by S. E. Lynes
I couldn’t face the withering looks, to be honest. The head shakes, the sighs. But then maybe once they’d been fed, Mark or Katie would give me a lift back and help me jump-start my car. Maybe. Yes, this was where I’d got to. Status: doormat. Unable to admit to a mistake for fear of ridicule. Unable to ask for a kindness for fear of refusal.
So that was why I was on the high street opposite the surgery at quarter to six, trying to hitch a lift from random cars ploughing through the sheeting downpour like Mad Max machines. You’d think someone would have recognised me, wouldn’t you? Stopped and said, hop in, love, you’ll catch your death. You’ll be ahead of me, I’m sure. If I was invisible before, try adding dark cloud and thick rain to the mix. I must have stood on that flooded pavement for over thirty minutes in what passes for rush hour in my northern industrial town, but could I get any bugger to stop? Could I thump. By the time I gave up, I was soaked to the skin and, I have to say, close to tears.
I trudged back to the car and called Mark from there, but he didn’t pick up. I called Katie, but despite the fact that her phone could be mistaken for a bionic extension grafted onto her right hand, she didn’t pick up either. We didn’t have a landline because Mark said it was a waste of money if we were all paying for expensive iPhone contracts, so I couldn’t ring the house either. Ironic, I know: all three of us with our own phones and we couldn’t even communicate with one another. I didn’t have cash for a cab, let alone one of them Uber apps, so in the end I thought, sod it, I’ll walk.
It stopped raining just as I was passing the town hall. Even though I knew Mark and Katie would be wondering where I was, I stopped at the fence to have a look in. There was nothing to see, obviously. I don’t know what I was expecting. I stared into the gardens, picturing my hand white against Jo’s back. The smallness of her. How safe she’d felt in my maternal embrace. How near to death she’d been in my care. The corner near where we’d parted ways had been taped off. There were two bunches of flowers propped against the wall. I gave a deep, sad sigh – for Jo, for myself, for the knife I’d found in my bag and what it might or might not mean. And when I saw what I took to be the remnants of a bloodstain on the pale grey paving stones, I sank to my knees and wept.
That was when I got the first proper flash. The first one that frightened me. I’d been imagining the knife, but this felt more like a memory. The knife slicing through cloth, pushing into firm young skin. A slick across my knuckles, fingers covered in thick wet blood. A form collapsing onto the pavement, collapsing like a bag of jumble.
‘Oh, Jo.’ I sobbed for her there on the pavement. ‘Jo, my love, what happened to you?’
I must have got up eventually. It took me forty-five minutes to reach home, so I was probably on my knees for ten, fifteen. I can remember running, the horrible thought that Jo might have died making me race back. Once I was in the door, I peeled off my cagoule in the hallway and carried it carefully into the downstairs loo, where I hung it over the tap so it would drip into the sink. There didn’t seem to be anyone home. The iPad was on the worktop, so I checked the Weekly News straight away. There were no updates. My breath left me in a long, heavy blast of relief. If she were dead, they would have reported it. If she’d woken up, they would have reported that too.
‘Hello?’ I called out, wandering back into the hall. No answer. ‘Hello?’ I shouted, leaning my head into the stairwell. ‘Katie? Mark? Anybody in?’
‘In here.’ Mark. Lounge.
I put my head around the door. I must have looked a state, hair plastered to my head with a mixture of sweat and rain, and flushed from exertion. But he didn’t look at me so I don’t suppose it mattered. He was reading the paper. The telly was on. The One Show, I think it was, not that I could swear under oath or anything – one grinning idiot presenter is much the same as another in my book.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said. I checked my watch and saw it was after seven. No way we could have cottage pie now, not if we wanted to eat before nine.
‘Have you had any tea?’ I asked him, even though I knew he wouldn’t have.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was waiting for you. Didn’t know what you’d want.’
Didn’t know what you’d want. As if I’d say, Pasta bake, are you joking? As if someone cooking a meal and setting it before me without me asking wouldn’t be enough to send me into tears of gratitude.
‘Our Katie in?’
He raised his eyebrows, but I couldn’t tell if it was a response or whether he’d read something that had mildly surprised him. Or whether his gall bladder was playing up again.
‘Watching something on her laptop, I think.’
I hesitated. ‘Mark?’
‘Hmm?’
I wondered if he’d even noticed I was late. ‘My car wouldn’t start, love. That’s why I’m so late. It’s the battery. I think the rain flattened it. I couldn’t get hold of you or Katie. I’ve had to walk home.’
And then, hallelujah, he looked at me. I watched him take in my bedraggled appearance, my grey work trousers black with water from mid-thigh down, the expression of defeat I felt sure I was wearing. His eyes creased at the edges in dismay or disbelief or something. He was staring at me, really staring, as if I’d materialised from the plug-in air freshener.
‘You’re joking?’ he said.
I think it was at that point that I realised something else. I’d already got as far as knowing that I wasn’t invisible like air is invisible. Or carbon monoxide or whatever. I knew that if you looked at me you couldn’t see through me or anything like that. I was invisible the way that household objects are invisible, like the hoover or the dishwasher or the kettle, in the sense that yes, they’re solid objects, but you don’t really see them, do you? Or notice them or whatever. But now it dawned on me that the one time you do notice the hoover or the dishwasher or the kettle is when they go wrong. My husband was looking right at me. I knew he could see me, could feel his eyes on my face. He wasn’t gazing at me with love, obviously; he was looking at me because it was nearly seven and there was no dinner. I had malfunctioned. I was a hoover that had stopped picking up, a dishwasher that didn’t get the plates clean, a kettle with a dodgy element.
And actually, I started to feel exactly like a kettle in that moment. I was full of water, the liquid insides of me heating around a red-hot element at the core of my being, tiny bubbles rising.
‘I’m just…’ I muttered.
I left Mark in the lounge and went to sit in the kitchen with my head in my hands. Sweat ran down my back, prickled on my forehead. I felt like I was going to be sick, had the impression I was going to slide off my chair. My head throbbed and I closed my eyes to try and calm everything down. Another second and I was wrestling myself out of my cardie. I pulled my work T-shirt over my head. I was down to my bra with a vest on top, knew I should get out of my wet trousers, but I couldn’t move. I was panting, trying to suck in air in small swallowed breaths, trying to get oxygen into my lungs. My eyelids were sweating, for crying out loud; my armpits sent more perspiration trickling down my sides, into my waistband. I kept my eyes closed, focused on bringing my temperature down, and all the while I was thinking, I’m a kettle, I’m a kettle, I’m a kettle. I’m a kettle with a dodgy element. I’m going to explode. And when I do, I will rain boiling water down on everyone.
The kitchen door squeaked. I opened one eye a crack and saw the tip of Mark’s slippers.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Just hot, that’s all.’
A heavy sigh. ‘I suppose we’d better go and get the bloody car then.’
We drove there in Mark’s Astra. It only took ten minutes or so, but from the vice-like set of his jaw, you’d think I’d asked him to drive me to France. At least he let me have his cagoule, which was dry and, being menswear, actually covered my bottom, and it’s got the big hood and the big pockets – which was where I put the jump leads.
I close my eyes and I’m there. It’s cold despite it being early July. The rain
has started again and it’s heavy: glass javelins spearing the canal. Mark is grunting like an old fella, propping open both bonnets while I hold his golfing umbrella over his head. I know how to attach jump leads to batteries and it was my car, but he’s done it, mood filthy as the night, before I have a chance to open my mouth. He gets into my car to start it, which I also know how to do, obviously. But I let him get on with it; I’m grateful for the help.
The heat inside me has died down. I’m clammy and washed out, but nothing more.
The Twingo starts more or less straight off.
‘May as well drive this one now I’ve got it going,’ he shouts through the window. ‘No sense both of us getting wet. You take mine.’
‘OK.’
I still have my hood up. The rain is going off but there’s mizzle in the air. I shove the jump leads back into Mark’s cagoule pocket. By the time I’ve got into the driving seat and readjusted it to my short legs, he’s gone. I turn on the ignition, almost die of a heart attack at the deafening blast of Radio 5. I turn it off. I get enough of ill-informed men pontificating on things they know nothing about at work.
It’s quarter to eight when I finally get home. But at least I don’t feel like I’m going to erupt anymore, start spouting boiling water all over the kitchen floor. I should get changed. Only I’m halfway up the stairs when Mark says: ‘Where are you going?’
What he means is: Where’s my tea?
‘I was just going to get some dry clothes on. I might even change into my PJs.’
His face is the original bulldog chewing a wasp. He’s hungry and it’s my fault. I feel the irritation, the hunger in my stomach like I did with Jo, but then I think that I’m probably hungry too and I don’t really know if I’m hungry or Mark is or we both are or what. And as for the irritation, well, obviously I know Mark inside out and back to front and I can tell what mood he’s in by the back of his head, so I suppose it isn’t clear what’s normal and what has to do with the finely tuned instincts of the perimenopausal woman.
‘What were you thinking for tea?’ He’s still standing in the hallway.
‘I was going to do cottage pie. But it’s too late now.’
‘Shall we have fish and chips?’
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘Are you sure?’
The dance we do. I trudge back down and put his cagoule on again.
‘What do you want then?’ I shove a twenty into my damp trouser pocket.
‘Large fish and chips. And curry sauce. I’m starving.’ He isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s walking away.
The tsh of a ring pull reaches me from the kitchen. I’m on the lip of the front door when I hear, ‘Are you going to the chippy?’ Katie, shouting from the top of the stairs. Didn’t even know she was in. ‘Can you get us large scampi and chips and mushy peas?’
‘All right. Set the table.’
I close the door, thinking how funny it is that when I call out hello in the hope of a friendly hello back, no one hears me. But one muttered conversation about fish and chips and Katie develops the hearing of a bloody bat.
20
Katie
Transcript of recorded interview with Katie Edwards (excerpt)
Also present: DI Heather Scott, PC Marilyn Button
KE: On the Saturday I was with Liam and that Thursday I was at home because I was learning how to do acrylic nails in my room – you can check with Thea ’cause I was on FaceTime with her – and then Mum came home with the chips. I had scampi.
HS: Great, that’s great, thanks. And did you see your mother on the Saturday?
KE: I don’t think so.
HS: And the Thursday? How did your mum seem that night?
KE: She was in a right mood. My dad should’ve gone for the chips but she just went in quite a pass-agg way. She does that. She, like, wants you to do something but then she does it before you’ve had time to do it. She was ages getting the chips and by the time she got back she reckoned she was so cold she had to go for a bath, but that was just a guilt trip. Me and dad ate ours in the kitchen.
HS: So your mother was angry? How angry would you say?
KE: She was just in a mood. She wasn’t, like, screaming for murder or anything. I’m telling you she didn’t do anything – she just wouldn’t do anything like that.
HS: Was there anything else about that night you can remember?
KE: Erm. (Pause) I heard the doorbell go and I could smell fags.
HS: When would that have been?
KE: Erm. About twenty minutes or so before my mum got back.
HS: So someone came into your house? Do you know who it was?
KE: It was probably our neighbour. She was always popping in. Ingrid.
HS: So Ingrid Taylor came to your house that night?
KE: I’m just saying that the doorbell went and I could smell fags. Ingrid was always coming round when Mum was out. Why do you want to know about that night anyway? I thought there were only three attacks?
21
Rachel
The chip shop was rammed, queue coming out the door. Impossible to park anywhere near. I found a space eventually on the other side of St Michael’s church. That’s why I cut through the graveyard, in case you were wondering. And can I just say, I did think twice, of course I did, I’m not daft. It was dark, and though I might be a bit past it, I’m still a woman and like every other woman have spent my whole life avoiding shady corners and empty streets, scurried along many a road late at night listening behind me for footsteps. But I was starving, my kecks – sorry, my trousers – were sticky and I just wanted to get the chips and get home. Anyway, talking to Phil every day, I’d started seeing the world in terms of odds, and I reckoned the odds of me getting through the shortcut without being seen were in my favour, what with me being invisible.
The iron gate whistled on its hinges like something out of a gothic horror. I had a good grin to myself about that, even whispered woo sarcastically under my breath as I set off down the path. I walked slowly at first, but after no more than two or three paces, I heard a heavy scraping noise behind me. That wiped the grin right off my face. I walked faster. When the noise got faster too, I stopped. The noise stopped. Hulking graves crouched all around. My heart was hammering by now and my forehead was drenched. I was an idiot. I’d cut through a graveyard in the mizzling dark, to gain, what, five minutes? Madness, bloody madness. I took three quick strides – heard three dragging scratches behind me. A whimper escaped me. I half walked, half ran. Sht sht sht came from behind, sht sht sht, faster and faster, in time with me. My breathing came shallow and fast. I had at least another fifty paces to get to the other side.
I stopped. The noise stopped. With all my courage, all my strength of will, I made myself turn around.
Nothing. No one.
‘Hello?’ I squinted down the dark path. The cemetery was as silent as, well, a graveyard. On the far side, the street was deserted. I peered into the gloom. ‘Who’s there?’ I called out. ‘If you think this is funny, well, it’s not.’
Nothing. The whisper of leaves. Night’s cut-out shapes. My throat thickened. I turned back. Took one step.
Sht.
‘Oh for God’s—’ I spun around on my heel, furious now, looked behind me, up, down. And then I saw it.
I glance up. Blue Eyes is on the edge of her seat.
‘It?’ she says.
‘There was a big twig,’ I say, ‘caught on the hem of my trousers, one end on the path. It had been dragging behind me.’
And for the first time in all these hours we’ve spent together, she laughs.
‘What did you do?’
I tell her I pulled the twig off, tutting and swearing, my heart not slowing, not yet, the sweat on my forehead going cold. I tell her I called myself names: bloody idiot woman, daft bat, loony tune.
It was funny, I knew that even then. Would be funny in a bit, anyway. It would be a story to tell Lisa. Lisa would do a whole routine on it, take the mickey
until neither of us could breathe. But still, I was shaking and, for the second time that day, nearly crying. I ploughed on, a sick feeling in my stomach. Kept up a brisk pace. My mother had a plaque here; she’d been cremated. The plaque was on the far wall but I didn’t have time to visit it now. Not like she was there. She never bothered much with me when she was, to be honest, too wrapped up in my dad, as he was in her. My dad, now him I did need to visit. I hadn’t been to see him for a week or so.
The church loomed. In its shadow, the ground darkened. I could see the arch of the sandstone doorway up ahead, the recess of the porch black as all hell. I was walking silly fast by now, like one of those race walkers in the Commonwealth Games, all elbows and wiggling bottom. I told myself not to be so stupid. It wasn’t far now to the other side. There was no one here, no one at all. It was all in my mind. It had been a twig, just a twig, and now I was spooked, that was all. The chill on my legs got colder. I was about two or three metres from the church when I heard a grunting sound. I stopped. It was coming from the doorway. A noise I recognised and didn’t all at the same time, if you know what I mean. The grunting was regular, rhythmical. I knew exactly what it was but no part of me wanted to admit that that was what it could be. I screwed up my eyes and stared towards the doorway. A man’s back, shoulders hunched forward, head tipped down. His arm chugged back and forth in a rhythm that meant I could no longer deny what I was hearing, seeing.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ I whispered to myself. ‘In the doorway of the church, for Pete’s sake.’
I had half a mind to shout at him, call him a pervert, tell him to sling his hook. I didn’t, but I must have whispered louder than I’d thought, or gasped in shock or something, because he turned quite suddenly to look behind him. Turned and stared right at me. I swear to God, he peered into my face as if he were trying to make out if I had a nose or not. Apparently seeing nothing at all, he looked past me then, over my shoulder, into the silent darkness. A second or two later, he turned back and carried on. Carried on, would you believe? Animal.