Jane
Wednesday 20th February
In the morning, I wake up from a heavy sleep full of distorted dreams to find six new messages on my mobile. Immediately, my heart jumps; thoughts of the children flash into my mind, lying mangled in the road or face down in the playground, blood seeping around them. I scrabble to sit up, the soft sheets suffocating me. Jack has left already, and there is a note propped up on the lamp by the bed saying he’s taken the kids to school, didn’t want to wake me. I’ve slept in. A rarity.
Picking up my phone, I see the names flash up – Sandra, Tricia, Donna. I’ve a missed call from Jack’s office too. My heart skips a beat. But it isn’t the children. It’s the girls.
They’ve arrested Ian! Hubby saw the police outside the house early this morning. You can’t say we didn’t warn them… Sx
Rachel’s nowhere to be seen – we ought to pop round. Bake something. What do you bake in this situation? ‘Sorry your husband’s a murderer’ biscuits…? T xx
Missed you at school Jane, have you heard the news? Donna.
PS. Saw Jack earlier with the kids, lucky you having a lie-in! Sx
I’m thinking maybe a cake. Or a lasagne. Something to last her a while. Doubt she’ll feel like cooking. D’you know if she’s vege? Did she eat the last one you took round? T xx
I always thought there was something weird about Ian. Think he came onto me once, at a sports day. How inappropriate! I probably had a close call. Anyway, talk soon. Donna.
I lie back against the pillows, my heart thumping so hard that I have to put a hand to my chest, press down against the bones of my ribcage. I can feel every one of them, thin and hard under my fingers. Thank God I’m not at the school gates – I imagine the women’s faces, like vultures, crowding towards each other, the news travelling like wildfire from one end of the town to the other. Poor Rachel. Poor, poor Rachel.
There’s a text from Harry, too. Are you alright, Mum?
I wonder again how much my son knows about his parents. Of course, darling, I reply, everything’s fine here.
I picture Ian’s face at the Easter fair, the way he towered above Rachel. His gruff voice, military background. His concern over his stepdaughter; his hatred of Mark. Arrested. Murder. He’ll be tried. Unless he pleads guilty. In which case, he’ll be sentenced quickly. Over and done with.
I turn over, push my phone away from me and bury my head into the pillows, my pulse beating through my ears. My phone beeps again but I don’t even look at the screen. A few seconds later, it begins to ring but I ignore it.
The warm cotton soothes me for once and I force myself to close my eyes, feel the brush of the duvet against my cheek. In my head, I begin reciting the menu I’ll make for the children this week – casserole on Monday, chicken on Tuesday, shepherd’s pie on Wednesday, carbonara on Thursday, steamed fish on Friday. I have to just keep going. I can do it. There’s no reason why I can’t. Repeat, repeat, and repeat. That is my only option.
Unless, of course, I tell the truth.