Here’s the thing with being a killer: for the most part, it doesn’t change a person from appearing ‘normal’. Murderers still have unexpected items in the bagging area and get stuck in traffic jams. We’re still against racism and sexism. We support gay marriage and love Attenborough documentaries. We’re not monsters. We go to work and lose hours looking at videos of dogs on the Internet when we’re supposed to be doing other things. Taking the life of another human doesn’t stop the world from turning. Day becomes night becomes day.
Everyone else has spent two years thinking David disappeared. What I did to him only changed me in the sense that I know murder is something of which I’m capable. Serial killers can be glorified, but I’ve never had the urge to repeat the act. I suspect most people who’ve killed are like me. We live in plain sight. We’re neighbours and friends; colleagues and relatives – it’s just that our secrets run somewhat deeper than most.
My phone buzzes as the photo arrives from Jane. I pinch the screen and zoom to take in the features of my dead husband.
Is it him?
It looks like him – but the photo is pixelated on my screen. I pinch in and out but can’t be certain. David didn’t have any distinguishing features like tattoos, deformed ears, or a big nose. The man in the picture has the same greying hair and rigidly straight back as my David.
He’s only visible from the chest up, but it looks like he’s wearing a navy-blue suit. David did used to own one, though most of his clothes ended up at the charity shop.
I look up from the phone, scanning the room for anyone in a blue suit.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Fine,’ I answer, too quickly. I assume she never noticed the figure at the back of her photo. Why would she? She’d have no need to be scanning the other people in the picture.
‘I’ve got to get going,’ Jane says, dangling her car keys from her ring finger. ‘Congratulations on the win. I’m so pleased for you.’ She leans in and kisses me on the cheek and then hoists her bag higher on her shoulder. ‘We’ll catch up soon,’ she adds.
Having been ready for sleep, it now feels like I’ve downed a quadruple espresso. My head is buzzing and it’s as if I can suddenly see more clearly. People are starting to drift away from the main room; heading to bed, or out to their cars to drive home. Others are crowding around the bar, while the DJ at the back is busy talking over the music. A few of the more inebriated are already on the dance floor, flapping around like epileptic farm animals.
I do a lap of the room, looking for anyone in a blue suit. There are a couple of men – but none who look like my former husband. David didn’t have any brothers or cousins that I know of. I stop to look at the image once more, but it’s hard to know either way. Jane’s phone has a bigger screen than mine.
I can barely watch a television show in which there’s not someone who looks a bit like someone else I sort of know. If I’m ever watching something new, I spend half the show trying to figure out what I’ve seen the lead actor in before, and the other half wondering who the rest of the cast look like. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that there’s someone who looks like David.
The award in my hand means that various people are stopping me every few paces, largely to say congratulations – although it’s hard to miss the head tilts and sympathetic smiles. The story goes that David disappeared two years ago and it’s as if everyone expects me to be constantly on the brink of a breakdown.
I do a second lap of the room and, after seeing nobody who looks like David, I head towards the reception area of the hotel. There are plush crimson carpets and more people milling around. Someone is lugging a suitcase to the front desk, though there is no one in a blue suit.
I’m not sure what else to do and find myself in the elevator, pressing the button for the upstairs floor to head to my room. A man eyes my trophy and nods an acknowledgement.
When I get upstairs, I spend the usual amount of time trying to get into my room. The keycard fails to work on the first two attempts and, as I’m about to start cursing everyone involved in the hotel industry, I realise it’s because I’m using it the wrong way around.
Inside, and I clip on the chain and thunk down the lock. I sit on the bed and stare at Jane’s photo. The resemblance to David is uncanny. He might not have had any significant distinguishing features – but he had a solid jaw and thick brows that framed his dark eyes and always seemed to give him an authority. I tell myself it’s not him – that I, more than anyone, know it can’t be.
I’m still staring at the photo when the phone buzzes and makes me jump. It’s from Andy.
How did it go?
I begin a reply, but my fingers are trembling too much to type properly. It doesn’t help that autocorrect is up to its usual standards of changing words like ‘sleepy’ into ‘slutty’. That would be an entirely different kind of reply, so I call him instead.
Andy sounds surprised when he answers: ‘You sound more coherent than I thought you might,’ he says.
‘I’ve not been drinking.’
‘I thought you’d either be partying or sleeping. How did you do?’
‘I won.’
There’s a slight delay and I wonder whether the line has cut out, but then he replies: ‘You don’t sound too excited about it…?’
I’m not sure how to answer but manage: ‘It’s been a long day, that’s all. I think I need some sleep. Shall we catch up after your class tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
Andy’s not the type to hold grudges or start arguments – but I can’t quite tell from his voice whether he’s annoyed.
‘I’m looking forward to Saturday,’ he adds.
‘Me, too.’ I wait and then add: ‘Good night.’
He chirps ‘I love you’ and there’s a split second in which I consider saying it back. I have said the words to him before, but it doesn’t feel right now. Things seem different. I quickly press the red button to hang up instead. He’ll think that I didn’t hear him.
Another yawn purges through me and the clock says that it’s almost midnight. The past hour has charged by.
I don’t know what to do. In many ways, nothing is different. I came to these awards as planned, I won, and now the night is over. Everything is the same and yet nothing is. I look at the photo once more, where David’s face is peering out from the back of the winners. I zoom in and out, I fiddle with the brightness and contrast, but there’s no denying it’s him or someone who looks uncannily like him.
I down my phone and then rest the trophy on the nightstand. After that, I wriggle out of my dress, before having a wash in the bathroom. It’s not long before I’m drawn back to the photo. I can’t leave it alone. It’s not David and yet, somehow, it is. He’s frozen in the moment; neither smiling or frowning, his gaze angled towards Jane as if he knows precisely where the camera is.
When I look at the clock again, it’s a few minutes after one. Another hour has zipped by, as if I’ve blinked forward in time.
There’s a bump from the corridor and I hurry across the room until I’m pressing my eye to the spyhole. The hallway is bloated from the fisheye glass, though the only thing of interest is a messy tray of room service left on the floor outside the opposite door.
I return to the bed and sit, then lie, then sit, then stand. Nothing is comfortable.
I slept next to David for long enough – I married him, I killed him – and yet, two years on, he’s seemingly here again. Is it a twin? A brother? A cousin? It’s not as if he didn’t lie about his family once. More than once.
As I lie on the bed and stare at the dimpled bumps of plaster on the ceiling, I can only think of the night it all happened. There was so much I never knew about my husband and now, I suppose, there might be one more thing.