STEPHANIE

I’m running late, barely able to remember the days when I used to walk calmly to work, when Jess rings again. “Still nothing?”

“No.” I hold my phone underneath my chin as I do up my coat. It’s chilly this morning and dark still, the sun reluctant to rise. “No sign of him whatsoever.” I glance behind me at the car park, twisting my neck. I’m aching from being on the couch all night, my eyes puffy with insomnia.

He could be anywhere. I thought about ringing his parents or one of his brothers last night, but what would I have said? Besides, he’s too proud to seek help from them. He wouldn’t risk them finding out about the letter.

“How are your girls?” Jess asks. It sounds as though she’s filling a kettle while speaking.

“Not too bad, all things considered. But I had to tell them—it was obvious something serious was happening. Was that all right?”

“Course.” She’s moving around, slamming drawers, rattling cutlery. “I had to tell my girls too.”

“It’s just that you said not to talk to anyone...”

“I meant them—the men.”

“Oh. Yes.” She always makes me feel stupid. I don’t think it’s intentional.

I think about the background noise then, realizing she’s not on her way to work. “Where are you?”

“At home with the girls.”

“Aren’t they going to school?”

“No, they’re too upset... Why, yours aren’t, are they?”

I bow my head as the wind gets up, shaking the trees as I pass underneath them, leaves tumbling. One lands on my shoe, disappears as I move. I feel as frail as a fallen leaf; I’m not sure how long I can hang on.

“Steffie?” She’s waiting for me to reply. I try to recall what we were talking about.

School.

“Georgia’s the only one who’s still at school,” I say. “My other two daughters have jobs to show up for. And I can’t take any more time off, not after being out last week.”

“But don’t you think you’d be better off at home, all of you? I mean, obviously, you know what’s best for your family, but you’re safe, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m just worried, that’s all.” She stops what she’s doing, her voice sounding closer. “Max said that Dan was the worst person to have found out. Why would he have said that?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps you should ask him yourself.”

“There’s no need to be defensive. I’m just trying to cover all bases. I made you a promise, remember—to keep you safe. And I meant it.”

Do I sound defensive? Perhaps. I haven’t slept—am covered in perspiration, having made the wrong choice of a fitted wool turtleneck this morning. And I’m just about managing to walk in a straight line, so I’m bound to go on the defensive if she implies that I’m not protecting my girls. I’ve looked after them long enough, on my own in the early years too.

“Even if you’re right, Jess, and there is something to worry about, I still think we’re better off surrounded by people, in our normal routine. Not sat like goldfish in a bowl at home.”

“Good. Okay.” Her voice brightens and she goes back to shutting drawers, moving around. “I just wanted to know that you’d thought it through.”

“Of course I have. I’m not a complete...” I trail off. I’m not far from work now, about to turn into the Circus. I need to end the call, get my mind focused on the day ahead.

“It’s just that if you’re worried, Steffie, then we should think about phoning the police.”

“Well, I’m not. I know Dan. He wouldn’t do anything to harm us.”

Would he? I can’t say for sure, not anymore. But he’s still my husband. Resolving things quietly between ourselves was one thing, but I’m not ready to betray him on a larger scale. Right from the start, I was clear about not contacting the police, and I’m not going to back down on that now.

“So, where do you reckon he is?” she asks.

“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s gone somewhere to lick his wounds.”

“Which is why he could be dangerous.”

“No. You—”

“We wouldn’t have to tell the police everything, Stef. We could just get you some protection, if you felt you needed it.”

“Well, I don’t. He’s never given me any reason to be afraid of him.”

I doubt my words as soon as I say them. Sometimes, I can hear Nicky Waite’s narrative above my own, seeing his heroic military tag in a whole new light. Narrative? That’s not a word I would normally use. It’s a Rosie word. I speak Rosie now.

I’m standing outside work, the streetlight casting a sickly yellow glow on the pavement. I rest my hand lightly on the railing spike, testing it through my glove. “I thought we didn’t want a scandal.”

“We don’t. But two women are dead because of them. We have to be careful.”

I look up at the first floor of the building to the reception where my colleague Ali is pulling up the blinds. “I really have to go. I’m late.”

“Okay. Just promise me you won’t take any chances.”

“I promise.”

I decide to walk to town at lunchtime for the fresh air. On my way back, the wind is icy and forceful, pushing me along faster than I’d like to go. I’m trying not to eat a mouthful of hair, unsticking it from my lipstick, when I catch sight of Dan outside work, his back to me.

You always know your husband’s back, or anyone else’s whom you love. Do I still love him? I don’t know. My first instinct is to hide, though—to duck down the steps beside me, leading to a basement. If I’m quick...

But he has spotted me, and there’s nothing for me to do but continue toward him.

He’s wearing his work coat, indigo jeans, polished brogues. You would think he was meeting me in his lunch hour like any other day.

My hands feel numb. I left my gloves on my desk, didn’t think I’d need them since I was so warm all morning. Yet my index finger has turned a morbid white. And I’m holding it, cocooning it in my other hand, when we meet.

There’s a moment, with the sunshine on our faces and the wind tugging our clothes, when I sense regret. He wishes none of it had ever happened, and so do I.

And then it passes and he opens his mouth to speak, the smell of alcohol permeating. Up close, he doesn’t look well. He’s unshaven, his eyes are bloodshot, and I think of what Jess said about not taking any chances.

“Stephanie.” That’s all he says. I wait for more, but that’s it.

“Hello, Dan. How are you?” This feels wooden, as though I’m a terrible actor, using over-rehearsed lines.

After a long pause, he says, “How do you think I am?”

“Not so good, I would imagine.”

“Then you would imagine correctly.”

I glance at Chappell and Black’s. “Can we...?”

“Walk and talk? Absolutely.” He takes my arm. There’s no tension there—no tight grip or aggression. If it weren’t for the smell of whiskey, I wouldn’t think anything was wrong.

We stop outside work. “I’d better get on. We’re very busy today.”

He nods. “Mustn’t keep them waiting, then.” I scan him for sarcasm, but there doesn’t appear to be any.

“Are you going to be all right?” I ask.

I don’t know whether I’m supposed to care about his well-being and be looking out for him, or whether we’ve gone past that point.

“Course I am.”

“You’re not working today, are you?”

He smiles in amusement, gazes up at the sky. “Not today, no.”

I adjust my bag on my shoulder. “Will I see you at home?”

“That all depends...”

“On what?”

“On whether you believe me.”

A shiver runs through me. I shouldn’t have got into this now, outside work, of all places. I’m about to retreat inside the building, when he pulls something from his pocket, flapping it in the air.

It’s the letter. “You don’t believe this, do you, Stephanie?”

“I don’t think you should be waving that around.” I look about me and then quickly take it from him, slipping it into my bag before he can object.

But he doesn’t seem to care what happens to it. His eyes are locked on me. “How can you believe her—a complete stranger, a no one—over me?”

I glance up at the first-floor window of work and then walk toward the door. Jess would tell me to run, not look back. She would call the police and they would swarm, causing a scene. Everyone in the Circus would see.

Yet this isn’t about what people would think. It’s about me, him, us. He was there for me and my girls when no one else was.

So, I don’t go inside; I stay where I am.

He edges closer until we’re both standing right outside the door. A client or colleague could come along at any moment, yet I remain, watching him.

“Who got to you, Stephanie?” he asks, looking at me earnestly, the gray stubble on his face gleaming in the sunshine. “This isn’t you. Someone’s manipulating you... Who is it, darling? Who?” He sways drunkenly, and I feel myself soften with compassion.

He’s right, in part. Where do I start with who’s influenced me? Jess? Nicky? Rosie?

Yet no one more so than him.

“It’s a lie, Stephanie. You should be taking my word for it. We’re husband and wife.” He lays his hand flat on his chest. “Haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t I cared for you and your girls—provided for you? I deserve a little loyalty, surely? You should believe me over anyone else.”

I well up, the wind stinging my eyes. “I tried to, Dan. You don’t know how much I wanted to believe you. But...”

“But what? Who’s doing this? Tell me. Someone’s got to you and has driven a wedge between us and—”

“It’s not like that. I’m sorry.” I turn away. “I have to go.”

“Please, Stephanie. Don’t go. Please...”

Jess got it wrong. I can hear in his voice that he isn’t going to hurt me. He would do it now, were that the case. But he’s not capable of that. He’s broken. Anyone can see it.

My eyes fill with tears as I pull open the heavy door. The last thing I hear is him calling my name.

I wonder whether it was the right thing to do, cutting him off like that; of course I do. I keep replaying what he said about being husband and wife, and giving him a little loyalty. My mum would have told me to do the exact same thing—stand by your man—but maybe that’s not always the best advice, not in situations like this.

It takes all my strength, but when he calls me an hour later, I turn my phone to silent, my heart lurching as I watch the call go to voice mail.

About forty minutes later, my phone rings again, vibrating on the counter. I’m dealing with a rude client, so I let it go to voice mail. I’m tempted to pop to the bathroom to listen to the message, but there’s no letup all afternoon, with an emergency abscess messing up the schedule.

It’s twenty past four when I’m aware of my phone vibrating again. I’m exhausted, my vision is blurry, my head pounding. I can’t take the call, but text Jess quickly under the counter.

She replies instantly.

At five o’clock, when my phone buzzes again, my colleague Ali is telling me about the blind date she’s going on.

Five ten. It vibrates again, lighting up. Ali’s still talking and I’m pretending to listen, rearranging the schedule, emailing clients, one eye on my phone, my mouth uncomfortably dry.

Five eighteen. As it rings, Leonardo is handing me a client’s file, explaining why it’s going to be a particularly difficult extraction tomorrow morning. Five twenty. He’s back again, asking whether I’m feeling better this week because I look it. I don’t have time to reflect on the irony.

Five twenty-five. I’m all alone, tidying my desk, struggling to hold my head upright. I could take the call, but want to speak to Jess before engaging any further with him. Perhaps it wouldn’t harm to listen to the voice mails, though.

I wait for the message to be left, while gathering my things, shutting down the booking system. As I start to descend the stairs, I’m surprised to hear that I have eleven voice messages and sixteen missed calls.

Overheating in a rush, I hurry outside, immersing myself in the cold air, going a few steps away from work to listen to the most recent message.

I stop in shock. It doesn’t sound like his voice. I wouldn’t even have recognized him.

Stephanie, why haven’t you picked up? Don’t you love me anymore...? Oh, man...

His speech is slurred, labored. He sounds paralytic. I turn away as a couple comes out of a building—the one I’m standing outside. I walk off and then stop again, in the middle of the pavement.

Obviously, you don’t care about me or you’d have come to the club. So now I...

I don’t catch what he says next.

But you’re not here. So...

He moans, fumbles for something. I press the phone to my ear, trying to hear. What is he doing?

...This is goodbye, then.

He stops talking. The line clicks. A voice says, To listen to the call again, press—

I close the case on my phone, staring ahead of me, my heart racing.

I’m about to open my phone again and listen to the other messages, when I realize that I don’t have time to do that. I start to run, my coat flapping, my heels clunking on the pavement, echoing around the watchful buildings of the Circus.

My lungs feel raw as I lift my hand to ring the doorbell. I can taste iron; my ears are ringing. I took off my heels to run and my feet are wet. I stare at the M symbol on the brass knocker, willing the door to open.

I text Jess as I wait.

No one seems to be around. Does the club close on Thursday afternoons? Did Dan mention that once? I bang on the door with both hands. “Hello?” I shout, ringing the doorbell again. “Can anyone hear me?” I look at the buildings around me, above me, seemingly bending inward, blocking the light. I imagine how Nicky must have felt, abandoned here. And then I remember something from the diary: the side entrance.

Dan’s father has access; he helps organize the stock for the bar. Dan sometimes borrows his key.

I stumble past a garbage container on wheels, a security light clicking on. The side door is propped open with a brick. From somewhere above, a cat is mewing.

Slipping through the gap in the door, I allow my eyes to adjust to the dark. The air smells musty. After several moments, I still can’t see a thing. I’ve never been here before—haven’t a clue where to go.

Using the torch on my phone, I head toward a staircase, my tights catching on something underfoot. I tug myself free, feeling the nylon rip, my bare foot meeting the floorboards. Along the corridor, I flash my phone, glimpsing photographs, paintings. I can’t hear voices or see any lights anywhere.

Instinctively, I go where the diary went, where Nicky went, heading upstairs in the dark, my chest tight.

At the top of the stairs, I look left, then right, unsure which way to go. And then I hear the clinking of bottles and turn that way, heading toward the sound.

There’s a splinter of light at the end of the hallway, and I remember this detail too.

I stop, hesitate. Do I go in? I haven’t called out to him yet. Why is that? I thought I said he’d never hurt me. Do I really believe that?

He doesn’t know I’m here. I could turn around, slip away. But I can’t. I have to make sure he’s all right, after what he said in his last message. If he was to do anything stupid...

Quietly, I creep forward, pushing open the door. I see his polished brogues first and then the rest of his hunched form. He’s sitting on the floor of the store cupboard, surrounded by boxes. Above him there’s a bare light bulb, harsh on the eyes.

I drop my bag and coat, relief draining through me. “Oh, thank God, Dan! You’re all right.”

There’s a bottle by his feet that he grapples for, taking a swig, slopping whiskey down his shirt. “Steffaffy, whaddya doing here?”

“I came to see if you were all right.” My voice breaks with emotion and I well up, overcome, kneeling down in the small space before him. “I was so worried about you.”

“Why?” He frowns, eyes swimming.

His right arm is stuck awkwardly by his side, hidden from sight, and I wonder whether he’s injured himself. I look about for cut glass or a knife, but can’t see anything other than boxes.

“Because of your message... Because of what you said.” I shiver, soaked in perspiration. I still can’t catch my breath.

“My life’s ruined, Stefff...” He dribbles with the effort of trying to say my name. Closing his eyes, he takes another swig, missing his mouth again.

I hate seeing him like this. I saw my father drunk so many times, saying his life was over after a loss on the horses. But I never thought I’d see Dan so reduced, wretched.

“Stop drinking that,” I say, trying to take the bottle from him.

“Leave me alone,” he snarls, rapping my knuckle with the glass. “Whadda you care?”

I recoil, my hand throbbing. I’m shattered, ran across town for him, my foot is bleeding. And here he is, wallowing in self-pity.

“They’re gonna put me in prison, anniss all your fault.”

“You’re not going to prison, Dan. And it isn’t my fault. This is about what you did...in this room. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

This was where it happened. I haven’t fully absorbed that yet. I look about me at the stacked boxes, imagining Nicky outnumbered, trapped.

My mood changes then from pity to anger, heat rising up my spine. “That poor girl. What did you do to her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He waves the bottle. I watch the liquid storming inside, a miniature sea.

“Yes, you do.” I look about the confined space again, thinking how petrified she must have been. “You took advantage of a girl who couldn’t fight back. She trusted you. She thought you were friends and—”

“Friends? You gotta be kidding.” He waves the bottle again. “She was nothing, a cheap whore, out for what she could get. You’re all the same.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Do you hear what you’re saying? This isn’t you. This—”

“Course it’s me,” he says, laughing. “Who else would it be?”

I’m still kneeling before him and suddenly it feels belittling. “I think I should go. Obviously, you’re going to be fine.” I can’t believe I fell for it, running here at his summons.

Standing up, I retrieve my coat, looking around for my bag. It’s near the door.

And I’m stooping to pick it up when he says it. Luckily, I’ve got my back to him. I wouldn’t have wanted him to have seen the look on my face.

“It was jussa a game, a bet—who could screw her by the end of the night.”

My hand tightens around the strap on my bag. “A game?”

“Yeah.” The bottle sloshes. “Jack normally won.”

“Jack, Lee and Brooke?”

“’S’right, yeah.” Maybe he wonders then how I know those names. He pauses before continuing. “Nicknames. Made it more fun.”

Fun. That word seems to linger.

“Had you done it before—played that game?” I ask, my heart hammering.

“No, not like that. That night was different. We all wanted to win...” His voice trails off. I worry that he’s fallen asleep. I turn to look at him; his chin is slumped onto his chest.

“So, who did win?”

“All of us... Quite clever of me, really.” Cradling the bottle, his arms wrapped around it, he shakes his head as though recalling a great night. “I didn’t think they’d do what I said, though. Didn’t usually.”

What he said? It was his idea?

Something peculiar is happening to me. I’m heavy and light; my eye sockets are on fire; there’s a loud rushing sound in my ears.

He shifts position at that moment, moving his right arm from its hiding place, holding something up.

I freeze. Everything goes still and I can see clearly. I take in the dull black handle, the long silver barrel. I’ve never seen anything like it before.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply, closes his eyes, the ghost of a smile on his face.

“Why have you got that?” I say, louder.

He has a firearms certificate for a shooting club, but I didn’t think he went there anymore.

Is it loaded?

“Why d’you think?” he says. “You got my messages, didn’t you? No point me living.”

“Put it down, Dan. You—”

“She wasn’t worth it.” His mouth turns down contemptuously. “Wasn’t even a good screw... Frigid as fuck.”

I jolt, yet somehow stop myself from responding.

Remarkably, it doesn’t take me very long to realize what I have to do.

Setting down my bag, I use my soft purring voice, the one he likes in bed, as I approach him slowly. “Come on, Dan... It doesn’t have to be this way.”

He points the gun at me, his finger on the trigger. “Stay back, Stefff, or I’ll shoot. I mean it. There’s nuffin you can do.”

“Yes, there is.” I smile comfortingly, lowering myself onto my knees before him again. The gun is right in front of me, almost touching my nose, but I’m not scared. “Put the gun down, darling. We can work this out. You know how much I love you.”

I see the flicker of doubt on his face, the uncertainty. He wants to believe me.

“We can get through this.” I place my hand gently on the inside of his thigh. “Just the two of us.”

He looks into my eyes, lucid for a moment. “Really?”

I nod. “Yes, Dan.”

The relief on his face. He smiles, his body relaxing in submission. He’s about to lower the gun. I clasp my hand around his hand, lovingly, supportively.

And then I lift it upward, press it to his face and fire.

The noise is earsplitting. Something warm splashes my clothes and face. I fall backward, biting my tongue, hitting my head. Bottles rattle. There’s smoke in the air, blood everywhere, pooling on the floor, seeping toward me.

And I’m trying to get up and away when I notice there’s a shape looming in the doorway, someone blocking the light.