by Alice Feeney
‘What? No!’ Amelia says.
I stare at her, searching for the truth, but I can’t even see her face. Her features are swirling like a Van Gogh painting and I feel dizzy just looking in her direction. Sometimes I can recognise people by the shape or colour of their hair, or a distinctive pair of glasses. Sometimes I don’t know if I know them at all.
‘Then how do you explain this?’ I say, turning back to the desk. ‘You arranged this little trip to Scotland; you drove us here—’
‘I can’t explain anything that has happened this weekend.’
‘Can’t or won’t? Did you already know that Henry Winter was dead?’
‘I think you need to calm down. I didn’t know anything. I still don’t. Except that…’
‘What?’ I ask her.
‘You said Henry delivered a new book in September, but now we know he died the year before.’
‘So?’
‘So, what if someone else wrote it?’ She shouts the question and I realise that I have been shouting too.
It’s a ridiculous suggestion. The book has since been published all around the world. Does she seriously think that nobody – including his agent, his publishers, and army of fans – would have noticed if someone else had written a Henry Winter novel? But then I do the maths and she’s right, it doesn’t add up.
‘That isn’t possible,’ I reply. The answer in my head is less decisive but I don’t share that one with my wife.
Writers are a strange and unpredictable species. To be one requires patience, determination, sufficient self-motivation to work alone in the dark, and the self-belief to keep going when the shadows try to consume them. And they do try – I should know. The other thing all writers have in common is that they’re kooky at best, crazy at worst. Would Henry fake his own death for some reason?
‘We both saw someone let themselves into the chapel earlier. Remember? That’s who we need to blame for all this. Not each other,’ Amelia says.
‘What about the woman in the cottage?’
‘The witch with the candles and the white rabbit? You said she was old…’
‘I said she had grey hair. It isn’t as though we’ve seen anyone else since we arrived.’
‘So, let’s go back. Knock on her door again. Worst-case scenario, she casts a spell and turns us into white rabbits too,’ Amelia replies, sounding calmer than she should.
Maybe because she already knows what is going on here and this is all an act.
I’ll always feel guilty about cheating on my wife, but Saint Amelia slept with someone she shouldn’t have too. It’s as if she conveniently forgets that part of the story. But I can’t. ‘Call me Pamela’ the counsellor said we needed to move on, learn to put it behind us, but I’m still shocked by how easily my wife lies.
I wish I could see her face now, the way other people can. I wonder if she looks scared? Or does she look as composed as she sounds? And if so – given that we appear to be trapped and quite possibly in danger – why isn’t she as afraid as I am? She seems to have forgotten all about her beloved dog. She’s lying about something, and not knowing what scares me. A haunted marriage is just as terrifying as a haunted house.
‘Come with me,’ I say, taking her hand – she’s always complaining I don’t hold it often enough.
Her face and voice might not give her away, but Amelia can’t control her breathing. If she’s genuinely stressed or scared, it’s always the first thing to go.
We reach the old wooden spiral staircase leading to the first floor, and I point up at the gallery of black and white photos on the wall. It’s been bothering me since we got here.
‘Who are the people in these pictures, do you recognise any of their faces?’ I ask.
I can tell that the portraits at the bottom of the stairs are of people dressed in Victorian clothes. The ones nearer the top look more recent. I can see that some of the subjects are adults, others are children, but – as usual – I can’t see any of their faces.
Amelia shakes her head, so I start to pull her up the stairs.
‘How about now? Anyone here look familiar?’
‘You’re scaring me, Adam,’ she says, and I can hear from her breathing that she’s telling the truth. I’m about to apologise when she speaks again.
‘Hang on, I think this photo is of Henry as a teenager… and the one below looks a bit like him too, but younger, with a man and woman. Parents, perhaps.’
‘Some kind of family tree maybe? Keep going,’ I say, not letting her go.
‘I’m fairly sure most of these pictures are of Henry. I didn’t notice until now, but then I didn’t know what to look for. He’s a lot younger than the face I see on book jackets and in the newspapers – all of which are so out of date.’
Now I drop her hand.
I stare at the photos myself, trying to see what she sees, but it’s pointless.
‘Anyone else look familiar?’ I ask, when Amelia stops abruptly at the top of the stairs. I notice her twisting the sapphire engagement ring round and round her finger.
‘There are some pictures of a little girl too… hold on.’
‘What?’
‘These pictures weren’t here before. Do you remember? There were just three faded rectangular shapes with rusty nails sticking out of the wall. Someone has put them back.’ I’m about to ask if it was her, but bite my tongue. ‘I think this picture is of—’
I spot something over her shoulder before she finishes her sentence.
‘One of the other doors is open,’ I interrupt, rushing towards it.
All of the doors on the landing were locked last night, except for the one leading to the bedroom that we slept in, and the one to the bell tower. But now another door is wide open, and I find myself standing inside a child’s bedroom.
Everything is covered in dust like the rest of the chapel, but this room is also full of cobwebs. It smells musty, like it hasn’t been aired for months. Maybe longer. The creepiest thing to catch my eye is the large doll’s house in the middle of the room. It looks antique. It also looks remarkably like our London home – a double-fronted Victorian house. I’m unable to stop myself from opening the dusty doors, and when I see that the rooms inside are decorated in a similar way to our house, I start to feel sick. The same two carved wooden dolls are in every room, but they are not miniature replicas of Amelia and me. One is a doll-sized old man, wearing a tweed jacket and bow tie, the other is a little girl doll, dressed in red. In every make-believe scene they are holding hands, and the old man is always smoking a pipe. When I take a closer look, I see that the pipes are really acorn cups and stalks.
‘Have you seen this?’ Amelia asks.
She is holding an old Jack-in-the-Box. I had one exactly like it myself as a child, and it terrified me. I don’t understand the significance at first, until I see that the name Jack has been crossed out, so that now it says Adam-in-the-Box instead.
My mother taught me the French name for these things when I was a little boy: diable en boîte, literally ‘boxed devil’. So many unexpected things remind me of her. And whenever they do, I relive the night she died: the rain, the terrible sound of screeching car brakes, her red kimono flying in the air. The dog was mine. I begged her to let me have one, but then I didn’t look after it. If thirteen-year-old me had walked the dog myself, like I promised to, she wouldn’t have been killed walking along the pavement that night.
My fingers, seemingly independent of my mind, find the crank on the Adam-in-the-Box and turn it. Slowly. The nostalgic tune plays and my mother’s voice sings along inside my head.
My mother taught me how to sew,
And how to thread the needle,
Every time my finger slips,
Pop! goes the weasel.
The Jack bursts out of the box and I jump, even though I knew what was coming. With its wild red hair, painted face and spotty blue outfit, it looks terrifying, even more so than the one I remember as a child, because its eyes are missing.
<
br /> I think I understand the not-so-subtle message, but what else am I not seeing?
As I turn to take in the rest of the bedroom, I notice that the wallpaper, curtains, pillows, and duvet are all covered in faded images of the same thing: robins. Then I see the dusty, freestanding child’s blackboard in the corner of the room. The chalk words on it have faded, and were clearly written years ago, but I can still just make them out:
I must not tell tales.
I must not tell tales.
I must not tell tales.
Tin
Word of the year:
metanoia noun a transformative change of heart. The journey of changing one’s mind, self, or way of life.
28th February 2018 – our tenth anniversary
Dear Adam,
It isn’t really our tenth anniversary. I’m writing this letter a little late because of what happened.
I thought things were pretty good with us this year. I thought we were happy. I was, and I thought you were too. From the outside looking in, our marriage was definitely pretty solid. But I was blind stupid a gullible fool wrong. Nothing seems real now that I know the truth. I feel like I’m trapped inside a snow globe; one more shake and I’ll disappear completely.
For a long time, it has felt as though someone was watching us. I can’t quite explain the feeling, or put it into words, but I think we all know when we’re being watched. Whether at work, or walking the dog, or just on the Tube. You can feel it when someone else’s eyes are staring in your direction for longer than they should. You always know. It’s instinct.
Normally, when I get home from work, you’re still in your writing shed. But the night before our tenth anniversary, I found you sitting in the lounge, in the dark, watching an old episode of The Graham Norton Show on BBC iPlayer. Henry Winter is known for never giving interviews, but to celebrate the publication of his fiftieth novel in fifty years, he agreed to do one last year. We watched it together at the time. Graham Norton was as funny and charming as ever, but I remember feeling sick when he introduced Henry. An old man I barely recognised hobbled out onto the stage before taking a seat on the red sofa. The walking stick, with a silver rabbit’s head handle, was a new addition to his tweed-jacket-and-bow-tie uniform. As was the smile on his face. It looked like it hurt.
I wish we’d never seen the interview, but we did, and last night I watched you watching it over and over and over again. The bit where Henry Winter mentioned you. I stood quietly in the hallway of our home, and watched while you rewound and played it seven times.
Graham leaned forward. ‘Now, tell me, just between us…’ the audience laughed, ‘… what do you really think about the TV and film adaptations of your books?’
The false smile vanished from Henry’s heavily lined face.
‘I don’t own a television set, I’ve always preferred reading.’
‘But you must have seen them?’ Graham persisted, taking a sip of his white wine.
‘I’ve seen them. I can’t say I like them much. But I was persuaded to let the screenwriter have a go – his career was going nowhere before I said yes – and even if I don’t like what he did to the books, a lot of other people do. So…’
Graham laughed. ‘Yikes, let’s hope he isn’t watching!’
But you were watching. So was I. I don’t think you’ve spoken to Henry or written anything new since.
You blamed your agent for what Henry had said, and I felt awful – I like your agent, he’s one of the good guys in what can sometimes be a bad business – but I still couldn’t tell you the truth. I thought things with us were finally back on track, telling you that I was the reason Henry let you adapt his books in the first place didn’t seem too bright an idea.
I don’t know what made you sit in the dark, and watch an old clip of Henry putting you down. I don’t know why you still care what he thinks. I noticed the half-empty bottle of whisky then – Henry’s favourite brand – sitting next to your Bafta award. It’s hard when the highlight of someone’s career comes right at the beginning of it. Sometimes it’s best to start small – give yourself room to grow.
I crept back out to the hall, slammed the front door, then ran straight up the stairs. ‘Just going to have a quick shower,’ I called, so that you would think I hadn’t seen you. When I came down, the TV was off, the whisky was gone, and the Bafta was back on the shelf. I wondered how long you had been pretending to be OK when really you were feeling broken. Putting on an act every night when I got home. Your job means that you spend a lot of time on your own. A little too much sometimes, maybe. I wanted to fix you, but wasn’t sure how.
The next day – our anniversary – I decided to leave work early. I was determined to cheer you up and surprise you. Something felt wrong even as I walked up the garden path. The magnolia tree you planted in the middle of the lawn for our fifth anniversary looked like it might be dying. I chose to ignore what could have been a sign and let myself and Bob inside the house. Everything was still and silent, just like it always is when you’re out in the writing shed, which you almost always are. There was a tin of baked beans on the kitchen table – I thought it must be some kind of joke, knowing that tin was the traditional gift for ten years of marriage. I smiled and headed straight upstairs to our bedroom. I planned to spend a bit of time grooming myself instead of abandoned dogs for a change, before surprising you.
But you surprised me instead.
You were still in bed.
With my friend from work.
She’d called in sick that morning. Now I knew why.
Everything stopped when I walked into the room. I don’t just mean you, or her, or what you were doing. And I don’t just mean that I stopped breathing – even though it felt like I did – it was as though time itself stood perfectly still, waiting for the pieces of my broken life to fall and see where they would land.
I just stood there, staring, unable to process what I was seeing. She smiled. I’ll always remember that. Then I remember you looking between the two of us. Your wife in the doorway and your whore in our bed.
‘I thought it was you,’ you said, wrapping the sheet around yourself. When I didn’t respond, you said it again. As if the words might sound less like lies if you said them a second time. ‘I thought it was you.’
Just the thought of lying can make you blush, and your cheeks turned bright red.
I’m not proud of what I did next. I wish I had said something clever, but I’ve never been good at knowing what to say until long after an event, and even now I can’t find the right words for what I saw that afternoon. So I didn’t say anything, but I did go to the garden shed, grab a shovel, then dig that bloody magnolia tree up and out of my once-perfect front lawn. She left and you just watched in horror. The tree had grown bigger than me by then, but I dragged it through the front door and up the stairs, scratching the walls and leaving a trail of dirt and broken branches behind me. Then I threw it on the bed where you had slept with her, before tucking it in beneath the sheets, like a baby.
‘I’ll do whatever you want to fix this. Counselling? A holiday? We could go to Scotland, like we did for our honeymoon? Anything?’ you said, as I packed a bag. But I don’t think anything can fix us now. Do you?
Your wife
Amelia
Adam still hasn’t put the pieces of the puzzle together.
He stares at the little girl’s bedroom where everything is covered in robins, looking like a lost child. Until I take his hand and lead him back out onto the landing. We stop at the top of the spiral stairs, and I point at the final framed photo on the wall.
‘Who is it?’ he asks, although I’m fairly sure he must know by now. Having face blindness can’t stop someone from seeing the truth.
The grandfather clock in the bedroom starts chiming and we both jump… I thought it had stopped.
‘It’s you,’ I say. We study the image then: the expensive-looking suit he wore for the wedding, the confetti on his shoulders, the wedding dress,
the rings, the happy smiles… and someone else in the shot. ‘Henry is in the background. We both know he wasn’t invited, but the fact that he was there – standing on the street outside the register office by the looks of it – along with seeing this picture on his wall of family portraits, suggests that he thought of you as much more than just a screenwriter who adapted his books.’
Adam still doesn’t understand.
This isn’t going to be easy. But my husband needs to know the truth now, and I need to be the one to tell him.
‘The woman in the wedding photo isn’t me.’
Adam
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, staring at a picture of a bride and groom whose faces I can’t see.
‘It’s a photo of your first wedding. When you married Robin.’
We stand in silence at the top of the staircase. It feels as if we stay like that for a long time, while I try to process what Amelia has said.
‘I don’t understand—’
‘I think you do,’ she says. ‘I think that even though you were married to Robin for ten years, she never told you that she was Henry Winter’s daughter. I think she grew up here and that little girl’s bedroom was hers.’
I stare at my second wife for a long time, trying to see from her face whether this is some kind of prank. But the Van Gogh swirls are back, and I grip the banister for balance.
‘This is insane. That can’t be true!’
Amelia shakes her head. ‘I know you can’t see it, but these three photos on the wall – the ones that were missing yesterday – are all of your ex-wife. This is you and Robin getting married, with a photobomb from Henry.’ She points at the next picture. ‘This is Robin when she was younger, teenaged I’d guess, in a rowboat fishing on Blackwater Loch. And this…’ She nods towards the final frame. ‘… is a little girl, who looks like Robin, sitting on Henry’s lap and reading a book, while he smokes a pipe.’
My mind is racing back and forth through time, and I speak my thoughts out loud.