Maybe confronting James is more than foolhardy or idiotic, it’s downright dangerous. What if I’ve made the same mistake again – what if ‘rich gay guy Mike’ really is a rich gay guy? What if I ring Brian, or the police, or whoever and tell them that my psycho ex-boyfriend has tracked me down to Brighton, falsely befriended my daughter and then blackmailed her and I’m wrong? How many times can you cry wolf before the men in white coats come out with a nice white coat of your own to wear? Ella described someone who could be James twenty years down the line but I thought the description of Jamie Evans the school teacher matched him too. I’ve been wrong once, I could be wrong again. I need proof. Concrete proof.
The fingers of my right hand twitch on the steering wheel and the next thing I know the driver side door is opening.
Somehow I make it from the road to the pavement and from the pavement to the gate. I keep looking from the front door to the windows to check for signs of life, for danger, for a sign that I should RUN, but when my shoes hit the pathway and I try and walk towards the house it’s as though I’ve stepped into a magnetic field. My body lunges forward but something pushes it back. Go back. Go back. The air is thick, charged, protecting the house, urging me away. Go back. Go back. I take another step forward, my car keys clutched tightly in my hand. I just want to peer through the small gap in the curtains. Just one small look. I take another step, starting when a gull squawks overhead. There are no lights on in the living room, no warm flicker from a television set. I make a deal with God. When I peer through the gap in the curtains, I pray, don’t let James peer back.
I take another step forward, then another. I’m so close now I only need to move a couple of centimetres to my left to see through the gap in the curtains. I exhale as quietly as I can. The street is silent now. There are no gulls, no cars, no children screaming or playing, just me, this house and the thud, thud, thud of my heart.
I hold myself very still and slowly, slowly, tilt my head to the left, towards the gap in the curtains, towards the window into James’s life.
I don’t know what I expect to see – an exact replica of his room twenty years ago perhaps – but I don’t expect the characterless room behind the curtains. A single armchair – black leather with a matching footstool, a leather sofa – same fabric, a pine side table, a beige carpet, stained with what looks like coffee by the fireplace, an entertainment unit holding nothing apart from a large flat screen television and a DVD player. And that’s it. No books, no scripts, no coffee cups, no shoes, no ornaments, no photographs. This could be a show home, a flat designed to appeal to the modern bachelor, devoid of character, colour and warmth and yet … I press a hand to my heart as it lurches in my chest … there is something that stops this room from being completely bland.
A batik wall hanging over the fire.
Chapter 30
My hands shake as I pull my handbag off the passenger seat and onto my lap. I was right all along. I didn’t imagine the cards and parcels that were left at our house and I wasn’t chased down the street by a shadow in London. James Evans was responsible for Charlotte’s accident. I was right all along.
I check that all the doors are still locked and the street is still empty then I delve into my bag. I find my purse, my address book, my make-up bag and a handful of till receipts but not my phone. I tip the handbag upside down. The contents spill onto my lap and my hairbrush hits the keys, dangling from the ignition, as it tumbles. I stare at them as they swing backwards and forwards. Maybe it’s a sign. I should just go. Ring Brian when I’m somewhere safe. Yes, that’s what I’ll do – my fingers make contact with something smooth and buttoned as I sweep the debris from my lap.
My phone.
I scoop it up and press the on button.
Nothing happens.
I sweep my finger down the screen. Jab at the buttons. Press the on button again.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I shake it, bash it on the steering wheel and press the on button again but nothing works. It’s out of battery.
Please, I pray as I turn the keys in the ignition. Please let Brian be home.
Never have I been so relieved to see my husband’s car in the driveway. I sound the horn as I pull up next to it and glance at the house for signs of life.
There aren’t any lights on in the kitchen or upstairs landing. Brian’s probably in his study.
Milly launches herself at me the second I’m through the porch door. She frantically licks my face, her thick tail pounding the air.
‘Hey girl,’ I rub her head then gently push her down. ‘Sorry, got to find Daddy.’
I ignore her whined protestations and go into the kitchen, shutting her in the porch behind me.
‘Brian!’ I call as I glance around the living-room door. It’s empty, exactly as I left it.
‘Brian?’ I call again as I run up the stairs, cross the landing and push open the door to the study. ‘Brian, we need to call the police.’
The room is empty, the laptop lid closed, the chair pushed into the desk, the paperwork piled up neatly in three piles beside the phone.
I head for the bedroom. Maybe he decided to have a nap. ‘Brian, are you—’
But the bedroom is empty too.
It doesn’t make sense. How can Brian’s car be in the drive but he isn’t? His car’s in the drive so where is he?
I run from room to room to room, scanning the floors, the walls and ceilings for signs of a struggle, for – my stomach constricts so powerfully I think I might be sick – evidence of an attack, but everything is in order. There are no smashed ornaments, no overturned furniture, no broken glass and no blood.
I drift out of the living room and into the kitchen, my terror replaced by confusion. There’s no scribbled note on the pine table, no scrawled ‘gone to the pub’ on the whiteboard above the microwave. Maybe Brian texted my phone and I didn’t get it because it’s out of charge. I head towards the charger, plugged in by the kettle, when a scratching sound makes me jump and I’m knocked to the floor.
‘Milly!’ She nudges me with her nose then licks my face. I gently push her away and glance at the porch door. It’s wide open. I mustn’t have shut it properly.