by Alex Lake
‘You don’t have to do this,’ she said. ‘But thanks, Jean. I really appreciate it.’
She picked up another bottle of wine. If she was going to have company, she could use it.
At home she poured a glass of wine and called Ben. It went to voicemail.
She felt a rising anger toward him. Even if she had written the note, he still shouldn’t be ignoring her calls.
But then look at it from his point of view: she’d had an affair, he had reasonable grounds to suspect she was suffering from a severe psychiatric disorder – because if it was her doing all these things, but being unaware of it, then that would be classified as pretty damn severe – and he had been sent, by her – because it was her who had called him – to the ER to pick up his kids, only to find they weren’t there.
And then he had come home to a letter from his wife telling him she didn’t trust herself around their kids, and she wanted him to leave her for a while. Oh, and she’d been planning a random hookup with someone from Craigslist.
So it was no wonder he was angry and didn’t feel like talking to her.
She had never realized how vulnerable she – everyone – was. Between Facebook, Twitter, Craigslist, emails, online accounts with hackable passwords and all the rest of our digital footprints, we were putting ourselves in full public view in a way which would have been considered foolhardy, even irresponsible, a decade ago.
Back then, who would have announced to the world the dates of their holiday? Or their children’s birthdays? Their wedding anniversary? Their maiden and middle names? Imagine somebody putting up a pinboard outside their house and tacking all that information to it, along with a daily update on their activities and whereabouts. Nobody would have done it.
Yet that was what exactly we did with Facebook. In fact we did worse: a board outside your house was only visible to those who happened to pass by. Social media was available to the whole world.
Yes, there were security settings, but a lot of people didn’t use them or missed an update which changed them or didn’t think about them at all. And then even if you did, all someone needed to do was to become a friend of a friend, or impersonate someone you knew, or find some other way to get into your personal data and with it, into your digital life.
And all you could do was wait for them to go away, and hope it wouldn’t spill over into your real life.
Which for her it already had.
It was gone eight thirty when there was a knock on the door. She checked from behind the curtains – to make sure it was Jean – before she let her in. She was holding an open, three-quarter-full bottle of red wine.
‘How was Carl?’ Sarah asked.
‘Good. He’s a nice guy.’
‘I hope he wasn’t too disappointed.’
Jean shrugged. ‘I told him my babysitter had to leave early. He suggested he could come to my place, but I told him it’s a bit too soon.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘The new Spanish place downtown. We had some tapas and a drink. It was fun.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘I wish your date wasn’t ruined.’
‘It’s OK. This is more important. And there’ll be plenty of time for Carl when this is all over.’ She held up the bottle. ‘Drink?’
‘I’ve got a glass of white. You want one?’
‘Try this,’ Jean said. ‘It’s the good stuff. Some kind of Italian wine called Amarone. Carl gave it to me. He told me about it; it’s pretty strong. I think he was hoping we’d drink it together. On the couch. All cuddled up.’ She laughed. ‘But he’ll get a chance, soon.’
Sarah looked at the bottle. ‘Did you drink it at the tapas place?’
Jean shook her head. ‘No. It’s not BYO.’
‘It’s open,’ Sarah said. ‘I thought Carl just gave it to you?’
‘Oh,’ Jean said. ‘Right. I had a glass before I came here. It’s really good.’
‘OK,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll have some later. Sounds delicious.’
They sat on the couch. Jean had a glass of water – I need a soft drink before I have another glass of wine, she’d said – and Sarah took a few bites of pizza. She wasn’t really hungry.
‘So Rachel was gone?’ Jean said. ‘It is kind of a weird coincidence.’
‘It’s not a coincidence,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s her. I know it. And I’m going to prove it.’
‘I think you’re probably right,’ Jean said. ‘It’s hard to be sure, but it does seem like she’s the most likely person.’
‘I think it goes back to Jeremy,’ Sarah said. ‘Although how, I don’t know.’
‘Jeremy from high school?’
‘Yes. I mean, it’s fucking crazy but I think she has a grudge against me because of him, which is why she married my college boyfriend, and why she’s after Ben now.’
‘But that would mean she’s been doing this for years,’ Jean said.
‘I know,’ Sarah replied. ‘And it terrifies me.’
Jean put her glass down. ‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ she said. ‘You want a drink while I’m up?’
‘Sure,’ Sarah said.
‘I put the red wine on the countertop in the kitchen. Let’s try it. Otherwise it’ll go off in the week. I won’t drink it on my own. I’ll grab it on my way back.’
While Jean was gone, Sarah tried calling Ben; again it went to voicemail. She heard the toilet flush, and then Jean came in holding the bottle and two glasses.
Jean poured a glass – nearly to the brim – and handed it to her. As she took it Sarah hesitated. Was this what Jean thought she wanted? A huge glass of wine? Was she the kind of person who people saw as a big drinker?
‘You going to try it?’ Jean said.
Sarah nodded slowly. ‘Sure,’ she said. Ben had mentioned her drinking; she didn’t think she had a problem, but suddenly she didn’t think she wanted a drink after all. She didn’t need an alcohol issue to go with everything else.
But she wouldn’t tell Jean. Not right now. Jean was proud of her wine and she didn’t want to disappoint her.
She sipped the wine. No doubt on another evening she would have found it delicious, but it tasted bitter; it was hard to enjoy anything.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely. Perfect.’
Jean smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’
23
They sat on the couch.
‘Did I ever show you the postcard?’ Sarah said. ‘I think I should. I’ll grab it from the office.’
She stood up and left the room, bringing her wine with her. She put it on the desk she and Ben shared and noisily opened a drawer. The postcard wasn’t in there; it was in a file on top of the desk, but she wanted Jean to hear her searching.
When the drawer was shut she listened for the sound of footsteps. Satisfied there was nothing, she emptied three-quarters of the wine into an empty mug on the desk. She could clean it up later. Then she grabbed the postcard and went back into the living room.
Jean glanced at the wineglass – now nearly empty – as she handed her the postcard.
After a few moments, Jean looked up.
‘You know,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a man who wrote it.’
‘Why?’ Sarah said.
‘The tone. It feels like a man. And it’s more likely a stalker would be a man.’
‘It’s Rachel,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m sure of it.’
She picked up the nearly empty wineglass and took a small sip.
‘Did you like it?’ Jean said.
‘I did,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s lovely. Carl is a good judge of wine.’
‘You want some more? I’ll get it?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘That was plenty for me, but thanks. I’m already feeling it.’
‘OK,’ Jean said. ‘Well, I need to go. The kids’ll be up early, as usual.’
Sarah walked her to the door and locked it behind her. She called Ben again and left another message on his voicemail.
Ben, she said.
I think I know what’s going on now. It’s all going to be fine. Please come home so I can explain. I love you and I think you love me. It’s time to put this behind us. I know you’re mad at me, but trust me, OK?
She took her wineglass to the kitchen and emptied it into the sink. She picked up the bottle of wine Jean had brought and read the label. AMARONE DI VALPOLLICELLA. It looked expensive. It was a shame for Carl that he wouldn’t get to taste it.
She jammed the cork in and put the bottle in a cupboard. She’d give it to Jean tomorrow.
It was strange to go to bed in the house alone. Normally, even when Ben and the kids were fast asleep, the house felt full. In winter there were the clicks and ticks of the heating system; in summer, Ben kicked the covers off, snorting in his sleep. In the kids’ rooms fans whirred. From time to time one of them coughed or laughed or cried out, in the grip of a nightmare.
Zombies were chasing me last night in my dream, Mom, Miles said once. But in my room there was a magic blanket which I threw on them and they disappeared.
She wished she had a magic blanket she could use to make her troubles disappear. But magic blankets were the stuff of children’s dreams, and were only of use against the zombies that populated them. The problems in adults’ lives were harder to solve.
And they seemed even harder, lying alone in a quiet, still house, listening to it creak as the heat of the day dissipated and the house settled into its sleeping state.
She’d have thought the silence would help her to sleep; there had been plenty of times in the last few years when she had wished for a night without interruptions from her family, a night when she could fall asleep knowing no one would wake up or be sick or pee in the bed. Now, though, she wanted nothing more than to hear a cry of Mom! from Kim’s room and to go in and see her daughter standing in her crib, arms outstretched, in need of some maternal comfort.
Soon, she thought. Soon. And then I’ll never complain about anything again.
Eventually she fell into a fitful, shallow sleep. Her mind was stuck on a loop in which she tried to explain to Ben but he kept interrupting, wouldn’t let her get her explanation out. She’d become more and more annoyed until she’d shout at him and wake herself up, before slipping gradually into the same unpleasant dream.
It was almost a relief when the noise of a stair creaking woke her up fully.
For a second she thought it was the creak of the house settling, but it was louder than she would have expected.
It sounded like someone on the stairs.
But it couldn’t be. It was one of the noises houses made at night. She breathed in slowly, and listened.
And then she heard it again.
She lay in bed totally still, eyes wide open. In the light from the moon she could see – just – the shape of the door, light against the darker walls.
A few seconds passed. Nothing.
She started to relax, her heart thudding in her chest as it slowed. She was hearing things. It wasn’t a surprise, with what had been happening. Wide awake, she levered herself up on her elbows.
There was no hope of sleep now. She was alert. She might as well go downstairs and find some activity until she calmed down. Better to watch a crappy movie and nod off on the couch.
She was about to push the covers back when she heard it again.
This time there was no mistaking it. The long, slow creak of someone stepping on a floorboard.
And it was right outside her room.
Shit. She needed to call Ian Molyneux and tell him there was an intruder. He’d be here in minutes.
Unless it was Ben.
No. Ben would not be moving so stealthily. This was his home.
She looked for her phone on the nightstand. But it wasn’t there. It was still downstairs, charging on the kitchen counter.
Shit.
Her hands bunched into fists as her mind scrambled to think of anything in the room she could use as a weapon.
A belt? A coathanger? The scissors in the bathroom?
There was another creak and then the door began to open.
She lowered herself back on to the bed, her instinct to pretend she was asleep. She pictured herself springing on the intruder, knocking them to the floor and then sprinting into the street, shouting for help.
And then the panic took over.
24
For a time, back in medical school, Sarah had considered joining the Medical Corps of the Army. Her grandfather, Stan, had served as a medic in the Second World War, and she asked him for his opinion.
Well, he said, the question you have to ask yourself is how you would react when you’re terrified, when bullets are flying and bombs are falling. When your life is under threat. For some people the fear brings focus. They think clearly and act quickly. That wasn’t me. I felt paralyzed. There were medics there with half my training but twice the ability to think in those situations and they were a lot more effective than I was. I wanted to run away. So that’s the question you have to ask yourself. And the thing is, you never really find out until it happens.
She’d decided not to sign up. It had been a vague idea in the first place, and so she’d never found out how she would react when she was terrified.
Well, now she knew. She would have been a terrible army medic.
As the door opened, she stared at it, eyes wide, totally frozen in mind and body. Any thoughts she’d had of finding a weapon or escaping through the window were long gone.
She could think nothing other than oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
When the door was half-open it stopped moving.
Someone stepped through the gap and into the room.
They stood for a moment, silhouetted against the lighter walls. On their head was a baseball cap; in one hand was a bag.
It’s Derek Davies, she thought. Why oh why did I not tell someone about him when he showed up at work?
And then the intruder spoke.
‘Sarah?’ a woman’s voice whispered. ‘Sarah. Are you awake?’
It took Sarah a second to recognize the voice, and when she did it took another second to accept who it was.
It was Jean.
Sarah was about to reply; the fear had subsided now she knew it was not some masked intruder hell-bent on killing her, and she assumed her friend was coming to check on her, which, although Sarah appreciated the gesture, could have been done in a less terrifying way, but what Jean did next stopped her.
She walked over to Sarah’s bureau, and laid the bag on it. Then she took something out; there was the ping of a strap and a light came on.
She was wearing a headlamp. Sarah watched – her eyes now slitted, so if Jean looked at her she would appear asleep – as Jean took out a pad of paper and a pen and began to write.
Was it a note to Sarah to say she’d been here to check on her? If so, it was a long one. Her hand was moving over the paper, the only sound in the room the scratching of the pen. It reminded Sarah of college, of lying in her bed at night while her roommates – Toni and Anne – took notes on some book they’d left it to the last minute to read.
This was ridiculous; Sarah’s fear was quickly being replaced by irritation. What the hell did Jean think she was doing, coming into her house like this? It wasn’t breaking and entering, as such – she’d given Jean a key a few years back in case Sarah lost hers and was locked out, but she was beginning to wish she hadn’t.
She’d had enough.
‘Jean,’ she said. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
25
Jean spun around, banging her hip loudly against the bureau. Sarah almost laughed; all she could see was the headlamp. Jean could have been a miner approaching from a long, dark tunnel.
‘You’re dazzling me,’ Sarah said. ‘Turn the headlamp off.’ She reached out and switched on her bedside lamp.
‘You’re awake,’ Jean said. ‘How?’
‘Because you’re in my house in the middle of the night,’ Sarah said. ‘What’s going on?’
/> Jean smiled. It looked forced, and the light from the headlamp distorted it into a grimace, her teeth looming large like a fairground clown.
‘I shouldn’t have crept in here,’ she said. ‘I was just checking on you. But I didn’t want to wake you. Not after what you’ve been through.’
‘What were you writing?’ Sarah said.
Jean gestured to the piece of paper. ‘I was leaving you a note to say I’d been. That’s all. Come and see.’
Sarah nodded. It made sense, kind of. But there was something not quite right about what Jean had said nagging at her. It would come to her. She swung her feet on to the carpet and stood up. She walked toward Jean, then held her hand out. ‘Pass it over.’
Jean slid the paper off the bureau and held it out.
Sarah reached for it. When her hand was halfway to the paper she stopped and stared at it. Even before she had it in her hand, Sarah could see the most important thing about it. The shock hit her with a physical force; it felt like she had been hit in the stomach.
It was her handwriting.
Her hand fell to her side.
‘Take it,’ Jean said. The grin was wider now, made even more sinister by the headlamp. ‘Read it.’
Sarah stared at her, blinking. Jean was in her house writing a letter in Sarah’s handwriting.
Which answered a lot of questions. It answered the question of who had written the postcard, who had written in the book, who had sent the emails, who had set up the fake account.
It was Jean who had done everything.
‘Was it you?’ Sarah said, her voice a whisper. ‘Did you do all this?’
Jean nodded, the paper still in her outstretched hand.
‘Why?’ Sarah said. ‘Why, Jean?’
‘Read it,’ Jean said. She reached up and switched off the headlamp. ‘Then you’ll know.’
Sarah took the paper and started to read.
Ben
This has been the hardest decision of my life. I needed space to work it out, which is why I needed you to leave the house with the kids. It’s selfish, I know, but it’s what I had to do. And it’s bad for me, too, because it means I won’t get a chance to say goodbye to you, Miles, Faye and Kim.