Marie wakes up crunched up on the couch. She pulls herself up on one elbow, feels the stiffness in her neck. Something sharp pokes into her chest, and she realises she has been lying on top of an eight-inch carving knife. She pulls the knife out from beneath her and holds it up, turning it this way and that. Flashes of light bounce off the surface and cast reflections on the walls.
She can’t go on like this.
Graeme is missing. Except he isn’t. Not really. It’s obvious now, like it should have been from the start.
She has barely slept, feels stiff. Her eyes sting. But she has to go to work. Feels a drive that she hadn’t realised before. But mainly, she has to get out of this flat. She will call Davie, tell him everything. She should call the police now – tell them she thinks Graeme is upstairs . . . but something stops her. Despite it all, he still has that hold over her. That bond she just can’t break. Even after all he’s done, she wants to see him. She needs to see him. Because he is still her brother.
After shoving the knife back into the wooden block bedside the others, she dresses quickly, doesn’t bother to do her hair. She grabs her swimming stuff and her work clothes and rushes out of the house before she can change her mind. Cadbury is dozing in her basket. She’ll be trapped inside all day now, but it’s the only option. She can’t leave the kitchen window open. Not now.
The swimming pool is quiet and she manages to get back into her usual routine. A mile, including the short wade across the shallow end to the steps at the end. The Australian lifeguard isn’t there. It’s a young girl that Marie recognises. She gives her a wave. She wants everything to look like normal. She imagines the girl being interviewed by a newspaper. ‘She didn’t seem worried to me. She swims here every day. Same routine. I didn’t notice anything unusual.’
Keep calm, Marie.
At work, she arrives wearing her best smile. Chats to the couple of old regulars who are sitting at the bar. Keeps it all in. Gives nothing away.
After the lunches have been cleared, she crouches down behind the bar and starts to remove all the bottles of mixers so that she can clean the shelves.
Keep busy, Marie.
She’s halfway through putting them back on the shelf when she hears the door to the lounge bar open. The sound of someone pulling back a stool. Dropping a bunch of keys on the bar.
‘Oi you, missus. Where’ve you been? I’ve left you messages.’
Marie turns at the sound of the familiar voice. Pastes her smile back on. Stands up, cloth still in hand.
‘Oh God, sorry,’ she says. ‘Just one of those weeks, you know . . .’ She lets the sentence trail off. This is Anne. One of her closest friends. One she’s been trying to avoid talking to for the past week, knowing that there will be only two questions asked: one, what’s the score with you and Davie?; and two, are you coming to the party? Anne can read Marie like a book. She can tell when she’s upset, tell when something is wrong. Marie has a tendency to retreat into her shell. She’s like a porcupine; she’ll stay inside and attack people with sharpened quills if they try to get her to unfurl. The only way to avoid Anne’s probing is to avoid Anne altogether. Marie feels her heart start to pick up the pace.
Keep it together, Marie.
Anne gives her a hard stare. ‘What’s going on, Marie?’
Marie feels herself start to sweat. Beads of moisture form on her back and trickle down towards the waistband of her skirt. ‘Let’s do lunch soon, OK?’ she tries. ‘I’ll tell you everything, I promise.’ She smiles, tries to let her pulse return to normal. ‘All set for the party?’
Anne looks wary, but she lets it pass. ‘Ian’s been to the cash and carry. The house is full of beer, wine and cheap crisps. If anyone wants anything more exotic, they can bring it themselves.’
‘You sure about all this? You don’t want the place getting totally trashed, do you? I’ve heard loads of people mentioning it. I reckon you’re going to have a full house, even if it is a Wednesday night.’
‘It’s summertime. No one cares what night it is, if someone’s supplying them with booze! Plus, I told you – it’s our last big blowout. We want to do it now before we start decorating the place, and well . . . once we start the IVF, I doubt we’ll be doing much partying.’ She looks away.
‘Hey,’ Marie says. She lays a hand over Anne’s, squeezes. ‘You’re not going to give a shiny shit about parties once this baby comes along. I can’t wait for that. We’re getting too old for all this boozing anyway.’
Anne smiles. ‘Yeah, I know. Maybe you can convince Ian, though? I think he’s worried he’s never going to sleep again. Personally, I’m just worried that it’s not going to work, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives pacing about in a house that’s too big for us, wondering why we didn’t just spend the money on a camper van and fuck off around Europe. God. Remember when we were eighteen and those houses got built and I said to you, “Oh, I’d love to live in Willow Walk when I’m older”? You laughed and said they’d look like shit in five years’ time. You were right. But I’m still glad we managed to buy one of them. It will be lovely when it’s all painted . . .’
Marie is about to say something else, when the door of the public bar slams shut. She flinches. Turns round. There’s no one through there. Empty pints have been left on the bar from the two old fellas that were there earlier, but they’d already left before Anne came in. She’d have washed their glasses after she’d finished refilling the mixers shelf. As it was, half of the tonics were still lined up on the floor like soldiers. The two pint glasses were still on the bar. Anne was looking at her strangely.
‘I . . . That door never bangs shut,’ Marie says, trying to fight off the feeling that someone had come in, and someone had left, and she hadn’t seen them. Her handbag was through there. Under the bar but not hard to find.
‘Hang on,’ she says to Anne.
Anne just watches her, quizzically.
Her handbag is where she left it. Doesn’t look like it’s been touched. She walks round the other side of the bar to the door and sees that the doorstop is lying in the middle of the floor. She opens the door, looks outside. No one is nearby.
‘Marie, is everything OK?’ Anne calls through from the other bar.
Marie is about to answer when she hears rustling in the store cupboard. Her heart almost stops as the door is opened. Helen walks out, looking down. Marie almost bumps into her.
‘Jesus, Helen, you gave me a heart attack!’
Helen laughs. ‘Shit, sorry. I knocked the doorstop when I came in and the door banged shut, then I came in here to leave my bag and this door shut behind me too. I’m determined to close all the doors behind me today, for some reason . . . I’m a bit early, but you can go if you want. Doesn’t look like there’s much doing.’
Marie takes her handbag from under the bar and walks back through to Anne. ‘Let’s go,’ she says.
‘See ya!’ Helen calls behind them. Marie ignores her.
‘What was that all about? You’re a nervous wreck.’
Marie shakes her head. ‘Want to walk back home with me? I, um . . . I’m just feeling a bit out of it at the moment.’
Anne stops walking, pulls Marie back. Twirls her round to face her. They are about the same size, and Marie feels uncomfortable with her friend’s face so close to her own. She feels herself shrink back, pull away.
‘I think you might need a rest, Marie. Forget about the party. Go home and get some sleep. You look dead on your feet. You’re probably coming down with something and I’d prefer if you kept it to yourself, OK?’ Anne smiles, but Marie can see the worry in her eyes.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Marie says. They both know that she won’t.
At home, the air in the flat feels thick and stale. Marie searches the cupboards for something to drink. The cat hears her come in, pads across the kitchen lino. Shoves herself up against Marie’s leg, rubbing at her. Mewling. She can sense something is wrong. Knows it’s not normal for Marie to leave her shut inside.
Marie takes down the final bottle of wine. Opens the cupboard beneath and takes out the pile of letters.
She’ll read one or two, she thinks. That’s all. Then she’s definitely phoning the police. She glances up at the ceiling, expecting to hear the now familiar scrape of someone moving around up there, but there is nothing. The only sound is the hum of the fridge as the fan starts whirring. The sound of her own breathing. The quiet purr of the cat sitting on her lap.
She pours red wine into a tumbler. Drinks. Slides a letter out and unfolds it. Tries to ignore her shaking hands as she starts to read.