by Lucy Clarke
‘Flynn?’ PC Steven Cart repeats.
‘My husband. Well, sort of ex-husband. We’re separated. Yes, I forgot. He has a key.’
His brow lifts, as if this is the first point of interest. ‘And are things amicable?’
I can feel Fiona’s gaze on me. ‘Well, not exactly, no. But he wouldn’t break into my house.’
‘Didn’t he use his key a fortnight ago?’ Fiona queries.
I shoot her a look. ‘His mother had just died,’ I explain to the officers. ‘It was unusual circumstances. He let himself in a few minutes before I arrived home.’
‘I’d like to take his details, just to follow up.’
‘No, I don’t want you calling him. Flynn wouldn’t break into my house. I know that.’
I’ve made a mistake lying about the table. Now I just want the police out of my house.
‘Thank you for coming over, but I’d like to get some rest now.’
I can feel Fiona watching me.
PC Steven Cart glances at his colleague, then says, ‘The latch on your front door is broken from where we forced our way in. It may be a good idea to have someone stay with you tonight, and then you can organise a locksmith tomorrow.’
‘You don’t have to stay,’ I tell Fiona, arms hugged to my middle. I’ve pulled on a thick jumper and switched on the heating, but still can’t get warm.
‘Course I’m staying.’ Fiona fetches a bottle of gin and two glasses. She moves swiftly around my kitchen, sloshing gin into the waiting tumblers, scooping ice cubes from the freezer drawer. She selects a knife from the cutting rack and slices two pale discs of cucumber, dropping them into the glasses, tonic fizzing. She slides my drink towards me.
It is the last thing I want, but I take a sip, the bitter kick hitting the back of my throat. I set down the glass.
Fiona is leaning against the kitchen side, considering me. Her steady gaze is unnerving. She pinches the slice of cucumber from her glass and drops it into her mouth, chewing measuredly.
‘Here’s a question, Elle. What I’m wondering is: why did you lie to the police?’
‘What?’
‘Your coffee table wasn’t smashed by an intruder.’ Her gaze is direct and unflinching. ‘When your husband returns home and there are fragments of glass caught in the weave of his jumper, you tend to ask why.’
There it is, her journalist’s instinct for the story.
Fiona picks up the knife from the chopping board. She turns the handle through her fingers.
‘We gave you these. Bill and me. They were a wedding present. Bill spent ages researching the right ones, the best ones. The strongest blades. They are ceramic so that the knife doesn’t react with the food.’
A cold silence spreads like creaking ice.
Fiona takes a step towards me – I’m aware of my body stiffening – but Fiona merely passes, moving to the sink, where she flicks on the tap and lets the water run down the blade. She takes a tea towel and carefully dries the knife, before setting it back on the wall mount. She leans against the sink, folding her arms.
‘Why did you lie to the police?’
‘I wanted them to believe there was an intruder.’
‘Was there?’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Should I? You call saying you’re locked in your writing room – but the door was perfectly open. Then you lead the police to think this mystery intruder smashed your coffee table, when in fact you pushed my husband through it.’
I swallow hard. I think of the explosion of glass, the shock-white of Bill’s face.
‘Is Bill okay?’
Fiona studies me. ‘You thought he was making a pass at you.’
‘I …’
‘Not everyone is smitten with you, Elle.’
I flinch, stung. ‘It was a mistake. I just reacted.’
‘Overreacted.’ A pause follows. ‘All this – believing you’re locked in your writing room, distrusting Bill, fixating on smashed paperweights and stolen brooches – it’s all in your head.’
She looks at me for a long moment. I don’t know what she sees, because the hardness in her expression loosens and is replaced by something else, something worse.
Pity.
As she steps forward, squeezing my hands, reassuring me that things will get easier, I can feel the reverberation of those words, It’s all in your head. They ripple outwards, washing over a memory, loosening the silt from it, so when I look down into the pool of my past, the memory is there, hard and certain.
2004
Elle opened the door of her student house, forcing the mound of post to one side. She’d been walking for hours, right out beyond town and over to the docks, her feet pounding across concrete. It had begun to rain – she’d gone out with no coat – and now her hair was soaked to her scalp, her trainers sodden.
Squeezing past Louise’s bike in the hall, she moved into the lounge, the stale drift of cooked food lingering in the air. From the kitchen, she could hear the rumble of a kettle boiling, her housemates’ voices. She called out a hello, pausing by the radiator, where she slid along a gym-towel to make space to dry her socks. As she peeled them from her feet, she caught Louise’s voice. There was a hushed quality to it, alerting her that this conversation wasn’t meant to be overheard.
‘His wife is eight months pregnant. Can you imagine how she must feel?’
‘It’s so awful. How long do you think he’ll be suspended for?’ This from Claire, a quiet girl from Northumberland who Elle had comforted through fierce patches of homesickness.
‘I suppose until it’s resolved.’
There was a pause. Then Claire asked, ‘Did you tell them? What she said?’
Elle stayed very still. She heard a cupboard opening, the clink of two mugs being set on the side, the drag of the cutlery drawer.
Louise must have nodded, because Claire was talking again, her voice gentle with sympathy. ‘Don’t feel bad. You had to.’
‘I know, I know. It’s the police.’
Claire asked, ‘Do you believe her?’
There was a long silence. Elle felt her pulse flickering in her throat as she waited.
Then Louise’s answer. ‘It’s all in her head.’
23
Elle
In the violet-bruise dark of five a.m., sweat beads between my breasts. I drag the duvet free and sit up, pushing my hair from my face. My breathing is shallow, like I have just finished a race.
I wish I hadn’t sent Fiona home. I should have accepted her offer to stay.
I go to the bedroom door, depress the handle. It opens with ease. I needed to check.
Had I been locked in my writing room?
Since the Airbnb, something about this house is different. I know it, even if I can’t articulate it clearly. There is a feeling of coldness in the very bones of the place. The atmosphere is … changed. That is the only way I can describe it. It is as if the house is trying to communicate something.
Whoever stayed here moved through my rooms, slid open my drawers, looked through my cupboards, drank from my mugs, slept in my bed.
This bed.
What else have they done that I don’t yet know about?
Every smear of fingerprints is a reminder that a stranger has been here.
Is still here.
I’m
in
your
house.
*
Exhaustion burns like a bright light behind my eyes. I’m not sure I’m safe to drive, but I do anyway. I need to be out of the house. I keep the windows down, damp morning air rushing against my face. The radio blares as I grip hard to the steering wheel.
The locksmith came first thing and replaced the locks on both the front and side door, while I wrote him a cheque that I can’t be certain will clear.
I’m relieved I didn’t give Flynn’s details to PC Steven Cart. The last thing Flynn needs is to be hassled by the police. I dial Flynn’s number on the car phone and listen to the emp
ty rings, the click as it trips to voicemail, the low drawl of his request for the caller to leave a message.
‘Flynn, it’s me. Again. I need to know that you’re okay. That we’re okay. Please, ring me …’
I park outside the chemist. I check my face in the rear-view mirror – see the deep shadows circling my eyes, the bloodless look of my skin. I snap the visor closed.
The scent of antiseptic mingles with perfumed soaps as I enter the shop. Sleeping pills, that’s what I’ve come for. I can’t put it off any longer. I need help of the chemical variety.
I select a pack, along with a few toiletries, then take them to the till. The checkout lady, a woman in her sixties with a short fuzz of black hair, smiles at me.
‘Elle Fielding, isn’t it? The author.’
I blink rapidly, feeling so far away from that role right now.
‘Yes,’ I say, adjusting my expression into a smile.
‘My daughter lent me her copy of Wild Fear in the summer,’ she says, ringing my items through the till. ‘I loved it. Couldn’t put it down. I’ve ordered half a dozen copies to give to my friends for Christmas.’
‘That’s so lovely of you. Thank you. When I next pop back, I’ll sign them for you, if you like?’
‘Really? You’re so kind.’
I hand over my credit card.
After a few moments, she looks up, flushing lightly. ‘I’m sorry, but the machine’s saying your card has been declined.’
‘Has it?’ Colour rises to my cheeks. I rummage in my handbag. ‘I’ll pay cash.’ Pulling out my purse, I dig through the coins and realise I don’t have enough. ‘I’ll leave these,’ I say, pushing aside the bottles of shampoo and conditioner.
I hand over a fistful of coins for the sleeping pills, but I’m rushing, flustered, and they spill across the counter.
‘Oh sorry!’ My cheeks grow hotter as I scrabble to gather the spinning coins.
It’s a relief when the transaction is finally over. As I move off, I hear the patter of footsteps behind me.
‘Auntie Elle!’
Drake is running across the shop floor, arms swinging at his sides, his face beaming with delight. I crouch down, wrapping my arms around him. I breathe in his sweet, biscuity smell. The sudden physical proximity of him loosens something and I feel tears welling. I focus firmly on a point beyond Drake’s shoulder to keep myself from crying.
‘It’s Auntie Elle!’ Drake announces giddily as Fiona and Bill approach.
‘So it is,’ Fiona says.
There is a strained moment where no one seems to know quite what to say. Bill concentrates on the carpet tiles of the shop floor.
‘Thought you’d be writing,’ Fiona says.
‘I’m on my way to the library. Working there today.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Because of last night?’
‘Just a change of scene,’ I answer without meeting her eye. I can’t admit to Fiona that I don’t want to be at home right now. That I can’t bear the thought of another day, another hour, on my own. I need to be around people. I need to focus. I …
Fiona’s hand is on my arm. ‘You okay?’
I realise my breathing is loud, ragged. It’s like there is not enough air in the room. I concentrate hard on taking a deep, slow breath.
‘Fine,’ I manage eventually.
She glances at the sleeping pills I’m still gripping. Says nothing.
I don’t want to have this awful tension with Fiona – or Bill. They are both too important to me.
‘Thanks again for coming over last night. Sorry that I’ve been a bit off form lately. Once this deadline is out the way, I’ll be back to normal, I promise.’
Fiona’s expression softens. ‘Listen, we’re going for an early lunch at the pizza place. Fancy it?’
I’d love to join them and listen to Drake’s chatter about diggers, to watch him pull apart his pizza, painstakingly removing any flecks of oregano in case they are, in fact, vegetables.
‘I’d love to, but—’
‘The book.’
‘Sorry.’
Drake tugs at Fiona’s hand, saying, ‘Come, look, Mummy. Calpol!’
The two of them slip off, leaving Bill and I standing together.
Bill pretends to be deeply focused on the contents of the shelf nearest him, which is filled with incontinence pads.
‘Listen, yesterday … it was …’ I begin, not sure how best to explain. ‘Completely mad.’
‘You don’t have to apologise.’
‘I do. I want to. I’m sorry, Bill. I’m all over the place. It’s like … I don’t know, like sometimes I get locked in my head and—’
‘It’s okay.’
‘No. No, it’s not. I freaked out – and you were on the receiving end. It wasn’t fair.’
‘If we’re going for a clean slate,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder towards the far end of the shop, where Fiona is nodding at something Drake is saying, ‘then you should know that you were right about seeing me outside your house a few nights ago.’
I blink.
‘I was waiting for Mark. I planned to have it out with him – but I saw his mother was home. Didn’t feel quite the right thing to do.’ He shrugs. ‘Probably for the best. I’ve decided not to tell Fiona that I know about Mark.’
‘Really?’
He nods.
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’ Then his face brightens as if he’s relieved to have cleared the air. ‘Back to being mates?’
‘Absolutely.’
Bill steps forward, opening his arms. ‘I’m about to hug you. No shoving, okay?’
It’s just a joke, but it feels too fresh, the words stinging.
The still air inside the library gathers the fusty scent of paperbacks. Laura and Maeve are both serving at the main desk. Laura glances up, sees me, waves. I wave back. As I’m moving away, I catch them exchanging a glance, the registering of surprise on Maeve’s face.
For a moment, I wonder about that look. Perhaps they’re questioning why I’m working here, not at home.
I find a table tucked away against the far wall. I want to be around people – but I don’t want to be disturbed.
Grabbing my mobile, I take a photo of the library desk and upload it to Facebook. Working at the library today because sometimes you need a change of scene.
I go to press Post, then hesitate. Something Flynn said echoes in my thoughts.
Everything you post leaves a trace.
In sending this, I’m not just telling the world I’m working from the library – I’m also telling them that I’m not in my house.
An idea swims, fish-quick, into my thoughts. An experiment. I save the post, knowing I won’t need to upload it until tomorrow.
Then I snap open my laptop lid and clamp on my headphones.
One week to go.
Panic spreads along the cartilage between my ribs, tightening, compressing.
I need to stay calm, focused.
I select my writing playlist. An ethereal neo-classical track pulses into my ears and I set my hands on the desk. My eyes sting, feel gritted as I blink, staring at the screen.
Some combination of the swirling notes of music, the library setting, the absence of my house, seems to unite and I, thankfully, gratefully find myself beginning to write, crawling back into my story.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been working for when the soft tread of feet passes behind me. With my headphones on, I’m not immediately alerted to the presence of someone – it is only when I catch a reflection in my laptop screen that I pause, look around.
Maeve is standing a few steps back. Her gaze is on my screen.
I pull off my headphones. ‘Maeve?’
‘I wasn’t going to disturb you when you looked so focused. Is book two another psychological thriller?’
I nod, lowering my laptop screen.
‘It must be hard, having to hold yourself in a state of heightened tension, of suspense.�
��
Odd comment, I think. ‘I leave the suspense firmly on the page.’
Something in the way she is standing – the way she is looking at me – feels familiar, but I cannot place the thought. Everything is slow to form, the lag of another night of bad sleep, of pacing the spare room for an hour in the blue-black of night, of twisting in tangled, hot sheets.
‘How are you feeling?’ Maeve ventures. ‘After last night?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Just that Steven mentioned the call-out.’
Steven?
I’m about to tell her I have no idea what she’s talking about, when it clicks. Maeve is married to a police officer. Steven. PC Steven Cart.
Surely it is against some sort of confidentiality code to go home to your wife and share details of a call-out. What has he told her? That I am a hysterical writer who thought she’d been locked in her writing room?
‘It’s all fine. A misunderstanding.’ I smile, but I’m thinking about who else Maeve may tell. Laura? The other book club members? I add brightly, ‘Things always look different in the light of day.’
‘Yes, they do,’ she agrees in a tone so weighted, that I can’t help wondering what those words mean to her.
24
Elle
‘Trust in your readers and only whisper them your clues.’
Author Elle Fielding
In the closed-tomb dark of three a.m., I listen to the thunder of my heartbeat. It’s too fast, as if I have run a race. Like I cannot get enough air.
I have the strong sense that something is out of alignment.
There are winding lists of things that trouble me at this hour: my book deadline, the mortgage payments I’m failing to meet, the increasing possibility of losing this house.
But what pins me here, keeping me from sleep, causing a slick of sweat behind my knees, is deeper, more fundamental than each of those things.
I feel as if my past is catching me up.
It’s like a current running through the darkest channels of me. It is an acute sense of apprehension, of expectancy.
A feeling that there will be a price to pay.
*
The house is filled with sunlight; it streaks into the rooms, making everywhere airy and bright. But I stand in the shade of the hallway, looking at the closed front door.