‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Just for a couple of hours.’
‘And have you been drinking alcohol?’ The woman’s face is rigid as she asks the question.
‘I had a couple of glasses of wine, yes,’ I reply. ‘But that doesn’t make any difference to what I saw tonight.’
The woman raises her eyebrows and glances at her colleague. I want to yell at them. All I have done is report a serious incident and I am being treated like the bad person.
‘Okay,’ says the male officer. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here tonight. We’re happy that there’s no child next door but I do appreciate you were concerned and you did the best thing you could in calling us.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re both looking at me as though I’m some sort of – of fruitcake and that really bothers me,’ I say, trying to stay composed. ‘I know what I’m talking about, believe me, I have experience in these situations. I – I . . .’
My brain freezes and I cannot find the words I need. I pound my head with the heel of my hand, trying to dislodge the words, but they are stuck fast.
‘As I said,’ continues the officer, raising his voice above the chatter of noise from his radio. ‘You did the right thing in calling us and nobody is questioning your judgement. But if I were you I’d make myself a milky drink and try to get some sleep.’
I want to scream at them, tell them that I’m not mad, that the boy was real. But instead I compose myself and smile politely at them. What else can I do?
‘I’ll see you out,’ I say and as I follow them down the hallway I notice they exchange glances. I hurriedly open the door and usher them out into the damp air.
‘Goodbye, Ms Rafter,’ says the male officer. ‘We’ve made a record of our visit. Do get in touch if you have any further concerns but I would strongly advise you to get some rest. You’ve had a long night.’
He smiles and turns away and I watch as he follows his colleague down the driveway to their waiting car.
I’m not giving this up, though. I’ll go next door and talk to the woman, tell her that I know what’s going on. I’ll ask her about the screams; I’ll tell her what I told the police: that I can hear the screams every night.
I go to fetch my coat, but in the hallway I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; the image that greeted the two officers. I gasp. My eyes are caked in thick black mascara that runs in watery spirals across my eyelids to my temples; my hair, styled into a neat chignon earlier in the evening, has collapsed and wisps of it stick to my forehead. I am still wearing the floral wrap dress, tights and cardigan I had worn to the pub and the clothes reek of stale white wine.
I see myself as they saw me: a drunk with a sleeping pill habit. If I were in their shoes I wouldn’t believe me either.
I walk slowly outside and look up at the house next door. All I see is drawn curtains and darkness. What was I thinking? The police found nothing. It must be nothing. I step back inside and close the door.
In the bedroom I peel off my clothes and climb under the covers. As I lie here I try to piece it all together. He was definitely real – the boy – I can see him now in my head, a small boy with dark hair. He was there and then he was gone. It just doesn’t make sense.
My head hurts with it all and anger wells up in my chest. What is happening to me? Why won’t it all just stop? I think of my mother’s letter and Sally’s words. Was she right? Am I just a nosy cow? I don’t know. I can’t make my brain stay still long enough to think clearly. I just want my old life back, my old bed and my beautiful, beautiful Chris. I take my phone and press redial. But it goes straight to the messaging service and a disembodied voice tells me that Chris O’Brien is not available. I throw the phone across the room and flop my head on to the pillow. And as I try to get to sleep I think of all that I have lost. This is what life is going to be from now on, I tell myself. This is what is left. One long nightmare punctuated by voices and screams.
16
Thursday 16 April 2015
I’m clearing up the breakfast dishes when I hear a knock at the door. My heart races as I wipe my hands on a tea towel and rush into the hallway. Maybe it’s the police, I think to myself; maybe they’ve found something.
I fiddle with the latch, my head aching from the drink last night. Never again, I tell myself, as I finally get the door open.
‘Oh,’ I gasp. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, love,’ says Ray. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Yes . . . yes of course,’ I say, flustered at this unexpected visit. ‘Come through.’
I lead him into the kitchen, my head pounding. I really need some painkillers.
‘Sit down,’ I say, gesturing to the table. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘Yes please,’ he says, pulling a chair out. ‘Milk. Two sugars.’
‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ I say as I take a cup from the cupboard and pour some tea from the pot. ‘What brings you here?’