‘I threw it away,’ she says. ‘Over the fence. By the track.’
‘Good girl. Good girl,’ he says distractedly. He’s trying to figure things out, work out where to go from here. He glances at me and then looks away. For just a moment, he looks beaten.
He turns to Anna. ‘You were so tired all the time,’ he says. ‘You just weren’t interested. Everything was about the baby. Isn’t that right? It was all about you, wasn’t it? All about you!’ And just like that, he’s on top again, perked up, pulling faces at his daughter, tickling her tummy, making her smile. ‘And Megan was so … well, she was available.
‘At first, it was over at her place,’ he says. ‘But she was so paranoid about Scott finding out. So we started meeting at the Swan. It was … Well, you remember what it was like, don’t you, Anna? At the beginning, when we used to go to that house on Cranham Street. You understand.’ He glances back over his shoulder at me and winks. ‘That’s where Anna and I used to meet, back in the good old days.’
He shifts his daughter from one arm to the other, allowing her to rest against his shoulder. ‘You think I’m being cruel, but I’m not. I’m telling the truth. That’s what you want, isn’t it, Anna? You asked me not to lie.’
Anna doesn’t look up. Her hands are gripping the edge of the table, her entire body rigid.
Tom gives a loud sigh. ‘It’s a relief, if I’m honest.’ He’s talking to me, looking at me directly. ‘You have no idea how exhausting it is, coping with people like you. And, fuck, I tried. I tried so hard to help you. To help both of you. You’re both … I mean, I loved you both, I really did, but you can both be incredibly weak.’
‘Fuck you, Tom,’ Anna says, getting up from the table. ‘Don’t you lump me in with her.’
I look at her and realize how well suited they are, Anna and Tom. She’s a much better match than I am, because this is what bothers her: not that her husband is a liar and a killer, but that he’s just compared her to me.
Tom goes to her side and says soothingly, ‘I’m sorry, darling. That was unfair of me.’ She brushes him away and he looks over at me. ‘I did my best, you know. I was a good husband to you, Rach. I put up with a lot – your drinking and your depression. I put up with all that for a long time before I threw in the towel.’
‘You lied to me,’ I say, and he turns to face me, surprised. ‘You told me everything was my fault. You made me believe that I was worthless. You watched me suffer, you—’
He shrugs. ‘Do you have any idea how boring you became, Rachel? How ugly? Too sad to get out of bed in the morning, too tired to take a shower or wash your fucking hair? Jesus. It’s no wonder I lost patience, is it? It’s no wonder I had to look for ways to amuse myself. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.’
His expression changes from contempt to concern as he turns to talk to his wife. ‘Anna, it was different with you, I swear. That thing with Megan, it was just … just a bit of fun. That’s what it was meant to be. I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest hour, but I just needed a release. That’s all. It was never going to last. It was never going to interfere with us, with our family. You must understand that.’
‘You …’ Anna is trying to say something, but she can’t get the words out.
Tom puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it. ‘What, love?’
‘You had her looking after Evie,’ she spits. ‘Were you screwing her while she was working here? While she was looking after our child?’
He removes his hand, his face a picture of contrition, of deep shame. ‘That was terrible. I thought … I thought it would be … Honestly, I don’t know what I thought. I’m not sure I was thinking at all. It was wrong. It was terribly wrong of me.’ And the mask changes again – now he’s wide-eyed innocence, pleading with her: ‘I didn’t know then, Anna. You have to believe that I didn’t know what she was. I didn’t know about the baby she killed. I would never have let her look after Evie if I’d known that. You have to believe me.’
Without warning, Anna jumps to her feet, pushing her chair back – it clatters on to the kitchen floor, waking their daughter. ‘Give her to me,’ Anna says, holding her arms out. Tom backs away a little. ‘Now, Tom, give her to me. Give her to me.’
But he doesn’t, he walks away from her, rocking the child, whispering to her again, coaxing her back to sleep, and then Anna starts to scream. At first she’s repeating give her to me, give her to me, but then it’s just an indistinguishable howl of fury and anguish. The child is screaming, too. Tom is trying to quieten her, he’s ignoring Anna, so it falls to me to take hold of her. I drag her outside and talk to her, low and urgent.
‘You have to calm down, Anna. Do you understand me? I need you to calm down. I need you to talk to him, to distract him for a moment while I ring the police? All right?’
She’s shaking her head – she’s shaking all over. She grabs hold of my arms, her fingernails digging into my flesh. ‘How could he do this?’
‘Anna! Listen to me. You need to keep him busy for a moment.’
Finally, she looks at me, really looks at me, and nods. ‘All right.’
‘Just … I don’t know. Get him away from this door, try to keep him occupied for a bit.’
She goes back inside. I take a deep breath, then turn and take a few steps away from the sliding door. Not too far, just on to the lawn. I turn and look back. They’re still in the kitchen. I walk slightly further away. The wind is getting up now: the heat is about to break. Swifts are swooping low in the sky, and I can smell the rain coming. I love that smell.
I slip my hand into my back pocket and take out my phone. Hands trembling, I fail to unlock the keypad once, twice – I get it on the third time. For a moment I think about calling Detective Sergeant Riley, someone who knows me. I scroll through my call log but can’t find her number, so I give up – I’ll just dial 999. I’m on the second nine when I feel his foot punch the base of my spine and I go sprawling forward on to the grass, the wind knocked out of me. The phone flies from my grasp – he has it in his hand before I can raise myself to my knees, before I can take a breath.
‘Now, now, Rach,’ he says, grabbing my arm and hoisting me to my feet effortlessly. ‘Let’s not do anything stupid.’
He leads me back into the house, and I let him, because I know there’s no point fighting now, I won’t get away from him here. He shoves me through the doorway, sliding the glass door closed behind us and locking it. He tosses the key on to the kitchen table. Anna is standing there. She gives me a small smile and I wonder, then, whether she told him that I was about to call the police.
Anna sets about making lunch for her daughter, and puts the kettle on to make the rest of us a cup of tea. In this utterly bizarre facsimile of reality, I feel as though I could just politely bid them both goodbye, walk across the room and out into the safety of the street. It’s so tempting, I actually take a few steps in that direction, but Tom blocks my path. He puts a hand on my shoulder, then runs his fingers under my throat, applying just the slightest pressure.
‘What am I going to do with you, Rach?’
MEGAN
Saturday, 13 July 2013
Evening
IT’S NOT UNTIL we get into the car that I notice he has blood on his hand.
‘You’ve cut yourself,’ I say.
He doesn’t reply; his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
‘Tom, I needed to talk to you,’ I say. I’m trying to be conciliatory, trying to be grown-up about this, but I suppose it’s a little late for that. ‘I’m sorry about hassling you, but for God’s sake! You just cut me off. You—’
‘It’s OK,’ he says, his voice soft. ‘I’m not … I’m pissed off about something else. It’s not you.’ He turns his head and tries to smile at me, but fails. ‘Problems with the ex,’ he says. ‘You know how it is.’
‘What happened to your hand?’ I ask him.
‘Problems with the ex,’ he says again, and there’s a nasty edge to his voice. We drive the rest of the way to Corly Wood in silence.
We drive into the car park, right up to the very end. It’s a place we’ve been before. There’s never anyone much around in the evenings – sometimes a few teenagers with cans of beer, but that’s about it. Tonight we’re alone.
Tom turns off the engine and turns to me. ‘Right. What is it you wanted to talk about?’ The anger is still there, but it’s simmering now, no longer boiling over. Still, after what’s just happened I don’t feel like being in an enclosed space with an angry man, so I suggest we walk a bit. He rolls his eyes and sighs heavily, but he agrees.
It’s still warm; there are clouds of midges under the trees and the sunshine is streaming through the leaves, bathing the path in an oddly subterranean light. Above our heads, magpies chatter angrily.
We walk a little way in silence, me in front, Tom a few paces behind. I’m trying to think of what to say, how to put this. I don’t want to make things worse. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m trying to do the right thing.
I stop walking and turn to face him – he’s standing very close to me.
He puts his hands on my hips. ‘Here?’ he asks. ‘Is this what you want?’ He looks bored.
‘No,’ I say, pulling away from him. ‘Not that.’
The path descends a little here. I slow down, but he matches my stride.
‘What then?’
Deep breath. My throat still hurts. ‘I’m pregnant.’
There’s no reaction at all – his face is completely blank. I could be telling him that I need to go to Sainsbury’s on the way home, or that I’ve got a dentist’s appointment.
‘Congratulations,’ he says eventually.
Another deep breath. ‘Tom, I’m telling you this because … well, because there’s a possibility that the child could be yours.’
He stares at me for a few moments, then laughs. ‘Oh? Lucky me. So what – we’re going to run away, the three of us? You, me and the baby? Where was it we were going? Spain?’
‘I thought you should know, because—’
‘Have an abortion,’ he says. ‘I mean, if it’s your husband’s, do what you want. But if it’s mine, get rid of it. Seriously, let’s not be stupid about this. I don’t want another kid.’ He runs his fingers down the side of my face. ‘And I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re really motherhood material, are you, Megs?’
‘You can be as involved as you like—’
‘Did you hear what I just said?’ he snaps, turning his back on me and striding back up the path towards the car. ‘You’d be a terrible mother, Megan. Just get rid of it.’
I go after him, walking quickly at first and then running, and when I get close enough I shove him in the back. I’m yelling at him, screaming, trying to scratch his fucking smug face and he’s laughing, fending me off with ease. I start saying the worst things I can think of. I insult his manhood, his boring wife, his ugly child.
I don’t even know why I’m so angry, because what did I expect? Anger, maybe, worry, upset. Not this. It’s not even rejection, it’s dismissal. All he wants is for me to go away – me and my child – and so I tell him, I scream at him, I’m not going away. I am going to make you pay for this. For the rest of your bloody life you’re going to be paying for this.
He’s not laughing any more.
He’s coming towards me. He has something in his hand.
I’ve fallen. I must have slipped. Hit my head on something. I think I’m going to be sick. Everything is red. I can’t get up.
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl. Three for a girl. I’m stuck on three, I just can’t get any further. My head is thick with sounds, my mouth thick with blood. Three for a girl. I can hear the magpies – they’re laughing, mocking me, a raucous cackling. A tiding. Bad tidings. I can see them now, black against the sun. Not the birds, something else. Someone’s coming. Someone is speaking to me. Now look. Now look what you made me do.