by Alex Lake
‘Yes,’ Diana said. ‘It is a very difficult situation.’
‘At least I have Jean. Apart from all the practical help – the meals, the childcare – she’s been through it herself, so she knows how I’m feeling.’
‘Really?’ Diana said. ‘She’s been through it? In what way?’
‘Her husband died. Jack. It was a car crash, so not exactly the same, but she had to deal with her own grief as well as her kids’.’ He poured the tea. ‘And they’re not her kids. Biologically.’
‘Yes, Sarah mentioned that once. What happened to their mother?’
‘She died. In fact, she committed suicide. A long time ago, now.’ He brought the mug over and handed it to Diana. ‘She drowned herself.’
‘And then Jean married the man she left?’ Diana sipped the tea. ‘Right away?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ben said. ‘I’ve never asked. It’s not the kind of thing you bring up.’
There was a long pause. ‘You don’t think it’s a bit odd, do you?’ Diana said. ‘She would marry a man whose wife—’
‘I don’t think they were married,’ Ben said.
‘Not quite my point. This man’s girlfriend killed herself and then Jean married – or got together – with him. And now another person has killed herself, in the same way.’
Ben frowned. ‘Mum,’ he said. ‘What are you saying? Jean had something to do with these suicides?’
‘I’m merely pointing out the coincidence.’
‘Sarah was in a bad way, at the end. You didn’t see the worst of it. It’s not a surprise, Mum. If it was, I’d agree, but it all makes sense.’
‘Ben,’ Diana said. ‘I’m sure you’re right. But stranger things have happened.’
‘And besides, Jean was her friend,’ Ben said. ‘She’d have no reason to hurt her.’ He sat next to Diana and put his hand on her forearm. ‘I know you’re looking for explanations,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you’re on the right track.’
He looked at his mum. He could see she doubted him.
‘And don’t say anything to Jean,’ he added. ‘I don’t need to piss her off. Not now. OK, Mum?’
Diana gave him a long, level look. ‘OK,’ she said.
24
The door opened and Jean stepped inside.
How long had it been this time? Days? Hours? She couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be sure it wasn’t minutes; time had lost all meaning. She knew she’d slept, at some point, but for how long?
And the thirst was back. Worse, maybe, than before. But somehow she didn’t mind. She’d accepted she was going to die. There was no way out of this. Nobody was looking for her. Jean had seen to that. The story of how she had got here was complicated, but the ending was simple.
Jean had won.
And she no longer cared. It was only a matter of time before this was over, and time didn’t matter anymore. All she cared about was Ben and the kids, about what Jean would do to them.
Would they end up down here, in the dark, unaware they were chained up in the same place that their mother, who they would grow up believing had killed herself, had been held captive? Would she eventually kill Ben as she had Jack?
Or would Ben resist her? See through her? Steer clear of her and find someone else?
That was all she could hope for now. Hope Ben and her children – whom she loved so very, very much, whom she would do anything for – would avoid the fate of Daniel and Paul and Jack and Karen and who knew who else.
But that was all it was. Hope. There was nothing she could actually do about it.
‘So,’ Jean said. ‘Here we are.’
Sarah looked away. She could feel the bad mood coming off Jean in waves.
After a long, tense pause, Jean spoke.
‘Your fucking mother-in-law.’
The words hung in the air.
‘What?’ Sarah said. ‘What about her?’
‘She wants to talk to me. She called me and said she wants to come over and have a chat.’ Jean spat on the floor. ‘That was the word she used. Chat.’ She put on a British accent. ‘I’d like to come and have a chat.’ She spat again. ‘Fucking bitch.’
‘It doesn’t seem so bad,’ Sarah said.
‘I know what she wants,’ Jean said. ‘She wants to warn me off her son. I saw it the day she arrived, when she blanked me. She thinks she’s above me. Thinks her son is, too. Well, I’ll show her. I’ll show the bitch.’
There it was again. The resentment at being looked down on. A force which had cost two – at least – lives already, and which had been hidden all these years.
And which was all the more powerful for that.
‘So I told her to come over,’ Jean said. ‘I put on my best helpful little Jeanie voice and told her to come on over.’
‘Is she coming?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes. At eight. Tonight. In an hour, in fact. I might even murder her. Or put her down here with you. Say she never showed up. And after a while, when you’re both dead, I’ll take you out like the useless trash you both are.’
Sarah still didn’t reply. So this was it. This was the end.
‘You’re probably ready for it now, right?’ Jean said. ‘Given up all hope? It makes no difference, of course, but I’m interested.’
Sarah looked at her feet. She had nothing to say. Diana would be right there. And she could shout, she could scream, she could rattle the chains, but it would be pointless. Diana would not hear. She could not get her attention. Could not let her know her daughter-in-law was alive and down here.
She blinked.
Unless.
Unless there was a way to get her attention, a way Jean hadn’t thought of.
‘No answer?’ Jean said. ‘Never mind. I haven’t bothered bringing you water today, by the way. It seemed a bit of a waste.’ She turned to go.
‘Jean,’ Sarah said, her voice a rasp. ‘Are you not smoking?’
‘No. I don’t want the bitch to smell it.’
‘Could I have a cigarette, though? Dying wish?’
‘Why not?’ Jean said. She picked up the packet of cigarettes from the floor and threw it over to Sarah.
Sarah took out the Zippo and a cigarette. There were only four or five left. She lit it, and inhaled deeply. She blew out the smoke.
‘Better get out of here, Jean,’ she said. ‘You don’t want the smell on you later.’
She closed the cigarette packet and then slid it across the floor. She pushed it hard, so it reached the wall.
She didn’t want Jean to pick it up.
Jean looked at it. Sarah held her breath; for a second she thought she was going to pick up the packet and then it really would be all over. But she didn’t.
‘Yes,’ she said, backing away from the smoke. ‘I’d better go. I’ll have one later.’
Sarah looked away. She heard the door close, and was back in the darkness.
But she was smiling.
Because in her hand she held the Zippo lighter.
And to her, it was more than a lighter.
It was a key.
25
Ben pulled on a pair of jeans – black, Sarah had hated them – and a T-shirt. Miles and Faye were watching television; Kim was downstairs in the kitchen with his parents. He wasn’t hungry, but he felt he should make some dinner, so he went to join them.
His dad was reading to Kim on the couch. Her favorite – Hairy Scary Monster.
‘Where’s Mum?’ Ben said.
His dad hesitated before he answered. ‘She went out,’ he said, an evasive tone in his voice.
‘Went out? Where to?’
‘Erm,’ his dad replied. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Dad,’ Ben said. ‘Where did she go?’
‘I think she may have gone to see your friend.’
‘Which friend? Jean?’
His dad nodded.
‘Dammit,’ Ben said. ‘I asked her not to interfere!’
‘Ben,’ his dad said. ‘Don’t worry about it. Your mum wants to feel
like she’s doing something. It’ll be fine. Trust her, OK?’
After a pause, Ben nodded.
While he boiled water for pasta, Ben picked up the pile of mail he had left on the kitchen counter. There was the usual assortment of flyers and junk mail, bills and circulars.
And there was another thing.
A large manila envelope addressed to Sarah.
He slit it open with his fingernail and tipped it up. A sheaf of papers fell out, and a business card fluttered to the countertop. He picked it up.
DONNA MARTIN, GRAPHOLOGIST.
He straightened. This was the report she’d mentioned. He picked up the papers. On top was a letter. He started to read.
Dear Mrs Havenant,
As promised, here is the report on the handwriting samples you sent me. There is a lot of technical detail, but as I said, the main findings are easy to summarize.
You provided a sample of your handwriting, as well as some other samples to compare to it. I have included them with the report. Without going into details, I can confirm they were not written by the same person. To clarify: you did not write them. Someone forged your handwriting – and it was a skillful forgery.
That person was not, however, the same person
Ben stopped reading. He went back and read it again.
Without going into details, I can confirm they were not written by the same person. To clarify: you did not write them. Someone forged your handwriting
He looked at his dad, looked at Kim sitting on his lap. Listened to the sound of the TV. He let his mind clear so that what he had read could sink in.
Sarah had not written the letters.
Someone else had. Someone else had forged the letters, the postcard, the note in the book.
And the same person had no doubt created the fake Facebook account, and sent the emails, and all the rest of it.
And all the rest of it included the suicide note, which meant – and he realized he’d been a bit slow in getting to this – the suicide note was a forgery, too. And if it was a forgery, then Sarah was alive. Or, at least, if she wasn’t, she had not killed herself.
She had not killed herself.
Someone else had. Or had they? Maybe she was alive, and being held captive somewhere.
Ben put the letter on the counter. He needed to call Ian Molyneux, to talk through who could have done this. Who would have wanted to.
But as he picked up the phone, his mum’s words came back to him, the words she’d said when he’d been telling her about Jean marrying Jack.
You don’t think it’s a bit odd, do you? Diana had said, and then, this man’s girlfriend killed herself and then Jean married – or got together – with him. And now another person has killed herself, in the same way.
Ben took a deep breath.
It was more than a bit odd. He no longer needed to call Ian Molyneux to discuss who it might be, and he did not have time to.
He walked toward the front door.
‘Dad,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’
His dad frowned. ‘Where to?’
‘To Jean’s house.’
26
An hour.
That was when she had said Diana was coming.
Sarah didn’t think she’d be there too long; she wasn’t even sure she would be there at all. But it was the only chance she had.
So, one hour.
Three thousand, six hundred seconds.
Add on six hundred – another ten minutes – to give her time to arrive.
She’d started counting as soon as Jean left.
One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. Each one a second closer to Diana’s arrival.
And to her last, best, only chance.
She kept counting, forcing herself to focus on the numbers. It took enormous concentration to stop her mind wandering, to stop herself imagining what was going to happen. Once or twice she almost lost count, but then, eventually, she was there.
Three thousand, six hundred seconds.
Then she went back to zero, and counted the last six hundred.
And then she got to work.
27
Ben ran along the path that led to Jean’s back door. He had walked it many times and it had always seemed very short. Now, though, it seemed to stretch on forever. Eventually, he walked out of the trees and into her yard.
The kitchen lights were on, the house warm and inviting. Now he was on his way there, it seemed more and more unlikely Jean had anything to do with this, but he had to find out.
Because even if she didn’t, then someone did.
Someone who had hacked Sarah’s digital life and taken – possibly – her actual, physical life.
Because, of course, if the suicide was faked, then there was a chance she was alive.
Ben pushed the thought away. If it was Jean, then it was likely she had killed Karen and faked her suicide, too, and if she had done that, there was every reason to suspect she had done the same with Sarah.
He didn’t want to hope otherwise. He couldn’t face the disappointment if he was wrong.
But he couldn’t stop himself. Not fully. The hope crept in around the edges.
As he crossed the yard, his run became a sprint.
28
Sarah struck a flame on the Zippo. It danced in front of her eyes, illuminating the basement. She looked around. It was a shame this was one of the last things she would see.
It was odd. This had once been a place of sanctuary, a place where people could seek safety in an extreme situation, but Jean’s insanity had changed it into a torture chamber. Well, Sarah was about to turn it into something new again.
A tomb. Her tomb. She was resigned to dying. What she was planning would kill her, but if she did nothing, she was dead anyway. At least this way her family would know the truth.
Death may have been all she had left, but at least this was a better death than the one Jean was planning for her.
Best of all, it would piss Jean off no end.
She looked at the wooden door. She knew it led upstairs to the main basement.
Where there was a smoke alarm.
A few years back she and Ben had paid for the smoke alarms in their house to be serviced and updated. The electrician had put some in the basement and explained they should have dual sensor alarms, which would pick up fires that came up quickly and with minimal smoke as well as those that smoldered.
She had told Jean, who had had the same ones put in.
Sarah pulled off her socks. She held one to the flame and watched as the fibers shriveled and melted and then caught alight.
When it was fully lit she threw it toward the door. It hit the wood and slid down to the bottom.
She did the same with her other sock, then pulled off her pajamas and lit them.
When they had been added to the pile, she sat back and watched.
It took a minute or two, but the flames gradually moved from the clothes and began to lick up the wood of the door.
And as they did, smoke filled the room.
Thick, choking smoke.
It wasn’t the smoke that would kill her, though. It was the lack of oxygen. The fire would suck it all up and she would suffocate, well before the smoke or the fire itself killed her.
But it was an outcome she could accept.
Life was about doing your best, and this was the best she could do.
29
Ben turned the handle of the back door and pushed it open. The house was quiet, the only sound the ticking of the mud room clock.
He walked through the mud room into the kitchen. It was empty.
There was no one in the living room, either.
He turned to the stairs. Surely Diana wouldn’t be up there? But unless she wasn’t here at all, then there was nowhere else she could be.
And then he smelled it.
The faint whiff of smoke.
It couldn’t be.
He sniffed.
It was.
Som
eone in the neighborhood was probably having a fire. He moved toward the stairs.
The smell seemed to be coming from the kitchen. And it was getting stronger.
He crossed the living room and walked back the way he had come.
And then he saw it. The door to the basement was open.
30
As the flames took hold, Sarah took shallow breaths. She knew it was pointless – there was little oxygen left to conserve – but the instinct to survive as long as she could, despite the futility, was one she couldn’t overcome.
She closed her eyes.
If these were her last moments she was going to enjoy them as much as she could. She was going to fill them with love and joy and happiness.
There was a theory that nothing existed outside the mind; the only reality was the one inside your head. It was a persuasive theory; there were thousands of optical illusions which tricked the brain into seeing things that weren’t there or missing things that were.
Well, whether the theory was right or wrong, she was going to create her own reality inside her head. She was going to be the author of the last few scenes of the movie of her life.
She pictured the lake they had visited earlier this summer. Remembered holding Kim in the water while Faye and Miles splashed around her and Ben stood on the shore, holding two bottles of beer as the sun slowly set behind him.
She remembered the moment Miles was born. The moment when the midwife handed her a tiny, blinking baby and she thought Oh my God, I’m a mom and she looked at Ben but he was bent over, sobbing with joy and relief and wonder.
She thought of Christmases past and the Christmases to come. And she thought of Ben finding her body down here and learning the truth.
And then she heard it, dimly.
The beeping of the smoke alarm.
She hated alarms, normally. Hated the loud braying.
People kept them in working order, though, because as everybody knew, smoke alarms could save lives.
She would have bet no one had considered they would be useful in this situation, though.
And this time she thought, Good, I’m glad I hear the alarm. Because it means it worked.