drove them to their little home on the moor. Sandra was clearly lonely and miserable. I gradually drew her out, complimenting her on the children and commiserating about the challenge of single parenting. I used my old favorite, the dead daughter leukemia story. I thought it would be just the ticket for Sandra. It was. By the time I dropped her at the end of her road, she was very open to another meeting. We didn’t even swap numbers—I just arranged to pick her up the following Saturday afternoon, when the girls would be with Sandra’s mother.
We met and walked across the moor, to the River Dart. We were seen
by several couples, which helped my resolution not to take things further too fast. Sandra, yawn, was eager to tell me her story, which predictably featured a series of brutal ex-boyfriends. She was delighted to inform me that leaving the last bully who had humiliated her had been a huge step, that she was turning her life around … blah, blah … I told her, in faltering tones, that my wife didn’t understand me, that our marriage was a sham. And then I kissed her—ever so gently—near where the Dart pooled into a mini-lake, surrounded by rocks. As I stared into the cool dark depths, my plan resolved itself inside my head.
And so I waited. I held myself back the following Friday, when Sandra and I met again for a couple of hours. And the weekend after that, when she brought her daughters with her to introduce me to them properly, as she said with a silly, shy smile. Both times I could have killed her in any number of ways. God knows I was bored enough to do it. My view of Sandra’s personality had in no way been enhanced since our first meeting. Often, I thought of Kara as I watched her. Like so many others I’ve been drawn to, Sandra had one tiny echo of my angel girl: her fine blond hair. Though Sandra’s came out of a bottle. And yet the differences were overwhelming. Kara had been sacred ground. Sandra was an ugly scrap of wasteland: soiled and littered. Still, it was such sweet agony to delay the gratification, to resist myself.
I had only a few hours the Friday after, but I knew it was time. I determined to make this count, even when Sandra turned up to our meeting with fresh highlights in her hair and the younger of her daughters who, she said, had not been well and hadn’t wanted to stay with her grandmother that day. I should explain that Sandra, knowing I was married, had not told her mother she was meeting me. This was the beauty of our country walks. Few witnesses. No explanations. Limited risk.
It was a hot, sticky day, the third in row where the temperatures were in the low thirties. Sandra was on tenterhooks from the start of our walk, fishing for compliments about her new hairdo—she had pinned those blond locks back with an execrable butterfly-shaped hair grip. I knew she was expecting me to seduce her. I kissed her while her little girl played behind a rock.
“Wait,” she giggled, all simpering and irritating.
“I can’t wait,” I groaned, shamming sexual desire for her. “I want you, I need you.” Or some such. Whatever. My words worked. Sandra let me peel off her clothes; then I led her into the water, slightly warmer than normal from days of fierce sunshine. “So we can be private,” I whispered. She blushed and murmured her appreciation of my consideration. I took her into the water, then drew back. She looked at me hesitantly. We were both naked now, up to the neck in the cool lake. Our clothes were on the dry grass, the trees beyond. The little girl out of sight behind the rock with her coloring book or her doll. I told Sandra I wanted to swim with her under the water. She nodded, and I drew her down into the deep. The sun sparkled on the surface above as I held her hand and swam her closer to the rock I had found on an earlier, solo visit. The stones I’d left in place were still there. On we swam. Sandra was running out of breath, tugging at my hand to pull me up to the surface.
I pointed to the rock, holding up one finger from my free hand. Just a moment, I was signaling. Look here. And the stupid woman did as she was told. I slid my hand along her leg, with a slick movement pushing her foot into the hole in the rocks. I picked up the rock I had gotten ready in advance off the bottom of the pool and shoved it into position so her leg was trapped. Then, holding the rock firmly in position, I turned to see her face. My exertions had left me short of breath myself, but I still watched, fascinated, as Sandra’s body jerked then slowed then finally slumped. I took my hands away from the rock. It held. Unable to last any longer without breath, I shot to the surface.
I burst, glorious, into the fresh, warm air. Eyes open, I blinked away the water. I turned. And saw a pair of feet in little pink sneakers.
Sandra’s daughter was standing on the rocks, beside our pile of clothes, her mouth a shocked O. She was staring into the pool. I followed her gaze. Sandra was clearly visible underwater, the outline of her naked body smudged and pink and floating up from its prison. The little girl turned to me. I realized with a thrill she was the first-ever witness to a kill of mine. I felt a throb of pride. Then the little girl let out a thin, high scream. Instantly I was out of the water. I swept her into my arms, my hand over her mouth. I jumped in, under the surface again. This had not been planned, of course, but my whole killing life so far had led me to this, this ease under pressure, this sure touch decision-making. The girl crumpled in my arms. Niamh, her name was, not yet three. I left her floating facedown, just above her mother; then I got out of the water.
I was cool and calm as I dragged on my clothes and removed all traces of my footprints. Not hard to do, the grass by the water was soft and lush but already considerably trampled upon by previous passersby. I looked around once more. I was pretty sure how the police would interpret the scene. Sandra went skinny-dipping, got trapped underwater, panicked, and drowned in a freak accident. Her tiny daughter fell in—or jumped in to rouse her mother—and died too. I had left no marks on the bodies and no trace of myself at the scene. I checked everything of Sandra’s for telltale signs. It was fine: no hair, no fabric, no prints. I took her butterfly-shaped hair clip and went back to the car. Then I changed into different clothes—just to be sure—and drove off, dumping my original outfit in a trash barrel a couple of miles away..
I was home within the hour, full of the latest tales from work. I pretended to show an interest in my wife’s day, but inside I was bursting with a new pride. I had delayed gratification. I had improvised to deal with collateral damage. And I had triumphed. Again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The sunshine glints off the glass-walled office buildings as our train zooms past. Fields and trees, soft green and brown open up to the right. It’s another beautiful day, but Damian and I are traveling in a tense, anxious silence.
Once we’d heard the news of Shannon’s death, we made our way back to our hotel, feeling stunned. We sat in the deserted bar for a while, trying to calm our nerves. Then we went to bed.
Separately.
Shannon’s murder—and I’m as sure as Damian that she was killed deliberately—kept me awake much of the night. I felt sick with fear, shoving a chair under the handle of my hotel room door and getting up several times to check that it was properly locked.
Even now, hours later, I’m still on edge. Damian clearly is too, his hands fiddling nervously with a cigarette, refraining from smoking only because it’s forbidden on the train. There’s a new awkwardness between us since last night, but I’m not letting myself think about that.
I desperately want to call Will. But I am too hurt and too angry to speak to him. It doesn’t matter if he slept with Catrina once, or one hundred times; it doesn’t matter if there were lots of other women over the years, or only her. It still changes everything. I can’t hold my feelings back any longer. There are things here I must face. Most important, that our life together has been shattered. Will’s affair the first time around tore at the heart of our marriage. But at least back then, I believed there was a heart, something that we could, together, heal and mend. But now everything is ripped to shreds, broken beyond mending. Will has destroyed our marriage, and I cannot see a way back for us. I think this; then I think of Hannah, grappling with early adolescence, and I think of sweet, loving Zack. I think of the pain that our breaking up will cause them.
I cannot bear it.
Damian and I barely speak on the journey home. I don’t know what to make of how he looked at me last night, how close we came to kissing, how easily that could have led to everything else. In the state I’m in, it’s hard to see anything clearly. Paranoia fogs my brain. My fears run riot. I suspect everyone and everybody of Julia’s death. Maybe Will has a dark side I’ve never seen. Maybe Damian has set up everything we have experienced—from the messenger in Shannon’s flat to the fire at Julia’s cottage—as some kind of e
laborate double bluff. Maybe Julia’s brother, Robbie, is a psychopath whose constrained, ordinary life masks a whole series of sick desires and evil actions.
Our train draws close to Exeter, and I rouse myself from my horrific musings to give Mum a ring. She says that Zack has been up for hours but that Hannah is still in bed. I glance at my watch. It’s almost ten. I tell Mum to wake Hannah if she’s not up in half an hour and that I’ll be with them later—though I don’t know exactly when. Then I have a chat with Zack, who is full of the “bug paradise” he’s been making in Granny’s garden, “with a home for beetles under a stone and some flowers for the bees to visit and some earth for worms.”
We arrive in Exeter as I finish my phone call. Outside the cool of the air-conditioned car, the air feels hot and humid.
As we pass through the turnstile, Damian clears his throat. “So do you still want to go to Aces High?” he asks.
I’m jolted back to the reality of the plan we made last night, before we knew about Shannon’s death. “What’s the point of going there?” I ask. “We were only going to try to find Shannon again. And now…”
Damian’s shoulders sag. “I know, but I can’t give up,” he says. “I need to know who killed Julia.” He pauses. “Whoever it is probably killed Shannon too. And your sister.”
I nod. I owe it to Kara and Julia to find out as well.
As we emerge into the sunshine, Damian sighs. “How about if we go to Aces High to try to find out if anyone knows who Shannon got that locket from? She said she got one of the guys there to put pressure on the person who owed her. Maybe we can find him.”
“Okay, but whoever it is, is hardly going to admit to threatening anyone.” I think it through. “Maybe you should go to Aces High, and I’ll see if Robbie will meet me later. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure he’s involved. He got Joanie to destroy Julia’s computer—”
“I agree,” Damian says. “But I don’t like the idea of you meeting him alone.”
You Can Trust Me: A Novel Page 23