There’s no way I’m falling back into that negative way of seeing the world. Believing everyone is against me. That everyone in my life is lying to me.
There’s a man huddled in a shop doorway a few hundred feet from the tube station. Cardboard wedged beneath him, dog crouched at his side in the damp folds of a blanket. There’s a rough sign partly tucked under his feet as he tries to sleep, turned away from the bitter wind, his body hunched.
HELP, the sign says simply.
I stop beside the sign, and fumble in my bag for change. Shit, I think, and check my pockets, too. I don’t have anything besides coppers and a few banknotes.
The dog doesn’t move, but the man half turns under the blanket, gazing up at me expectantly. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark and liquid, and he’s wearing a woollen hat to keep out the cold.
‘Here,’ I say in the end, and hand him a five-pound note.
‘Bless you,’ he says hoarsely.
The flat is in total darkness when I push through the front door, armed with two bags of shopping from the late-opening supermarket on the next block.
It’s all quiet inside. Surprisingly cold, too.
‘Dom?’
I kick the door shut behind me and listen. Nothing. Maybe he’s going to be home later than expected. Sometimes the hospital asks him to work an extra hour or two if things get really hectic in Accident and Emergency.
‘Dom?’
But he’s not there.
I wander into the kitchen and stab at the light switch with my elbow. The place is a mess as usual. We need to spend some time tidying up if it’s going to look nice for this weekend, when we’ve invited friends over for drinks.
Dumping the shopping on the kitchen counter, I frown.
Why the hell is it so cold?
I strip off my gloves and coat, and check the prepayment meter, situated on the wall above the television. The catch is fiddly and I have to stand on a chair to reach the box. But there’s still a tenner to go before it runs out. Dominic is pretty good at remembering to keep it topped up.
I unpack the shopping hurriedly, then put the oven on a medium heat, partly to warm the room but also because I’ve bought a packet of frozen vegetable rissoles for Dominic’s supper. He likes that kind of thing. Putting the kettle on to boil, I set out two mugs for when he finally comes home, then stand warming my hands in the rising steam.
Bloody hell, it’s absolutely freezing in here. I stamp and hug myself. Perhaps I should put my coat back on.
Have we left a window open by accident?
I wander out again into the dark hallway. Sure enough, there’s a severe draught coming from the bathroom door, which is slightly ajar. I stare at it, then give the door an experimental push with my foot. As it creaks wider, I feel an icy blast of air.
The building is an old Victorian villa, renovated into flats that overlook the mainline railway tracks, most of the windows at the back old-fashioned sash jobs. Useful for the fire escape below, but heavy and unwieldy. The bathroom window is open, the lower half sucking out all the warmth in the flat.
I slam the sash window down and fasten it, shaking my head. ‘Dom . . .’ He usually takes a shower before work. He must have opened the window for ventilation, as there’s no other way to air out the bathroom when it gets steamy, but then forgotten to shut it before leaving for the hospital.
It’s now almost as cold inside the flat as outside.
Whacking up the two storage heaters to their maximum output setting, I duck into the bedroom to fetch my warm, blue-flannel dressing gown. Comfort clothing for when I’m feeling at my most miserable.
I hit the light switch, and stop, suddenly unable to breathe.
My chest contracts painfully.
‘What the hell?’
There on the bed is my wedding dress, removed from its protective cover and laid out as though ready to be worn. Last week I picked it up after a few minor alterations needed to be made, and hung it on the back of the bedroom door in an opaque bag supplied by the bridal shop. ‘It’s unlucky to see the dress before the wedding,’ I told Dominic, who laughed at my superstitious nature. My dream dress, as I’d described it to my mother tonight over dinner, telling her how impatient I was for Dominic to see me wearing it on the big day itself.
Only it’s no longer beautiful.
Someone’s taken a pair of scissors to my wedding dress, cutting it into ribbons. There are large, fierce rips in the sweetheart bodice, and all the way down the clinging, mermaid-style skirt. Shreds of satin lie on the floor and the bed. Sequins sparkle from odd corners of the bedroom as though they were deliberately torn off and scattered about like mock confetti.
But the most shocking thing is the thick, gooey red substance splashed across the shimmering white.
Paint?
‘Oh my God.’
I take a few impulsive steps forward, as if to snatch up my ruined dress, even though it’s far too late to rescue it.
That’s when the smell hits me.
Blood.
Chapter Eleven
The blood’s sickening, iron-rich stench is unmistakeable now that I’m close enough to touch it. Not that I do, frozen by the bed, staring down at the dress, not quite able to believe what my eyes and nose are telling me. It’s too horrific to be true. Yet the evidence is right there in front of me. Somebody has not only maliciously ripped my wedding dress to shreds, they’ve also covered it in what smells like blood.
‘No, please . . .’
Gagging at the vile stench, I run to the front door of the flat, fumble with the catch and throw it open.
Our flat is on the top floor. That seemed like a good idea when we chose it, so far from the noise of the street below and reminiscent of my childhood bedroom in my parents’ house, the rook’s nest. My refuge against the world. Now though, it’s too far from the safety of other people.
Up here, anything could happen and nobody would know . . .
Below, I hear the street door bang shut. The old wire letterbox on the back rattles. A gust of frozen air swirls up the stairs, and I shiver without my coat. Suddenly there’s the sound of echoing voices in the hallway on the ground floor.
Somebody has just come in from the cold evening.
Two somebodies.
‘Well, there’s still time to run away. You’re not married yet.’
It’s a woman’s voice, followed by mutual laughter, and the swift reply: ‘I don’t want to run away. I want to marry her.’
The woman’s voice is only vaguely familiar. But I know the other voice as well as I know my own.
Deep and lightly amused, with a South London accent, the man is saying, ‘Besides, she’d soon find me if I ran away. I sometimes think Cat’s psychic, she always seems to know what I’m thinking.’
‘Dominic?’ I interrupt them, hanging almost too far over the banister in my panic, staring down. It’s increasingly hard to breathe, especially with my chest pressed against the rail. ‘Dominic . . . oh, thank God.’
From below, I catch the flash of his face looking up three floors. A pale oval of surprise and concern. ‘Catherine?’
‘I need you. Come up, quick.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Hurry, please.’ I’m gasping. ‘Please, Dom.’ Snatching at the chilly air, my lungs aching, I can’t seem to stop myself from sliding to my knees.
‘Okay,’ he says, beginning to run. ‘Hang on, I’m on my way.’
‘Quick, quick.’ I’m repeating myself stupidly. Like a trained bird in a cage. My hands grip the banisters like claws as I twist my head and stare down, trying to see through the bars. It’s ridiculous to feel jealousy at a moment like this. But I do, all the same. ‘Who was that woman with you? I can’t see her. Who is it?’
He takes the stairs two at a time, his face flushed. ‘It’s nobody,’ he says, rounding the stairs below, almost as breathless as me after the speed of his ascent. ‘Only Laura, from downstairs.’
‘Laura?’