Noting my interest, they invited me to join them to experience some of the teachings planned for the day. It was Easter at the time and I had another meeting already booked, but I managed to stay for an hour after I’d delivered and arranged the food. In that time, I learned about the breath, how to focus my attention on it and keep it there to tame a wandering mind.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough, and as I lay in bed, my mind scattering and jumping about, I tried to concentrate on inhaling and exhaling. On listening to the sound of my breath entering and leaving my body. I wanted to stop thinking. I wanted a break. I wanted my volleying mind to stop showing me Della’s face as she said the police wanted to quiz her. I wanted to stop hearing Sergeant Bailey’s voice on the answer machine. I wanted to stop the whooshing rush of adrenaline that coursed through my chest every time I thought about the hit and run.
Della had called Sergeant Bailey whilst I was with her. I told her to, I tried to keep it light, made my voice sound as easy as I could.
‘It’s probably just a routine thing,’ I told her. ‘Why not ring him back now, see what he wants?’
Turns out he wanted to quiz her about exactly what she was doing on Tuesday afternoon. He needed to know exactly what time I called her and exactly what time she called Phil. I heard her tell him how long she’d been working for us for, what her relationship with us was like. I could her hear stammer her answers out, heard her agree and say ‘anytime’. And when the call had ended she said that they might need to question her again, they might need her at the station as their investigation continued. I think I nodded as if it was all very normal, as if I knew what police protocol was in these situations and then I gave her a task so she wouldn’t talk about it anymore.
How long would it be before the police came here again? When I came home the answer machine message from Sergeant Bailey had been deleted, Phil made no mention of the call and neither did I, but how long before they knocked on the door again?
Phil had lied to me about where he was going that morning. I’d seen a message on Twitter that only he could’ve sent. I see his car and I think, I’d seen him plough someone over. I think I saw my husband kill someone. And the thought terrified me. Paralysed me. I wanted to talk to him about it but I didn’t know where to start, wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answers and I was so tired. Exhausted.
I lay in bed and thought how the police would slowly be piecing it all together. They would have interviewed the staff at the hotel by now, seen the time of when my ambulance was called for and realised that I was there at the exact same time as the hit and run. They’d probably, right at that very minute, be discussing what an improbable coincidence it was.
I could see Sergeant Bailey’s face in my mind, the way he shook his head at the probability of it all. The way he’d told us that he would need to question us again, soon. His voice on the answer machine, asking us to return his call. Sergeant Bailey would be checking CCTV, looking for Phil’s movements, calling up the regional office. Perhaps even speaking to Felix and realising Phil’s lie as I had done.
I Googled it again. As soon as I got home and Della had left, I brought up the news report about the accident on my laptop, the police file asking for witnesses and I read it again. It only mentioned a ‘pedestrian’, it didn’t even say the gender and it said the time as an approximation. Who was that person lying on the ground? The body that I’d seen fly up in the air? Why were they run over like that, the car aiming for them, targeting them?
Breathing in, I counted to ten, my heart pounding, and held my breath.
Blood thumped about my body and I listened, strained to hear movement. Phil was downstairs, the girls in bed. Katie had spent the evening practising songs for her Christmas show at school and I’d listened to her. All evening. Before and after the takeaway pizza, whilst writing Christmas cards, whilst Phil watched television in the front lounge, Katie and I stayed in the kitchen and she sang.
Phil handed me my medication and that was the only contact I’d had with him. I felt drowsy, emotional. I was a wreck. Jessica joined us for a while, she brought down some henna, a black ink that she began to paint on her forearm and for once I didn't ask her what she was doing, or why she was making a mess, or why she felt the need to decorate her lovely smooth skin. I watched her. Watched both of my lovely girls for about twenty minutes, whilst Katie tried to learn the lyrics to her songs and Jessica made fun, with the smell of henna filling the kitchen, everything felt normal. I didn't want it to end. I revelled in it, soaked up every second. Jessica looked at me and burst out laughing at the tears on my cheeks.
‘You've reduced Mum to tears!’ she told Katie, who looked at me in shock as I shook my head.
‘Your singing is beautiful,’ I'd told her and they'd both stared at me. ‘You're both beautiful,’ I said and I didn't care how weepy I was, or how Katie was matching my level of affection with disgust at my sentimentality, I loved them both and needed them to know.
And then, Katie said something cruel about Jessica's henna design and the moment was lost. They bickered and Katie flew up to her bedroom accusing me of favouritism and I could do nothing to calm either of them. My cast was heavy on the chair opposite, my face wet and my head pounding and the fear and panic of what I was trying to ignore was threatening to take over.
At eight I went to bed. I was so tired. I didn't want to be alone with Phil and now, nearly five hours later, he was still downstairs.
I exhaled, my air coming out in a rush.
My cast was on the pillow again; his walking sock covering my toes. I’d planned to do it myself, but as he heard me trying to get upstairs he came out of the lounge and laughed at my attempts to climb the stairs. He’d carried me up like the previous evening but when we got the bedroom, I'd shouted for Jessica. I told her we needed her help but that wasn't true; I wanted Jessica in the room as a chaperone. A witness, like the female nurse who stands by the door in the doctor’s surgery when you're undergoing a personal examination. The safeguard that stops anything untoward taking place. Anything improper. I instructed Jessica to plump up cushions and gave her menial jobs whilst Phil was there so I could protect myself from myself, because I didn't know what I was going to do. I just didn't know what to do. I was scared. Terrified.
It was painful, my ankle and my knee, where the cast was rubbing. I’d done too much, already put too much weight on it and as well as the pain there was the building itch. They’d warned me of this at the hospital, said not to put a knitting needle down my cast but to try blowing the hair dryer down there instead. Phil massaged moisturiser into my knee where it was starting to go red and he’d asked if I wanted a cool towel or a pack of ice to get some relief but I’d shook my head. I couldn't even talk to him.
Jessica offered the hair dryer but the lead wasn't long enough and I took hold of her hand as she came to kiss me good night, I gripped it, unable to let her leave. Phil had kissed me then, told me he loved me. He'd stroked my hair as I'd cried and Jessica had shaken her head at my obvious show of emotion, and as they left. I heard her ask him something about an early menopause and heard them both laugh.
It was only after he’d switched off the lights and closed the bedroom door that I realised he’d taken my crutches and mobile phone with him. If I wanted to go to the bathroom in the night, I’d have to get there on my hands and knees.
I breathed in again and held it.
My body was charged. There was a terrifying buzz in my chest as panic swept through like an electric current. I struggled to breathe and had to concentrate on each inhale.
There was a bang of a door and I jumped. I knew from the sound that it was the back door, the one leading from the kitchen into the back garden. It's oak, a great dark wooden thing that you have to pull hard, as the wood has swollen around the doorframe. I’ve listened to Katie slam it enough times to recognise the sound.
I held my breath and listened. Very faintly, I heard it. The squeak of the back gate opening and closing
and then footsteps on the gravel drive. He was going somewhere. I sat up, trying to move my cast to get out of bed but the room was dark and I was pinned down. Even if I crawled it would have taken me an age to get to the window. Instead I listened in the dark. Taking shallow breaths, sitting bolt upright, staring into the blackness. The footsteps got fainter as the terrain underfoot changed from gravel to pavement. I listened and waited and after a while, I lay back down pulling the duvet up to my chin.
He’d left. Gone. To where or what or who, I didn’t know.
I listened in the dark and waited for sounds of him returning but there was nothing, nothing apart from the rapid beat of my own heart.
Thursday
A harsh northerly wind brings a drop in temperature, showers expected.
17
Rachel
A forty-degree washing cycle takes around an hour in our machine and that includes a fast spin. It's called a ‘daily wash’ and it's our go-to setting. I know we should be doing it all at thirty degrees and using an eco-friendly detergent. I know that, it's on my list. The list that I somehow only manage to remember in the early hours, but it's something that as yet I've not managed to implement. The things we wash on a hot cycle are towels and bedding. They go on at sixty, usually on Fridays. The difference between a forty and sixty-degree wash on our particular brand of washing machine is the light. A forty-degree wash has a little blue light that flashes; anything hotter becomes a red light.
It was six thirty in the morning and the red light was flashing. The red light under ‘daily wash’ was glowing on and off in the utility room, an alarming notification that a hot wash was now complete, which meant it would have been put on when Phil came back from wherever he'd been. I stared at it blinking on and off and thought I might be sick.
It was the shower that woke me, the sound as it was turned on, the low hum as the motor booted into action. I sat up, surprised to have been asleep. I looked about the room as if I were abroad, unsure of the position of the furniture and it took me a moment to remember. It was five in the morning and I patted his side of the bed, it was intact. Even in the dim light I could see that there were no sheets thrown back and the decorative pillows were still in place. I stared at the strip of light coming from under the en-suite door, watched the shadow of his movement and listened to the familiar faint splash and hum of the power shower and then I slowly lay back down.
I stayed very still as he carefully clicked off the light and tiptoed across the room. As I felt the weight of his body climbing into bed, I pretended to be asleep. There was a smell to him, a faint trace of something. Acrid and harsh. I couldn’t place it. I barely breathed. I stayed there for an hour and a half, and then, when his breathing got deeper and I was sure he was asleep, I got up.
I opened the washing machine and pulled out what was inside, a jumper. A pair of jeans. Socks and underpants, a woollen bob hat. In short, a full outfit of Phil's. I held them, dripping and wet. A hot wash done in the middle of the night for a few clothes. What had he been doing that warranted a sixty-degree wash?
‘I thought I could hear you.’
I dropped the clothes. It was Phil, shuffling into the kitchen whilst tying up his robe. His hair was ruffled, stuck up from where he had slept on it whilst damp. He flicked on the light and we both squinted. When our vision had stabilised, he looked at me, leaning against the washing machine. His wet clothes in a heap on the floor, and I shook my head slightly, suddenly tearful. My ankle was throbbing; I’d had to crawl to get downstairs to my crutches that he'd left in the hallway. The pain combined with my panic, made me want to cry in despair.
‘What's going on, Phil?’ I whispered, blinking rapidly.
He came closer, saw what I was holding and gave an attempt at a laugh. ‘Went out for an early morning jog and fell over. I was running by the river, it's a mudslide over there. Torrential. Wouldn't be surprised if there's some flooding with all this rain.’
He yawned, a large over animated version of a yawn and went toward the kettle. ‘Want a coffee?’
I took my crutches and followed him into the main kitchen, I watched as he got out the jar of instant, went to the fridge for the milk, busied himself with menial tasks, he turned and smiled.
‘There was no running gear in the washing machine,’ I said, ‘just jeans and a pullover. You don't run, Phil. You never go out for a run.’
‘Didn't want to wake you getting a change of clothes,’ he picked up the sugar bowl and held it aloft. ‘I'll make yours sweet.’ He put two generous spoonfuls of sugar in a mug. ‘I think you need it.’
‘Phil –’
‘And how you managed to get down those stairs,’ he shook his head. ‘You should've woken me. It's not good to be moving about so much on it.’
‘Phil, I –’
‘It'll come loose you know? Those casts are on for a reason. They say to rest for a reason. You can't just pretend –’
‘Phil!’
He stopped and turned to me. I took a deep breath, my hands were tight on my crutches and even though I wasn't wearing my robe, I was sweating.
‘I know you lied,’ my words came out in a rush, ‘on Tuesday, when I had the accident. When your car was stolen. You never planned to go to London, you took the day off. I called Felix.’
His eyes flickered.
‘He told me that you were the one who cancelled the presentation, you booked the morning off,’ my voice caught and I had to rally myself before carrying on, ‘so you lied to me. And I saw where you were. I saw you.’
He stared at me. ‘You called Felix?’
‘I saw you in your car,’ I went on, ‘I was following you. I was at the hotel and I saw your car, by the fast food restaurant. I saw what you did, Phil. But then, you said your car was stolen. It wasn't you. You said you were at Crewe train station, showed the police your train ticket, and I thought I must have imagined it. I tried to kid myself that it was someone else, that I'd seen someone who just looked like you. But it wasn't anyone else, was it? It was you.’ I waved at the washing machine. ‘And now you're sneaking off in the middle of the night and coming back and washing your clothes. I can't take it,’ I let out a sob, ‘I can't tell myself I might’ve got it wrong anymore.’
‘Rachel,’ Phil said coming toward me, ‘what is all this?’
I stared at him, silent. My jaw was clenched and there was an ache in my throat from the tightness.
‘I know what you did,’ I whispered and he gently put his hands on my shoulders.
‘You're shaking,’ I let him guide me toward the kitchen table. ‘You must be freezing, here,’ he took off his robe so he was stood in his boxers and T-shirt and wrapped it around me. ‘Sit down.’
I stayed quiet whilst he brought over the coffee and a box of tissues, I hadn't realised I'd been crying and was surprised when I wiped my face and the tissue came back wet. We stared at each other as the rain hit the windows outside, as the boiler ignited and the pipes rattled with the central heating.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Tell me from the beginning. Tell me what you think is going on.’
‘I was watching you,’ I said closing my eyes. ‘On Tuesday. I saw what you did. But when you said your car had been stolen, I thought maybe…’ I shook my head. ‘Why didn't you stop, Phil? Was it because you panicked?’ I opened my eyes and this time, I could feel the tears fall. ‘Who was it? Was it someone you were seeing, having an affair with?’
‘What?’
My face crumpled. ‘I didn't believe it, couldn't believe it. But then, the messages. There was no explanation for the message I found on Twitter and I found the map, on top of your drawers where you empty your pockets and a screwed-up parking ticket from somewhere in Crewe. I didn't know what to think, and then, Felix tells me you booked the morning off, so you lied to me. You lied to me.’
As I was speaking my heart picked up its pace, I could feel the panic build as I talked. Feel it lick at me and it was suddenly hard to take in a full breath.
/> ‘Your accident,’ he said quietly. ‘You're talking about Tuesday? When you had your accident and my car was stolen. You said you were trying to tune the radio, hadn't noticed that the car in front of you had stopped and that's why you went into the back of it.’
‘You drove away,’ I whispered. ‘How could you? Cheating on me, on our family and then to leave that person,’ my hand went to my mouth. ‘What did they do to you? Was it a woman? Someone you were involved with? And the police, they called here…’
‘Rachel, you need to stop now…’
‘You almost killed someone,’ I choked and hiccupped around the words, I felt like Katie when she was very young. When she wouldn't be able to get past the emotion of a thing to form the sentence. ‘You left them. You've been having an affair, haven't you? Arranged to meet someone and then, something happened and you ran her over. Is that it? Was it panic? Was it all just panic?’
I swallowed hard, trying to gain control, and as the realisation of what I was accusing him of took hold, his face closed down.
‘Affair?’ his voice was high. ‘What the fuck, Rachel?’
I wiped at my nose. ‘Just tell me why you did it, explain it to me. The affair is one thing, but nearly killing her and then leaving her for dead…’ I shook my head. ‘Who is she? Tell me what's going on so I understand, did she threaten you with something?’ I blinked as more tears fell. ‘I need to understand, Phil. I need to know why.’
‘I can’t believe you called Felix over this…’ he was saying but I couldn’t let him speak, my words were coming out in a tumble.
‘I thought I was going mad. I thought I was crazy, but it was you wasn’t it?’
He stood up and went to the sink, pouring away his coffee.
‘You were driving weren’t you, your car wasn’t stolen was it?’
If He Wakes Page 13