Davie knows he has to tread carefully. If his theory is right, if Marie Bloomfield is Marie Woodley, then not only is he amazed that she’s managed to create any sort of life for herself at all, but there’s also the real worry that she might be in danger. But he can’t just storm in there and ask her about her brother. She’s never hinted that she might have one. In fact, hadn’t she said she was an only child? So far it’s only a theory, and it’s been pieced together by evidence he is not even supposed to have. The official news reports don’t mention Woodley having a sister. But maybe that’s because they weren’t allowed to. Marie’s identity as his victim wouldn’t be released, regardless of whether they were related or not.
Did Graeme Woodley attack the woman at the bus stop because he genuinely thought she was Marie? Or was it just a coincidence that the first person he saw when he ran across those fields was a woman that reminded him of his sister? If Davie is right, then there’s no doubt that Woodley is trying to send a message. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that Marie hasn’t received it. He’s spoken to Malkie, asked if they should talk to Marie, tell her about the attack on the woman – who has now been identified as the housekeeper for the farm next to where she was found. Tell her about Woodley’s escape – see if it leads her to open up. The hospital is desperate to keep it low-key, out of the papers. But it’s only a matter of time. Malkie will make a statement to the press. Once they find out that Woodley’s sister is in the vicinity, it’ll be a sensationalist headache for all concerned.
He has to talk to Marie.
He’s not giving her the chance to avoid him this time. He knows she’s off work – she’d said so during their disastrously brief day out. Before she’d run off and left him wondering what the hell was going on. And what is it that’s going on? Davie wonders. Maybe this hasn’t got anything to do with him at all. He doesn’t really know her, not enough to understand her. He’s always struggled with women. Never been able to work out what it is they really want from him.
He lets his thoughts trail off. Has he got it all wrong? Maybe Woodley isn’t her brother. Or maybe he is, but he hasn’t been in touch after all. It could be anything. She could be ill. Jesus, she could be ill and she’s too scared to get involved with him . . . His mind is all over the place, like the tangled tape of a cassette chewed up in an old stereo.
Just talk to her, Davie.
He walks round to her flat. Rings the buzzer. No reply. He waits a moment. Tries it again. He could go round the back – that gate at the side is never locked – but he doesn’t want to appear at the kitchen window and give her the fright of her life. He could use the key. Let himself in. But something stops him. It doesn’t feel right. He tries the buzzer again. This time she answers.
‘Hello?’ Her voice sounds disconnected, far away. Tired.
‘Marie? It’s Davie. I was worried about you. Thought I’d pop round.’
Silence. Broken by the faint crackle of static from the intercom.
‘Marie?’
She doesn’t say anything else, just clicks the button to let him in. There is a buzz and a snick as the door is released. He goes in, walks round the corner. Expects her to have already opened the door to her flat. The door is closed. The corridor is dark without the light from the panes on the front door around the corner. A strip light above crackles and flickers, giving out a low hum and a dim light. Davie frowns. Knocks on the door.
‘Marie? It’s me.’
Again, it takes too long for her to answer. He is about to knock again when he hears the rattle of the chain being taken off. The key in the mortise lock being turned. The catch on the Chubb sliding off. He feels a flutter of fear in his stomach. He’s worried that he’s already too late.
She opens the door, but he barely catches a glimpse of her face. She has already turned back, headed inside. Davie senses a stillness. A darkness. The curtains are still drawn, despite the sunny day that is trying to filter its way inside. He closes the door behind him, locks it and slides the chain onto the runner. In the living room, Marie is curled up on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes are fixed on the TV screen, where Jeremy Kyle is silently berating his plethora of unruly, undesirable guests. Marie’s hair is mussed, sticking out at all angles. Her face is pale and her eyes are ringed with dark shadows.
‘I’ll make us some tea,’ he says. He tries to keep his voice jovial, but it’s not easy. The fear in his stomach has grown tendrils, and they are slowly worming their way throughout the rest of his body, making his limbs shake. Trickling up and down his spine like an annoying bug.
Davie picks up the kettle. An empty wine bottle lies on its side in the washing up basin; a tumbler, stained red, lies beside it. He fills the kettle. Ignores what is in the sink. He’s never made tea here before. Last time he was round, a couple of weeks ago, he sat at the kitchen table while Marie chirped and fussed, making tea in a pot and putting different kinds of biscuits onto plates. It is very different today. The mood is sombre. Muted. It can’t go on like this.
He opens a cupboard to the left of the sink. Glasses. Napkins. Nothing else. He opens one to the right. Cups, saucers. Paperwork. Mugs. He reaches in to lift two mugs from the bottom shelf and, as he does, his wrist catches the upper shelf, flicking it up off the brackets. A cascade of envelopes slides out on top of him, hitting his face, shooting across the worktop, sliding onto the floor. He tries to catch them, knocks a mug onto the floor. It clatters hard, shatters into tiny pieces.
‘Shit . . . shit . . .’ he mutters. He tries to scoop up the envelopes while trying to avoid standing on the fragments of broken mug. He makes a mess of both: letters slipping through his hands, pieces of ceramic crunching under his feet.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
Marie is standing behind him. He turns, looks into her eyes. Her face is blotchy. Her eyes are red with tiredness and anger.
‘Sorry, I . . . I’m cleaning it up. Have you got a little dustpan and brush?’
‘Have you been reading my letters?’ Her voice is monotone. Hard.
‘What? No. Of course not.’ He glances down at the scattered pile on the worktop. He notes that the handwriting is identical on each. A franked postmark on the top right, with a crest that looks frighteningly familiar. He’s seen it recently. On the website for the hospital. He picks one up, flips it over. There is no sender’s name on the back.
Marie snatches the letter from his hand. Pushes him out of the way, grabs at the pile. Envelopes fall from her hands and spill to the floor. She scrabbles around, flailing. Gaining nothing.
‘Marie, your feet!’ Davie says.
Marie looks down. Her feet are bare. She has already stood on pieces of broken mug. Small pools of blood are peppered between her toes. She stares down at her feet until eventually her shoulders droop. She lets the remaining letters fall from her hands. He watches as her shoulders rise and fall with the weight of her silent sobbing.
He scoops her up into his arms, carries her through to the living room. Lays her down gently on the couch. He picks ceramic splinters from the soles of her feet. He sits, holds her hand. Waits for her to speak. Marie says nothing, but he can feel her hand shaking and he squeezes it tight.
‘Marie . . . I know something’s bothering you. I can’t help if you don’t tell me. Is it me? Is it us? If you’re having second thoughts, I understand.’
She sniffs, pulls her hand away. ‘It’s not you.’
Davie laughs, he can’t help it. ‘It’s not you, it’s me? Is that what this is about?’ He’s trying to lighten it, inject a bit of humour. He’s almost certain that Marie’s spiralling behaviour has nothing to do with him, but he doesn’t want to push her too far. She might retreat completely then. That isn’t going to help anyone.
She turns to face him and gives him a small smile. ‘That’s not what I was going to say.’ She sighs. ‘Christ, Davie. There’s so much I need to tell you. About me. About . . . lots of things. But I’m scared.’
He pulls her close and she leans in against him. ‘You should never be scared to tell me anything, you know. I might not be able to help. But I can always listen. Always.’ He strokes her arm. She gazes up at him, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. Davie takes his cue. He touches her cheek, lifts a stray strand of hair and gently tucks it behind her ear. Then he bends to kiss her, takes his hand away from her arm, starts to stroke the back of her neck. The kiss is soft. Tender. And he feels her start to respond. He runs his hand down her back, kisses her harder.
She stiffens. Pulls away.
‘Did you hear that?’
Davie suppresses a sigh. ‘What? I didn’t hear anything.’
She slides over to the far end of the couch, her hand rubbing at the back of her neck, as if she’s been burned by his touch. ‘That . . . there it is again.’ She stares up at the ceiling.
‘Probably just someone moving their living room around,’ he says. ‘Christ, you’re jumpy. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’
Marie crosses her arms and looks away. ‘Sorry. It’s not you . . . It’s nothing. Just some stuff I need to deal with. You should go. Please!’
Davie sighs. The silence is suffocating.
Fuck it. He sits up straight. ‘Who sent you those letters, Marie? What’s in them? Is someone harassing you?’ He stops, realises he is getting carried away, firing questions at her.
There is only the briefest hesitation. ‘No,’ she whispers, her voice muffled behind her hands. ‘I told you. It’s nothing. Please, can you go now? I just want to be on my own.’
This is a nightmare. He wants her to talk, but he can’t force her. He’d thought she’d have no choice but to respond to his direct approach. He’s trying to let her know that he knows. Trying to give her the chance to open up. But she’s keeping it locked up. Whatever it is, she’s not ready to share it. But he can’t just do nothing. He can’t just leave it like this. He takes a deep breath.
‘Be careful, Marie. There’s something you should know. There’ll be a statement on the news soon, but while I’m here . . . A woman was attacked. Badly. An inmate from a local hospital has gone missing. We don’t know for sure if the events are connected yet, but we’re going to urge people to be careful. Keep a look out for him, but don’t approach him—’
‘What’s his name?’ Marie’s voice is flat. Emotionless.
‘Woodley,’ he says. ‘Graeme Woodley.’
She stares at him, but she doesn’t react. He leaves her lying curled on the couch. The cat pads into the room as he leaves. Looks at him with disgust, in a way that only cats can.
21st July 2015
Dear Marie,
I’m going to try something else. Forget about everything else I’ve sent. Pretend you’ve never read it. Take it all and throw it in the kitchen sink and burn it.
Let’s start again.
Never mind me. I’ve got nothing to say. Tell me about you. Are you married? Do you have children? I hope you’ve told them about me. About the games we used to play. About the fun we used to have. Do you still watch horror films? I used to love snuggling up with you, feeling you shudder when you were scared. Feeling your warm body pressed up against mine. I know you didn’t mean it when you told me you didn’t want me to hug you like that any more.
What happened to that boy, by the way? Did you marry him?
He wasn’t good enough for you.
I tried to tell you that.
If only you’d listened.
Your loving brother,
Graeme