I’ve gone too far

I’ve gone too far. This time I’ve really done it.

I need help. I’m not fucking kidding. I need someone to save me from myself.

I got there early. So early that, having crept off the path, through the trees and up to my wall I realised that I still had quite a while to wait. And, after five or ten minutes, how incredibly tired I was. I thought maybe I’d have a cup of coffee. Then promptly fell asleep.

When I woke, Paul’s wife was fiddling in the back of the car, strapping the children into their seats. At least, that’s what I assumed she was doing.

So I got myself ready. Paul tends to leave about half an hour later. So after another ten or fifteen minutes I slipped over the wall and crept forward. Right down to the edge of the trees.

God knows how long I waited. It’s not important. What’s important is that I was now close enough to the cottage that when the front door opened I could hear it from where I was hiding. I felt excited. That’s an understatement. I felt as if I was going to pass out. And as soon as I heard the latch I got to my feet and headed up onto the lawn and across the garden. I wanted to intercept him before he reached the car.

What threw me was the fact that he had the children with him. The little girl in his arms, and the little boy walking. I really hadn’t expected that at all. What was the wife doing if not fastening the children into their seats? Who knows. That’s history now. The little boy was the first one I encountered. He just sort of froze and looked up at me. And I think it was probably his reaction which caused Paul to stop.

Christ, but I wanted so much for it just to have been the two of us. But what was I going to do but carry on.

‘Paul,’ I said. ‘I need to talk to you …’

That’s all I wanted. To tell him about John’s death. And how utterly miserable I’ve been. I think I also wanted to tell him how much our little affair had meant to me, but that I am beginning to think that it completely screwed up what was left of my love for my husband. And is now stopping me coming to terms with his death.

I suppose that’s quite a lot, but I could’ve said it quickly. And then been on my way. But he looked so utterly stumped. And so thoroughly worried. As if I might grab his precious children or attempt some other crazy stunt.

Then, as I looked at him, the strangest thing happened. His expression … in fact, his whole face began to change. His features altered and he was slowly transformed – from the Paul I knew was meant to be there into someone quite different. And altogether wrong.

He carried on staring at me for another few seconds. And I felt the world begin to flex and bend again.

‘Are you sure you’ve got the right man?’ he said.

And now the children were beginning to get upset. The little girl in his arms had started crying. The little boy retreated behind his father’s legs. But it wasn’t the kids I was worried about. It was me. And it didn’t help that the man before me looked so concerned. For my general welfare. Then he was telling me that Paul – the man who used to live here – had moved to France, a good six or seven years ago.

I looked the man full in the face now. He looked nothing like him. It must have been the hat and scarves. That and the fact that I wanted it to be him.

I would rather be dead, I thought. I would rather be dead and buried than standing here like this. Really. What is the fucking point?

I have no idea how I removed myself from the situation. I just found myself running down the lane. Which was, at least, probably more advisable than heading back into the swampy woods.

But when I reached the main road I couldn’t quite remember where the car was, or how to get there. I started screaming. And very nearly got myself knocked down as I went careering down the road.

Then, finally, I was back at the car. And sitting in it, with the doors locked. Crying. Crying for God knows how long. Then starting the car, in case he called the police. And just wanting to be away from there. Wanting to be gone.