Dear Mr Taranici,
Please believe me when I say things have gone very wrong. Very wrong indeed. I’ve done so many things in the last hour, said things that I can never, ever take back. Really I think I might be going mad because the world is upside-down. The worst thing is, I don’t know who to believe any more. I’ve discovered I’m being systematically lied to. And no, before you even think it, I am not being paranoid. I know it for a fact.
I was on the sofa this morning watching the news – more about the hunt for Malachi – and Oakesy was up in his room, working. It was another awful day, with rain lashing the house, and I was vaguely aware of someone upstairs moving around, but I wasn’t really paying attention. It was only when I heard a door slam that I muted the TV and looked up at the ceiling: someone was walking around on the landing. Another door opened and closed. The floorboards were creaking in the bathroom, a bath was running. At first it was just that and the rain pelting down outside. Then from the landing I heard Oakesy say, very sadly, as if he was about to cry, ‘I love my wife.’
I stared at the stairs, my mouth open. I love my wife? A toxic little bubble of suspicion detached itself from the bottom of my stomach and floated upwards. He must be talking to Angeline. But why was he talking about me? I leaned over and switched off the TV, feeling suddenly very cold. A whole stack of images shuttled down behind my eyes, unbelievable, ridiculous things, things that had been staring me in the face when I thought about it: Oakesy standing in front of the sink, kicking the cupboard; Oakesy stricken and sick-looking in the car on the way back from the hospital, echoing my words, Disgusted? Disgusted. And Angeline beginning to look after herself since the visit to the hospital, even washing and putting on makeup, combing her hair so it covers the bald patches, somehow getting her skin cleared up, all in all looking quite wholesome. I looked at the cupboard. It couldn’t be. Couldn’t possibly be…
And then he appeared, coming heavily down the stairs. I went to the foot of the stairs and when he saw me he stopped. He shook his head silently, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak, as if what he had to say was just too awful.
‘Joe,’ I said faintly. ‘Joe, why did you just tell Angeline you love me?’
Well, he could have answered any way he wanted and I’d have probably listened. He could have denied it, or laughed, or been affronted. But he did none of those things. He did something worse. Much worse. He said nothing. He just stood there, staring at me.
‘It seems such a funny thing to say,’ I said woodenly, feeling as if someone had put their hand inside my ribcage and was squeezing my heart. My skin went hot and cold, then hot again. ‘Joe? Please, Joe, please. Tell me you’re joking. Come on. This is a joke.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He pulled his jacket from the banisters and threw it on, pulling his keys out of his pocket. ‘Lex, you won’t believe me, but I’m sorry.’
He pushed past me and headed for the door.
‘Joe?’ I stared at him, disbelief washing up and over me. ‘Joe? Wait. Wait—’ He pulled the front door open. A gust of wind and rain came into the hallway, nearly taking me off my feet, but he leaned forward into it and went out, into the streaming day, his jacket whipping and slapping around him like a parachute, leaving me in the doorway. I stood there for a few seconds, thinking stupidly that my shoes were lying on the floor in the kitchen and I couldn’t go out without them. Then I saw him hold the key up and heard the beep as the car doors unlocked and I knew then it was real and he was going. I ran out barefoot into the rain, the wind driving water into my eyes. ‘Wait, Joe. Wait!’ He was already swinging into the car. He slammed the door, and as I got to the kerb I heard the central-locking system clunk closed and that made me panic. I scrabbled at the handle, the wind driving me flat against the car. ‘Open the door!’ I hammered at it with my bare hands. I could see the side of his face through the greasy, rain-drenched window. He looked grey, cold. He wouldn’t look at me as he reached down and turned the key.
‘For God’s sake, Joe. Talk to me!’
The headlights went on. The engine came to life. He took the handbrake off, twisted the steering-wheel and pulled away. The tyres sent up a massive whoosh of water from the gutters, soaking my trousers, making me take a shocked step backwards. He got to the top of the street and the brake-lights came on, turning all the raindrops around them to rubies, then he was gone – swallowed into the dark storm, leaving me standing barefoot in the pouring rain with the wretched shopping trolley moving up and down the pavement opposite, thinking, What? What just happened? What just happened?