After I hear the police car pull away, I sink on to the kitchen floor with my face in my hands for a long time. I managed to fool them but my head feels swelled and fit to burst with the volume of stuff I’m worrying about.
My mail-destroying plan seems a very bad idea now but it’s all I’ve got. It is the only way to set things straight and quick.
I glance at the wall clock and I’m astounded to see it’s nearly four in the afternoon. I know Liam will be wondering where I am, waiting to have a cuppa and a chat with me after being holed up in the house with Ivy all day long.
I stand up slowly, feeling woozy like I’ve had too much to drink.
The three black bin bags hunker down in the corner of the kitchen, full of silent threat. They seem bigger, somehow, as if the mail inside is stealthily growing in bulk.
Much as I want to get over to see Liam, I know I have to clear up this mess. It won’t do to allow any traces or clues to remain. I’m certainly not expecting any more unwanted visitors but it’s only sensible to plan for the unexpected.
My mind instantly presents scenarios that would be out of my control. Someone could break in when I’m out. If I forget to turn off a plug and there was an electrical fire, the local fire brigade would have to force entry. I’ll be discovered and nobody will believe I’m just having a temporary problem at work and that it isn’t my fault.
Pulling myself together, I stand up and go back outside. Squinting against the wind, I begin to shovel ashes out from the bottom of the incinerator.
They aren’t cool enough yet to pile into the wheelie bin so I stack them in a small pile in the corner of the disused coalhouse at the end of the yard.
There are a few larger unburned pieces of paper within the ashes that the eagle-eyed PC Storer somehow managed to spot.
I replace the lid on the incinerator and put that into the coalhouse too. Then I take the big brush and sweep up the tiny shards of paper that have fluttered out, escaping into the corners of the yard.
With the outside sorted, I go back inside and lock the door behind me. I feel so much safer with the gate and doors locked. I don’t like surprise visitors.
I take hold of all three bin bags and drag them back across the kitchen floor into the middle room. My throat seems blocked up with what feels like cotton wool, and I have to pause for a few seconds to catch my breath.
The bags are heavy but I’d rather do it in one trip upstairs if I possibly can.
I’ve barely taken a few steps into the middle room when something stops me dead in my tracks. I let go of the bags and lift my chin, inhaling deeply to the left and then to the right.
The smell I thought I had scrubbed and cleaned away only two days earlier is back with a vengeance. That rotting, vile stench.
There is something familiar about it but I don’t know what. There’s something hanging around on the edge of my memory that I can’t quite grasp.
I think I’ve smelled it before, not in the last week or so but years ago. A ragged lump swells in my throat and I take a few deep breaths to stave off the sickly feeling that’s quickly rising from my stomach.
Standing by the kitchen window, I grip the worktop to steady myself.
I look out, almost expecting the two officers to appear again from round the corner with their little faux-friendly waves and smiles. They’ll have to knock at the front door if they want to speak to me again and, of course, I won’t be so silly as to answer this time.
I take a couple of sips from a glass of water and reach for the bottle of cleaning fluid and a cloth from the cupboard underneath the sink. I venture back into the middle room and sniff the air. Yes, it’s there and back to its unbearable normal strength.
I move around the table. Is it my imagination or does the smell seem stronger on the side where the police sat?
I spray the tabletop and wipe around. Then I do the same on the chairs, including frames, legs and even the floral cushions, which are sodden with lemon cleaning fluid by the time I’ve finished.
I hear Albert yowling in the front room. I’d completely forgotten he was in there. When I open the door he stalks past, tail upright and refusing to look at me.
Albert hates visitors, too.
He makes a beeline for the table and proceeds to wind his way around the chair legs. He isn’t purring or pleasuring himself from the rub, he’s trying to eradicate the smell of the imposters. We both are.
Soon, the pungent sting of lemon cleaning fluid fills my nostrils and relieves the stench a little. Albert is none too pleased and within a minute or two he’s sneezing and hacking. He brushes past me with barely disguised disdain, and I open the kitchen door to let him outside.
‘Don’t go too far, Albert,’ I call before closing and locking the door again.
He’ll come round and forgive me later when I tempt him with one of his favourite treats.
I grab the bags again and half-drag, half-carry them upstairs. By the time I get them onto the landing, the bags are badly torn and a trail of letters spills all the way back down the stairs.
I sit on the top step to steady my shaking legs and stare back down at the litter of white and brown envelopes and multicoloured flyers.
Part of me wishes I could just set the whole house alight and get it all done with in one go. I could start afresh then. Even that, given my current luck, would fail.
No doubt the authorities would put the fire out before it destroyed all the mail, or the water tank would burst and extinguish the flames.
Sharp pains shoot across my scalp. I lower my hands and release clumps of hair, wriggling my fingers so that the tangles flutter down and settle on top of the scattered mail.
I can’t allow myself to get distracted like this or I’ll never make it to Liam’s house, and that would please Ivy and Amanda no end.
Ignoring the mess that is on the stairs for now, I stand up again and drag the bags along the length of the landing and into the spare bedroom, leaving them by the boiler cupboard until I can continue with my incinerator plan tomorrow.
I allow myself a little smile in the bathroom. I certainly outwitted the supposedly smart PC Cullen with my impromptu broken-toilet excuse.
I flush the loo and wash my hands at the sink. When I glance up at the small mirror a sharp cry escapes my lips.
My already sparse hairline has receded back very noticeably at my temples. Two large jagged patches of bare scalp are bleeding and inflamed.
I don’t know how it got so bad so quickly.