‘And you knew all of this?’ I round on Jules not really needing an answer. I thought about the way they had both been so concerned, always asking if my memories were returning. Self-preservation, that’s all it was, and this realisation brings a bitter taste to my mouth.
‘Yes.’
‘And you sabotaged my hypnotherapy so I didn’t remember it was James that night?’ I remember the way she insisted on staying in the room although Mr Henderson advised against it. How she shook me out of my trance when my clouded mind began to clear.
‘You were distressed.’ She catches my scornful gaze. ‘And yes. I didn’t want you remembering it was James you met that night. He didn’t hurt you. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. You know that, Ali, if you really think about it. You must believe he wouldn’t hurt you.’
‘I don’t know what I believe. You’ve lied to me all along. It was James on the CCTV?’
‘Yes.’ Jules swallows hard.
‘And you burned Prism down?’ I’m focusing on her. Somehow I can’t see James breaking the law, no matter what the circumstances, and as I think this I realise that there’s some part of me, a large part, that does believe his story.
‘No. That was nothing to do with us.’
‘But you told me it was Matt on the CCTV? Another lie?’ If we stacked them all together we could build a wall.
‘It seemed easier to agree with you when you offered his name.’
‘Because you know Chrissy and Matt are having an affair.’ My heart is beating a tattoo.
There is gentleness in her voice when she speaks again.
‘Yes. I’m so sorry. I know you’re far from over him.’
‘How long have you known?’ Revelation after revelation punches me in the guts. It’s like being part of The Truman Show. Everything I thought was real pulled away from me.
‘I heard her on the phone the day before you went out. All sweet nothings and “we can’t tell Ali”.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You’re supposed to be my friend.’ I didn’t think it was possible to feel any more betrayed by her, but I do. ‘You’ve never really liked Chrissy. I thought you’d jump at the chance to ruin our friendship.’
‘I was going to…’ She falters. Chews her bottom lip. ‘I don’t know. My first instinct was to tell you, of course. But then.’ She sighs so deeply her shoulders visibly slump. ‘It wasn’t about Chrissy or the way I feel about her, was it? It was about you, and I care about you, Ali. I know it may not feel that way right now, but I do. I remember what it felt like when you told me about Craig. How much it hurt. And I didn’t know if I could… If I should do that to you. Sometimes, you know, I wish you hadn’t told me. I wish I didn’t know and I was still married.’ Tears spill from her eyes and she wipes at them furiously with the back of her hand.
‘The problem with knowing things, Ali, is that you can’t unknow them, and however unfair it is there’s a small piece of me, and honestly it’s tiny now, but it’s there and it blames you for it all, and I’m trying to get over it. I am getting over it. But I didn’t know whether it was kinder not to tell you. You and Matt aren’t together, and it’s only natural he’ll move on and the fact that it’s with Chrissy… I didn’t know if it was my place to tell you, and I was going to sleep on it, but then Saturday happened, and you’ve been through so much.’
‘The police think I had something to do with Chrissy’s disappearance. I’ve been questioned again today.’
‘What? God, I’m so sorry.’
‘I’ll come with you to the station,’ James says. ‘Tell them everything. I’m sorry, Ali. I really am.’
‘I need some time to process all of this.’ I stand and to my relief they both remain seated. They are not going to stop me leaving. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
I am calm and measured as I walk to the front door, and it is only when I step outside and feel the cold biting at my cheeks that I raise my fingers to my skin and realise I am crying.
* * *
Although I believe James and Jules I cannot bear to be in such close proximity to them knowing they have deceived me. Flinging open drawers, I throw things into an overnight case, adding toiletries and stuffing the letter from Chrissy along with the photo of her and Matt into the zipped pocket in the lid, before heaping Branwell’s bowls, food and his forlorn monkey, now missing an ear, into his basket. I text Iris to let her know I am on my way.
* * *
Warm honey light filters from the house onto the driveway, Iris silhouetted in the doorway, speaking on the phone. By the time I have released Branwell from his crate she is by my side.
‘That was Ben.’ She lifts Branwell’s basket out of the boot. ‘Sorry. Did you want to speak to him?’ she adds as an afterthought.
‘I’ll call him tomorrow,’ I say, although I can’t believe I have any words left in me. I’m exhausted. It’s an effort to move one foot in front of the other. I settle Branwell in the kitchen, where he sits, wagging his tail so hard as he stares up at the biscuit tin on the worktop, he slowly slides backwards on the tiled floor.
‘I’ll dump my stuff in my room,’ I say to Iris knowing there’s no point telling her not to give Branwell human titbits. That by the time I come back down he’ll be licking his lips and have crumbs embedded in his furry beard.
* * *
I trudge upstairs, squeezing my bag past the stairlift, the constant reminder of Mum that none of us could bear to look at but somehow never got removed. It’s almost as though we’ve stopped seeing it over the years.
If I had to pinpoint a time I knew she wasn’t going to get better, it was when two men had arrived in dark blue overalls, carrying in tools and cardboard boxes, as we were leaving to go to school.
‘What are they here for?’ I asked Iris as I knelt by the front door, scratchy mat grazing my knees, tying Ben’s laces in a double knot.
‘They’re to help your mum,’ Iris said but her smile was slow and forced.
‘To make Mummy better?’ Ben’s eyes were wide. ‘So her legs work properly again and we can play in the garden.’ He mimed kicking a football. ‘Goal!’ He punched air with his small fist. ‘After school?’
‘No silly.’ Iris ruffled Ben’s hair. ‘She won’t get better that quickly.’
‘But soon?’ Ben asked.
‘Soon,’ she said pulling him into her waist so she didn’t have to look him in the eye. I was silent as the men unpeeled brown tape from the box labelled ‘Stannah’. My heart sank. I knew, from the Internet, that things were getting very bad indeed.
Ben thought it was all incredibly cool when we got home from school that day and I suppose it must have seemed as though the house had been transformed into an indoor playground. He sat on the stairlift as it whirred, painfully slowly, up and down the stairs but he soon grew bored of that, choosing instead to swing from the hoists that hung above Mum’s bed.
‘Can I have this above my bed when you’re better, Mum?’
‘You can come and play whenever you want.’ Mum spoke slowly. It was an effort for her to form her words, but she could speak, right up until the end, and not once did she ever say what was happening to her was unfair. Not once did I hear her complain, and as I pass her empty room, I think that if what is happening to me right now is the tiniest percentage of what she went through, then I don’t really have the right to feel sorry for myself; but I do all the same.
As I settle into my room there’s a part of me that wants to tell the police everything I have learned and inform them I believe Chrissy is hiding out at Matt’s, but a quick Google search tells me that even if they go to Matt’s tonight he doesn’t have to grant them entry. Without a warrant they wouldn’t be able to search his property, and why would he give them permission if I am right and Chrissy is hiding there? The photo I’ve got of the two of them and the letter won’t count as enough evidence to request a warrant either and then where would I be? Matt and Chrissy would know I’ve uncovered their sordid secret, Chrissy could disappear a
gain, and I’d be back to trying to clear my name; only this time it would be a million times harder.
I’m longing to confront them myself, but even with the element of surprise it would be two against one. I need her on her own. I need to know what happened to me that night after I left James. ‘Softy, softly, catchee money,’ I used to whisper as I tiptoed into Ben’s room after covering my eyes and counting to one hundred. Even if Ben’s giggle hadn’t given his hiding place away I knew he’d always be under his bed.
I know where your hiding place is Chrissy and I’m coming for you.
Tomorrow. I can’t wait until tomorrow.
I have a plan.
WEDNESDAY
45
The first thing I do when I wake, when the sky has turned from black to grey but is not yet properly light, is to text Matt and ask him to come and walk Branwell at lunchtime. I tell him I am with Iris, and he asks why she can’t walk him.
She’s not well. I text, and I don’t think this is a lie. Although she insists she is fine – that brave face once more – she seems frailer than she used to. Breathless after walking up the stairs as she poked her head around the door to say ‘night, night, sleep tight’, and without Ben and Mum here there was only me to join in and say ‘don’t let the bedbugs bite’, and our voices sounded too small.
He tells me he’ll be around at twelve.
At eleven thirty I inform Iris that Matt will be here shortly but I’ve a check-up with Dr Saunders at the hospital, so could she give Branwell to Matt. I loathe to think of him touching Branwell’s silky soft fur with hands that have touched Chrissy, but I’ve little choice if I want to be certain he’s out of the way.
* * *
I drive the long way around to my old address, not wanting to risk passing him in his car. I park in the next street, so I don’t alert Chrissy to my presence. I want to deprive her of any chance to prepare herself, hide or run away, before I am in the house, standing face to face, asking not why she’s tried to ruin my life – I already know why – but needing to know whether any part of our relationship was genuine. The evenings sipping wine and binging on the box set of Friends. The nights out, picking at bowls of tortillas, topping up glasses from a pitcher, analysing our past relationships. What was right? What went wrong? At least I know now what went wrong with Matt. Chrissy did. With Iris and Ben the only relatives present in my life, my friends were like my family. Looking back is like straining to focus through voile. I’m not quite sure what I’m seeing was real. Jules. James. Chrissy. Matt. It had all felt so genuine at the time, the people I loved who I thought loved me too. Never before have I felt as small and insignificant as I do right now.
Memories crowd as I approach the house that was once my home. The winter-drab borders I dug that will soon be sprinkled with snowdrops and bluebells. Matt hanging the thick bedroom curtains that trail the carpet making the room appear far more opulent than it actually is. Running to the chip shop on the corner as the smell of freshly fried fish drifted through the open window in the summer. Sitting on the swing seat in the garden, eating chips straight out the bag, licking vinegary fingertips. Salt on my tongue. Later, the taste of Matt as we made love under the apple tree at the bottom of the lawn, out of sight of Mr Henderson.
* * *
Mr Henderson is by the window in his lounge and he waves as I pass by. He’s wearing a tie, so he must be waiting for a client. It’s unfortunate he’s spotted me, but Matt will know I’ve been here soon enough. I summon a weak smile and look away quickly. Does he know Matt has moved on with someone new? All the times I asked Matt if he was seeing someone and he denied it, making me feel I was the one with the problem. Once, I thought there was nothing as painful, as corrosive, as suspicion, but now I know that’s not true. Cold hard facts are twice as damaging and harder to ignore.
Chrissy.
Her betrayal shouldn’t hurt as much as Matt’s, but they are tangled together and impossible to separate. The pain is physical; I wrap my arms around my middle as though soothing a stomach ache. My head throbs with the effort of not crying as I fish the door key from my pocket where it had slipped under my mobile phone. No matter what happens inside I’m going to take a photo of Chrissy. Proof of life.
* * *
Something is different. At first I can’t quite put my finger on it, and I don’t think it’s the fact the bedroom curtains are still closed. The door is still glossy black. The stainless steel number thirteen screwed to the brickwork. Unlucky for some. Unlucky for me. Something is prickling at me, but I tell myself it’s just because I feel uncomfortable – though I shouldn’t. The house is still half mine. I’ve every right to be here. Glancing over my shoulder, as though I am doing something wrong, I poke the key towards the lock.
It won’t go in. I try again, thinking it’s because my hand is trembling, but then I realise.
The lock is shiny and new, rendering the key in my hand useless.
Keeping me out.
Or keeping someone else in.
Involuntarily, I shiver.
A sense of someone watching me.
Movement.
Footsteps.
A voice whispering my name.
46
‘Ali.’ Mr Henderson says gently again as I spin around on the step to face him. ‘I didn’t want to startle you. Is everything okay? You’re really pale. Where’s your car?’
‘It’s…’ I gesture vaguely with my hand down the street. ‘Matt’s changed the locks.’
‘Yes. He said he bent the key. Did you need something? He’s gone out. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.’
‘I can’t wait. I’ve a hospital appointment. I wanted to pick up my passport. I’m thinking of booking a holiday and I’m not sure how long it’s valid for.’ I keep my voice low, all the time glancing at the windows for signs of movement.
‘Oh, I am pleased. A break will do you the world of good. I’ve been so worried about you.’
‘Thanks.’ As we speak I’m inching close to the gate. ‘I must go anyway.’ I turn, hiding my face before he can see how quickly my smile slips away. I’m just stepping out of the garden when he calls: ‘He left a spare key with me. If it’s important you get in now?’
‘That would be great, thanks.’ I don’t hesitate for a second. ‘It is important. You could say it’s life and death,’ I say as quietly as I can.
And this time when I flash him a smile, it’s genuine.
* * *
Inside, I leave my shoes on the doormat; only this time it’s not fear of traipsing mud through the house, it’s fear of being heard. The house smells different somehow. Stale. Unhappy or perhaps it is only me who is unhappy. Still, it is nothing like the freshness of Chrissy’s house and I feel slightly relieved she hasn’t yet put her stamp on the home I still think of as mine. I had only been living with her for two days when I had arrived home after walking Branwell on the beach, his shaggy fur sea-salt damp. Chrissy had cracked open windows and I had realised just how foul the stench of wet dog must be when you’re not used to pets. The next day there were plug-in air fresheners in every socket, hissing out vanilla at regular intervals, but still she’d have to cover her nose with her sleeve as Branwell fired off one of his after dinner farts – ‘typical man’ – and at the time I thought how intrusive it must be for her sharing her space, oblivious to the fact she was planning on taking mine.
The lounge is to my left. I push open the door, my heart leaping into my mouth when it momentarily sticks, and instantly I think Chrissy is pushing it from the other side, but it is only the thick pile catching. The brown we’d chosen to mask grubby paw prints and hide the stains we hoped our future children would inadvertently leave. The clock above the fireplace fills the silence with its ticking, and it’s funny but, while I lived here, I never noticed it making a noise before. The black glossy coffee table we’d chosen from Ikea is covered in a thick layer of neglect, as though this room is unused. No tracks in the dust where Matt rests his feet as he s
lumps on the sofa after dinner; I’d have been snuggled against him once. I wonder whether they spend all their time in bed.
We’ve never been big on possessions, Matt caring more about gadgets than cushions and me still having my dad’s arrest intertwined with my desire for wanting material things, but a quick scan of the room tells me a few items are missing. The photo of us in a solid silver frame, holding an eight-week-old Branwell up to the camera like a trophy, has gone, and I suppose it’s only natural Matt is removing traces of the wife he no longer wants, but it still hurts nonetheless.
Back out into the hallway, I bypass the toilet and head into the kitchen. The hooks which suspended the cast iron pans over the hob are empty. As is the cabinet that housed our honeymoon green glasses. The work surfaces are tidy. Ordered. Not like Matt at all. Usually his idea of clearing up is to stack things on the work surface above the dishwasher hoping someone else – me – will take care of it. That’s not entirely fair though. Often we’ve stood side by side, chopping, stir-frying, chatting about our days.
Focus.
Where is Chrissy?
I open cupboards, as though she might spring out, but it’s an avoidance tactic. The bedroom curtains have remained closed for a reason. Hiding someone who doesn’t want to be seen.
Common sense tells me to leave the house. The lengths Matt and Chrissy have gone to make them unpredictable. Dangerous. The bruises on my arm. The lump on my head. Who knows how far they will go? But even as I head towards the front door I remember that airless room in the station, the whirring of the tape recording my answers to PC Hunter’s barking questions, and I know that I cannot leave. My foot rests on the bottom stair, my fingers grip the bannister. I begin to climb, treading lightly. Every creak of floorboard is magnified in the silence. I wait for the bedroom door to squeak open. For Chrissy to hurl herself towards me, but there’s nothing.
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