Edward liked me to look my best, so I had a bath and put one of my nicest dresses on – the one with the red flowers. My dress looked cheerful and I tried to pretend I was, too, plastering a smile on my face. I baked him a steak and kidney pie, his favourite, and it turned out not too bad despite the way my hands trembled like twigs in the wind. But when we sat down to dinner, just the two of us as Melissa was still in bed, tension crackled between us. My throat was so dry, I was unable to speak. The sound of Edward eating made my stomach turn. The last thing I wanted to do was eat. The grandfather clock ticked although time appeared to stand still, and when nine o’clock came and Kit still wasn’t home Edward said he knew I was hiding something and when he dug his fingers into my shoulders and spat words in my face I couldn’t hold it in. I never can, that’s the trouble.
When I told him Kit had gone he hit me so hard I fell to the floor. He kicked me in my ribs again and again and again. I clenched my mouth shut, praying Melissa wouldn’t hear anything and I bit so hard into my lip that my mouth bled too, but that was nothing in comparison to the marks he left on me. Black and blue and purple. All over my body. Everywhere. Each time it’s worse. He went upstairs and I heard him bashing around in the spare room. He never sleeps in the same bed with me after an episode. It was the only good thing to come from that awful evening.
The sound of retching woke me again this morning and I attempted to get out of bed. I’d forgotten. Pain made me cry out and I wrapped my hands around my ribs, pressed the skin lightly with my fingers, feeling for the damage. I rubbed cold cream into my bruises and dressed in my loose cotton dress, worn soft with use. I walked around the room until I’d got used to the places it hurt; I think one of my ribs on the left side is broken. That’s how it felt the last time one broke. I worked out the best way to move so that Melissa wouldn’t notice. I’ve got used to having to prepare myself, slip into a mask, so that other people don’t ever see the truth.
When I was prepared, I went to Melissa’s room. She was sat on the edge of the bed, hair limp around her pale face, arms folded. She told me she was sick. I wondered aloud about what she’d eaten the night before but the expression on her face was fear. She uncrossed her arms and her nightdress shifted, settled over a bulge.
We both looked at the bump and she burst into tears, a terrible howling of anguish. She knew what this meant, too, and she begged me not to tell him. After the terrible scene Edward caused when he found out she’d got a boyfriend I didn’t think she’d dare see him again, but she assured me she hadn’t broken her word. This was from before she broke up with him – the forbidden boy she loved – but the damage had already been planted inside her. We talked in whispers and she realised how foolish she’d been, but I couldn’t waste time in recriminations. We had to act. I should have given her a lecture but terrifying images were playing in my mind. We had to make a plan while Edward was out.
Melissa said she wouldn’t get rid of it. That was when the nightmare began. I got to my feet without making a sign that my ribs screamed with pain. Her face crumpled when I told her Kit had gone and we cried together, holding onto each other. She’d told him about the baby, which made it worse for her.
I looked at her stricken face and I decided then. I told her we had to go too, we had to get out before her father came back. I didn’t say the words but I didn’t need to. I saw hope on her face for the first time in months. She knew what he would do if he found out. She knew it wasn’t worth the risk.
Thirty-One
ELLA
Ella was waiting for me to come home from work today. Just like Olivia used to: different setting, same motivation. Olivia used to sit at a wooden table outside the flat, chopping vegetables for supper, her long dark hair standing out against the white cliff behind her. She said she liked to watch me coming down the cliff path, home to her. The slow smile she used to give me was like a present to come home to.
Ella had a different energy, rushing in from the garden the moment I walked in from work, accosting me. This afternoon she made me a cup of tea, gestured for me to sit down opposite her, asked about my day. For the first time in ages I felt wanted.
Then she sprung it on me. She wanted me to mediate. The husband would come round to discuss what they were going to do about the house and I’d make sure they were civil. Her eyes burned. Her spark was back. The fire she’d lost when Chris betrayed her was being lit once again. Her features were reanimated and she glowed. I flickered, too.
Of course I couldn’t do it. No way. I pointed out that I was hardly impartial, forced to see how she had wilted like a plant without water when Chris left. How I hated him for doing that. Ella’s cheeks flushed and she wore a hint of a smile, pleased, but not wanting to show it. She needn’t know the real reason. I almost got carried away watching her, acknowledging for the first time a jolt of attraction. I sipped at my tea, which had cooled, hoping to cool my insides too. I was right not to tell her about Olivia.
Getting sloppy, I am. Emotional nonsense, forgetting my purpose. Why I am here. I soon forgot any fancy notions when she told me what she’d been doing. Looking into Chris’s affairs, the boxes and files he kept in the shed. Isn’t it funny how emotions can change so quickly? I asked Ella if she’d moved anything and she said she hadn’t. I hope not. The cold tea couldn’t help, what I needed was hard liquor, a shot of fiery whisky to my belly to keep me on the right path.
Ella told me she feels differently now; she has accepted the situation. That explained her new glow. She’d talked to a solicitor and was actually considering selling. I didn’t let my alarm show; I tried my hardest to hide it. I suggested a glass of wine to celebrate but ice swirled inside me as it hit me that I’m running out of time. Too many obstacles are rising up: the estate agent, the nosy neighbour and, of course, him. The husband.
The neighbour is out there whenever I am. Lurking, watching, following. He should get the hint that I’m not going to speak to him.
At night my compulsion keeps returning, as if she’s calling me from wherever she is. Why not, so what if it’s dark? I’ve spent enough time out there now to know the layout well enough.
But I’m not getting anywhere. I’ve been focusing my attention around the shed: digging, digging, digging. Nothing. At night I do it in my sleep, pull up weeds and search. Maybe my focus has been wrong. The clue has to be inside the house itself.
My defences are down in this creaky old house, late at night. It’s making me weak. Letting Ella sleep in my room the other night was a mistake. She acted as if I were some kind of saviour. What would she think if she found out she reassured me that night as much as I did her?
Ella is getting under my skin. Big mistake. Or is it? Maybe she can help me get what I want.
Diary
21 JULY 1997
It happened again today. There’s no stopping him. Since our aborted attempt to flee he won’t let us out of his sight. I’d lain awake for hours listening to the rain hit the windows, trying to batter its way in. Some of it penetrated the side window; I could tell it was open from the loud drip that kept me from sleeping: drip drip drip. I counted thousands, it gave me something to focus on.
My limbs were seized with paralysis, I hadn’t known it was possible to be so frightened. Despite it being summer I was wearing my thickest pyjamas, I trembled all over. I rubbed my hands over my body in an attempt to get warm, my hip bones sharp against my hands. My one small victory over Edward is that he doesn’t know I’ve barely eaten lately; I stash food in carrier bags under the bed where it festers until he goes out. I’ve been flushing what I can down the toilet, it’s my ‘fuck you’ to him. He doesn’t know I swear either, the names I call him in my head. It helps, a little.
The bed pressed against the knots of my spine and I twisted about, wishing I could scream, let the pain out into the cold room. The drip lessened and I held my breath between drops until it stopped altogether. There was movement downstairs: a shuffling, a scraping. He was getting ready.
I heard the slam of the back door, he didn’t care who heard him. I couldn’t believe he was going out again. Even though he couldn’t hear me I tiptoed on my bony feet over to the window, watched the golden blob of torchlight as it drew patterns over the lawn, up the bushes, towards the pond beyond.
The first night he went out I asked him what he was doing and he grabbed my shoulders and exhaled his sour whisky breath over my face, digging his dirty nails into my skin until blood crept over his fingers. I’ve watched him every night he’s been out there, digging in the dark, my eyes getting accustomed to the blackness. The realisation of what he is doing has crept over me, beginning as a dread in my gut, coursing through me with the blood around my veins, until it strikes horror into my heart. Because I know what he plans to do and I’m too frightened to stop him.
Melissa sleeps downstairs, unaware. Or at least, I hope she’s sleeping because if she isn’t she might be watching from her window, too, her body growing as mine shrinks. She might have worked it out, like I have.
What he plans to do to her.
Thirty-Two
ALICE
Ella was different tonight. She had a wistful air. My skin tingled with anticipation. I was getting closer to her now, I could feel it. A feeling was no good to me, though; it needed to translate into something tangible. But enough of that.
Ella had received an invitation to a party from the couple who live across the road. She said it was awkward as they were originally mutual friends of hers and the husband.
‘Chris won’t be there,’ she said. ‘And if he is, well, I’m ready to face him.’ That made it easy for me to decide. I’d been toying with the idea; I saw it as a challenge. And I wanted to be with her.
Her face lit up when I offered to accompany her and she threw her arms around me. Pressed her curves against mine; I couldn’t deny the frisson I felt. I pulled away somewhat hastily and hurt flickered in her face. She really should learn to hide what she’s feeling. But I was flattered, of course I was.
There was only one sticky moment when Ella asked me about a missing photo of her husband as a child. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing that,’ I said.
It was fun getting ready together, like being a teenager again, although what would I know about that? I wore my new Armani trouser suit over a navy silk blouse; my pressed trousers were just the right length to show off my soft leather boots. Ella coincidentally matched me in a fitted blue dress that showed off her figure. She looked stunning, but she didn’t realise it. I wish I could wash all her insecurities away.
* * *
A man with a flushed face opened the door to number 42 and tried to hide the bolt of embarrassment that crossed his face when he saw Ella. Surely Sadie had told him she’d invited Ella? He hugged her and went to hug me too, but I stuck my hand out and he got the message. Ted led us into the kitchen where he said, ‘It’s Ella,’ in a loud voice to a woman with red hair who was ladling out punch from a bowl, but if it was a warning it was lost on her. She released her ladle into the bowl so that drops of what looked like blood spattered the table, before she squealed with delight and held out her arms to Ella. Alarm bells clanged in my head.
‘Ella,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you could make it. Have some of my super punch. It’s lethal.’ She handed us each a glass, giggling. ‘And delicious.’
‘Christ,’ Ted said, rolling his eyes at her and leaving the room.
Ella introduced me and Sadie looked surprised when she heard I was her flatmate. I prefer lodger; ‘flatmate’ makes me sound like a fresh-faced student living in digs. Ella had drunk a glass of wine before leaving the house; she’d put music on and danced around the kitchen. I’d seen a playful side to her I haven’t witnessed before. But it was alcohol-induced bravado, she couldn’t hide her nerves from me: the anxious flutter in her hands, the clearing of her throat. It made her talk even more than ever.
‘I thought Chris would have called you,’ Sadie said, lilting her voice to phrase it as a question. ‘I guess it makes sense. Chris said he’d put the house on the market.’
‘Did he now?’ I said.
Sadie’s cheeks flushed a shade of red almost equal to the punch she was suddenly stirring furiously.
‘It’s OK, you can tell me.’ Ella’s tone was jaunty but her clenched jaw gave her away.
‘I haven’t seen him,’ Sadie said. ‘You needn’t worry about that, it’s just that I’ve been so busy with Charlotte starting nursery, getting her settled in. I can’t bear to be apart from her. And she couldn’t care less – loves it, typical. She cries when I pick her up. So embarrassing.’ She looked at Ella, who had her head cocked to one side, hands twisting together. That would be from the mention of the child. I know Ella. Certain things hurt her.
‘You were saying about Chris…?’
‘Oh, yes. Ted’s seen him, not me. They met for a quick drink last week. That’s how we know the house is on the market. You’ll get a good price. You know how rarely houses like these go up for sale.’
‘Chris wants to put it on the market.’ Ella drained her punch and stuck her glass out for more. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’
But that’s not what she told me.
Sadie opened her mouth to speak but she was interrupted by Ted ushering more guests in, another couple. While he was introducing them to Ella, I slipped out of the kitchen and went into the garden. Plants in marble pots were strategically placed around a decking area and a twisty path snaked through the neatly cut lawn. A few chairs were set out on the grass, a chill hung in the air and the garden was lit by fairy lights which twinkled in the trees, anticipating Christmas. It was so different to the jungle at number 46, where Nancy’s tree grew. I thought about my room, looking down into the garden below. My mind strayed to Nancy being in there and everything that happened. A large gulp of the deep red punch helped me wipe the thought from my mind, then I poured the rest onto the lawn. It was too strong and I needed to stay alert.
Laughter tinkled out from the kitchen and I made my way back inside. Ella was deep in conversation with Sadie, whose hand was resting on her arm. Seeing me, she broke off the conversation.
‘Oh, there you are. Come for more punch, have you?’
‘I’d rather have a glass of water, if that’s alright.’
‘Coming up, sparkling OK?’
I nodded, watching Ella, who was biting her lip. I took her by the elbow into the other room, where a small group of people were chatting. Two men were smoking in the garden and a couple were having an earnest conversation on the sofa, leaning close to one another, oblivious to the rest of the party. Ella and I sat on the sofa at the far end of the room. I asked her if she was OK and she assured me she was. She pointed out who some of the people were, but I wasn’t interested in them. I was completely unprepared for the tall man with an Afro mop who came over and asked Ella if she wanted to dance. She was on her third punch by then and swayed a little as she jumped up to join him. The Rolling Stones were playing, ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’, so there was no danger of a smoochy kind of dance, but I felt as if my blood was hot when I watched them. Like when I used to watch Olivia salsa-dancing with José. The record changed and I willed Ella to come back but they carried on dancing while I drummed my fingernails on my empty glass. A group of about six people streamed into the room and began dancing, encouraging others to join in. It became more like a party then.
The doorbell rang and Ted, who looked like he was auditioning for Saturday Night Fever in his white suit, stopped his dad-dancing and went to answer the door. Male voices rose from the hall and Ted came back in, taking Sadie aside. They had a hurried conversation in urgent whispers. I realised what was happening but it was too late to do anything about it. It was Ella’s husband.
Thirty-Three
ELLA
It’s Chris. I swear the room goes quiet even though the Bee Gees are playing. The man I’m dancing with, Gary, looks ridiculous – his arm movements are following a different rhythm to his feet. I loo
k to Alice for reassurance but I can’t see her through the crowd. My heart stops as I wait for Chris’s girlfriend to follow him in but it looks as if he’s alone. I turn away so that he can’t see my face.
Sadie is pushing through the crowd towards me with a knotted expression. She takes me into the kitchen. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought he wasn’t coming. God, this is a mess, bloody Ted must have invited him because I certainly didn’t.’ Her hands are clenched together and her fingers are dancing. I wish she would stop talking.
‘It’s OK. It’s not as if we haven’t seen each other since the split, but it’s so difficult at the moment. At least he’s on his own.’
Sadie’s eyes widen and she throws a quick glance over her shoulder. ‘That’s what I wanted to warn you about. He isn’t alone. His – er – friend…’ she hesitates, ‘has gone to the bathroom. Awkward.’
I swallow hard and the door opens with a squeak. I hold my breath as an immaculate-looking blonde woman walks in wearing a tight red dress and spiky stilettos. She heads straight to Chris. It’s just how I imagined. So this is the ‘friend’. She’s not one of the women who work in his office. I look for Alice, but can’t see her. Where is she?
‘Let me get you a drink.’
Sadie has a purpose now and she takes my elbow and guides me into the kitchen. I dip my glass into the punch and fill it to the brim, slopping liquid all over the table, a splatter of pink landing on the fresh white tablecloth. I don’t care. Sadie is making sympathetic noises while looking guilty and talking quickly about how she’s sure it’s nothing serious and she’s not even sure they’re dating. ‘Wittering’, Nancy would call it. I refill my glass and imagine a zip drawing Sadie’s mouth to a close, the edges digging into her skin. A noise is roaring in my head, but I’m the only one who can hear it.
The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 17