Moments later, exhaustion kicked her into a deep sleep.
When her eyes flicked open, she knew she hadn’t been asleep long. Maybe only minutes. What had woken her? She listened, expecting to hear the cry, but there was nothing. With a frustrated groan, she closed her eyes again, willing herself to fall asleep. And then she heard it; just a few seconds, but enough to raise goosebumps on her arms and send a shiver down her spine. It didn’t last long. Maybe ten seconds. She gritted her teeth.
Instead of trying to go back to sleep, she switched on her bedside light and picked up a book she’d started several days ago. She’d forgotten the story and flicked through the first few pages to reacquaint herself with the characters before getting back into it, but she’d only read a few pages when the cry came again, longer this time.
She got out of bed, threw on her robe and went downstairs to make some camomile tea. It might relax her. At least, she thought, switching on the kettle, it would pass the time. With a mug of it cupped between her hands, she sat at the window, reaching forward to pull back the curtain to look out at the night.
Her mug was empty before she heard the cry again. There was something about it tonight, a more piteous tone, the little hiccup at the end sounding more pathetic, needier. She bit her lip, waiting for it to stop, counting the seconds. But this time it went on, and on, until finally she put her hands over her ears and tried to shut it out.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take it any longer, it stopped, leaving a silence that had no comfort in it, just a heavy anticipation. Her eyes were gritty from tiredness. She had to try and get some sleep. Leaving the mug on the table, she headed back to her room, slipped off her robe and slid back under the duvet.
The cry came at irregular intervals throughout the night. Occasionally she managed a few minutes sleep between them, but it wasn’t enough. By the time the light of the new morning slipped around the edges of her curtains, she knew she was in for a nightmare of a day.
It had got worse. Did that mean Paul’s plan was escalating? And did that mean she definitely wasn’t imagining it all? Even if she weren’t so tired her head ached; she wasn’t sure she could work out that conundrum.
Slipping her robe back on, she grabbed her book and went downstairs. A pot of coffee and two slices of toast in front of her, she sat at the table and opened her book again. Determined to eat, she spread butter and marmalade on the toast and forced herself to eat both slices, washing them down with strong coffee.
She sat reading, forcing herself to concentrate until she heard movement from upstairs and then she went to get Emma ready. Sticking to routine was the only way she was going to get through the day.
In her bedroom, she pulled back the curtains. It was the usual grey, early spring day, heavier clouds than yesterday promising rain before long. It would take very heavy rain to put Paul off his Sunday afternoon golf. Crossing her fingers, she hoped the clouds lied.
Fixated on the sky, she almost missed the figure standing on the other side of the road. Enough was enough. Grabbing her phone from her bedside locker, she fumbled with the pin, put the phone in camera mode, and hastily took several photos of her before the woman noticed and scurried off down the road.
She stood staring down the now-empty road until she heard Emma calling several minutes later. Her finger hovered over the photo symbol on her phone to bring up the images she’d just taken, but something stopped her. What if she looked at the photos and there was no woman there at all?
‘Mummy?’ Emma appeared in the doorway.
‘Coming, darling,’ she said, slipping her phone into the back pocket of her jeans.
* * *
Paul was making coffee when she pushed open the door into the family room. ‘You were up early,’ he said.
‘I woke early,’ she said, pasting a cheery smile in place, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it.
‘You look a bit pale,’ he commented, picking up the coffee pot from the table and rinsing it out before making a fresh pot.
Leaving Paul with Emma, she went back up to her room. She needed to talk to someone. And, sadly, there was only one person to talk to. She dialled Anne’s number. It was answered almost immediately, and Diane felt herself relax. ‘It’s Diane,’ she said, ‘I really need to talk to you, are you free?’
‘Has something happened?’ Anne sounded anxious.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure, it doesn’t really make sense. But I’m so tired, I’m not sure I’m thinking straight. I thought—’
‘That talking to me would help,’ Anne interrupted her. ‘Yes, of course, come whenever you want. I’ll be here all day.’
‘Isn’t it your day for the charity shop?’
‘Not any more,’ she said, and there was a faint note of regret in her voice. ‘Red rang me after your visit, she thought I should take a break.’
Diane squeezed her eyes shut remembering Red’s phone call; something else she was to blame for. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
‘It means I’m here for you though, so come on over.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I feel better already. I’ll be over within the hour.’ Ending the call, her finger, once more, hovered over the picture symbol, but she couldn’t bring herself to look.
She went back down to the family room where a smiling Emma was now playing with her toys, Paul cross-legged on the floor beside her.
‘What time are you going to play golf?’ she asked, starting to clear away the breakfast dishes.’ She saw him frown. It wasn’t a question she’d ever asked, he was looking for the reason.
‘At two,’ he said finally.
‘Okay, good,’ she said, loading the dishwasher. ‘I’ve promised to call over to see Anne. I’ll be back before that.’
‘You never said,’ he said turning to look at her, sounding aggrieved.
‘Didn’t I?’ she said, her voice light and cool. ‘I must have forgotten.’ She offered no further explanation and he didn’t ask. She bent to give Emma a kiss on her forehead. ‘Bye, sweetie,’ she said.
Traffic was Sunday morning light, so she made good time to Anne’s house, pulling into her driveway and dashing from the car to the doorway in the soft rain that had started to fall. Not heavy enough to stop Paul’s golf, she hoped it would stay that way.
She rang the bell, the door opening almost immediately as though the woman were waiting for her. ‘Thanks so much for this,’ Diane said with a warm smile, stepping inside and following Anne down the hall.
Walking into the room was like walking into a hug; instant comfort. She sighed and, without waiting for an invitation, sat into the sofa. ‘Oh, Anne,’ she said, ‘I’m so exhausted, I can’t even think straight.’ She could hear the kettle humming, the clink of cups, a rustle of paper and, within seconds, she was asleep.
When she woke, there was silence. Not even the soft tapping of keys. She waited a moment, her eyes closed, enjoying the unusual feeling of complete relaxation. She opened her eyes and looked around. Anne was sitting at her desk, reading, her hair falling around her face.
‘I fell asleep,’ Diane said, blushing, getting to her feet and stretching. ‘How long have I been out?’
‘Just over an hour,’ Anne said, closing her book and putting it down. She stood up and went to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. ‘I guess you needed it. Sit, I’ll make some tea.’
Moving to the table, Diane sat and watched as she bustled about. Soon there was tea and two types of cake on the table.
‘Help yourself,’ Anne said, pouring tea into a mug and handing it to her. ‘And then tell me all about it.’
Helping herself to a slice of lemon drizzle cake, she broke a piece from it and popped it into her mouth. She broke off another piece. ‘This is really good,’ she said.
‘I made it yesterday, it’s a favourite of mine.’
‘Mine too.’ Finishing the slice, she took a sip of the tea and then looked across the table. ‘I couldn’t find the sound module,’ she said. ‘I searc
hed everywhere.’ She lifted the mug of tea, cradling it between her hands and continued, ‘And yesterday, twice I saw the stalker, outside my home and in the supermarket. And then, last night,’ she winced at the memory, exhausted tears forming, ‘that cry came, all night long.’
‘So, you got very little sleep?’ Anne said, taking in the pallor, the dark circles under her eyes.
Diane ran a hand over her face. ‘Hardly any. That’s why I flaked out when I sat down.’ She smiled gratefully. ‘Your home is so relaxing. It’s like a tonic.’ She sipped her tea and put the mug down, keeping her hands wrapped around it. ‘He’s escalating.’
Anne’s eyebrows rose. ‘Escalating?’
‘You write crime novels, isn’t that what you’d call it when everything gets worse? Last night the cries were so much more heart-wrenching.’
Anne picked up the teapot and filled both mugs. ‘I don’t understand. I thought the sounds you heard were a recording?’
Diane shook her head in frustration. How could she explain? ‘I’m not sure any more. They’re…so real. They twist at something deep inside me, something terrifying and sad. It just makes me want to cry.’
She waited for a response, for Anne to say she understood. Then she remembered the photograph. ‘I got the woman’s photograph,’ she said, standing to cross to the sofa and pick up her bag. ‘At least,’ she added, a quiver of apprehension running down her spine, ‘I think I did.’
Returning to the table, she searched inside and took out her phone. ‘I haven’t looked at it yet,’ she admitted, meeting her eyes with a worried look. ‘I was afraid to, you know, because if there’s nothing, I’ll have to face the truth.’
‘We won’t know until you look,’ Anne said reasonably.
Nodding, Diane keyed in her pin and then stared at the photos before passing it across with relief in her eyes.
A few seconds passed while Anne examined them. ‘She’s fairly ordinary-looking,’ she said, handing back the phone, ‘regular features, neat hair. She wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.’
Diane shook her head. ‘She does to me. But it’s proof that I’m not imagining it, isn’t it?’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘It’s such a relief to have something.’
There was silence for a moment and then Anne put down the mug she was holding in her other hand. ‘I know we spoke the last time about Paul playing games with you. But I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, Diane. Remember I suggested that maybe something bad had happened in the lounge to account for the sensations you get there?’
Diane nodded.
‘Paul couldn’t be responsible for that.’ She hesitated and then, with a shake of her head continued, ‘maybe he isn’t responsible for the cries you’re hearing either.’
‘You think I’m imagining it?’ Diane said, her words coming out tight and quiet. Wasn’t it what she was beginning to believe herself?
Anne held up her hands. ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘well, not exactly.’ She indicated the mobile phone in Diane’s hand. ‘You’ve proven the woman exists, and I think you’re probably right that someone, probably Paul, has arranged it. But the other bit, the unaccountable fear of that room and the cries.’ She took a deep breath and lifted her chin as if she knew what she said next wasn’t going to be liked. ‘You said there were areas of your life prior to your admission to that clinic that are blank, yes?’
There was a distinct pause as Diane considered the question before she slowly nodded.
Anne chewed her lower lip. ‘I’m wondering,’ she said, hesitantly, ‘you said you spent a lot of time in that room. That you considered it your sanctuary. Well,’ she stopped again, looking across the table. ‘I wonder if perhaps Emma wandered in, maybe made a mess and you overreacted and—’
‘Hurt her,’ Diane interrupted, her eyes wide. ‘Oh my God, you think I hurt her? You think it’s her cries I’m hearing?’
‘You obviously love your daughter and would have felt so guilty that burying it was your only choice. Remember, the doctors said your memories would come back spontaneously, well, I think they are, the fear of the room is because of what you did there and the cries are part of that buried memory.’
Her eyes still wide, Diane held a hand over her mouth. Horrified and hurt, she stood. ‘I think I need to go, Anne. Thanks for the tea and cake. Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’
Ignoring the woman’s beseeching requests to wait, she ran from the house. The slam of the front door was still reverberating as she buckled herself into her car and locked the doors. In the safe cocoon of her Audi, anger melted away as fast as it had arrived, leaving her deflated. Anne was just trying to be helpful. She should go back and apologise for storming out, explain to her that she was wrong, that she could never, ever hurt Emma.
But she couldn’t because maybe, just maybe, Anne was right. Two nights ago, when she’d heard the cry, hadn’t she thought it sounded just like poor Emma’s heartbreaking cry outside the nursery? If it truly was a supressed memory, she wasn’t sure she could live with it.
Thirty-Seven
Starting the engine, she pulled out of the driveway and headed home. She’d just make it, she thought, checking the time. Paul would be anxiously waiting, afraid he’d miss his precious tee-off slot.
He was standing in the doorway when she pulled up, tapping his watch like a comic-strip cartoon figure. Did he realise how ridiculous he looked? Climbing out of the car, she gave an innocent smile. ‘I’m not late, am I?’
The question seemed to throw him off stride. He clamped his mouth shut and stepped out, golf bag in one hand. ‘I’ve given Emma her lunch,’ he said, opening the boot of his car and swinging the bag inside.
‘Good,’ she replied, heading for the house. ‘Enjoy your golf. See you later.’
She was inside, with the door closed, before he’d even started the engine. Dropping her coat and bag by the bottom stair, she headed to the family room hesitating a moment at the door to the lounge. It was easy to be brave away from the house, but here, standing right in front of the door, the familiar feeling of terror swept over her. She tried to brush it aside when Emma ran through to greet her.
‘Mummy, you’re back!’
Diane scooped her up. ‘Hello, my little love,’ she said, giving her a cuddle, burying her nose in her neck, smelling that delicious baby smell she still hadn’t quite grown out of. No, Anne was wrong; there was no way she could ever have hurt Emma, it just wasn’t in her to do such a thing.
‘Silly Daddy left you in a right mess,’ she said, a dart of irritation at seeing the remains of lunch spread across the child’s mouth and hands, a second hitting her when she saw he’d left all the dirty plates on the table. Petty revenge for her being out all morning, she guessed.
She cleaned Emma’s face and hands, then settled her on the sofa for her nap. ‘When you wake up,’ she said, giving the child a kiss on her cheek, ‘I’ll read you a story.’
Clearing the table, she thought about the lounge. It was just a room, she had to be imagining everything. She would go inside, prove there was nothing to be afraid of. She wiped suddenly damp palms on the side of her jeans and headed out to the hall, leaving the door open behind her. At the lounge door, she reached for the doorknob, stopping to wipe her hand again before turning it.
The terror that swept through her was like a living thing inside; uncurling and springing to life, ready to take over. She gulped, pushed the door open, and took a tentative step inside, keeping her hand on the door for balance. She could feel beads of perspiration gather on her forehead, and smell the acrid scent of body odour wafting from the open neck of her shirt.
It took several slow, tortuous steps before she reached the sofa. Gritting her teeth, she turned and sat on its edge, prepared to jump up and run at the slightest indication of anything unusual. It looked much as it always had, the only thing new was the fine layer of dust on the shelves and table, the only thing missing, one of the turquoise cushions from the sofa.
A trickle of perspiration ran down her back. She felt sick, her head spinning. It was time to get out. She’d proved she could do it, now she needed to leave. Her eyes flicked toward the door, it seemed so far away. She knew she was being stupid. It was only a few steps. Pushing herself up, she stood on trembling legs and, step after slow step, made it to the hallway, her hand dragging the door closed behind her. With a sense of relief, she stood there for several minutes. She’d done it. It wasn’t easy, but she had survived. Tomorrow, she’d do it again.
Relieved to have had even this small success when everything else seemed to be so out of her control, she went back to the kitchen where Emma was still asleep on the sofa. She made a cup of tea and took it and a packet of biscuits to the window seat where she sat with a weary sigh.
It was impossible to put what Anne had said out of her head. She knew she couldn’t have hurt Emma, but maybe her new friend had been on to something, maybe it wasn’t that she’d hurt Emma, but rather that she’d failed to protect her. The guilt and the shame so overwhelming it triggered her breakdown? It was feasible. She chewed her lower lip. But it was pretty far-fetched. If Emma had been hurt that badly, wouldn’t she remember? She pulled at her hair in frustration, she was driving herself crazy.
Just at that moment, an even crazier thought crossed her mind: Anne was the one who was so convinced that Paul was to blame and now it was she who was insinuating that she might have hurt Emma. Anne. Who was this woman with all her wild accusations? What was it Red had said about her? That she sometimes got confused between what was real, and what wasn’t? A fantasist. Maybe. Or maybe she had a hidden agenda. Paul had contacted Red, so why not Anne, too? She knew she was sounding utterly paranoid and gave a silent, bitter laugh. What did they say: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.
Standing, she crossed to the sofa, and curled up a couple of feet from her daughter, unwilling to disturb her sleep to pander to her mother’s neediness. Maybe if she closed her eyes, clarity would come, and she could get some sleep.
The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 21