I don’t reply. Instead I break into a jog, keen to put as much distance as I can between me and my oddball neighbour, praying he doesn’t come after me. He wouldn’t dare – anyone could be looking out of their window. But as I finally arrive back at my front door, throwing a final panicked glance over my shoulder, I see that my pathway is empty. He hasn’t followed me, as far as I can tell.
My skin still prickles with the sensation that someone is watching me. I glance up at the Parkfields’ house and almost scream with fright as I see an ethereal figure at one of the upstairs windows. It’s Lorna, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She’s scowling as usual, but this time I can’t blame her. I probably woke her up when I slammed the bin lid shut. I’m too shaken up to do anything about it tonight. I’ll apologise when I next see her – make some excuse. All I want right now is to be at home, where Martin can’t get at me.
Safely inside, I close the door with a soft click, pull the chain across with clumsy fingers, and sink down onto the hall floor almost sobbing in relief. What was I thinking? I have to stop going out there at night. Stop imagining that everything I see is a threat. Martin is undeniably odd, but does that make him dangerous? I didn’t see anything strange in his recycling, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t in there, stuffed beneath the newspapers and other innocuous things. And unless I go back for a second look, the evidence will be removed tomorrow, crunched up in the jaws of the bin lorry. But there’s no way I can go back out there now – my nerves are shot, my legs like jelly. I doubt I’d make it back down the path without collapsing. Besides, Martin is awake and could be staring out of his window, waiting for me to return.
I brush the grit off the soles of my feet and attempt to stand, taking deep, steadying breaths. Before going back upstairs, I have to go through my usual lock-checking routine. Once I’m satisfied that everything is secure, I begin to tiptoe back up the staircase. My heart sinks as Dom appears on the landing in his boxer shorts.
‘Kirst? That you?’ His voice is gruff. ‘What you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ I reply in an upbeat whisper. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘I will, but what are you doing?’
I can’t tell him I was getting a glass of water as my hands are empty and I can’t think of an excuse, so I stupidly tell him the truth. ‘Sorry if I woke you up. I was just checking Martin’s rubbish bins in case he had anything dodgy in there.’
‘You were what?’
It sounded even worse when I said it out loud. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just go back to sleep.’
But instead of shuffling off to bed, he switches on the hall light. I wince at the brightness, and at the realisation that we’re about to have a row.
‘Kirstie,’ he says, ‘do you know how crazy that is?’
‘Shh, you’ll wake Daisy.’
‘Come into the bedroom,’ he says, turning his back on me and striding away into our room.
I follow meekly, wondering how I can make my actions sound saner. Dom is sitting on the edge of the bed in the semi darkness, light from the landing casting a yellow glow up the wall and across a triangle of carpet.
I stand in front of him, hanging my head, understanding I’ve crossed a line in the what’s-acceptable stakes.
‘This has to stop, Kirstie,’ he says, rubbing at his forehead.
‘What has to stop?’ I say, knowing full well what he’s talking about.
‘Don’t think I can’t hear you going downstairs at night, triple-checking the locks, laying out Daisy’s toys as some kind of booby trap against imaginary burglars.’
My shoulders sag. He knows.
‘I’m not stupid,’ he says. ‘I didn’t say anything before, because I thought things would get better if I didn’t make a fuss. But it’s getting worse, isn’t it?’
I don’t respond. Humiliation coats my skin and furs the inside of my mouth.
‘Kirstie, I’m not angry; I’m worried about you.’ He pats the space next to him on the bed, but I can’t move. So instead, he gets to his feet and takes my limp hands in his firm ones. ‘What did you think you were going to find in Martin’s bins?’
I clear my throat. ‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, Kirst. What were you hoping to find? I’m on your side here.’
I shrug. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like a naughty schoolchild this week. ‘Something incriminating, I suppose.’
‘Like what?’
‘Baby formula tins, nappy bags, baby toy packaging.’
‘You seriously think Moaning Myrtle could be a child abductor?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snap. ‘That’s why I was looking in his bins. I wanted evidence before I came to you, or the police.’ Unable to look at my husband’s incredulous expression any longer, I get to my feet and walk over to the window. I peer behind the curtain and stare out across the silent close, the stillness out there a deep contrast to the turmoil inside my body. On the one hand, I can see why Dom is so worried about my behaviour, but on the other hand, I know I’m right to be anxious about this.
‘Do you think…’ he begins, but then trails off.
‘Do I think what?’
‘Do you think you might need to talk to someone?’
I turn around to face him. In the gloom, I see his eyes are full of concern.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say.
‘But, Kirstie—’
‘Honestly, I think if I just try to get a few nights’ good sleep, I’ll get back to my old self. That baby monitor thing last week freaked me out, but I’ll be okay.’
‘But if you went to your GP, she might be able to—’
‘I don’t need to see my GP. I just need to get some sleep.’ I turn away from my husband again and go back to staring out of the window. This time I don’t see what’s outside, instead, my distorted reflection stares back at me. The truth is that I’m scared to put into words how I’m really feeling. I’m afraid that if I go to a doctor and unburden myself, they will say I’m having some kind of breakdown. They may even say I’m not fit to look after Daisy. And no one is taking my baby away from me. No one.
Twenty-One
Dom is upstairs getting ready for bed while I’m curled up on the corner of the living-room sofa watching the end of a feel-good chick flick. The girl is getting the guy as the lights twinkle on the screen and the music soars, but I feel detached from the movie, not warm and fuzzy like the producers intended.
At least today felt like almost a normal day. Dom went to work, I stayed home with Daisy and we played inside. I also managed to read some of my book while she napped. I made a vegetable bake for dinner and only checked the locks three or four times all day. Dom now knowing about all my insecurities means that I don’t feel quite so alone. I mean, he might not agree with me, he might think I need professional help, but he’s not giving me a hard time about it. This morning he hugged me extra tight and told me he loved me. Tonight he was late home from work, but he brought flowers and said he would skip the training. He’s being supportive and understanding. That helps.
I’ve been trying not to think about Martin. To blank him out. To blot out even his house from my mind. I’ve been attempting this thing where I imagine that the houses in our road end at number four – our house – and to our left are simply fields and empty spaces. If I picture his house gone, then my panic recedes. Every time Martin or the image of his basement pops into my head, I push them right out again. Maybe it’s not the right thing to do, but it’s got me through the day without having any type of meltdown.
As the credits roll on the movie, I pick up the remote and switch off the TV. I should go to bed. I’m still not secure enough to leave Daisy alone in her own room, but I’m not being too hard on myself about it. Baby steps.
I stretch my arms and give a noisy yawn, about to move, when my phone lights up and starts vibrating on the sofa cushion next to me. I glance at the screen and see it’s an unknown number. Probably someone trying to sell me something. I ignore it and uncurl my legs, get to my feet and pick up my phone. It needs charging. I take it into the kitchen to plug it in when it buzzes again – an unknown number again. Must be the same person. Probably not a sales person if they’re this insistent. I swipe to reply.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Kirstie.’ It’s a gruff male-sounding voice.
‘Yes?’