Ipswich
10th August: The night of the murder
Emma
The sight of the knife startles me; I didn’t think she had it in her. The kettle, boiling hot, sits beside me, ready for our tea. I was going to chat things over with her, force her to see my side of the story. Force her to see how much she’d hurt us. Make her feel bad for what she has done. Make her feel guilty. We’re going to France tomorrow, so that even if she tried to talk to him then, she wouldn’t be able to. We’d be miles away. I worked up the nerve to come round, knowing that in less than 24 hours’ time, I’d be on a plane. I’d be safe.
But I don’t think that’s what she has in mind.
‘Put the knife down,’ I say to her, not smiling any more, because even though I came here, I did this, I didn’t think she’d react in this way. Not really. I thought I had the measure of Caroline Harvey, but it turns out that perhaps I was wrong.
‘I want you to leave,’ she says, and she moves towards me, the knife outstretched. It’s a kitchen knife with a sharp, clean edge; the silver blade sparkles under her horrible kitchen lights.
I hate myself for being scared. I hate her for using this against me.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask her, willing my voice to come out strong and taunting rather than shaky and frightened. ‘D’you think my father is going to come near you ever again if you hurt me, Caroline?’ I force out a laugh, my eyes never leaving the knife. ‘I bet he wishes he’d never come near you in the first place. You’re messed up.’
She shrugs, the knife moving up and down, cutting through the air. The vein on her forehead is still there, snaking its way unattractively across her skin.
‘Put the knife down,’ I say again, and I make a leap forward, intending to grab it off her, but before I can do so she drops it, the weapon clattering onto the cheap plywood floor. I dive for it, grab the handle and stand up, breathing heavily, my long fingers curving around the plastic. It feels strange underneath my palm. I feel as though I’m watching myself from above, looking down on my body as I face Caroline across her kitchen.
I want to put it down, or throw it out of the window, anywhere that it’s not in her grasp, but she’s only a metre away from me and I can’t risk letting go of it in case she grabs it again. I dart my eyes to the left, checking to see if there are any more but I can’t see any. She’ll know, though. She might have a whole drawer full of them. My heart is thudding and my hands feel slippery. Somewhere in the room, a phone beeps with a message – hers or mine, I can’t be sure.
I’m pointing the knife towards her, my eyes still on her face. I want to get out of here, now, the ideas I had about confronting her feel stupid, dislocated from reality, and suddenly all I can think about is being back at home with Dad, putting my feet on his knees as we watch TV, waiting for Mum to come home from book group. I don’t want to be here in this weird little flat with a knife in my hand. But I don’t want her to hurt me, either. I don’t know what to do. I drop the knife.