Jane
Monday 11th February
The top I’m wearing is long-sleeved, but the marks Jack has left on my arms are dotting tell-tale spots of blood through the fabric. That didn’t exactly go as planned. I thought, after the tears, that he was going to apologise. I thought we were going to sort out our marriage. But as always, we morphed into an argument.
Who was she getting contraception for? I asked him, but he just shrugged, told me he’d got no idea.
Some people actually have a functioning sex life, you know, he said to me, and I felt each word like a tiny sting, needling and sharp. We haven’t touched each other for months.
I follow his car home, shaking slightly, trying to ignore the rushing feelings of shame that are threatening to take over, like a wave inside my head that I have to fight against all the time. I have to keep both hands on the wheel, keep focused, get home and see to the children. I lost control of that conversation. Like I always do. But at least I know why she was on his appointment list. My husband is many things, but he isn’t a murderer. An image of myself lying at the bottom of the stairs comes to me; the old pain in my ribs shifts a little. I know what he’s capable of. I know his limits. Don’t I?
Harry texts me as I am driving back, three words, where are you?
When I do get home, Jack’s pulled up in our drive but he’s still sat in his car, head bowed. The flowers for Clare have almost taken over the Edwards’ front lawn; their ornamental bird bath pokes out from the mass of colour, creating a bizarre sight. Their house looms over us, tall and imposing, the cream walls giving nothing away.
Jack doesn’t move, even when my car slides in alongside his. I stare at him as I hurry past, anxious to get inside and tidy myself up before anything else happens. I wish he’d move. I don’t want the Edwards to see him.
Inside, I’ve left the tap dripping; water is pooling in the sink. I turn it on full and run my arms underneath it, the thin lines of blood blooming into rusty petals in the stainless steel basin. They’re not deep, they never are. They don’t even hurt any more. They did to begin with.
I remember very clearly the moment I first met Jack. Dark hair, those flashing blue eyes. When I looked at him full in the face I had to look away; I had the sensation of falling, and I didn’t want to fall. Not then, not now, not ever.
I was holding an empty polystyrene cup of coffee, clutching it hard between my fingers. I hadn’t wanted to come that day, and it turned out neither had he. I’d forced myself – he’d had a friend drive him. It was my friend Lisa who’d recommended Albion Road to me, but when she’d first suggested it, I’d gone mad. I shouldn’t have done, really. She was only trying to do the right thing. We were good friends for a while, Lisa and I. We grew up together – she was one of the very few people who knew me from when I was young, knew about my parents and how hard it all was. I liked her, I suppose. When Harry was little she was still there, looking after him for me sometimes, a friend when I needed one. But then the accident on the stairs happened, we moved to Ashdon and I had Sophie and Finn. Lisa and I grew apart. Plus, she didn’t approve of Jack, of our relationship. She’s the only person I ever thought might actually be able to see through us. And I didn’t want any reminders of my past hanging around. Not after what happened at the old house. How close Jack and I came to falling apart.
Often, I think about what would have happened that day – if I’d been firmer with Lisa, told her I wasn’t going; if I’d followed advice and kept myself to myself, focused on the task at hand; if when, at the end of our third session, Jack had scribbled his phone number on a piece of ripped off polystyrene cup, I’d never called him – whether I’d be where I am now. Trapped by the choices I have already made. In a life I’ve built and cannot escape.
Sandra Davies insists on dropping Finn and Sophie back to the door. Harry is already home, slumped in front of the television, his dark hair hanging over his face.
‘Can I get you a snack?’ I ask him, nerves sprinkling my stomach, but he shakes his head, his thumbs and eyes glued to his iPhone. I’m relieved the police haven’t come near him again, but I can’t stop thinking about how close a call it all was. I don’t want them speaking to my son again. The bruise on my arm has faded to yellow now, so that’s something.
Jack has taken himself up to our bedroom without speaking, the door slamming shut behind him. I took him a tea, left it on the bedside in a china mug with the NHS logo on it. He’ll appreciate the gesture, at some point. In the old days, he used to bring me flowers afterwards, kiss my hands, fall at my feet, beg me. He doesn’t really bother now. I leant down over him while he slept, or pretended to, brought my lips right up close to his ear.
‘Thank you so much for having the kids, Sandra,’ I say to her now, wincing slightly as Finn barrels into me, his little head butting my stomach like a tiny, hornless bull. ‘Was everything alright?’
‘Fine, no trouble at all, pair of little angels,’ Sandra says, smiling at me as Sophie rushes past into the house, dropping her red reading folder onto the floor as she goes. She hovers there, on the doorstep, her eyes darting from side to side, until something inside me gives in and I say what I know she’s been waiting for: ‘Would you like to come in for a quick drink?’
‘Ooh,’ she says, as though the thought has only just occurred to her, ‘well, Monday night, don’t mind if I do! But only one mind!’ Here, she looks slightly reproachful, as though I am accustomed to pouring white wine down her throat by the bucket-load at any opportune moment. Which, I suppose, I am. Jack won’t come down for hours now; at least if Sandra’s here I’m not drinking alone.
I extend my arm, widening the door a little and she hustles inside, removing her coat as she does so. I take it from her and hang it up on the peg where it nestles amongst the others: Harry’s hoodie, Jack’s big blue duffel coat, the children’s assortment of brightly coloured anoraks, my cashmere scarves in shades of pastel. Our perfect little life. Suddenly, I think of Clare’s trainers on the Edwards’ shoe rack that morning, the rush of hope I’d felt when I thought she’d come home safely.
‘Is Jack in?’ Sandra says, peering around slightly as if he might pop out of a cupboard. I see her eyes go to his coat.
‘He’s upstairs,’ I say quickly, ‘bit of a migraine, poor thing.’
‘Ooh,’ she says, although I can see the quick flash of disappointment as it skitters across her face. ‘It must be exhausting dealing with patients all day as well. We’ll keep our voices down!’ She glances inside the house. ‘Is that Harry in there?’
I wish everyone would stop treating my husband as if he’s some sort of God. If only they knew.
I usher her into the kitchen so I can see through the beamed archway into the living room, where Sophie and Finn have seated themselves in front of the television with Harry, eyes fixed on the screen. A wave of irritation flashes over me; I need to put them to bed, I don’t want them staring at the screen all night while Sandra witters on. Bringing up the children properly is all I’ve got space left to care about right now – it’s important.
But Sandra is already plonking herself down at the marble counter, easing a Birkenstock shoe off to reveal coral-painted toenails. For goodness’ sake. It isn’t even summer! She runs her fingers over the surface like she always does, sighing a little, and I know she’s jealous of my home, of my life. Good. She cranes her neck slightly, so that she can see through the window into the Edwards’ house. So that’s why she was so keen to come in.
‘What can I get you?’ I say, even though I can almost feel the tang of alcohol on my tongue already. I move to the fridge, pull out the bottle of white that’s been sitting there since yesterday. There’s still three-quarters left. I silently congratulate myself.
She takes a deep sigh, her elbows settling themselves on the counter. The new vase of lilies beside her shudders slightly; a deep pink petal releases tiny yellow buds. I usually buy flowers once a week from the market in Saffron Walden, just after I’ve had my nails done or been to the shops. It’s part of my routine. The little things I cling onto. I suppose it’s about control. The ones I buy for myself are nicer than any Jack brings me – prettier, more expensive. I’ve got good taste.
‘Let’s have a glass,’ Sandra says. ‘Have you heard what’s been happening up at the school?’
I shake my head, turn away from her, busy myself with the glasses and the wine so that she can’t see my face. I’ve put on a jumper, thicker to cover my arms, but the material still chafes against them as I twist the wine open. Screw top: Walker’s finest.
‘Apparently Madeline Shaw’s been in, whipping them all up again, meanwhile Nathan’s on the bloody road moving his cone up and down like nothing’s happened.’ More sighing. ‘I’m so worried about Natasha.’ She glances over at the kids. ‘I wonder how much they take in.’ Rather than reply, I pass her a glass of wine – filled to the white line, no ice, but it doesn’t really matter. Putting my own glass down, I look over to the partitioned living room that leads off the kitchen, watching the children’s heads, resolutely focused on the screen. Harry, normally fairly interactive with his younger siblings, has moved away from the sofa onto the armchair by the window, still studiously fixated by his phone. Finn is wiggling his toes off the end of the sofa; Sophie is absently fiddling with strands of her hair, no doubt trying to do a plait. Her hair’s too curly, really, but she persists nonetheless. My fingers twitch; I want to go over and help her, but Sandra’s looking at me expectantly.
‘OK, Soph?’ I call out, and she jerks her head up, nods at me happily. ‘Not long ‘til bedtime,’ I say warningly, wondering if Jack really has gone to sleep upstairs.
‘Ooh, what’re they watching? My Natasha’s always got her nose buried in a book these days,’ Sandra says, and my fingers curl in on themselves. Ignoring the question and the implied dig, I take a seat opposite her, swallow a large gulp of wine. It does need ice.
‘I’m not sure how much good the police are doing, Janey,’ Sandra says. I don’t like her saying my nickname like that – it’s what Jack used to call me before everything went wrong. Another sip of wine; I feel it smoothing my edges, softening the grind of Sandra’s voice. I know she looked after the children, I know I should be grateful. But the town feels like it’s closing in on me: the women, the gossip, the exhaustion of trying to hide beneath the façade of my marriage. I just want out. But of course I can’t have out, can I? I look down into my wine, imagine myself drinking more and more until everything else stops.
‘Jane?’
‘Sorry,’ I say, shaking my head slightly, trying to focus. ‘No, I agree. D’you think it’ll just drag on, be one of those things that never gets solved? Like a cold case, I mean? Harry listened to a podcast about those. The media picks up cases the police decide to write off.’
She looks shocked. ‘Write off? They can’t write it off, not so soon, not while there’s a murderer out there, wandering the streets. I won’t stand for it – the town won’t!’ I might be imagining it, but she even sits up a little straighter on her chair. ‘Ashdon is a beautiful town, Jane – we shouldn’t have to live like this! And what if he’s still out there – this man – this, this murderer.’ She lowers her voice, inclines her head towards me. I stare into her irises, brown flecked with black.
‘What about our girls, Jane? They could be in danger! We all could!’ A glance at the window. ‘He obviously targeted next door – what if it’s you next?’
I glance over at the children but they look oblivious. Still, I don’t want Sophie having bad dreams again so I reluctantly inch my stool closer to Sandra’s.
‘I really do think,’ I say, hoping to calm her down so she doesn’t rouse Jack, ‘that it was probably an isolated incident – after all, wouldn’t whoever it was have struck again if it wasn’t?’ Another sip of wine, a glance at the bottle. ‘It could even have been an accident,’ I continue, the thought suddenly occurring to me, but Sandra scoffs at me, shakes her head.
‘It wasn’t an accident, Janey. The police said so, you know they did. There was nothing she could’ve tripped on, plus her phone was gone. Definitely on purpose. Poor girl.’ She shudders.
‘Then why Clare?’ I push, trying to keep my voice down for the children even though I can feel it rising slightly, becoming what Jack would call ‘shrill’. ‘Why hasn’t he targeted someone else?’
She does pause on that. ‘Maybe he’s biding his time,’ she says then, her left hand scrolling its way around the base of her wine glass, wiping away the mist that has formed on the glass.
The wine is going to my head; I haven’t eaten anything yet. You’d think after all these years I’d be used to it, but sometimes it still hits me.
‘Have you seen Rachel lately?’ Sandra asks me, and I close my eyes for a second, see the woman splashing across my dark eyelids: gaunt, broken, alone.
‘No,’ I say, ‘I haven’t actually. I keep thinking we—’ I stop.
‘We ought to go round?’ Sandra finishes my sentence and I nod.
‘Mmm,’ I say non-committally and she jumps in.
‘I thought that too. With food or something? But the truth is, Janey,’ she leans forward again; this time I can smell the wine on her breath. ‘I don’t like going next door – because of Ian.’
‘You don’t like him?’ I ask, taking another sip of my drink, and Sandra shakes her head.
‘I don’t like the way he came into this town, took over that family,’ she says. ‘I liked Mark, he was a nice guy.’ Her words are slurred slightly now, her edges blurred.
‘I didn’t know him well,’ I say, picturing his face: blond hair, thin. Smaller than Ian by quite some way.
Sandra nods, presses her lips together. ‘He’s where all the money comes from,’ she says, gesturing at the window where the Edwards house sits. ‘He left Clare a bloody fortune.’
‘Did he?’ I ask, surprised, and she nods, raises her eyebrows.
‘Yep,’ she said, ‘when he died. She was meant to inherit it all on her twenty-first, Rachel said.’ She takes a gulp of wine, hiccups. ‘But who d’you think’s got all that cash now?’
I stare at her.
‘Ian,’ she hisses, leaning even closer to me. ‘And rumour has it, his business hasn’t been doing so well. A cash injection right about now could be quite convenient, don’t you think? And if Clare’s no longer there to inherit it…’ She raises her eyebrows, smiles at me. She loves being the bearer of bad news, I know she does.
‘Sandra,’ I say, ‘is that really true?’
‘Word on the street,’ she says. ‘Shall we have another bottle of wine?’