I wake at nine a.m., my head a little thick from drinking the best part of a bottle of wine last night. I remember Seb grabbing himself some water before I wrote down the alarm code for him and we said a rather awkward good night. After he disappeared upstairs, I made sure all the doors on the lower and ground floors were shut, before switching on the alarm, killing the lights and retiring to my room. For some time I lay there, thinking about the evening, about how much I enjoyed Seb’s company, how comfortable he made me feel. He has such a warmth about him, and I feel able to be myself with him, show him my vulnerable side. Because of this, I felt so guilty for snapping at him when he asked me who I thought the man he’d seen loitering on the street might be. I had a good idea, and I’m pretty certain it’s unrelated to the email Dr Martin received, but if I told him it would mean getting into things I’d rather leave well alone, as well as defeat the whole purpose of me banning him from speaking to Stella next door.
Despite Seb’s affability, I can tell he’s haunted by something. I don’t for one minute believe it’s anything bad he might have done, like the email to Dr Martin insinuated. But there’s something troubling him. I wanted to ask him if everything was OK, but it’s clear he holds his cards close to his chest, and I didn’t want to risk offending him. Perhaps, with time, he’ll confide in me. I’m guessing some kind of heartbreak lies at the root of his distress. Which explains why he clammed up when I asked him if he wanted to settle down some day.
I guess at some point I drifted off to sleep, but I don’t feel rested. Given how much I drank it’s hardly surprising, and I know I only have myself to blame. I shouldn’t use alcohol as a crutch, but it helps take the edge off my anxiety. Anxiety which made a comeback in the years before Charles died, and recently only seems to have got worse what with all that’s transpired lately. I just pray to God that all the precautions I took to keep this house secure and me safe are enough.
Last night was different as far as my drinking’s concerned, in that I drank for pleasure, because I was enjoying Seb’s company and it felt nice being able to chat with another human being over a bottle of wine. Just for a few hours I forgot about my worries, about my past, and it felt good, so freeing.
Before the night that changed everything – the night I saw him for the first time in years – I barely drank at all. I’d perhaps have the odd glass, but never more than that, because after I went to live with my aunt and uncle I pledged never to put myself in a situation where someone could take advantage of me. Particularly a man. And then later, when I met and married Charles, I was so happy, so in love, his company was all the stimulant I needed. But then my worst nightmare happened, on our six-year anniversary, and I couldn’t help reaching for the bottle. Particularly when, just four days later, something else happened to scare the hell out of me. I drank not just to allay my anxiety, but to blot out the memories, if only fleetingly. Memories from long ago, but also, more recent ones. Memories that stoked the guilt and the shame in me. I went from barely touching alcohol to getting through nearly a bottle a night. Naturally, Charles noticed. But after I explained why, he understood. He wasn’t angry I had kept my past from him. And that had been such a blessed relief.
But then the drinking got out of hand. The weeks turned into months, the months into years, and it took a toll on our relationship. I just couldn’t stop myself. It was the only way to dull the crushing anxiety I felt. I could literally feel the blood pumping through my veins, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. Charles was a disciplined man himself. He only ever drank on weekends, which made my drinking more noticeable. It was hard fobbing him off when he asked me to seek help. I told him there was nothing to worry about, that I would get through it, that all I needed was time. But he wasn’t stupid, he knew that no amount of time would help me get over what had happened in the restaurant the night of our anniversary. He couldn’t have been kinder, more patient, more understanding. But the truth is, I was ashamed. Because I hadn’t been entirely honest with him. Not by a long shot. I hadn’t told him about the horrifying incident that happened four days later. And the deceit ate me up. To the point that, gradually, we drifted apart. It’s my fault. And it’s something I regret with all my heart.
We had a blazing row the day he died. He said I had a drinking problem, that he didn’t recognise the person he’d married. He accused me of being moody, aggressive, but also withdrawn. As if I no longer found him attractive. It’s true we went from having a good sex life, to barely touching one another. Something that put a strain on our marriage, because intimacy had always been a huge part of our relationship. I hadn’t known sex could be as good and pure as it had been with Charles. But that night, when he said all that, I told him I’d been a fool to believe he was different, that he was just like other men, only after one thing. That he didn’t really care about me, that all he cared about was getting laid. I remember the wounded look on his face. Something that stings even now, seven years on, when I think about it. I should have apologised, but instead I held my ground. And that’s when he called me a heartless bitch. Said he was moving out because he couldn’t take much more of my erratic behaviour. He’d never spoken that harshly towards me, and his words were like a knife through my heart. I’d stormed off to bed, calling him a callous bastard who could go fuck himself in the spare room.
Those were the last words I uttered to him. Words said in spite and which I regret with all my heart. Secretly, I wonder if they caused him to overdose on morphine, then take that swim, intending to kill himself. I knew severe stress made his knee pain worse, and the thought that I may have driven the love of my life to commit suicide is unbearable. It’s tormented me ever since.
I stretch out my arms, then roll over onto my side and instinctively reach for my watch on the bedside table. Half asleep, I pick it up, slide it on to my wrist, then get out of bed and go to the bathroom, use the loo, before washing my face and pausing to examine the faint lines that are starting to form with age. I know I look good for thirty-nine, that I could pass for my early thirties, but sometimes I feel a lot older because of all I’ve endured over the years. The pain and loss I have suffered is enough to fill a lifetime. It’s embedded in the dark shadows beneath my eyes. I go over to the door and remove my dressing gown from the hook before slipping it on and securing it tightly around my waist. Outside on the landing I am greeted with silence. I’m guessing Seb’s gone for his run. I walk around to the top of the stairs, pausing by his room. I put my ear to the door but hear nothing. I’m tempted to go inside, check it out, but I restrain myself. As my lodger, Seb has far fewer rights than a tenant, and I’d have every right to inspect his room without giving him notice. But it would feel wrong to do so without him present. Even though a part of me wants to, just to prove to whoever sent Dr Martin that email that I have nothing to fear from Seb.
I go downstairs and head straight for the kitchen. Spend the next ten minutes or so making a cafetière of fresh real coffee before pouring myself a mug and taking it through to the study where I unplug my phone from the wall and check my messages. There are several but only one sends chills through me. Sent around 3:15 a.m. Via the same Protego@vistamail.com email address used to message Dr Martin.
I’m watching you. And I’m watching your new lodger. I don’t think he’s as meddlesome as Ethan, but I still think he’s hiding something, like I told Dr Martin, and I’m betting it has something to do with his mother’s death. It’s just a feeling I have from the way he talks about her. But clearly, he’s hidden his tracks well, and for good reason, because I can’t find any trace of him online. Which is suspicious in itself for a young man like him. I know you like him, but you’d be wise to fight your repellent urges; you know it never ends well when you allow them to get too close. And don’t even think about telling him or the police about this message because if you do, I’ll reveal your secret and your life as you know it will be over. Don’t be scared. I know you’re upset about Dr Adams, but you need to move on, forget about him. You need to look out for number one.
Fear pulses through me as I practically throw the phone back down on the desk, as if it’s laced with poison. I get up, rush around the room, scanning the ceiling, the walls, searching for some kind of camera or listening device, even though I only did that on Thursday, but again there’s nothing obvious that I can see. It doesn’t make sense. When I had the house remodelled, I made sure it was impregnable, so it’s hard to imagine how anyone would be able to get inside. Unless it’s an inside job, perhaps one of the workers at the company I hired? But why would any of them be interested in me? I can’t even recall their names, let alone their faces. It’s clear that whoever sent this message has been inside the house, though, because they know what I’m hiding. It’s also obvious it’s the same person who emailed Dr Martin. But why have they now chosen to contact me directly? And why, unlike the first message which seemed friendly, protective even, is this second one spiked with menace? Disgust, almost.
I wonder – was this creep listening in on my conversation with Seb last night? Or worse, watching? How else would they have known about the way Seb talked about his mother? And how upset I am about Dr Adams’s death?
Not for the first time, I wonder if Stella could be behind the messages. It’s true she’s grown more hostile towards me since the whole business with Ethan. I think she was jealous from the moment I took him in as my lodger. What with him being young, handsome and smart. Ethan and I never went out on dates, to restaurants or bars or anything – the last thing I needed was people gossiping, plus we never professed to be a couple – but equally, we weren’t always as discreet as we might have been. Perhaps she saw us kissing on the rooftop, the only place other than inside the house I felt sure we could be safe from prying eyes. Plus, I’m sure she’s angry with me for telling the police she has a drinking problem, thereby discrediting her claim to have seen someone up on the roof with Ethan. Perhaps the letters are payback for this? Her wanting to scare me, seek revenge, by inventing stuff about Seb out of pure spite.
Then again, how could Stella know about my secret? That’s what baffles me. Unless she found out in the brief period after Charles died when she used to come over and keep me company. I wasn’t entirely with it, perhaps failed to keep things as secure as I might have done. But if that’s the case, what’s stopped her from going to the police? It makes no sense that she would have kept it to herself all this time.
And then there’s Max. He has fingerprint access, knows the house inside out. But he only came on the scene a month ago, and he doesn’t have keys to every room. Besides, I get the feeling we’re dealing with someone much older here.
So, if Stella or Max aren’t behind the emails, then who is? And how do they know what I’ve been hiding?
It’s then that a startling realisation smacks me in the face. One that briefly crossed my mind when I first read the email Dr Martin received, remembering that hideous night years ago. When I was forced to do something that forever bound me to this house. A shocking truth I kept from Charles. I’d hoped they weren’t connected but now that seems like a distinct possibility with this latest message and reference to my secret. Fact is, there is someone out there who knows the truth, but they promised I’d never hear from them again so long as I did what they asked. Which I did. But what’s most terrifying is that I have no idea who they are or what they look like. All I received at the time was an anonymous note.
I can’t know for sure if it’s the same person, but it’s a possibility I cannot ignore. I lay my head in my hands, my mind in turmoil, before once again picking up my phone and reading the message:
The meaning of the words couldn’t be clearer. And now, and as much as I can’t bear to admit it, I can’t help wondering if there is some truth to what Stella claimed she saw the night Ethan died.
I’ve been so desperate to believe Ethan’s death was a tragic accident, but is it possible he was pushed after all?
If so, by whose hand? That’s the question.