by Ruth Heald
‘Why did you do it?’ I shout.
‘Do what, Claire?’ He sounds frustrated.
He steps towards me and I recoil.
Then I think about Olivia. I rise up towards him. He won’t threaten me. I won’t let him. I’m stronger than that.
‘Why did you poison me?’
His laughter is sharper than a knife.
‘What, Claire? You think I poisoned you now?’
I want to punch his smug, patronising face. He’s always been in control. Since we moved here, I’ve been dancing to his tune.
‘You did poison me,’ I say. ‘I know you did.’
‘Claire.’ He takes another step towards me. He’s right in my face now, so close I can see the tiny scar on his chin from childhood chickenpox.
I hate him.
He puts his hands on my shoulders, holds me in place. I am weaker, he is stronger. I am female, he is male, and the odds are stacked against me.
‘Claire, calm down. You need to be in hospital. You’re confused. I haven’t poisoned you.’
‘I’m confused because of you. Because you drugged me.’ I spit the words in his face.
His grip on my shoulders tightens and my stomach knots.
I turn my head to look for Emma. She’s there, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching.
‘Sit down,’ Matt says, pushing me into a chair. ‘I’m going to call the police, get you back to the hospital. You’ll be safer there.’
‘No.’ I can’t go back. I need to get Olivia away from Matt.
He picks his phone up from the side, and I stand and knock it out of his hand. It crashes to the floor. Emma grabs it, meets my eyes and then puts it in her pocket.
‘Thanks,’ I mouth. She nods.
Matt turns to her. ‘Call the police,’ he instructs.
Emma glances at me and then back at Matt.
‘Maybe you should talk,’ she says.
Matt looks me in the eye. ‘I don’t want you to be unwell, Claire. But you are. You’re ill.’
‘Stop lying. You know I’m not ill.’
Upstairs, Olivia wakes from her nap with a whine.
I move towards the door.
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ Matt asks. I push past him.
Emma holds up a hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go. Shout if you need anything.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘You need help, Claire,’ Matt says. ‘I can drive you back to the hospital.’
He steps closer to me and I think he might restrain me. I jump away, running across the kitchen to the knife rack. I pull out the nearest one and hold it in front of me.
‘Claire? What are you doing? You’re crazy.’
‘I’m not crazy. For the first time, I’m seeing things clearly. You’ve got a pattern of behaviour, Matt. You’re a violent man. You murdered Sarah’s sister and now you’ve drugged me. You’ll hurt anyone that gets in your way.’
Shock is plastered all over his face. ‘I didn’t hurt Felicity. Who have you been speaking to?’
‘Don’t lie to me, Matt. You confessed. It’s in the police file.’ I grip the handle of the knife tighter, my hand trembling.
‘You looked at the police file?’
‘Miriam saw it. She told me you confessed.’
‘I didn’t do it, Claire. You have to believe me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything before but I couldn’t.’
‘What do you mean? Who are you protecting?’
But I know there’s only one person he’d go to these lengths to protect. ‘It was Sarah, wasn’t it? Sarah pushed her sister.’
Matt looks at the floor. ‘Yes,’ he says quietly.
I feel relieved and angry all at the same time. Matt didn’t cause Sarah’s sister’s death. But he was prepared to go to any lengths to protect Sarah. He could have ended up in prison. Our marriage has fallen apart because of the secrets he’s kept from me.
‘Why? Why did you protect her?’
‘It was a mistake, Claire. Felicity was jealous of her sister’s success. Sarah was always their parents’ favourite. One night, we were up in the hayloft, chatting. Felicity had had a lot to drink, and she turned nasty. She threatened to tell their parents Sarah was pregnant. Sarah thought her parents would make her abort the baby. They argued and then Sarah pushed her sister. Not hard. It would have hardly hurt if she hadn’t fallen out of the hayloft. Sarah never got over the guilt.’
‘Why did you confess?’
‘To protect her. To protect our baby. She couldn’t go to prison when she was pregnant.’
‘And then she miscarried?’
‘Yes. And I withdrew my confession.’
My mind whirrs. If it was Sarah that pushed her sister and not Matt, then Matt hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s not got a history of violence. This changes everything. I think back to how cosy Sarah looked with my baby the other day at her flat. I think about how she always seems to be with my husband. Sarah works at the surgery. She’d have access to ketamine too.
‘Sarah,’ I say to Matt. ‘Sarah’s been poisoning me.’
‘No one’s been poisoning you Claire. You took an overdose. Of sleeping pills. I’ve seen them in the house, in the cupboards. I should have moved them, but I didn’t realise you were that bad, that depressed.’
‘Sleeping pills? It wasn’t sleeping pills, Matt. The doctor told me I’d taken ketamine.’
The knife is still in my hand. I hold it by my side, gripping it tightly.
‘Ketamine?’ The blood has drained from his face, his skin is translucent.
‘Yes. Someone gave me ketamine. It must be you or your precious Sarah.’
‘Sarah wouldn’t do that.’
‘Wouldn’t she? She pushed her sister. She was there when Olivia fell into the pond. What if she let the brake off the buggy?’
‘She wouldn’t…’ Matt says. I put down the knife as he paces the floor. ‘She just wouldn’t…’
‘Well, only you and her have access to the drugs at the practice.’
‘Claire – it can’t be her. She’s away this weekend. Visiting a friend in Brighton.’
I’m not sure I believe him. Is he still covering for her?
‘Then who could have done it? If it’s not Sarah, it’s you.’ I pick the knife back up, terrified I’ve made a mistake and it’s my husband I should be afraid of.
Matt looks at me, his face pale. ‘You’re sure the doctor said it was ketamine?’
I nod. My hands shake as I point the knife at him.
‘It could be anyone,’ he says. ‘Anyone who’s been in the cottage.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I made a mistake, Claire. You’re supposed to store ketamine in locked cupboards. But when I first set up the practice, I ordered the medical supplies to the house. I was planning to take them straight over to the surgery as soon as the delivery arrived. But I didn’t. I was exhausted with the paperwork and I waited a couple of days. You remember the package that came for me when we first arrived? Well, while it was in our house, someone opened it. Some of the supplies were missing.’
I drop my hand, hold the knife by my side. I want to believe him.
‘When was this?’
‘Not long after we moved in. It was the day we visited your mother’s grave, her birthday. I didn’t want to tell you. You were preoccupied.’
I remember. When we went to Richmond Park. I’d met Emma the day before. We were just still settling in and everything was chaotic. Matt had misplaced a delivery box.
‘Did you find out who took it?’
‘No. I couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t report it. The rules about storing drugs are very strict. I didn’t want to be investigated. But some of the ketamine was stolen from our house. So either it was someone who had a key. Or someone who broke in.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘What was there to tell? I didn’t know who did it, didn’t want to report it. You were already paranoid about my
mother coming into the house. I didn’t want to worry you. I just put it to the back of my mind, got on with things. But if you’ve been drugged with ketamine… then I don’t know what to think.’
Something surfaces in the back of my mind. ‘Matt,’ I say, ‘were you with me when I went to the hospital?’
‘No. Emma told me about it afterwards.’
‘So Emma found me?’
‘She rang me and told me you’d taken sleeping pills.’
‘Sleeping pills?’
‘Yes. Pamela’s pills. She said she was there when you took them. She said she tried to stop you.’
We both look at each other.
Emma.
I’m running, heart racing as my feet thunder up the stairs. Matt’s a pace behind me, his breath on my neck.
I push open the door to Olivia’s room. The cot is empty.
She’s gone.
I don’t want to go back to the house, but there’s nowhere else. I limp from the taxi to my green front door, leaning heavily on my stick. When I turn my key in the lock, the emotions nearly floor me, and I want to sink down onto the concrete step and never get up. But I resist the temptation and shut off the pain, operating on autopilot. The despair lingers, a dull ache in the pit of my stomach.
As I open the door, I push back the memories of my daughter. Instead the memory of the first time I crossed this threshold enters my mind, uninvited. I remember how joyful I was, how certain I was that my life was coming together, that here I would be safe, that here I could start again and create a family home.
Once I’m inside the house, I don’t know what to do with myself. Everything is the same and yet my world has stopped revolving. I wander around aimlessly. The house is a cross between a show home and a crime scene. A corner of the kitchen is still shining from where I cleaned a few days ago, but in the hallway patches of dried blood lead a trail through the house and up the staircase. The police have gone, but they’ve left traces: a discarded cigarette just outside the back door, an empty coffee cup on the window sill in the living room.
Upstairs, I peer through the door of my daughter’s room and then shut it quickly. I can’t look at her toddler-sized bed, her doll’s house, her toys. They’ll always be waiting for her.
The hatch to the attic still lies open, the ladder down as if inviting me up. I wonder if the police were stupid enough to leave the rope there, waiting for me, the next victim.
I don’t go up there. It would be too neat an ending, too easy for me. I push the ladder up and close the hatch.
Instead I go to bed, lie down in my clothes and swallow the painkillers and sleeping pills the doctor prescribed. I toss and turn before sleep eventually takes me. Even then, it provides scant relief from my living nightmare. In my dreams my daughter is alive. And then the world turns and pivots in on itself. Each dream is different: a fire, an accident, a drowning. But the outcome is always the same. My daughter always dies.
In my dreams I seek revenge. I stab the person responsible again and again and again, until they are unrecognisable, a mess of blood and pulped flesh.
When I wake in my own bed I’m relieved they are just dreams. And then realisation dawns, a brick crushing my heart.
My reality is worse than my nightmares. My daughter’s already dead.
I can never punish my husband. He took that opportunity away from me when he killed himself.
I will never get revenge.
Forty-One
‘Emma!’ I scream. ‘Emma!’ My voice cracks.
Matt is at Olivia’s bedroom window, looking down onto the driveway. I rush over.
‘Her car’s gone,’ he says.
I think I might vomit. Blood rushes to my head as I run down the stairs, slip my shoes on, jump in our car.
Matt is in the doorway.
‘Call the police,’ I shout to him before I slam the car door shut. ‘Show them where she took Olivia. I’m going to Emma’s flat.’
* * *
In the car, I can hardly focus on the road in front of me. My sweaty hands grip the steering wheel as I swerve round bends, my thoughts racing. I try to make sense of things, but I can’t. Why would Emma take Olivia? She has been by my side all this time, my only friend from the beginning. Could she have taken Olivia to protect her from Matt? Is she trying to help me?
But Matt didn’t give me the ketamine. And the last person I remember before I passed out is Emma. She was the one who told Matt I’d overdosed. She told him it was sleeping pills. I remember the symptoms of ketamine poisoning I read about in the taxi. Hallucinations. Confusion. Drowsiness. I’ve had these since we moved. Since I met Emma. I remember what the doctor said about the dangers of mixing alcohol with ketamine. And I think about how I collapsed when Emma and I went up the church spire after our wine tasting. I think of how I blacked out when we went clubbing. I’d thought it was the alcohol, but could she have drugged me?
My mind’s spinning out of control. Nothing makes sense. Why would Emma drug me? And why would she take Olivia? She has her own family. She has Lizzie.
I pull up outside her flat and jump out of the car. I have to find my daughter.
There are no lights on but it doesn’t mean she’s not there. I jam my finger on the buzzer, but no one answers. I jab again and again and again, until someone pokes their head out of an upstairs window and asks me what I want.
‘I’m looking for Emma,’ I shout up. ‘From Flat 2. I need to speak to her. I’m a friend.’
‘Well, if you keep buzzing and she doesn’t answer, it means she’s not in.’
‘It’s an emergency,’ I say, heart racing. ‘I need to speak to her.’
‘Can’t you phone her?’
‘She’s not answering. Can you let me in?’
‘What good will that do if she’s not in?’
‘I think she might be hurt. She might have hurt herself in the flat,’ I say. ‘I can’t get hold of her.’ The lie tumbles out of my mouth easily.
The woman visibly sighs.
‘I’ll come down,’ she says.
She comes down and lets me in, then goes to Emma’s door and knocks loudly.
‘Emma!’ I shout through the door. ‘Emma!’
Crouching down, I peer through the letter box. The flat’s dark and I can only make out the vague shapes of furniture in the shadows.
‘I don’t think she’s here.’ She looks at me doubtfully.
I’m sure she’s in there. Waiting me out. Waiting for me to go away.
A baby screams and my heart clenches in my chest.
Olivia!
She’s in the flat. I must get to her.
I bang on the door furiously. ‘Emma!’
I need to get rid of the woman hovering over my shoulder. ‘I’ll wait here for her,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, you can go.’ I put on my calmest voice, but inside I’m shaking.
The woman sighs and then retreats back to her flat.
The police will be on their way to our cottage by now. I pull my phone out of my handbag. Matt hasn’t called. They can’t have arrived yet. I wish they’d hurry.
But I can’t wait for them. I need to get to Olivia now. There must be a way of getting into the flat.
I know Emma rents, so I go to the land registry website, pull off the records for the flat and see the name of the owner. I’m still a member of the online address directories from my days as a journalist and I quickly find the number for his landline. He lives locally. He’ll have a spare key.
The phone rings and rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m trying to locate your tenant, Emma Burch. It’s an emergency.’
‘I don’t have a tenant called Emma.’
‘You don’t rent out 2 Overlook Heights?’
‘Yes, that’s my flat. But it’s rented to Stephanie. Stephanie Pickard.’
* * *
I collapse against the door.
Stephanie.
Emma is Stephanie.
<
br /> She’s finally come to find me. To get revenge.
Everything makes sense.
Stephanie wants to hurt me, the way I deserve to be hurt.
The past is coming back to claim me.
It’s days before I leave the house, but eventually I have to. I’ve run out of food and toilet paper and it’s too late to arrange an online delivery for today.
I know it will be good for me to get out, get some fresh air. In the confines of the house, I relive my nightmares, again and again. I have no one to talk to. I’ve tried to ring the helpline, but the phone goes straight to voicemail, filling me with despair every time. It must have closed down. I’m totally alone.
I walk the long way to the supermarket, down the main road, avoiding the river. I lean heavily on my stick. My face is so disfigured that it’s unrecognisable. My nose is broken, my jaw, my cheekbone. No part of me is intact. People look at me and then away again, embarrassed by my injuries. I dig into my handbag, find an old scarf and wrap it round my head.
In the supermarket, I walk around mindlessly, picking up ready meals and putting them back. I’m not hungry. But there’s something soothing about watching other people going about their daily lives, picking up pre-prepared meals and turning them over to check the sell by dates, planning what they’ll have for dinner.
I have a huge list of things I need, but I don’t have the motivation to look for them. I wander up and down each aisle, immersing myself in the bustle. It’s slow progress with my stick and I appreciate the delay. I don’t want to go home. The supermarket feels like a film set, a comforting recreation of normality.
I go past the newspaper section, pick up a national paper and flick through it.
I freeze when I see my husband’s face, staring out at me. The blood rushes to my head and I collapse to the floor.
The crowd closes in on me.
‘Are you OK?’
The world is an overwhelming blur of colour and movement. I try to focus.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ It surprises me how easily this reassuring banality slips out as I struggle to my feet.