‘That’s it,’ he says, his voice quivering. ‘I’m done with you.’
‘I didn’t mean it,’ I sob as he lets go of my wrists and storms to the door. ‘I’m sorry, Paul. Please don’t leave me, we can sort this out, please.’
‘It’s too late, Sally,’ he says, wiping the blood from his face. ‘It’s over.’
35
I can’t do this any more. Paul is gone. Without him I have nothing; just a big empty house. It’s time to leave. The wine will numb me then I’ll finish it off with a handful of pills. Nice and clean.
I lie back on the bed and dissolve into a white-wine haze. The Spar was just opening when I arrived and the woman shook her head as she rang through my three bottles of white.
‘Bit early, isn’t it?’
Usually I give her some blather about having a dinner party later but this time I couldn’t be bothered making excuses. ‘Yes, it is a bit early,’ I hissed as I handed over the cash, ‘but I’m giving you business so what’s your problem?’ I could feel her eyes on me as I left the shop. I must have looked a state in my coat and slippers but I didn’t care. I’d never see her again.
When I got home part of me hoped he would be there, standing in the kitchen with that look of disapproval on his face: ‘Wine, Sally, at this time of the morning? Honestly . . .’ But the house was empty so I took a glass from the kitchen cupboard and made my way upstairs.
I close my eyes and my head fills with his voice. He was so angry, so bitter. It was like he hated me.
I do push people away. Paul was right about that. But if you spend your childhood desperately seeking your mother’s approval and never getting it you grow up feeling that you’re not worth anything. What’s the point of letting people in when they’re only going to hurt you?
The love I felt for Hannah when she was born was so huge I felt like I would die, that my heart would burst, every time I looked at her. She was so tiny, so vulnerable, and I knew that it was beyond me. So I handed her over to Mum and let her do the things I could never do, like feeding the ducks and standing pushing a swing for hours on end without becoming frustrated. That’s why Hannah loved Mum so much, because she was solid, as mothers should be, where I was unpredictable; unstable. I cringe as I remember that day at the pub; her little face as I left her in the beer garden and headed inside to the bar. No child deserves a mother like me.
And now the booze is all I have left.
I drain the glass and pour another then another until the room becomes a pinkish blur. I close my eyes and the blackness feels so good I want to fall into it. As I lie back I see a tiny boy drifting out to sea. The waves crash over his head, then silence. It’s over. And I think how tempting it must be to just give up; to stop breathing and fall into a long deep sleep.
It’s time.
I reach over to the bedside cabinet and take out a box of sleeping tablets. Drinking plays havoc with my sleep and when I wake up in the middle of the night a quick pill is the only thing to send me back off. Now if I just increase the dose I can curl up nice and cosy. I can go and find Kate and David and all this pain will stop.
I puncture the foil and pop one in my mouth, washing it down with a mouthful of wine. There are eighteen pills left but I reckon half of that will do the trick. I push another one out of the foil but as I swallow it I hear knocking at the front door. It’s Paul. He’s come back. He’s changed his mind.
I shove the pills back in the drawer and slam it shut.
‘Paul,’ I call out as I run down the stairs. ‘I’m just coming.’
But my heart sinks as I see the outline of a woman through the glass. It must be nosy Sandra from next door. She’s the only woman who knocks on our door and it’s usually because she’s got something to complain about.
‘What is it this time?’ I sigh as I open the door.
But it’s not Sandra. It’s a young woman. She looks Middle Eastern and is dressed in a beautiful blue dress and matching scarf.
‘Sally?’ she says.
When I hear her accent I assume she must be here about Kate. She must be from the consulate.
‘Have you come about my sister?’
She nods her head.
‘You’d better come in then,’ I say.
My head is light with booze and the sleeping pills as I lead her inside. My stomach knots. I’m not prepared for this at all. She’s going to tell me about Kate’s death and I know it won’t be good. I take her into the kitchen and ask if she would like a cup of tea. I could do with a stiff drink but the way she’s dressed tells me she probably wouldn’t approve of that.
‘You must have come a long way,’ I say as I fill the kettle.
‘No, not very far,’ she says, looking around uncertainly.
‘Why don’t you have a seat?’ I say. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’