No matter how hard I push my thoughts, to dredge deep down for a glimpse of what happened, all I get in my head is the afternoon when I visited Ian and lost my temper. Nothing more.
‘Come on,’ I moan, beating the heels of my hands against the side of my head. But there’s nothing. Only a blank.
I reach for the mug, suddenly eager to sip its delicious contents and sink slowly back into oblivion. But at the last moment I change my mind. I push myself off the bed. Maybe a cool shower will drive the fog from my brain and allow me to focus.
I turn the handle on the door, for some strange reason expecting it to be locked. It isn’t, and I tiptoe into a dim corridor, scared that I shouldn’t be out here.
‘Hello?’ I call softly. There is no response.
I turn to my left and after a few hesitant steps realise that I am in a kitchen area, a place I vaguely remember from when Thea brought me down here. It is tidy, but the single bulb casts very little light. The walls seem to be a dingy cream colour and the tops of the cabinets hide in deep shadow.
I know Thea helped me down some stairs, so I creep silently along until I see them on my right. I’ll go up and find her. She’ll know what to do. There is clearly no one else here, so I tell myself there is nothing to be afraid of.
Wearily I climb the stairs, holding on to the banister for support. There is no handle on the door, so I push against it. It doesn’t move. To my right is a keypad. I remember Thea pressing some keys to gain entry when she brought me down here, but I have no idea which ones or the sequence.
For a moment I consider banging on the door to attract attention, but the bathroom is calling. I feel sure that once I’m showered and dressed my head will be clearer. I look down at myself, suddenly aware that I’m still wearing the nightdress Thea left in the bathroom for me after she washed the blood from my body. I shudder with horror at the thought, and my stomach heaves, but nothing comes up.
I stumble back down the stairs. I have to get out of this nightdress with all its memories and I need to find some clothes. But all I find in my room is some underwear that seems clean – but isn’t mine – some baggy tracksuit bottoms and a couple of T-shirts. My clothes aren’t here.
I pull what I need from the cupboard and wander back out into the hallway. It’s an effort to put one foot in front of the other, and for a moment I look back at the bed, wanting to once again crawl beneath its covers and shut out the world. But I mustn’t do that. A shower will make me feel more alive, even if it won’t stop abhorrent images of Ian’s death bursting into my thoughts every few moments.
I’m not sure which door hides the bathroom, so I open them one after the other. There are three bedrooms exactly like mine. They are identical in every way, and I find this slightly unnerving. There are signs that two of them are in use, but the third one only has a bare mattress. Does this mean that there are three of us living down here?
The thought makes me uneasy. But they’re not here now, and I’m sure I will hear if anyone is coming, so I creep over to the wardrobe in the first room and look inside. Whoever is sleeping here appears to have no more clothes than I do.
I tiptoe back into the corridor to check there really is no one around and go into the other room that seems to be occupied. I pull out drawers at random, hoping to find something – anything – that will tell me who lives here. I remember the girl from earlier and wonder if this is her room.
The drawers reveal nothing personal until I open the one in the bedside cabinet. Inside is a notebook, and when I flick it open I realise that it is some kind of diary. I read the first page.
I brought Albie to meet Thea today. He is usually such a good baby, but today he was a bit grumpy. I really wanted Thea to like him because sometimes I don’t know what to do with him for a full day and it would be a break every now and then to come here. But I don’t want his crying to upset Thea and the doctor. She said it was no trouble at all, and Albie was probably teething. She said I could bring him any time I like and she made him a drink of squash. I didn’t like to tell her that he’s not allowed that because of the sugar. He seemed to like it, though, and he settled a bit afterwards.
I am about to turn the page to read more when I hear the buzzer – the one that tells me I’m supposed to go to my room and close the door. I don’t know why there is this rule, but I don’t want to be found in here. I hastily flip the diary closed, and a photograph falls out onto the floor. I don’t have time to put it back, so I pick it up and run into my room, sticking the picture under my pillow.
A few seconds later my door is pushed open. Thea stands in the doorway and I have a flashback of the first time I saw her. She was smiling at me from the far end of the long dinner table on the boat as Donna from Louisiana quizzed me about why I was travelling alone. I remember thinking how kind and gentle her expression was, how beautiful she looked with her long silver hair resting on her shoulders. Today the woman I see seems so different from the one I thought I knew, and I feel a heavy sensation in my chest, as if the air is being forced from my lungs.
‘You shouldn’t be up,’ she says, her eyes narrowing as she looks at me, her mouth a thin, straight line. Her hair is scraped back into a tight ponytail, and it seems more of a pewter colour than silver down here in the gloomy cellar. The cheekbones that I always admired catch what little light there is, giving the contours of her face an angular look. Her gaze moves to the full mug next to the bed. ‘And why haven’t you drunk your tea?’
I’m not sure how to respond. I feel I am on a knife edge here. Will Thea hand me over to the police? Is she angry with me for bringing so much trouble to her home? I can hardly blame her if she is.
‘Thea, I’m so very sorry for this…mess!’ I say, knowing that such a trivial word doesn’t come close to describing the catastrophic quagmire I have landed her and Garrick in. I feel a sob building, but I swallow hard and pray that I can control it. I’m sure I would get little sympathy.
Thea gazes back at me, and I can see she’s thinking, but I have no idea what is going on in her head.
‘We will protect you,’ she says finally. ‘We’ve helped others who have found themselves in a difficult position, and the doctor will talk to you about what brought you to this situation. That is non-negotiable, Judith. If we are going to keep you safe, sessions with the doctor will be part of your treatment. We need to understand what demons are lurking within your psyche – whether you can be cured or whether you have no hope.’
What does she mean, ‘treatment’? I’ve already had a session with the doctor, and I didn’t enjoy it at all. It left me confused and anxious. And what happens if he decides I have ‘no hope’?
‘While the doctor is making his assessment, you will help around the house but live down here, where you’ll be hidden from the outside world. The police won’t find you here.’
‘Of course I’ll help,’ I say, only too happy to do something to pay my way. ‘What would you like me to do?’
She still hasn’t moved from the door, and I wonder – now she knows I can be violent – if she doesn’t trust me.
‘The other girls will explain your duties. They have a rota of tasks – cleaning, cooking, ironing. It’s a big house and it takes a lot of looking after. You are not allowed into our private rooms on the first floor. One of the other girls has that task. You will be allocated jobs downstairs.’
I blink when she mentions ‘other girls’. How many of us are there? Do we all live down here, behind a locked door? I knew there was one other, of course. I’ve met her, and I noticed there were two occupied rooms, but are there others?
For some reason I don’t feel able to ask, although it seems obvious that these girls – and I include myself in that number – are the cleaners, the women she didn’t want to know about my existence.
‘That’s not a problem,’ I say, eager to please.
She spins on her heel as if to go, but turns back and glares at me, her face a hard mask. ‘Oh, and Judith – you will ea
t and drink whatever is put in front of you. If you don’t – and trust me, I will know if you don’t – we will call the police and tell them where to find you. We can’t afford for you to be ill. How would we explain who you are and why you’re here if you need medical treatment? Now drink your tea.’
I am so stunned by this new version of Thea that I say nothing. She goes out of the room and closes the door.
I sit down on the bed. My legs are trembling and I am no longer sure they will hold me up. What is going on?
I get a sudden glimpse of my future – living down here, cleaning for Thea and the doctor, being told what I can do, what I should eat, when I must sleep. And then I think of why I’m here. It’s because I’m a killer.
It’s not until I decide to stir myself from the confusion Thea has left in her wake that I consider drinking the tea. Almost as an act of defiance, I decide to have the shower I’ve been promising myself and then maybe come back and take a few sips. I pick up the clothes that I discarded when I rushed back in here and take a towel from the foot of the bed.
That’s when I remember the photo under my pillow. I must return it to its hiding place.
I pull it out and look at the image for the first time. I see the small eyes, the hooked nose, the face that looks like an eagle. He looks much younger, but I know this man.
I swallow and reach for the mug, taking a swig as if the tea will drive his image from my mind.
I have to get it back to its hiding place – I must – but I can’t move.
The face staring at me is the one that disturbed me from the first day of my trip to Myanmar.
It’s Paul, the man from the boat. The man who said he was watching me.
36
Tom wasn’t given to delving deeply into his emotions. He had always thought that too much introspection wasn’t good for the soul, and on the whole he took things as they came. But as he sat opposite Louisa in their favourite Indian restaurant, watching her scoop up chicken tarkari onto a torn piece of paratha and pop it into her mouth as she rolled her eyes in ecstasy, he knew this was how being in love should feel. With Louisa everything was a pleasure. She enjoyed life and did nothing merely for effect, nor did she pretend to be anyone other than the person she was.
Tom had been in love before, but it had never felt as easy as this. Behind him was a failed marriage and a relationship he’d had great hopes for which never quite made it. He had begun to feel that he was destined to be alone, but then, with Becky’s help, he had started seeing Louisa. It had been so easy since their very first date.
There was only one dark cloud hanging over Tom’s head, and that was Jack.
As he smiled at Louisa, both of them with mouths too full to speak, he decided that tonight he was going to tell her about his brother. He would wait until they were in bed, facing each other, lips inches apart, the cool, soft skin of her body lying against his. She would lift one leg and wrap it around him, as she always did, smiling at the thought of what was to come, and then he would tell her.
It was time to show her that she meant everything to him. The burden of carrying his secret alone would be gone, and he felt a flood of relief.
They left the restaurant earlier than usual, and Louisa seemed to have sensed a difference in Tom’s mood. She had given him a few puzzled looks but said nothing until they were nearly home.
‘I enjoyed that,’ she said, reaching out to touch his thigh.
‘I could tell.’ He smiled as he drove, grateful that he had drunk no more than one glass of wine so they didn’t have to bother with a taxi. He needed to think about the words he was going to use to explain all that he had been holding back for months.
‘You’re quiet,’ she said. ‘But you’re smiling, so I guess you’re not unhappy about anything.’
‘Not in the slightest.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘But I do have something to talk to you about.’
‘Ooh, that sounds interesting,’ she said.
That was typical of Louisa. So many women would have assumed it was something they didn’t want to hear, or would demand to know immediately what he was thinking. Louisa was content to wait until he was ready to tell her.
‘Is this a chat over a glass of wine in the kitchen, or a chat in bed?’
Tom laughed. ‘Shall we go straight to bed?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ She gave his thigh a gentle squeeze as he parked the car on the drive.
Tom draped his arm around Louisa’s shoulders as they walked towards the door. As he put his key in the lock, he could hear the answerphone pinging and hoped it wasn’t anything that was going to ruin his plans for the night.
‘Sorry, but I’m going to have to check that isn’t something important,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s tried my mobile, though, so that’s a good sign.’
‘It’s okay. I’ll get a glass of water to take up. Do you want anything?’
He shook his head and Louisa walked towards the kitchen. ‘Did you leave the light on, Tom?’ she shouted over her shoulder.
‘Doubt it,’ he said, pressing ‘Play’ on the phone. He listened for a moment to some salesman suggesting that Tom change his energy supplier and then hung up. As he put the handset down he thought he heard a faint gasp.
‘You okay, darling?’ he called. There was no response.
Tom hurried down the corridor towards the kitchen. The door was open. Louisa was just inside. She was standing perfectly still and Tom couldn’t see beyond her into the room.
‘Louisa?’
She didn’t turn, but moved one step to the side. Tom took a pace forward and froze. In his kitchen, sitting at his table, was a man with a scruffy beard and wild black hair held back loosely in an elastic band, a laptop computer open in front of him. He looked up and smiled.
‘Sorry if I gave you a fright,’ he said.
Tom knew he should say something, but he couldn’t speak.
‘Lost for words, little brother?’ the man said.
37
I haven’t drunk my tea yet. I know I’m being ungrateful, and I can see why Thea wants to keep me well, but I need to organise my thoughts and I have learned that her tea doesn’t help; it makes me groggy, sleepy.
A foggy recollection of the woman sitting on my bed insisting I drink my tea nags at me, and I suddenly recall what she said as she walked out of the room.
She said her name was Judith. Did I imagine that?
I don’t think I did, so is she the original Judith, the first of what Thea called her ‘waifs and strays’? I got the impression that the first Judith was long gone, but if that’s who the woman is, why is she still here? And why do they call me Judith too? Weird as I’ve always found it, it now seems twice as weird, and I feel a shudder run through my body.
The shower beats down on my head, and I lift my face to the water, feeling hot spikes prick my skin. I want to release the tight knot of tension that is gripping me, and I feel a stab of nausea every few minutes at the thought of Ian’s body, the blood gushing from the wounds where I must have hit him with the claw hammer. Each time I visualise the scene it is different. I know I’m imagining how it must have been, painting a picture of what I did, but I have to invent the images because I can’t remember.
Before another thought can hit me, I switch the shower to cold. I want to suffer, and I hold my breath as the icy water stings my flesh. For the first time in days I begin to feel alive, and I know that for my own sanity I need to focus – to plan what I am going to do. I stand under the freezing water for as long as I can bear it, and then step out and rub my skin vigorously with the thin towel.
Within seconds, though, my determination crumbles as I see a future ahead of me that holds no hope. I feel the tears welling up again and hurry back towards my room. But before I get there I see Judith and another woman walking towards me from the bottom of the stairs that lead up into the house. Both of them are moving slowly, lethargically, their heads bowed. This must be the woman who occupies the other room, but why do they
live down here too?
I don’t know which of them the photo of Paul belongs to, but I’m relieved I managed to return it to its hiding place. If I am to find out anything, I mustn’t antagonise either of them. I brush away the tears with the heel of my hand.
‘Hi,’ I say, doing my best to offer a friendly smile but knowing it’s a poor, shaky effort.
They raise their heads slowly and gaze at me. The younger of the two – Judith – looks slightly puzzled, as if she has forgotten I’m here, but finally nods her head in acknowledgement. I turn my attention to the other woman. Her shoulders are hunched, her eyes red-rimmed, and there is not a flicker of interest in her gaze as she shuffles to the kitchen and starts laying out bowls and spoons.
There is so much I want to ask them, so much I’m confused about. Do they know what I’ve done? But I stand, saying nothing, watching while Judith heats a pan of soup and the other woman pours glasses of water from a jug.
I’m stunned by their lack of interest in my presence. They don’t look at me or at each other as they go quietly about their tasks, and suddenly I see the same scene but with me at its centre – perhaps slicing some bread, dressed in the same clothes with the same level of apathy. It’s a terrifying image.
As Judith turns to the table with the soup, I look once more at her huge eyes and notice that each pupil, black and shiny as coal, almost obscures the brown iris. She looks dazed, and I want to ask which is her room. Is the photograph of Paul hers? How does she know him? I have a feeling she will simply look puzzled, and of course she will know that I’ve been through her belongings.
The older woman, who carries herself like someone in her seventies although I’m sure she’s probably only a few years older than me, comes to the table with the water and a plate of bread, and we all sit down. For the first time, she meets my eyes. I can just tell that her eyes are blue – almost all I can see are twin black orbs reflecting the yellow light of the single hanging bulb.
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