She should have predicted it. Her eyes had barely closed, her lashes briefly touching her cheeks before they shot open again: the cry. She jumped to her feet, her eyes darting around the room. The sound suddenly coming from every direction at once, increasing in volume until it was a violent shriek in her ears.
When Emma woke with a start, Diane realised the scream was her own and stopped abruptly, scooping Emma up in her arms and holding her close. ‘Sorry, darling,’ she said, ‘Shhhhhhhh. Mummy had a bad dream.’
‘Poor Mummy,’ Emma’s hand reached up to pat her face, and then, ‘I know what will make it better?’
‘What?’ Diane said, although she could guess.
‘Ice cream,’ she said seriously.
She was probably right.
After a bowl of ice cream, Emma was happy to sit playing with some wooden bricks, building towers, knocking them down and building them up again. Diane watched her for a moment, amused at her total dedication to what she was doing. Leaving her to play, she went up to her bedroom and changed into her slouchy pants and jumper. She so desperately needed sleep, could hardly keep her eyes open. Back downstairs, she pulled out a takeaway menu and rang through an order. With dinner sorted, she curled up on the couch again. She didn’t think she’d sleep but within seconds she was drifting off.
She woke feeling groggy. Opening her eyes, she saw the bricks scattered about the floor and, with a smile, she sat up and looked around for Emma.
‘Emma!’ she called.
Getting no reply, she got to her feet and looked into the kitchen, the utility room and then the downstairs toilet. She wasn’t there. Picking up speed and trying not to panic, she went into the hallway. ‘Emma!’ she called more loudly, stepping onto the first step of the stairway to listen. She couldn’t hear anything. Jogging up the stairs, calling her name as she ran, she pushed open the door to her bedroom. She wasn’t there.
Checking all the rooms, with no sign of her, she began to feel the first stirrings of panic. Continuing to call her name, she ran back downstairs. The only room she hadn’t checked was the lounge. Taking a breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside, almost relieved to find it empty. Almost. Where the hell was she?
Terror was beginning to take over. She dashed back into the family room, checked every corner again and then ran upstairs to do the same. Only then did she face the reality; if she wasn’t in the house, she must be outside. Running through to the back door, she checked: not only shut, but locked. Charging through the house to the front door, she noticed for the first time that it wasn’t completely shut; it was closed over, but the catch wasn’t engaged.
A cold dread slipped through her and, with her heart in her mouth, she pulled the door open and looked out, her jaw dropping when she saw her three year old standing in the middle of the gateway only a couple of feet away from the stream of moving traffic. The footpath outside was a narrow one, if she stumbled…
‘Emma!’ she cried, racing forward, her heart beating as the child turned and then, perhaps startled by the look of fear on her face, took a step backward.
She grabbed her before she took another, holding her close even as Emma started to shriek loudly and continuously. Diane’s attempts to soothe her were met with an increase in volume as she struggled to escape.
‘It’s Mummy,’ she said, trying to turn the writhing girl in her arms. She was small, but strong, and Diane was bone weary.
And then, to make a bad situation absolutely hellish, Paul’s car appeared in the road, his indicator signalling, his face a shocked look of concern. With Emma still in her arms, she managed to back up enough to allow him to bring the car into the driveway and then he was out, shaking his head, mouth a grim slash. The screaming child, seeing him, held her hands out and sobbed, ‘Daddy!’
He almost snatched her from Diane’s arms. ‘What on earth is going on?’
‘She got out of the house, somehow,’ she tried to explain. ‘She was standing in the gateway, probably waiting for you, and I was afraid she might run out onto the path. I called her, but I must have startled her because she took a step closer to the road. So, I grabbed her.’
‘You grabbed her?’ Paul was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind.
‘I was trying to protect her.’ Her hand went to her forehead. Was this what happened before?
He looked at the sobbing child in his arms. ‘Well, it looks as if you failed miserably, doesn’t it?’ Without another word, he went into the house leaving her standing there, tears stinging.
She had no energy left to fight any more. It would be better to fall down there, fall down and let it be over with. Instead, she trudged back inside.
Paul was sitting on the sofa, a snuffling Emma on his lap, her head buried in the curve of his neck. His eyes followed her as she came in, critical, condemning. ‘You mustn’t have closed the door properly,’ he said. ‘She’s too small to have been able to open it herself.’
Was that it? She couldn’t remember shutting the front door at all, it being one of those things you did automatically. The catch was old and did occasionally stick. Was it as simple as that? Her fault.
The front doorbell announced the arrival of the takeaway. She got her purse and went to answer it, bringing the containers back moments later. ‘We’re having takeaway,’ she said, redundantly.
‘I don’t think either of us are ready for food at the minute,’ he said dismissively, gathering Emma even closer, cutting her out completely.
Just as he’d been planning to do all along.
In that moment, Diane knew he had won.
Thirty-Eight
It was over an hour before they ate, an uncomfortable silence around the table, Paul’s face set, Emma’s tear-stained, Diane’s confused, exhausted, frustrated. She didn’t argue when Paul insisted on getting Emma ready for bed, remaining at the table surrounded by half-eaten dishes, her wine glass empty, his barely touched. Reaching across, she pulled it toward her and took a sip. Alcohol, she knew, wouldn’t help clear her thoughts, but it might ease the pain. There was no point in trying to think. Too tired, too hurt. Too alone.
A tear of self-pity trickled down her cheek. Brushing it away, she snuffled noisily. She’d take a sleeping tablet and get some sleep, maybe in the morning it would all make more sense. Her laugh was bitter. Who was she kidding?
Nothing made sense; and now she was putting Emma at risk. There was a lump in her throat when she thought about what the consequences of her carelessness could have been. She’d played right into Paul’s hands, hadn’t she? Painted a picture of a careless, incompetent, useless mother for him.
Pushing the glass to one side, she rested her head in her hands, as guilt hammered. Perhaps she should have agreed to speak to a counsellor on an ongoing basis, as the clinic had suggested. But she was so arrogantly sure, then, that she had everything under control. Paul had seemed so supportive. She frowned. How could she have been so blind?
Standing, she let her eyes linger a moment on the dirty dishes and half-empty containers before shrugging and taking herself upstairs where light peered from under Paul’s office door. Hoping he wouldn’t come out, she went into Emma’s room, closing the door quietly behind her. She expected her to be asleep, so was surprised to see bright eyes shining at her.
‘Mummy,’ she said, reaching her hands up.
Diane sat on the side of the bed and gathered her in her arms, holding her and murmuring words of love and comfort into her ear. ‘I’m sorry you were so sad, sweetheart,’ she said eventually, lying her back down. ‘It made me very sad too.’
‘Sorry for going outside, won’t do it again.’
Diane brushed a curl off her forehead. ‘Mummy was silly not to have shut the door properly. She won’t do that again.’
Emma’s eyes fluttered closed and then opened again. ‘It was the other lady who opened the door, Mummy. Not you.’ Her eyes fluttered closed again and this time they stayed shut.
Diane was frozen to the sp
ot. She’d like to have woken Emma, questioned her for the details but, looking down on the angelic face, she knew she couldn’t do such a thing, not even for the proof she so desperately craved.
It was the other lady who opened the door. A look of horror crossed her face. Had she come inside her home and stood over her as she slept? She’d only slept heavily that one time, how on earth did she know to come in then?
The idea of hidden cameras flashed through her mind. She knew from watching crime shows that nowadays they could be tiny, but truth was, she wasn’t even going to look for them. She’d had enough of playing the victim in Paul’s mind games.
His games were now endangering their daughter.
Dropping a kiss on Emma’s head, she left her room. On the landing, she heard the soft murmur of voices from Paul’s office and felt twin darts of pain and anger. She wanted to bang on his door, to shout at him, to scream. Instead, she went to her room, took two sleeping tablets, dropped her clothes untidily onto a chair, slid under the duvet and waited for medicated sleep to claim her.
In the morning, Paul was, as usual, down before her. He’d ignored the mess on the table, eating his cereal standing in the kitchen. He gave a nod in her direction when she came into the room behind Emma. Helping her into her chair, she cleared a space on the table in front of her, filled a bowl with cereal, added milk and handed her a spoon. ‘There you go,’ she said.
She made coffee and took it back to sit beside her, pushing her half-empty plate from the night before out of her way, the unappetising smell making her stomach lurch.
‘You’re not going to clean up first?’ She looked up at Paul, at his prissy face and condemnatory eyes. She refused to get annoyed, hell, she was too tired to waste the energy. ‘No, I’m going to clean up second. First, I’m going to have my coffee.’ She gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘Feel free though.’
Everything took longer, and finally, rushing to the car, she strapped Emma in, started the engine and pulled out of her drive into the heavy rush-hour traffic. She looked in the rear-view mirror, lifting her hand in acknowledgement to the car behind who’d slowed to allow her out.
As it turned out, she made it just in time, the teacher still rounding up her charges as she pulled into the car park. She was last, possibly, but not late. Back home, she cleared the mess from the table, every movement heavy and slow. Then, she sat, crossed her arms on the table in front of her, lay her face down and sobbed like a child. On and on, she cried, until she was afraid she might not stop. She imagined Emma’s little face, and tried to do what she knew Paul wanted to tell her so often, and pull herself together.
She lifted a face wet with tears and snot and carelessly wiped it with the arm of her dark blue shirt leaving snail-traces of mucus along the length of it.
Because she couldn’t think what else to do, she picked up her mobile and looked at the photograph she had taken of the woman. Normal-looking. Nothing scary or cruel about her. She threw the phone across the table in frustration. Needing to be doing something, she decided to do what she’d promised to do yesterday and go back into the lounge.
With the door open, the distance to the sofa seemed immense and she had the strangest sensation that it was moving away from her as she inched closer. She swayed, a wave of nausea washing over her making her stumble and fall awkwardly onto the sofa, twisting her ankle. She lay there stunned, as much from the fall as from the crippling fear. And then, as if on cue, the sound of a child’s gut-wrenching wail reverberated from the four walls of the room that imprisoned her.
‘Stop. For pity’s sake, stop!’ she cried as she curled up, wrapping her arms around her knees and staying there until it stopped. With the last ounce of her energy, she rolled to the floor and crawled from the now-silent room, through the hall and into the family room, where she pulled herself up onto the sofa and dragged the throw over herself. And there, exhausted beyond belief, she finally slept.
Thirty-Nine
When she woke and opened her eyes, the darkness startled her. It took her a few seconds to realise the throw was over her head. She pushed it back, squinting against the sudden brightness. How long had she slept? Uncovering her watch, she struggled to focus on the numbers. About an hour.
Her foot hurt when she put it on the ground. Kicking off her shoe, she assessed the damage. It was swollen but just a little, she’d live. She put her shoe back on while she could.
She sat with her head in her hands for a moment. What was she going to do?
First, practicalities, she needed to see if she could walk. Gingerly, she stood on one foot and gently put the other to the ground, testing it. It ached, but it would be okay.
Her shirt, on the other hand, definitely wouldn’t. With a quick look at the clock, she decided on a shower and change of clothes. It wouldn’t solve anything, but it would make her feel better.
It certainly didn’t make her look any better, she thought, looking at her reflection in her bedroom mirror fifteen minutes later and shaking her head at the half-hearted attempt at make-up. It would have to do; she had about thirty minutes before she needed to leave to collect Emma. More coffee was in order.
She was on the stairway, half-way down, when the doorbell chimed. The sound stopped her instantly. One foot on the step below, she stayed stock-still as she waited for the bell to sound again. When it didn’t, it was several minutes before she managed to move again, gripping the bannisters with both hands as, step after step, she moved down to the hallway.
Silently, she pressed her ear to the door, listening for the sound of movement, of someone breathing. But the door was so solid, it was unlikely she could hear even if there were someone there. She bent down and, as quietly as she could, she pulled open the letterbox. She couldn’t see anything, anyone.
Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door and turned the latch to open it. There was nobody on the doorstep, nobody up or down the road. Was it the woman? Was she hiding behind Mrs Prescott’s wall? The gate was open…
She put the thought out of her mind, slamming the door shut and marching into the kitchen. She would not be dragged into Paul’s games. Not today. She flicked the kettle on to distract herself for a few minutes until it was time to go and collect Emma. At least she’d be spared that witch of a woman’s presence at the nursery. If she was here, hiding behind Mrs Prescott’s garden wall, she wouldn’t be there. With that clear thought in her head, she dropped the mug into the sink, grabbed her jacket and phone and left.
Tiredness had become normal for her. She drove with extra care, indicated and overtook bicycles with exaggerated caution. Traffic was neither light nor heavy and she made it to the school with minutes to spare.
She stayed in the car. Waiting until the door opened saved her from the extra pain of having Rose Metcalf and the other parents pass judgement. She checked herself in the mirror; the eye-make up she’d put on had bled around her sunken eyes. She made a fruitless attempt to wipe it away.
It wasn’t until she saw the children spill from the nursery that she opened the car door and got out, putting a bright smile on her face to greet her daughter. ‘Hello, sweetie,’ she said, swinging her into her arms. ‘Did you have a good day?’
She headed back to the car with Emma still in her arms, strapped her in quickly and got into the driver’s seat to start the engine. Waiting impatiently for her turn to exit the car park, beginning to move as the car in front did, she glanced across the road and was shocked to see her stalker waving at her.
The car in front stopped, waiting for a space to turn out on to the main road. Diane moved to hit the brake, but her shock at seeing the woman when she really didn’t expect to, combined with the never-ending exhaustion, momentarily confused her and she hit the accelerator by mistake.
The bang was loud, the bonnet flew up and the airbag exploded with an extraordinarily loud hiss. Emma screamed. Children waiting in the car park screamed. Their parents screamed. For Diane, trapped behind the airbag, it seemed as if the whole world w
as screaming.
She twisted her head to see Emma who was now crying loudly. She didn’t seem to be hurt. Desperate to get to her, her hand felt for the handle and she tried to pull the door open, but her fingers slipped. She tried again, managing to pull the handle, but with the air-bag pressed against her, she couldn’t push the door open. By now, people were rushing to help and one of the other parents pulled open the door and helped Diane to squeeze out. She staggered a little, putting a hand on the roof of the car to steady herself as the ground rocked and rolled under her feet.
The driver of the car she’d hit had also got out and was looking at the damage to his car with wide eyes. His children in the back seat were crying loudly. ‘What kind of idiot are you?’ he asked, shouting at her, hand raised and finger pointing.
It was all just too much. ‘It’s her,’ she shouted back at him, her head spinning. She jabbed a trembling finger across the road. ‘It’s all her fault.’
Other parents had rushed over to offer help but when they saw there was nobody injured, they stood back. There was silence as they all looked across the street to where Diane pointed.
‘I’m telling you,’ she said again, ‘it’s her fault.’
‘There’s nobody there,’ said the driver of the other car.
Diane looked, her hand moving to cover her mouth. Of course, the woman was gone. She looked around at the gathered people, saw the closed, tight faces, the whispering behind hands and started to cry.
Forty
Her shoulders heaved, as crying turned to sobs. The circle of closed faces around her suddenly looked embarrassed, sympathetic even at this display of emotion. They’d have handled rage or anger better, but tears, especially blisteringly heart-broken ones like these, made them all connect with their inner child and turn away.
The Housewife: A completely addictive and gripping psychological thriller Page 22