4 Riverside Close

by Diana Wilkinson

  A second email had come through ten minutes later. Both came through this morning.

  Bring your diary and we can check dates for that trip on the Thames, if you still fancy it.

  I reread the messages and wonder whether I should reply. The challenge of taking a train up to London is appealing and would give me a chance to get back out there, start living again. My mobile suddenly breaks the silence, fiercely accusing. Adam’s name appears but I ignore it. The divorce papers will have landed on his desk and automatically I glance outside to check that he isn’t back, lurking on the doorstep.

  The postman is walking around the otherwise-deserted close, dropping bills and circulars through letterboxes and his presence offers me a weird sense of comfort. I’m about to call Gary to find out when he’ll be back from the lock-up when a ping heralds a voicemail.

  Have received the divorce papers. If you think I’m going to sign these you’re well off the mark.

  Adam’s tone is calm and monotone but with definite threat in the delivery.

  Olive has somehow managed to reach the front door again to collect her letters from the postman. This is a ritual every morning as she watches out for him. In her left hand, she’s grasping her little black diary and she manages, ever so slightly, to lift her arm in the air and wave across at me. I’m on her mind and she is keen to remind me.

  I leave a voicemail for Gary, asking what time he’ll be back and as I end the message, my phone vibrates. Adam. I turn it off and instead begin to type.

  Hi Eddie. Thanks for the message. I’ve had my leg in plaster for a while (long story) and am just about mobile again. Could perhaps manage the length of King’s Cross but a river trip is definitely not on the agenda. Where’s The Waggoner’s Arms?

  A reply bounces straight back.

  At the end of the station concourse, next to the sushi bar. Past the Harry Potter platform (perhaps we could pop in there afterwards??)

  Ok. One drink but Harry Potter’s definitely not my thing. See you around midday. Alexis

  I’m very early. It’s only eleven when I step onto the platform at King’s Cross. I check my phone, nervously, every five minutes. It’s automatic.

  Adam went suspiciously quiet last night and I couldn’t sleep imagining him hammering on the front door in the small hours or climbing in through some casement window, forcefully prised ajar. Although Gary snored loudly on the other side of the wall, it offered slim comfort. I doubt he would have woken even if there’d been a monumental earthquake. He sleeps like a child.

  Today Adam will be in touch again. I’m certain. He doesn’t like being ignored but I’m not sure what his next move will be. A couple of hours away from the house should bolster my confidence and help put paid to the macabre imaginings.

  As I hobble along the walkway and scan the coffee franchises for possible sightings of my online contact, butterflies in my stomach hint at misgivings. I remind myself that the public nature of our arranged meeting, in broad daylight, should allay the fears, but it is hard not to wonder at the sanity of meeting up with a complete stranger.

  I pass a mirror outside an accessories shop and am glad that I underdressed. I tousle my short hair, spiking the ends upwards, and straighten the collar of my beige leather jacket. It feels great to be back in jeans and although it was a struggle with footwear, I’ve managed to squeeze my swollen left foot into a flat brown ankle boot.

  In the mirror, over my shoulder, I spot him. I’m sure it is him. He stands out from the hoard of travellers snaking back and forth from the trains as he casually picks up a paper from a kiosk. He is wearing a pale-yellow jumper and even from this distance I can see the expensive cut of his clothes and the glowing suntan. Two teenage girls nudge each other as he passes by. I’m tempted to hop back on to the train when my phone rings. It’s Gary but I decide to listen to his message later and shove the phone back into my pocket.

  As Eddie moves on and exits the concourse, he turns right in the direction of the pub. I shadow him from a distance, keeping at least fifty yards between us. Suddenly pins and needles shoot up my left leg and an onset of cramp makes me wince and forces me to take a brief respite on a bench. I massage furiously until the pain abates, and when I look up again, Eddie has disappeared from view. The station clock is showing 11.45am.

  31

  Alexis

  At midday on the dot, I walk into The Waggoner’s Arms. A young woman is seated next to Eddie, smiling coquettishly in his direction, crossing and uncrossing slender legs while he appears to be captivated by her bubbly flirtation. He spots me and stands up straightaway, excusing himself and moving in my direction.

  ‘Alexis?’ His smile is bright and easy, and I find myself instantly questioning what his secret is. This guy doesn’t need to invite anonymous people for sightseeing trips around London.

  ‘Eddie?’

  He offers his hand and we shake like business colleagues meeting for the first time.

  ‘Come. Let’s go through here. It’s not as busy.’ He gently puts his arm on the small of my back and leads me through to a snug in the far corner where there are two vacant seats. ‘What do you fancy to drink?’ he asks.

  ‘White wine. Just a small glass please.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  As he goes to the bar to get the drinks, I feel uneasy at what I might have got myself into. Everything seems a bit surreal. There’s a steady background hum of transient conversations as travellers while away the hours between journeys. I take out my phone, suddenly remembering that Gary left a voicemail. Three voicemails are blinking at me. I dial in to listen.

  Alexis. You need to come home. Adam’s here and has barged his way in. He’s threatened me with legal action if I don’t get out.

  Alexis. I’ve had to leave. I’ve taken my clothes and things. Adam’s gone mad and even swung a punch in my direction. You need to get back. Good luck. Will talk later.

  Hi Alexis. I’m home. The last message is from Adam.

  ‘Problems?’ Eddie’s hovering over our table as a waitress wipes down the sticky surface. Eddie is holding aloft two large glasses of white wine.

  ‘Sort of,’ I answer, snapping shut the cover on my phone. I’m anxious to go home but as Eddie sits down and sets the wine in front of me, I realise I need to finish my drink first.

  ‘Cheers,’ he says, waiting for me to lift my glass to his. I’m not sure what he thinks we’re celebrating but the cold wine tastes good and it will hopefully calm my nerves.

  ‘Cheers.’

  Eddie bandies small talk about the weather, bustling train stations and unknown destinations. He grins teasingly into my eyes as he toys with the words ‘unknown destinations’. He’s flirting and I feel uneasy. Ted Bundy springs to mind. All the ladies he battered to death had followed him willingly to their fate; his looks and self-assurance sucked them easily into his lair.

  ‘What about you? Don’t you ever fancy hopping on a random train and taking off somewhere?’ Eddie asks. This guy has the hallmarks of too good to be true tattooed on his forehead. He is certainly not my type; much too smooth and synthetic.

  ‘Yes. Sometimes it would seem like the perfect answer.’ I sip, self-conscious, unused to intense male scrutiny from someone other than Adam. ‘Problem is, I’d probably not come back.’

  Underneath the façade, there’s something oddly childlike and uncertain about this guy. My detective mind toys with the idea that it could be the perfected mask of a prolific serial killer. As the wine takes the edge off my fears, I sit and listen, let him talk. Perhaps like me he craves a moment of escapism, a moment away from the real world.

  I try to ignore my phone as it beeps again and Eddie raises his eyes in mock exasperation. He knows I have to leave and manages not to look disappointed or upset, rather understanding.

  ‘If you need to go, don’t worry. It’s fine by me.’ He smiles. ‘Also if you want to talk about it, I’m happy to listen.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer but maybe another time.
I’m sorry but I do need to get going.’

  As I stand up and down the last of my wine, Eddie lifts my jacket off the back of my chair and holds my jacket open. He’s the perfect consort, smooth and considered but reeks of plastic. I think of Ken and Barbie dolls, the ideal prototypes of children’s aspirations. Eddie doesn’t seem real. There are no rugged edges.

  ‘Thanks. Sorry again,’ I repeat, uncomfortable at the impending goodbyes. I needn’t have worried. Eddie leans across with practised aplomb and kisses me on the cheek. His subtle aftershave hums expense and as I walk away, his scent wafts after me.

  I wave a nervous hand back in his direction. As I descend the steps from the bar back onto the main station concourse, I shiver. I don’t look back.

  Sitting on the return train to Hampstead, I look out the window and play over in my mind the conversation about running away and the lure of the unknown. I wonder what Eddie is running away from. Something about his physical perfection conjures up memories of the Stepford Wives, the perfectly formed robotic spouses with flawless complexions and faultless manners, created to pander to their husbands’ every whim. Adam and I had watched the movie together and I remember his pointed asides about how he preferred the more human imperfections of a real wife. He was, of course, referring to me.

  I slow down as I head back up Riverside Close and see the lights are on downstairs in our house. It’s still our house; it’s in joint names. I’m not sure why the lights are on as it is not yet dark. Perhaps Adam wants to welcome me back by pandering to my love of wasted electricity on romantic atmospheric lighting.

  Olive is watching as I walk past. Bright yellow pansies in her front flower bed, which she planted a few weeks ago, herald the early onset of spring. I brace myself to walk the last few steps to our front door.

  ‘Welcome home.’ Adam has flung the door wide. The gesture is designed to reflect a mood of all-encompassing magnanimity. That’s what it feels like. His muddy trainers have been neatly placed outside in deference to my constant carping that I don’t want mud brought into the house. They’re a visual conciliatory gesture which bolsters my confidence that he’ll be in a mellow mood after a jog round the woods.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve put on the kettle. Green tea?’ He waves at Olive. This is another obvious peace offering as he has made his dislike of our neighbour blatantly apparent since his birthday celebrations. He nudges the door closed behind us and we head towards the kitchen.

  ‘Can we talk?’ he begins. I fill a glass of cold water from the tap, looking out the back window towards our unkempt garden, unsure of where he wants to go with the conversation. ‘It’s all over with Debbie. I told her it’s you I love and want to be with.’ He is still after forgiveness and his plan is to make amends, make things better.

  Without turning round, I decide to tell him it’s all over and there’s no going back.

  ‘Adam. I want a divorce. I’m sorry but it’s too late.’ Although I’m scared of the physical assaults, his words can’t hurt me.

  He doesn’t speak straightaway. I hold the rim of the sink which is wet where he has been cleaning round the surfaces and automatically flinch when he puts his arms round my waist and tries to pull me back towards him.

  ‘I’m really sorry. I’ll prove it; make it up to you. I promise.’ A heavy stench of sweat oozes from his pores and the once-familiar earthy smell churns my stomach. There is no familiar hint of aftershave to woo my waning passions. I swallow the cold liquid and look out at the straggling weeds, noticing how they have attached themselves fiercely to the fence.

  ‘The back garden needs clearing,’ I say, changing the subject. His empty promises are too late but it isn’t the time for confrontation. I need to be patient, work out a plan to get him out without more violence.

  ‘I’ll do it at the weekend. I promise,’ he repeats. He fills mugs and jiggles teabags around before throwing them in the bin, dripping the wet dregs on the top. He thinks he can win me back with a few easy words and a cup of strong tea. Not this time.

  ‘By the way, this envelope was pushed through the door. It’s marked private and confidential.’ I hear the barely concealed sarcastic tone as he hands me a large brown envelope, addressed simply to Alexis Morley.

  Adam waits for me to open it but instead I turn and head upstairs, taking the envelope with me. I then proceed to move my stuff back into the spare room. He knows not to follow but he will hear the quiet determined movements which mark my departure from the marital bedroom. Gary, in his hurry to leave, has left behind a pair of shoes, and a couple of his T-shirts lie strewn on the guest room floor.

  I close the door to the spare room around 10pm. Adam and I watched some television in silence, sharing a sandwich and glass of wine, before I made my excuses and disappeared upstairs. I turn on the bedside lamp and lie across the bed, trying to curb the anxiety that accompanies the presence of Adam back in the house. The brown envelope is sitting on the bedside table and I know it will be the photos of Jason Swinton, Caroline’s husband. She promised I would have these by today at the latest.

  I peel back the brown seal, intrigued to see what her husband looks like. It will be my first real job and as a cheque floats out onto the bed for three hundred pounds made payable to ‘Alexis Morley’, I realise I’m finally in business. I scan the enclosed pictures, six in total, and feel the weirdest sense of unease. I’m looking at Eddie. It is Ted Bundy in all his glory. In one picture he’s standing on a beach somewhere far off and exotic, dressed in shorts and T-shirt, beaming at the photographer. There are sunglasses perched on top of his unkempt thick brown hair. In the second one he’s at a writing desk, his head turned sideways, twiddling a pen between his lips. It’s attempting to showcase another side of his personality. Then he’s diving into a swimming pool, not looking at the camera but his perfect torso is rippling for the lens.

  The pictures are trying to tell me a story. Caroline is desperate for me to understand her obsession. As I turn the pictures around and look through them again, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I don’t believe in coincidences. That’s the first rule of detective work. What am I looking at? Why have the pictures arrived after I’ve met up with Eddie, or Jason, as I now know he’s called? The questions swim around in my head.

  There’s a gentle knock at the door. Before I have time to hide the photos back in the envelope, Adam’s voice whispers through the barrier. ‘Night, Alexis. I love you.’ He’s not stupid. He knows not to come in and when to back off. He thinks he’s working me.

  ‘Goodnight.’ I wait for him to move away before I go to the window to draw the curtains.

  The street lights outside are dim. They emit a faint orange glow which creates a hazy fog inside the circle. It’s as if a warm suffocating blanket has covered the close; bright enough to illuminate the pathways and gardens but too dim to pick up detail. I’m not sure why I want the lights to be brighter. They were designed to be dim and unobtrusive and not to interfere with night-time slumber. I watch the cats prowling, stretching their limbs as they stalk the area like little sentries; stealthy watchmen of the night. I reluctantly close the curtains in desperate need of a good night’s sleep.

  32

  Caroline

  I don’t think there is such a thing as companionable silence, of being so in tune with your soulmate that talking is unnecessary. As we walk away from Susan and Roger’s house, Jason is several steps ahead of me, pulling further away and the unnatural quiet is deafening. This is not a companionable, but rather an accusatory silence.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  He ignores me and speeds up, putting more and more distance between us. The night air is bitter and a chill wind is biting at my ears. Jason refuses to answer but continues on his mission. I decide to take my heels off and jog after him in stockinged feet. The icy ground turns my feet numb and I brace against the shock of pain but this is the only way I can think of to get him to slow down; to listen. He turns and looks at my feet.


  ‘Christ. Put your shoes on. You’ll catch your death.’

  I slowly slip my feet back into my heels when I’m certain I have his attention and he won’t run off.

  ‘Hey. I’m sorry. Okay? I thought it would be a bit of fun, putting her on the spot like that. There’s no harm done.’

  Jason walks again, this time much more slowly but he’s trying to curb a seething anger that has taken hold. I can tell from his rigid gait. I know him too well.

  ‘We agreed you’d go and bang into Roger, so what’s the difference?’

  His step falters.

  I continue. ‘Please talk to me.’ I stop walking. I need to make him speak. ‘If she freaks out a bit more, we’ll get that one last payment. Then we’ll let her off the hook. I thought that was the plan?’ I stare at the back of Jason’s head until he finally comes to a halt. I hold my breath.

  ‘That wasn’t about the money tonight though, was it? You wanted to humiliate her, put her on the spot. Well, it worked.’

  Why does he care? I’m certain he hasn’t got feelings for her. We are the partnership, the team. She is merely a pawn on our shared chessboard.

  ‘Why do you suddenly care?’ I don’t want to hear the answer but carry on like a rat in a trap, up against a wall. ‘Perhaps you do care. Is that why you’re so cross?’ I scream as he walks on. ‘Stop. Answer me.’

  Silence. He ignores my desperate pleas.

  It takes us about twenty minutes to get home and I soon fall behind again, unable to keep pace in my heeled shoes but the fear inside me increases with every pace of his measured footsteps.