JEN
After taking a photograph of the mask I put everything back where I found it and we make our way out of the house. Before we open the front door Bex tells me to step out as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. People can sense guilt, she says, even from afar. And you never know who might be watching.
I try my best to do as she says, but I keep picturing Laurence as he walks down the path in the front garden, meeting us as we close the door behind us. What will we say to him if he sees us? I know this is illogical – it’s him who should worry, he’s the one in trouble – but I can’t help but feel I’ve got something to hide. But, of course, we walk away without meeting a soul, apart from a couple of young mothers and their new babies.
As we make our way back to the flat I want to talk with Bex about what happens next – I’ve got a few ideas of my own – but I’m conscious someone might overhear us. We stop at Sainsbury’s to pick up a few things and, while Bex is paying, I go outside and check my phone. There’s been a missed call from Penelope and an email from her too. She wants me to ring her or drop by, she says, because she has something important she needs to talk to me about. I remember the things she said to me during our last conversation. I suppose she wants to apologise. Bex was right about Penelope. I should have listened to her.
I can’t believe I almost drove Bex away. Those cruel words, accusing her of behaving like a stalker, the way I snapped at her on the Heath like that, nearly destroyed our friendship. She’s only ever had my best interests at heart. Only someone like her would have the sense, and the sensitivity, to suggest that perhaps it wasn’t the right decision to call the police. But she’s keen to punish Laurence. And I’m definitely up for that.
Various scenarios run through my mind. What kind of revenge would be most effective? They say it’s a dish best served cold. So it would be good to do something when he is least expecting it. But I can’t wait that long. I’d like him to suffer like I’ve suffered. I’d like him to experience the acrid taste of fear, the visceral panic that sets in, knowing someone is watching you, following you.
I picture him walking down a dark street. He hears footsteps behind him. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His heartbeat quickens. He increases his pace, takes a turn down an unfamiliar side street in an effort to outwit his pursuer. But the shadowy presence continues to follow him. Finally, he takes a deep breath and turns his head to see … me. What does he feel? Certainly not fear. I’m a woman, after all. And what kind of man is afraid of the opposite sex? Not Laurence, that’s for sure. I can hear his cruel laughter echoing down the street, a horrible, mocking sound. He tells me that he pities me, that I am pathetic. He pushes past me and disappears into the night.
No, if I want to get my own back on Laurence I need to do something more elaborate, more baroque. What would hit him the hardest? I could trash his house, throw paint around the walls, smash bottles of wine everywhere. Or I could do something more subtle, like use the key to sneak into the house and hide prawns in a hundred secret places so the whole place stinks to high heaven.
The thing he cares most about is his job, his reputation. What about some kind of plan to bring about his ruin? But just as I begin to try to think up ways to smear him, another idea occurs to me, one that stops me in my tracks. What if … what if Laurence was angry with me because he thought that I was the one who had told Daniel about his affair with Victoria? After all, he would have seen me on the Heath that day, standing near the couple, and soon after this Daniel stabbed his girlfriend. Did he blame me for Vicky’s death, for the death of his unborn child?
Suddenly, I don’t know what to do. I’m struck by a paralysis of doubt. I realise Laurence’s true feelings are completely unknown to me. Is it worth trying to talk to him? To tell him that I had never seen, met or talked to either Daniel or Victoria before that day? But then the image of that mask, hidden away in the bathroom cupboard, comes back to me. If he’s got so much anger against me – if he really does blame me for the murders – then how far will he go? Does he actually want … to kill me?
The thought makes the idea of my murder a reality. I try to dismiss it. Laurence would never do anything like that, I tell myself. Although the messages were distressing, they were a way of venting his anger, I understand that. If he’d really wanted to kill me he could have done it. He could have carried on smashing the stone into my head until my skull was reduced to fragments and my brains spilled out over the earth. But he didn’t. He stopped himself.
However, I know from my therapist how the process of normalisation begins, how each of us rehearses things in our heads or acts out various minor versions of fantasies and finally, over time, those small acts repeated often enough can mutate into unacceptable, transgressive or even criminal behaviour.
Is Laurence capable of murder? And if so, what can I do to protect myself?