They’ll give you lots of reasons – ambition, routine, familiarity and all those well-worn clichés. My theory is simple: it’s their fear and their need to be part of something safe that holds them back from doing what they really desire. I’ve never been part of something safe, so I don’t worry about that. There is no safety net for me. I’ll leave that to the people who like to conform.
When I think of my mother, I wonder if, maybe, she was like me. I’ve only ever heard her story in fragments, told by others, whispers from behind closed doors. I cannot be sure how much is true, but I’ve built up a picture over time. I see her as an outcast, living outside the pack. I hear she was considered odd, not socially acceptable. She didn’t fit the mould. I’ve also heard she wasn’t right in the head – ‘a strange girl’ was how some referred to her. I have my suspicions as to why she might have been that way. I grew up in the same house. I felt like an outcast too. Society doesn’t look kindly on the fallen. When I see the road in the woods, I wonder if, one day, it will lead me to her.
You might never understand why I kill, or seek the affection of would-be strangers. The witch said she saved me from certain death. She took pleasure in the telling, hoping I might feel guilt and be grateful to her. Make no mistake. She did none of it to bestow love. You and me, we’re more alike than you might think. I need love as you do, but my options are limited.
Unlike you, I don’t have all the answers. The only person I judge is me. Look on me as the reverse side of your life, the life you might have led if things had been different. When you think of being loved as a child, I would like you to replace that memory with hate. The hunched woman in the shadows, the one who raised me, made me more fearful than any of you can imagine. Witnessing evil first hand, like love, will shape you. Your understanding will be based on it, including your concept of right and wrong.
The scales are in my favour now, and neither the little wife nor anyone else will stand in my way.
SANDRA
DRIVING HOME, I’M forced to slow down to let an oncoming car pass on a narrow stretch of back road. I’m still breathing heavily. I’m a criminal now. I’ve broken into another person’s house, invaded their privacy. I screech to a stop as a stray fox crosses my path, but soon I’m picking up speed again.
It is only as I park the car outside our house that my breathing begins to settle. A lot of the journey home is a blur, but I still remember that woman passing my car. She must have seen me. Did she know I’d been inside her house? Would she phone the police?
I visualise them calling to my door, asking me where I was this evening, telling me there had been a break-in and they had reason to believe I was involved. Edgar would be shocked, and then I would blurt it all out. I would tell him it was his fault, and hers, that I was beside myself with fear and doubt, and that I had never done anything like this before. They are usually lenient on a first offence, especially if you admit to it from the beginning, and that’s when I imagine myself walking into the local police station, saying I have to confess a crime. I know right there and then that I’m not going to do that, and I’m not going to tell Edgar either. Maybe I should go to the hotel and ask if that room is vacant, if I could have a look at it. Pull yourself together. You’re not the first woman to discover her husband is having an affair. What difference would it make if you see the room? ‘I don’t know,’ I say out loud. Then I remember that the woman didn’t turn. She mightn’t have seen me. With a bit of luck she wouldn’t notice anything awry.
I ring Edgar on his mobile. It goes straight to voicemail. I wonder about phoning Karen then, but what would I say? I could tell her about someone writing things in my diary, that there is only one person who could have done it: the person who is moving things around the house. The same woman I watched with her back to me. If she’d been inside my home and written that note, she had read everything in my diary. She would know about my suspicions. Would she have told Edgar? Why wasn’t she showing her hand? Maybe she enjoys playing games. Maybe Edgar told her I’d been unwell. She would know I was vulnerable.
I feel my heart racing again, and I know why. It’s because something else is forming in my mind, and the more I think about it, the more I realise it’s the only thing that makes any sense. This woman isn’t just having an affair with Edgar: she has me in her sights too. Again, my hands shake. If he told her I’d had a nervous breakdown, she would think me easy pickings.
I can’t stay sitting in the car, but what if the house isn’t safe? I think about going to the police again, but they might think I’m mad. I can’t take that chance. No, there has to be another way. But what if it’s all true? What if, the next time she breaks in, she does more than move things around?