8

The journey home was difficult. No buses or normal trains were running on Christmas Day, so I walked in the cold towards the centre of Cambridge phoning various cab companies. It took quite a while to find one to drive me to Stansted Airport where I had established there were a few trains running to Liverpool Street. From there I then took another very expensive taxi to my front door. I didn’t mind though. I needed to get away from everything. Home was the only place I could be myself, even if I didn’t feel safe there. The crow was with me wherever I went, but at least in my own house I felt in control, sort of.

As I stepped into the hallway, I noticed how cold the house felt. I had been planning to stay with Mum for a while and had turned the heating off. Now I regretted that decision. The house also felt very lonely, but I was pleased to be back. Dropping my bag to the floor, I shrugged my coat off and hung it up on the chrome coat rack Tom had chosen. I’d never really liked it but he had, so that had been that.

I turned on the heating before going into the sitting room, where I perched on the edge of the sofa and looked around my home. In the reflective mood I was in, my eyes wandered over all the things in the room that I had worked so hard to get. Everything was designer and expensive. When had status become so important to me? Inside, I envied how my mother lived. Her house was a home. Mine looked like the cover of a glossy magazine. It was empty of real life; it was all for show. Tom had wanted it that way and I had allowed it. Now I was cross with myself for letting him dominate how the house looked. As the woman I should have been the nest maker but he had insisted on implementing his style and taste.

I decided I needed to inject some colour into my world and promised myself I would go shopping for some new things for the house. Then I remembered it was Christmas time. I had calmed down after my outburst at Mary, and although I now accepted it could have been delivered more gently, I didn’t feel guilty about having made my point. I was angry with her for her behaviour and I was angry with Richard and Jenny for allowing it. Mum was disappointed in me though, and I regretted that. I should never have left her house under a cloud, but I had to get away from everyone. Since Tom and Josh’s death I had barely had any time to myself, and although the house was painfully empty, it was going to do me some good.

Getting up from the sofa I wandered over to fireplace. It had never been used. Tom hated the smell of dying embers. But he wasn’t there anymore and I was cold, so I decided to go for a walk around the park to look for suitable bits of wood to burn.

After spending some time searching for something suitable to put the wood in, I fished out a large wicker basket, put my coat back on and left the house.

It was three o’clock and the sun had stopped shining. London was under a blanket of grey cloud. The temperature had dropped considerably since I had left the taxi. Crouch End was eerily still. It was so strange to see the streets abandoned.

I went into Priory Park and headed straight to Philosophers’ Corner to look for appropriate logs. A few families had ventured out to the playground with their small children. The only other people I saw were dedicated dog walkers. A small black poodle jumped around its owner’s feet yapping and I wished the woman would silence the hyperactive mutt.

The light was fading fast. I scrabbled around in hedgerows looking for wood to burn. Because of the size of the fireplace, I only needed to find a few logs. It was strange looking in a park, in London, for logs. I felt like a camper who had taken a wrong turn.

After unearthing a couple of hefty fallen branches I left the Philosophers’ Corner and went to search elsewhere. By then the sky was a muted black-blue and the street lamps had just come on. After a few more minutes scavenging I felt I had collected just enough firewood. I pulled my coat collar up around my neck and made my way back through the park towards home. The basket was heavy and I had to keep changing hands. The twisted wicker handle rubbed against my cold palm.

When I reached the park entrance I almost collided with a couple coming through. The pair held onto one another and I dropped my bundle all over the pavement. Bending down to pick them up, I looked up and recognised the faces staring down at me.

‘Monica!’ The lady bent down to help me retrieve my sticks. ‘What are you doing out here?’

Erin was a woman I had met during a yoga class. She lived a few streets away with her husband Alex, who stood puffing a cigarette and rubbing his hands together in the cold. I felt self-conscious scrabbling about grabbing at sticks.

‘Just getting a bit of firewood.’ My cheeks flushed and I couldn’t look her in the eye.

‘I’m sorry we haven’t seen you recently. How are you?’ Her pity filled me with sadness.

‘Oh you know, surviving. How are the twins?’

‘Very well, you know, exhausting but lovely. Alex and I have left them with his parents while we take ourselves off to the pub for a well-deserved tipple.’ I could hear the embarrassment in her voice. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ I felt Alex flash her a disapproving look.

‘Oh, that’s very kind but I’ve got to get back. Mum is staying with me.’

The lie rolled off my tongue with surprising ease.

‘Of course,’ Erin said, putting the last stick back in my basket.

‘Come on, Hun.’ Alex rubbed his hands harder. ‘It’s bloody freezing.’

‘Well, it was nice to see you again. We’ll get a date in the diary. Do something in the New Year maybe.’

‘Maybe yes, that might be good.’ But I knew I wouldn’t hear from her. People who had children had been avoiding me ever since the accident. It was as though they felt guilty about still having their darlings when I had lost mine. I didn’t understand it but then at that time very few things made sense.

‘Happy Christmas, Mon.’ Erin linked arms with her husband.

‘You, too.’ I watched them walk off. I was alone again.

As I walked back to the house, I thought about my absent friends. It was true that some of them had tried to see me but on the whole people were too scared to face me. They couldn’t deal with what had happened and shied away from addressing it. Things had been especially quiet since the funeral. Up until that point people hadn’t left me alone. But once it was all done and Tom and Josh were in the ground, it was as though that was the end of it. Content to forget, they got on with their lives. I could do neither of those things and feared I never would.

By the time I reached the front door, I felt angry. Erin and Alex had made me feel like a leper. I didn’t deserve that. So what if it was difficult for them? They should have tried harder. Tom had never liked Alex and had little time for Erin. He said they were too nice. I had wanted us all to be friends and thought it would have been nice to meet a couple we could spend time with. Tom had dismissed the idea and banned me from inviting them over to the house when he was around. I now wondered if he had seen something I hadn’t.

The house was still icy and I set about building a fire. I collected old newspaper, scrunched it up and stuffed it in between the sticks. After a few failed attempts I eventually managed to get a steady flame going. Hypnotised, I sat on the floor in the dark watching the fire lick around the wood, eating the paper. The heat coming from the hearth was comforting. I felt at home without the lights on and with only the glow of the flames.

My stomach began to rumble and I realised I hadn’t had a thing to eat since breakfast. I got up and went into the kitchen. The electric light felt very bright. Opening the fridge I inspected the sparse contents. My options were limited so I decided to have cheese and crackers. To accompany my humble meal, and since it was Christmas Day, I opened an expensive bottle of Bordeaux and poured myself a large glass.

I returned to the sitting room, pulled an armchair close to the fire and tucked in to the food and drink. The wine was fruity and warmed me from the inside. At last my shoulders began to drop. The fire enveloped the piled wood and roared. I had never made a fire before and was pleased with my efforts. For the first time since the accident I didn’t feel scared. I could look after myself. I somehow knew that I was going to be all right. In the end, life must carry on.

With my new-found hope, I celebrated with another large glass of wine. By the time the night had crept up and the embers had died I had finished that bottle and was halfway through another. The intoxication felt good and I found freedom in it.

Tom used to forbid me from drinking too much. He said it was not ladylike. I probably hadn’t been drunk since my university days. I wanted to lose myself, and the wine was the perfect partner in crime. The more I swallowed down, the better I felt. It coursed through my veins, numbing my conscious pain. I got up out of the armchair and realised my head was spinning. I tottered over to Tom’s drinks cabinet. From it, I removed a bottle of Scotch and took a long swig. The alcohol burnt my throat and warmed my belly. I did it again. I felt like a teenager misbehaving, stealing alcohol from my parents’ supply. But Tom had been my husband. The strange feeling sat awkwardly in my stomach and sloshed about with the wine and whisky.

I went over to the sofa and collapsed, feeling sick and dizzy. Just then, my mobile phone beeped. There was a voice mail from my mother. I deleted it halfway through listening. Her concern for me was irritating. Suddenly I felt angry again and painfully alone.

Out of nowhere I thought of Simon. It felt as if a light switch had been turned on in my head. I had to talk to him so badly, to hear the sound of his voice. In my drunken state I fumbled with my phone for some time before eventually accessing his number. My heart was beating hard in my chest while I held my breath and waited for him to answer. But the phone just rang and rang. He wasn’t at home. My heart sank, but then I remembered I had his mobile number.

Gingerly, I steadied myself on my feet and went carefully up the stairs to my office. It was at the top of the house. It was the only room that we had decorated according my taste, thanks to Tom giving me the freedom to do so. But I hadn’t been in there for weeks. There had been no need.

As I approached my Victorian walnut desk I noticed my hands were shaking. I couldn’t be sure if it was the chill in the room or nervous anticipation. In the corner of the room I could make out the industrial theatre spotlight. I fiddled for the switch. The room flooded with a bright white light. My eyes took some time to adjust. I looked around my office at my things. It had been my private place, my sanctuary. It was the room in the house I was most proud of.

When Tom and I had bought the house he had agreed to let me have an office of my own. His was on the first floor sandwiched between our bedroom and the spare room. He had said he didn’t want all my crap cluttering up his workspace. After inspecting the attic, I deemed we could renovate and turn it into an office space for me. He was so busy concentrating on making his workroom perfect, it gave me some space to do as I wished with mine.

I had painted the walls in a soft duck-egg blue and hung vintage framed French posters on the walls. In the corner was a large pine bookcase stuffed full of all my favourite authors. On top of the bookcase were big cream candles and a cascading fuchsia orchid in a pot. Beside the shelves was my club armchair upholstered in bright green velvet. A low chest coffee table was nearby on which a number of design magazines were strewn. The floor was stripped oak and a huge sheepskin rug lay in the middle of the room. In the sloping roof on one side was a small skylight that had a pull-down roller blind in a similar green to the velvet of my chair. On the opposite side we had incorporated a pair of French doors that led out onto a minute balcony that surveyed the garden below and the park beyond that.

As I stood swaying, looking at my things, I realised I’d forgotten why I had gone into my office. I felt like a tourist in my own life. I was existing but only in a parallel universe where everything was wrong. Then I remembered that I wanted to call Simon. I went over to my desk and from the secret compartment removed a mobile phone. Anxiety gripped me as I dialled his number. The phone rang a number of times before going to answerphone.

‘Hi, Simon here, I can’t get to the phone now but if you leave a message I might just call you back.’ Beep. I panicked and hung up. This was silly, I told myself. I am a grown woman, for goodness sake. I dialled the number again. Again it went to answerphone. The tone of his voice was as smooth as his coffee-coloured skin.

Simon and I met at university and had been close friends ever since. He was an exotic-looking man. His mum was a glamorous Indian and his father a dark-haired, blue-eyed Irishman. The combination of the two resulted in Simon: a dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, tall man with striking blue-green eyes.

‘Hi, Simon. Hi, it’s me. Please call me. Please, I really want to talk to you. I need to talk to you. Please, just when you get this, call me. We need to talk. So much has happened. I need you. Please I … I miss you. Call me when you get this, OK?’

I hung up the phone and collapsed on the floor in a gibbering mess. Snot ran down my face, as did tears. It was the first time I had allowed myself to think about him since the accident. Tom’s death changed what had been before. My reality had been altered in so many ways. I couldn’t face thinking about what I’d done. The guilt was excruciating. Then I was sick. Vomit poured out of me onto the sheepskin rug. When I got up, white spots danced in front of my eyes and I had to steady myself. Staring down at the puddle of red-wine-stained sick, it smelt disgusting, but for some reason I started to laugh. I laughed because I knew that if Tom had been alive and had seen me in that state he would have flipped. I was glad to be able to make a mistake and not have anyone to answer to. Then the feeling of guilt returned.

I knelt down and bundled up the vomit-stained rug. It was beyond saving and would need to be thrown away. I went over to the light and turned it off. The room filled with darkness and the feeling of sadness returned. What was I doing there? It had been a mistake to call Simon and I wished I could take the message back. Leaving the room, I felt worse than ever.

When I woke up the next morning I had a bitter hangover. My mouth tasted like vinegar and my tongue felt furry. I remembered why I didn’t drink very often. I rolled over in bed, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and pulled the pillow over my thumping head. It was Boxing Day and I was completely alone. Boxing Day with Tom used to be lovely. We would stay in our PJs all day, picking at leftovers and watching television curled up together. But there were no leftovers this year.

With my head still aching, I dragged myself off the bed and went in search of aspirin. The medicine cabinet failed me so I took myself downstairs to get some breakfast, hoping that food might soak up some of the alcohol I had continued to drink after being sick the previous night.

I went into the kitchen and was shocked by the state of it. There were dirty glasses and empty bottles on the table. A half-eaten packet of crisps lay open, its contents spilling out. Tom would have been furious, but at that moment I didn’t care. I padded over to the fridge in search of nourishment. As I pulled the door open, a waft of strong cheese hit me. I scowled at the piece of Stilton that sat alone on the shelf. Apart from that, the fridge was more or less empty and I realised that what I fancied more than anything in the world was curry. I removed a bottle of milk and closed the door. Tea was needed before I could think about doing anything.

After boiling the kettle and making myself a huge mug of hot tea, I went over to the kitchen table and sat down. The world outside looked grey and cold.

Then it appeared. The crow. It flew down onto the patio and stood looking at me. It was such a deliberate act that I was taken back. For a little while I had managed to forget my troubles, but now, sitting in the kitchen in the daylight, everything returned to me. I stared back at it. Our eyes never blinked. It felt as though it was gazing into my soul and I knew if I kept looking at it I would lose myself completely. I broke my gaze and got up from my chair. For some reason it seemed like a good idea to approach the glass door. I was scared but I edged closer. Still the bird did not flinch.

‘Please leave me alone.’ There was a tremor in my voice as I spoke directly to the bird.

‘I don’t know what I’ve done, but please, just leave me alone. I’m a good person. I don’t deserve this. I’m begging you, stop. I don’t understand what you want. I don’t have anything else. It’s gone. It’s all gone. Please leave me in peace. Just go back to being a bird and let me get on with my life.’

Very casually, the bird began preening its feathers. It was as though I didn’t exist. My shoulders dropped a little and I started to believe my words had worked. A few moments later the bird took off and disappeared. Maybe things were going to get better. I returned to my seat and sat sipping the tea.

Then out of nowhere came a loud crash. Something black had come at the glass in the kitchen door. Shaking, I got up and went closer to inspect. There was nothing there. I looked around warily, expecting to see the crow. The garden was uninhabited. I edged closer still until my nose was inches away from the glass. Then it came again. I ducked. It was a silly thing to do but instinct just took over. Curled up in a ball on the floor, I lifted my head to find the crow back on the patio staring at me again. On my hands and knees I crawled out of the kitchen and went into the sitting room. In there the curtains were still drawn and I scrambled onto the sofa and curled up. Hugging my knees to my chest, I closed my eyes and prayed my torment would stop.

Earlier, I’d decided I would walk to Turnpike Lane to pick up an Indian takeaway but my latest meeting with the crow put an end to that idea. It was out there, waiting for me. I could feel it. I listened for the sound of the bird banging on the glass. There was silence. My heart was in my mouth and I felt fear tighten its grip on me. I was a prisoner in my own house. Then out of nowhere I had a eureka moment. I knew what I needed to do. I ran out of the sitting room and up the stairs. In the spare room was a large built-in cupboard that contained excess bed linen. In my frantic search I pulled down pillowcases and duvet covers. Right at the back of the cupboard I found a thick blanket. Standing on tiptoes I managed to reach it with my fingertips and eased it forward. I tucked the tartan picnic blanket under my arm and went downstairs. In our storage cupboard in the hall I found what I was looking for. I picked up Tom’s toolbox and marched into the kitchen. The crow had gone but it made no difference.

I put the blanket and toolbox down on the kitchen table before dragging a chair over to the door. Then I returned to the toolbox and opened it. It was neatly organised, just like everything else had to be in Tom’s world. I found some nails and a hammer. Returning to the chair with the blanket, the nails and hammer, I got up onto it and began to hang the blanket over the door. The wall above the door was rock hard and did not take kindly to having nails bashed into it. Nonetheless, I managed to screen off the garden. I got down off the chair and stood back to admire my handiwork. I saw that there was still some glass visible and looked around desperately trying to find something suitable. Newspaper would have been perfect, I thought, but there was none. Then I had the idea to tape tinfoil to the window. I knew it wouldn’t look great but it would do the job.

By the time I had finished there was no natural light getting into the kitchen. I had covered every chink. Satisfied, I said aloud, ‘There, try scaring me now.’

I took myself upstairs, still armed with the tinfoil, to secure all the windows up there too. When I reached my bedroom I collapsed onto the floor. A sudden pain dug into my belly, rendering me helpless. I felt as if I had been stabbed. My ribs ached as though they’d been broken and my stomach tightened and pulsed. I was in agony. I called out in pain.

‘Help me, please, someone…’

And then I saw the blood. My hands were covered in it. I stood staring down at the thick red liquid oozing out of my tummy. Horrified, I lay back on the ground pleading for it to stop. I could feel a huge hole in my body where my stomach should have been. And then came the stabbing pain again. I reeled in agony and using my arms dragged my body out onto the landing. The daylight was pouring in and I thought I might pass out. My legs went numb as the piercing pain in my gut increased. My eyes searched for an explanation but found none. Why was this happening to me? What was doing this?

As I dragged myself closer to the top of the stairs I thought I might be sick. My hands were soaked in blood and my body was wet with it. I was convinced I was dying. My head felt as if it was in a clamp. A splitting pain ran through my brain and I had to close my eyes, it hurt so badly. It was as if electricity was being passed through my skull.

Then it stopped. All of a sudden, the pain disappeared. I opened my eyes and looked at my stomach. It was back to normal. There was no evidence of blood anywhere. Shaking, I got up off the floor and looked for signs of what had just happened. There were none, only a feeling of foolishness combined with intense fear. I was too frightened to carry on securing the windows. Returning to my bedroom, I crawled under the bedcovers where I started to sob.