Envy

by Amanda Robson

  DI Jones. Standing in front of me, brandishing his smile. Brandishing his dimple.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  I stand back, away from the door, to allow him access to our tiny hallway. He steps inside and follows me into our living area. He stands eyeing my computer.

  ‘Working at home again?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. Well, my job in digital marketing is fairly flexible.’

  ‘Mr Baker, the thing is, I am afraid to say we’re going to need your computer, your phone, your iPad, any electronic devices, for a few days – I have got a warrant.’

  I stand frowning at him. ‘Why’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘There are just a few minor details we need to check.’

  ‘Well how can I get on with my work then?’

  His eyes darken. ‘This is a police investigation. Your work will have to wait.’

  ‘Am I allowed to ask what you want? What you’re looking for?’

  His shoulders rise and fall. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to clarify your computer and phone use. Check a few facts.’

  I smile. A relaxed slow smile. ‘I suppose you are always interested in a husband’s actions when a man has been over-interested in his wife.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Baker,’ he replies, mouth in a line.

  206

  Faye

  ‘What’s going on, Phillip?’ I ask rattling the bedroom window in an attempt to open it, realising that it is locked.

  You stand behind me and hug me, so tight I can hardly breathe. You always hold me too tight these days.

  ‘I’m keeping the windows locked so that no one can get in and hurt you again.’

  I tremble inside at the memory, too tired to argue back right now. Despite being traumatised by what happened, I can’t have this. I need to breathe fresh air. I’ll find the key for the windows tomorrow. Turning my head, I kiss you on the lips and use the softening of your body to extricate myself and slide into bed. Already covered in a fine layer of sweat that feels slimy and oily against my body, I wipe the excess off with the handkerchief I keep under my pillow.

  You use the bathroom and come and lie next to me, pulling me towards you and clinging to me like ivy. Heat and claustrophobia wrap around me and throb against me, solid and unnerving. I push you away, roll over and throw my covers off.

  I slide into a restless sleep, and dream. The police are chasing us; you and me, and the children. I am holding Tamsin’s hand. You are clinging on to Georgia. Running through a field of barley, wearing backpacks. My backpack is growing heavier and heavier. So is yours. Our knees begin to buckle as we run.

  I hear the police officers’ breath, as they pant behind us. It slides across the back of my neck. My rucksack feels like granite. Heavier and heavier, footsteps becoming impossible. I fall to the ground and let go of Tamsin’s hand. You fall too. Tamsin takes Georgia’s hand and they both run off through the stems of barley, which sway gently in the wind.

  Police officers, heads covered by stockings – so we can’t see their faces – surround us, pulling our possessions out of our rucksacks. Computers. iPhones. iPads. My make-up. Your wallet. The cufflinks I gave you for your thirtieth birthday. My engagement ring. As they steal my engagement ring I begin to scream. The screaming becomes louder and louder until I wake myself up, and find I am dripping in sweat, the bedroom like a sauna now.

  I lie still in a pool of liquid as my body calms. Watching the rise and fall of your breath in the moonlight that curls around the curtain edges. Then I remember. The police have confiscated your electrical goods. Worry rises like bile in my throat. What are they suspicious of?

  207

  Faye

  I am marching past Snappy Snaps and sandwich bars, on the way to the police station. Into the fine old stone building, which is cool inside. It smells of stale air and antiseptic. I shiver as I move towards the counter, which looks like a hatch, behind which a police officer is sitting dealing with enquiries. There is a queue. I join it.

  Three people in front of me. I stand behind a tall, skinny man who looks as if he has been in a fight. Sling around his arm. Bandage on his head. As he turns around I see his left eye is decorated by an array of bruises. He nods at me and smiles. I nod back and stand behind him to wait my turn.

  A woman with a loud voice is at the front of the queue, talking to the police officer. Her car has been stolen from the Waitrose car park. An Audi R8. I vaguely recognise her. Then I realise she is one of the School Gate Mafia. Her voice echoes around the police station, long-vowelled. Self-important.

  ‘We’ve filed a report, Madam,’ the police officer says. ‘We’ll get in touch if we hear anything. Sometimes it’s just joy-riders and we get the cars back.’

  The School Gate Mafia woman walks past me, heels clicking on the floor of the police station. Just as at the school gate, she doesn’t notice me.

  The next man only takes a few seconds as he is collecting lost property and then it is the man with the bruised face.

  ‘Can I help you, Sir?’ the police officer asks, as he steps forwards.

  ‘Only if you catch the bastard who beat me up.’

  A long, slow, graphic description of the fight follows.

  At last it is my turn and I step forward feeling nervous. The police officer behind the desk is so young, he looks like a teenager. He hardly needs to shave. He still has acne on his neck. ‘Good morning. Please may I speak to Clara Morgan?’

  His face is solid. Disinterested. ‘Would you mind telling me what you need to talk to her about?’

  I show him the card she gave me, when Phillip was in hospital.

  ‘She asked me to get in touch with her personally, if I had any problems.’ I pause. ‘I’d rather not go into details unless we are in private.’

  A woman asking to speak to another woman in private presses the button: red light priority. His face jumps into action.

  ‘OK OK, I’ll buzz her – name please?’

  I tell him. He dials his phone. ‘Faye Baker in reception to see you.’

  A velvety voice replies, ‘I’ll be straight out.’

  I step aside to wait, while the teenager catches up on paperwork. Ten minutes later PC Morgan appears. Petite and curvaceous with blonde hair falling to her shoulders. She smiles and as she smiles her large brown eyes soften.

  ‘Hello, Faye.’

  Does she remember me? Or has she spent ten minutes looking at my files?

  ‘Would you like to come to the interview room where we can talk in private?’

  ‘Yes please.’ My voice sounds soft and uncertain.

  I follow her through the doorway by the hatch, into the core of the police station, along a white-painted corridor. Right and right again into the interview room. The interview room smells of another life. Of stale air. Of entrapment. We sit opposite one another across a grey plastic table.

  ‘Can I get you a cuppa?’ she asks.

  I succumb. To her kind voice. To my sleepless night.

  ‘That would be lovely, thanks.’

  There is a phone on the table and she rings to order refreshments. Then she leans across the table towards me. ‘Are you all right, Faye?’

  ‘Yes.’ I pause. ‘I mean no. Not exactly.’

  Her brown eyes darken. ‘What’s happened?’ she asks.

  ‘Two things. First. Your colleagues have taken my husband’s electronic devices to investigate them.’ My hands are trembling. ‘I’m really worried. I’m having nightmares. What do you suspect him of?’

  An officer arrives with a tray bearing two mugs of weak tea and a plate of digestive biscuits. I take a mug and begin to sip my tea.

  ‘Faye, please don’t worry. I am sure checking your husband’s computer and phone is just routine. He will have everything back in a few days. We just have procedures we have to follow sometimes.’

  ‘But … but …’ I splutter. ‘Life isn’t a procedure.’

  She takes a bisc
uit. I watch her bite into it. ‘I can’t discuss it with you. All I can say is that if we thought you were in any danger we would let you know.’

  Danger. The word danger reverberates in my brain. Please, please, may I not be in any danger again. My stomach tightens.

  ‘That’s all you can tell me, is it?’ She nods her head. ‘Why did you give me your card and encourage me to come and talk to you if I was worried?’

  She flicks her hair back from her eyes and puts her head on one side. ‘I meant if Phillip was threatening you. After all he hit Jonah. Sometimes we find situations like this incendiary.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to believe taking his computer is routine?’

  ‘That’s what I said, yes.’

  I close my eyes and breathe in and out deeply. I need to keep calm. When I open my eyes PC Morgan is still watching me, head on one side.

  ‘What else did you want to talk about, you said two things?’ she asks.

  I resign myself to the fact I will find out nothing more about Phillip. ‘Erica Sullivan’s broken her restraining order. I know she’s back,’ I announce.

  PC Morgan leans forwards. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘I might have done.’

  ‘What do you mean “might”?’

  ‘I thought I saw her but I wasn’t sure. But I did see the curtains to her old flat move as I walked past a few days ago. I feel as if her eyes are watching me all the time.’

  ‘We’ll check the flat. That’s fine. And get back to you straight away. But just to reassure you, she has reported to her supervising officer whenever required, and her place in Weybridge appears to be occupied.’ There is a pause. ‘I know you’ve been through a tremendous amount. But please try to stop worrying. Everything’s under control.’

  208

  Erica

  A police car is pulling up outside. I close the curtains and continue to look through a tiny crack. Parking on the double-yellows outside our block of flats. Driver and passenger doors opening. Two police officers stepping out. Looking up. Looking up towards my old flat, and here I am just above it.

  I need to run. I need to hide. Run or hide? My body won’t move. My mind can’t think. Run? Hide? Run? Hide? The police officers are young, one male, one female. Walking towards our block. Feet pounding on concrete. Determined expressions on their faces. Still my body won’t move. I am locked to the window, watching them.

  Closer. They are coming closer now. They must have a key. They are turning the lock and entering our building with ease. The landlord must have given them a key. I close my eyes. I feel them getting nearer. I stand still and wait. Wait for my life to be over. I do not even have the strength to call Mouse who is resting in his bedroom, to ask him to stand by my side. Someone must have told them I am here. Someone must have recognised me. And I thought I had been so clever to lose so much weight. So clever to look so different.

  They are on the floor beneath us. I hear them banging on the door of my old flat. An eruption of banging and hammering.

  ‘Police. Open up.’

  More banging. More hammering. Once again: ‘Police, open up.’ There is a pause. ‘We have a key. We’re coming in.’

  ‘Police, freeze.’

  Please, I pray once more to a god I don’t believe in, please don’t come up here. Don’t remember I was friendly with Mouse, one floor up. Don’t remember he came to visit me in prison. Please, don’t have checked him out. I hold my breath and wait. The world falls silent around me. A solid heavy silence that presses against me. Are they coming to get me? Are they coming up here? I feel my heart thudding against my ribcage. Blood pounding against my eardrums. Time stops.

  After what feels like eternity but is probably about ten minutes, I see the police officers stepping out of our building, heads together in conference. Talking. Shrugging. Looking up at the building and pointing at the window of my old flat, one floor down. Talking into their radio-phones. Nodding. They open the doors to their police car. The male slides into the passenger seat, the blonde is the driver. They sit in the police car a while. Are they waiting for backup before they come for me? Still my heart thuds against my ribcage. Still blood pounds against my eardrums.

  At last the engine of the police car begins to throb. At last the police car is driving off. My heart quietens. I breathe again.

  209

  Phillip

  I look out of the kitchen window and see a police car pull up outside. They’ve found something on my computer and they are coming to arrest me. The doors open and a small curvy police officer steps out. My heart is palpitating. A vice-like grip tightens across my chest.

  She walks up the steps to the front door and rings the bell. As I step towards the door I feel invisible; here but not here, watching what is happening to me from a distance, as if I am not part of it. I open the door.

  ‘Do come in,’ I hear myself mutter.

  She steps inside and follows me, through our hallway and dining area, into our living room. She sits in the middle of the sofa. I sit on the sofa opposite.

  ‘Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No thanks. I won’t keep you long. I was just driving past and I wanted to let you, and your wife, know that we checked Erica Sullivan’s old apartment and as we suspected it’s empty. She’s definitely not in residence.’

  My body softens with relief. A reprieve. A brief reprieve.

  210

  Faye

  The police are lying to me. All of them. And so are you, Phillip. Eyes burn into me. I know someone is watching me.

  211

  Erica

  You are walking past our block of flats again, more slowly than you used to, because you do not use the buggy any more. Two young ladies hold your hands now; young ladies who look more and more like you every day.

  I sit by the window watching you, drinking in every detail. Electric blue trainers. Multicoloured skin-tight Lycra pants. Matching body. Hair scraped back to reveal those cheekbones.

  I know you still train hard because your figure is still perfect, but I cannot follow you any more. It’s too risky. I can’t risk being found out. I want to stay here. I want to be with Mouse.

  Mouse is standing behind me. Watching you too. I feel his hands resting lightly on my waist. His breath on my cheek.

  ‘Pretty isn’t she?’ I say.

  ‘Not as pretty as you, Erica.’

  I smile inside. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mouse.’

  212

  Faye

  Walking down the street hand in hand with my girls. Someone still watching me. Watching me every day. Jonah is dead. Erica’s flat has been checked. She now lives ten miles away. But I still sense someone’s presence. Someone’s eyes burn into my flesh.

  I see a car waiting past the yellow zigzags where Jonah used to wait. The car looks like our car. The driver looks like Phillip. But it cannot be Phillip. Our car is on our drive and he is in the library, using the computers.

  ‘I’ve got ballet tonight, haven’t I, Mummy?’ Tamsin asks, dropping my hand, skipping a few steps and swinging her arms into an elegant curve above her head.

  ‘I want to do ballet too,’ Georgia announces, doing the same.

  ‘I’ll ask Mrs Massam if she has a space,’ I reply watching the car that looks like ours drive off, and clamping their hands firmly in mine again.

  A brown Volvo. Not a recent model. I breathe in and out deeply. Lots of dusty brown Volvos are driven to primary schools in the UK every day, aren’t they? Phillip wouldn’t follow me. He wouldn’t come to school without telling me. I am really going mad. Unless … unless … My stomach tightens. Unless Phillip is worried because he also thinks someone else is watching me. Maybe he’s been listening to me more than I think.

  213

  Phillip

  Just home from the library, starting to chop vegetables for the girls’ tea. Homemade vegetable lasagne. We need to introduce the girls to as many vegetables as possible at an early stage.
So I chop aubergine, courgette, onions, peppers and mushrooms. I make a roux sauce, with ladles of cheese to disguise the taste of the vegetables as Tamsin hates mushrooms, and Georgia hates aubergines.

  Just as I am bending to put the lasagne in the oven, a police car pulls up into our drive again. My heart palpitates. This time they must have finished analysing my computer. They are bringing it back. Or arresting me.

  Two police officers step out of the car. Two. Must be arresting me, if they need to send two. I close the oven door and step to answer the doorbell. They are standing on our doorstep; DI Jones brandishing his dimple, and the tiny blonde woman who came last time frowning at me in soft sunlight.

  I smile half a smile. ‘Do come in.’

  They step inside and follow me into the living room.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re good thanks.’

  They sit together on the sofa and I sit opposite them.

  ‘Have you brought my electronics back?’ I ask boldly, as I wait for them to cuff me.

  ‘Yes. That’s why we’re here.’

  My body sings with relief. DI Jones opens a bag he is carrying, pulls my electronics out and hands them back to me. ‘Sorry we’ve kept them so long.’ There is a pause. He smiles. His dimple deepens. ‘All clear as you told us it would be. I hope you understand, we just have to check.’

  ‘I know you do. Of course I understand. Thanks so much for bringing them back.’

  All clear. All clear. I want to shout for joy. To dance on the table. All my dark net activities invisible. I always hoped I was clever enough. But now I know I am. I can use the dark net to obtain whatever I want. No one will get away with cuckolding me, ever again.

  My stomach tightens. ‘Just one question, Inspector, did you ever find out who called the police the night Jonah died?’

  He crosses his legs and folds his arms. ‘No. We assume it was a neighbour who saw Jonah entering your house and was suspicious. A neighbour who didn’t want to be identified.’ He shrugs. ‘Some people are very wary of getting involved with criminal proceedings. You’d be surprised how wary people can be of the police.’ He shakes his head. ‘The emergency recording was very non-specific. A crackly line. We couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman’s voice. Just asking the emergency services to get there quickly. Nothing to ascertain the caller was involved or had inside information.’