Fourteen

Joanne was sitting in the living room when she heard Mark coming through the front door. She had woken at four-­thirty, aware that her husband was no longer lying beside her; eventually realising that he was not in the bathroom either. Sleep was no longer possible. She had searched the house, finding the note on her bedside table when she finally returned to the bedroom. She looked at her watch as she rose and moved into the hallway. It was six-­thirty and still dark outside. Mark was closing the door quietly behind him. It had begun to rain again and his raincoat was streaked and dripping wet.

‘Mark? Where have you been? What’s wrong?’

Mark started at the sound of her voice and turned to look at her as she moved quickly to him. His face looked ashen, strands of hair lay plastered across his forehead and to Joanne it seemed as if he was unsteady on his feet. Had he been drinking? No . . . there was no tell-­tale smell on his breath.

‘Walking . . . just walking . . .’ His words sounded vacant, far away. She guided him into the living room, wondering whether she should get help. Struggling out of his raincoat, Mark sat heavily in the armchair beside the gas fire as Joanne placed a hand on his forehead.

‘You’re freezing cold, darling.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry if I worried you, Jo. Didn’t you find my note . . . ?’

‘I found it. What’s wrong, Mark? You look awful. You know you’re not up to wandering around the streets at this time of the morning.’

‘I’m sorry, Jo. Really. I didn’t want to disturb you, that’s all. I had . . . another dream. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought a walk might do me good.’

‘And you come back looking like death warmed up. Mark . . . you haven’t been back to the station, have you?’

Mark placed an ice-­cold hand on Joanne’s arm. His eyes seemed glazed. ‘No. I haven’t been there. Really.’

‘I’m going to make some coffee before you freeze to death.’ Joanne moved away, leaving Mark staring at the glowing orange grid of the gas fire. Rain whispered at the window.

What if I’ve killed him and don’t realise it? What if he put me into a trance and asked me questions about that day that my subconscious couldn’t cope with? What if I put my hands around his neck and squeezed until he was dead? Or beat him to death and dragged him away? Hid his body somewhere, walked back into the surgery like a zombie, lay down and woke up again? That would explain the broken tape recorder. And the blood.

Mark ran his hands through his hair and then over his face. The skin felt like frozen parchment, as if he were touching someone else’s face. A corpse’s face, perhaps. His fingers were trembling badly.

What the hell am I thinking about? I couldn’t kill anyone. I’m not physically capable of killing anyone. If someone punched me, their fist would go straight through this patchwork body of mine. Then what in hell happened to Aynsley? Where did he go to? Oh God, what am I going to do?

Joanne returned from the kitchen. He was still sitting in the same position, staring at the hissing gas fire as if it possessed the answer to some mysterious question. He looked so cold . . . and bloodless.

‘Drink this.’ Joanne handed him a cup. Absently, Mark took it from her and she watched his knuckles whiten as he gripped it with unnecessary force.

‘Thanks, Jo. You’ll be bushed by the time you get to work.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve no classes today, anyway. Mark, you’ve got to promise me that if you wake up again like that, you’ll wake me up, too. You can’t just go walking the streets again.’

‘I promise.’ Mark lifted the cup to his mouth and Joanne could see for the first time how badly his hands were trembling.

It was in the stones. It walked darkly amidst the stones. It scented me and came for me.

‘Was it the same kind of dream again?’

‘Yes . . . yes . . . the same. In vivid Technicolor and Cinema­scope. Not to mention the full audience participation.’

He’s so sad, Daddy. He’s been dead so long and he’s so lonely.

Mark suddenly sat up straight, almost spilling his coffee. ‘Where’s Helen? Is she okay?’

‘Of course she’s okay. She’s asleep upstairs. For God’s sake, don’t scare me like that.’

Mark sat back heavily in his chair, sighing deeply. His hair was dishevelled, he was unshaven, and he looked as if he had just come back from a walk in Hell. For a long time he sat without speaking and, as Joanne sat sipping at her coffee, unable to find anything to say to break the silence, she wondered how long this could go on. How long would she be able to bear the pain of watching him slowly crumble into . . . into what? She froze her thoughts like mental dry ice on dangerous flames. Mark was her husband. She loved him. And he was going though a traumatic recovery period, the horrors of which she could only guess at. By rights, he should be dead. Oh, my God, she thought, what are we going to do? And her thought seemed to hang in the air like an unspoken but tangible miasma.

When Mark spoke, his voice seemed clearer, less slurred and with a determination that startled her. It was as if he had heard her thoughts.

‘I know what I’ve got to do.’