I stop at the office on my way home and write up the story of the discovery of the body on the Heath, today, leaving out any of the details of my own involvement, mentioning only the victim and the twenty-four-year-old woman taken into custody while a murder investigation is underway. I write with detachment, trying not to picture Eva in her prison cell, the mother I put behind bars for a crime I couldn’t condemn, the baby destined to a life in care.
Ben thanks me with a raised arm above his computer screen before I walk out of the door and towards the flat, the darkness no longer threatening as I make my way through the entrance and up the stairs.
Whoever it was who had been watching me has now been caught, thanks to DNA, and besides, he was never the figure I’d thought him to be. The person I’d imagined had had his own life snuffed out with a single blow from a rock – an act of self-defence by a young woman who had trusted him, and whose life he had ruined.
I had been wrong. Time and again, I had made myself believe something that simply wasn’t true. Oscar was right, they were all right: I was a mess. I am a mess. But there was one thing he would always be wrong about – it was my choice, and I made the right one. In that instance, at least.
Before I have time to change my mind, I move to the cupboard in the kitchen and pull out any booze I can find – whisky, the dregs of an old bottle of vodka, the limoncello Si had brought back, ill-advisedly, from a trip to Sorrento, that had barely been touched. Ceremoniously gathering the bottles on the kitchen table, together with my cigarettes and the bag of Xanax from the drawer in my bedroom, I pause for a moment before reaching for the packet of cigarettes and returning them to my pocket.
Pulling my hair back into a bun before removing the lids from each bottle, I pour the pills into the sink and wash them away with the remainder of the alcohol.
When I’ve finished, I stack the bottles by the front door and reach into the cupboard under the counter, pulling out a cloth and a bottle of antibacterial spray.
The next morning it is like waking up in a different flat, every surface clear and scrubbed within an inch of its life. Once I’ve brushed my teeth, I ring Ben. Though he does not explicitly say so, I infer from his unnaturally convivial tone when I ask for some time off that he is relieved. I am a live wire and he is glad to be rid of me for a few days.
‘Si will keep an eye on any developments on the Heath murder, you have a rest.’
Si. I feel a pang of guilt when I think of him. I will call him, once I’ve figured out what I have to do. Once I’ve given myself a chance to breathe in a way that I haven’t been able to, not since Jess died.
In any other circumstances, it would irk me, having to hand over a story like this to another reporter. But I want nothing to do with it. I want to forget it ever happened. Briefly, I wonder if Si will connect the body with the attack I’d told him about, but why would he? They were two totally different events – one real, one imagined – my fictional version bearing no resemblance to the facts.
‘Going anywhere nice?’ Ben asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully.
‘Well, whatever you do, enjoy it. You deserve a break. Don’t forget to put on your out-of-office that if it’s urgent they should contact one of us.’
Lifting open the lid of my laptop, I log onto my work emails. As I move the cursor towards the out-of-office button, I see an unread message, the title of the sender standing out amongst the PR spam. Companies House.
I click open the message.
With all that has been happening, I’ve forgotten that I even requested it. I should delete it. After all, what use is it now? I want nothing to do with any of this, I’ve done enough damage.
And yet, as my fingers hover for a moment above the keyboard, I feel them move from the ‘Delete’ symbol to ‘Open documents’.
Just one last look, I tell myself. Just one look, and then I’ll leave it.