FOR KATE She’s buried beneath a silver birch tree, downtowards the old train tracks, her grave marked witha cairn. Not more than a little pile of stones, really. Ididn’t want to draw attention to her resting place,but I couldn’t leave her without remembrance. She’llsleep peacefully there, no one to disturb her, nosounds but birdsong and the rumble of passingtrains. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl?.?.?. Three for a girl. I’m stuck on three, I just can’t getany further. My head is thick with sounds, mymouth thick with blood. Three for a girl. I can hearthe magpies—they’re laughing, mocking me, a raucouscackling. A tiding. Bad tidings. I can see them now,black against the sun. Not the birds, something else. Someone’s coming. Someone is speaking to me. Nowlook. Now look what you made me do. RACHEL FRIDAY, JULY 5, 2013 MORNING There is a pile of clothing on the side of the traintracks. Light-blue cloth—a shirt, perhaps—jumbled upwith something dirty white. It’s probably rubbish, partof a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up thebank. It could have been left behind by the engineerswho work this part of the track, they’re here oftenenough. Or it could be something else. My motherused to tell me that I had an overactive imagination;Tom said that, too. I can’t help it, I catch sight ofthese discarded scraps, a dirty T-shirt or a lonesomeshoe, and all I can think of is the other shoe andthe feet that fitted into them. The train jolts and scrapes and screeches back intomotion, the little pile of clothes disappears from viewand we trundle on towards London, moving at abrisk jogger’s pace. Someone in the seat behind megives a sigh of helpless irritation; the 8:04 slow trainfrom Ashbury to Euston can test the patience of themost seasoned commuter. The journey is supposedto take fifty-four minutes, but it rarely does: thissection of the track is ancient, decrepit, beset withsignalling problems and never-ending engineeringworks. The train crawls along; it judders past warehousesand water towers, bridges and sheds, past modestVictorian houses, their backs turned squarely to thetrack. My head leaning against the carriage window, Iwatch these houses roll past me like a tracking shotin a film. I see them as others do not; even theirowners probably don’t see them from thisperspective. Twice a day, I am offered a view intoother lives, just for a moment. There’s somethingcomforting about the sight of strangers safe at home. Someone’s phone is ringing, an incongruously joyfuland upbeat song. They’re slow to answer, it jingleson and on around me. I can feel my fellowcommuters shift in their seats, rustle theirnewspapers, tap at their computers. The train lurchesand sways around the bend, slowing as it approachesa red signal. I try not to look up, I try to read thefree newspaper I was handed on my way into thestation, but the words blur in front of my eyes,nothing holds my interest. In my head I can still seethat little pile of clothes lying at the edge of the track,abandoned. EVENINGThe premixed gin and tonic fizzes up over the lip ofthe can as I bring it to my mouth and sip. Tangyand cold, the taste of my first-ever holiday with Tom,a fishing village on the Basque coast in 2005. In themornings we’d swim the half mile to the little islandin the bay, make love on secret hidden beaches; inthe afternoons we’d sit at a bar drinking strong,bitter gin and tonics, watching swarms of beachfootballers playing chaotic twenty-five-a-side games onthe low-tide sands. I take another sip, and another; the can’s alreadyhalf empty, but it’s OK, I have three more in theplastic bag at my feet. It’s Friday, so I don’t have tofeel guilty about drinking on the train. TGIF. The funstarts here. It’s going to be a lovely weekend, that’s what they’retelling us. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies. In theold days we might have driven to Corly Wood with apicnic and the papers, spent all afternoon lying on ablanket in dappled sunlight, drinking wine. We mighthave barbecued out back with friends, or gone to theRose and sat in the beer garden, faces flushing withsun and alcohol as the afternoon went on, weavinghome, arm in arm, falling asleep on the sofa. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies, no one to playwith, nothing to do. Living like this, the way I’mliving at the moment, is harder in the summer whenthere is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness,when everyone is out and about, being flagrantly,aggressively happy. It’s exhausting, and it makes youfeel bad if you’re not joining in. The weekend stretches out ahead of me, forty-eightempty hours to fill. I lift the can to my mouth again,but there’s not a drop left. MONDAY, JULY 8, 2013 MORNING It’s a relief to be back on the 8:04. It’s not that Ican’t wait to get into London to start my week—Idon’t particularly want to be in London at all. I justwant to lean back in the soft, sagging velour seat,feel the warmth of the sunshine streaming throughthe window, feel the carriage rock back and forthand back and forth, the comforting rhythm of wheelson tracks. I’d rather be here, looking out at thehouses beside the track, than almost anywhere else. There’s a faulty signal on this line, about halfwaythrough my journey. I assume it must be faulty, inany case, because it’s almost always red; we stopthere most days, sometimes just for a few seconds,sometimes for minutes on end. If I sit in carriage D,which I usually do, and the train stops at this signal,which it almost always does, I have a perfect viewinto my favourite trackside house: number fifteen. Number fifteen is much like the other houses alongthis stretch of track: a Victorian semi, two storeyshigh, overlooking a narrow, well-tended garden thatruns around twenty feet down towards some fencing,beyond which lie a few metres of no-man’s-landbefore you get to the railway track. I know thishouse by heart. I know every brick, I know thecolour of the curtains in the upstairs bedroom (beige,with a dark-blue print), I know that the paint ispeeling off the bathroom window frame and thatthere are four tiles missing from a section of the roofover on the right-hand side. I know that on warm summer evenings, theoccupants of this house, Jason and Jess, sometimesclimb out of the large sash window to sit on themakeshift terrace on top of the kitchen-extensionroof. They are a perfect, golden couple. He isdark-haired and well built, strong, protective, kind. Hehas a great laugh. She is one of those tinybird-women, a beauty, pale-skinned with blond haircropped short. She has the bone structure to carrythat kind of thing off, sharp cheekbones dappled witha sprinkling of freckles, a fine jaw. While we’re stuck at the red signal, I look for them. Jess is often out there in the mornings, especially inthe summer, drinking her coffee. Sometimes, when Isee her there, I feel as though she sees me, too, Ifeel as though she looks right back at me, and Iwant to wave. I’m too self-conscious. I don’t seeJason quite so much, he’s away a lot with work. Buteven if they’re not there, I think about what theymight be up to. Maybe this morning they’ve both gotthe day off and she’s lying in bed while he makesbreakfast, or maybe they’ve gone for a run together,because that’s the sort of thing they do. (Tom and Iused to run together on Sundays, me going atslightly above my normal pace, him at about half his,just so we could run side by side.) Maybe Jess isupstairs in the spare room, painting, or maybethey’re in the shower together, her hands pressedagainst the tiles, his hands on her hips. EVENING Turning slightly towards the window, my back to therest of the carriage, I open one of the little bottles ofChenin Blanc I purchased from the Whistlestop atEuston. It’s not cold, but it’ll do. I pour some into aplastic cup, screw the top back on and slip the bottleinto my handbag. It’s less acceptable to drink on thetrain on a Monday, unless you’re drinking withcompany, which I am not. There are familiar faces on these trains, people I seeevery week, going to and fro. I recognize them andthey probably recognize me. I don’t know whetherthey see me, though, for what I really am. It’s a glorious evening, warm but not too close, thesun starting its lazy descent, shadows lengthening andthe light just beginning to burnish the trees with gold. The train is rattling along, we whip past Jason andJess’s place, they pass in a blur of evening sunshine. Sometimes, not often, I can see them from this sideof the track. If there’s no train going in the oppositedirection, and if we’re travelling slowly enough, I cansometimes catch a glimpse of them out on theirterrace. If not—like today—I can imagine them. Jesswill be sitting with her feet up on the table out onthe terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, Jasonstanding behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Ican imagine the feel of his hands, the weight ofthem, reassuring and protective. Sometimes I catchmyself trying to remember the last time I hadmeaningful physical contact with another person, justa hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, and myheart twitches. TUESDAY, JULY 9, 2013 MORNING The pile of clothes from last week is still there, and itlooks dustier and more forlorn than it did a few daysago. I read somewhere that a train can rip theclothes right off you when it hits. It’s not thatunusual, death by train. Two to three hundred ayear, they say, so at least one every couple of days. I’m not sure how many of those are accidental. Ilook carefully, as the train rolls slowly past, for bloodon the clothes, but I can’t see any. The train stops at the signal as usual. I can seeJess standing on the patio in front of the Frenchdoors. She’s wearing a bright print dress, her feetare bare. She’s looking over her shoulder, back intothe house; she’s probably talking to Jason, who’ll bemaking breakfast. I keep my eyes fixed on Jess, onher home, as the train starts to inch forward. I don’twant to see the other houses; I particularly don’twant to see the one four doors down, the one thatused to be mine. I lived at number twenty-three Blenheim Road forfive years, blissfully happy and utterly wretched. Ican’t look at it now. That was my first home. Notmy parents’ place, not a flatshare with other students,my first home. I can’t bear to look at it. Well, I can,I do, I want to, I don’t want to, I try not to. Everyday I tell myself not to look, and every day I look. Ican’t help myself, even though there is nothing Iwant to see there, even though anything I do see willhurt me. Even though I remember so clearly how itfelt that time I looked up and noticed that the creamlinen blind in the upstairs bedroom was gone,replaced by something in soft baby pink; eventhough I still remember the pain I felt when I sawAnna watering the rosebushes near the fence, herT-shirt stretched tight over her bulging belly, and Ibit my lip so hard, it bled. I close my eyes tightly and count to ten, fifteen,twenty. There, it’s gone now, nothing to see. We rollinto Witney station and out again, the train startingto pick up pace as suburbia melts into grimy NorthLondon, terraced houses replaced by tagged bridgesand empty buildings with broken windows. The closerwe get to Euston, the more anxious I feel; pressurebuilds; how will today be? There’s a filthy, low-slungconcrete building on the right-hand side of the trackabout five hundred metres before we get into Euston. On its side, someone has painted: LIFE IS NOT APARAGRAPH. I think about the bundle of clotheson the side of the track and I feel as though mythroat is closing up. Life is not a paragraph, anddeath is no parenthesis. EVENING The train I take in the evening, the 5:56, is slightlyslower than the morning one—it takes one hour andone minute, a full seven minutes longer than themorning train despite not stopping at any extrastations. I don’t mind, because just as I’m in nogreat hurry to get into London in the morning, I’min no hurry to get back to Ashbury in the evening,either. Not just because it’s Ashbury, although theplace itself is bad enough, a 1960s new town,spreading like a tumour over the heart ofBuckinghamshire. No better or worse than a dozenother towns like it, a centre filled with cafés andmobile-phone shops and branches of JD Sports,surrounded by a band of suburbia and beyond thatthe realm of the multiplex cinema and out-of-townTesco. I live in a smart(ish), new(ish) block situatedat the point where the commercial heart of the placestarts to bleed into the residential outskirts, but it isnot my home. My home is the Victorian semi on thetracks, the one I part-owned. In Ashbury I am not ahomeowner, not even a tenant—I’m a lodger,occupant of the small second bedroom in Cathy’sbland and inoffensive duplex, subject to her graceand favour. Cathy and I were friends at university. Half friends,really, we were never that close. She lived across thehall from me in my first year, and we were bothdoing the same course, so we were natural allies inthose first few daunting weeks, before we met peoplewith whom we had more in common. We didn’t seemuch of each other after the first year and barely atall after college, except for the occasional wedding. But in my hour of need she happened to have aspare room going and it made sense. I was so surethat it would only be for a couple of months, six atthe most, and I didn’t know what else to do. I’dnever lived by myself, I’d gone from parents toflatmates to Tom, I found the idea overwhelming, soI said yes. And that was nearly two years ago. It’s not awful. Cathy’s a nice person, in a forcefulsort of way. She makes you notice her niceness. Herniceness is writ large, it is her defining quality andshe needs it acknowledged, often, daily almost, whichcan be tiring. But it’s not so bad, I can think ofworse traits in a flatmate. No, it’s not Cathy, it’s noteven Ashbury that bothers me most about my newsituation (I still think of it as new, although it’s beentwo years). It’s the loss of control. In Cathy’s flat Ialways feel like a guest at the very outer limit of herwelcome. I feel it in the kitchen, where we jostle forspace when cooking our evening meals. I feel it whenI sit beside her on the sofa, the remote control firmlywithin her grasp. The only space that feels like mineis my tiny bedroom, into which a double bed and adesk have been crammed, with barely enough spaceto walk between them. It’s comfortable enough, but itisn’t a place you want to be, so instead I linger inthe living room or at the kitchen table, ill at easeand powerless. I have lost control over everything,even the places in my head. WEDNESDAY, JULY 10, 2013 MORNING The heat is building. It’s barely half past eight andalready the day is close, the air heavy with moisture. I could wish for a storm, but the sky is an insolentblank, pale, watery blue. I wipe away the sweat onmy top lip. I wish I’d remembered to buy a bottle ofwater. I can’t see Jason and Jess this morning, and mysense of disappointment is acute. Silly, I know. Iscrutinize the house, but there’s nothing to see. Thecurtains are open downstairs but the French doorsare closed, sunlight reflecting off the glass. The sashwindow upstairs is closed, too. Jason may be awayworking. He’s a doctor, I think, probably for one ofthose overseas organizations. He’s constantly on call,a bag packed on top of the wardrobe; there’s anearthquake in Iran or a tsunami in Asia and hedrops everything, he grabs his bag and he’s atHeathrow within a matter of hours, ready to fly outand save lives. Jess, with her bold prints and her Converse trainersand her beauty, her attitude, works in the fashionindustry. Or perhaps in the music business, or inadvertising—she might be a stylist or a photographer. She’s a good painter, too, plenty of artistic flair. I cansee her now, in the spare room upstairs, musicblaring, window open, a brush in her hand, anenormous canvas leaning against the wall. She’ll bethere until midnight; Jason knows not to bother herwhen she’s working. I can’t really see her, of course. I don’t know if shepaints, or whether Jason has a great laugh, orwhether Jess has beautiful cheekbones. I can’t seeher bone structure from here and I’ve never heardJason’s voice. I’ve never seen them up close, theydidn’t live at that house when I lived down the road. They moved in after I left two years ago, I don’tknow when exactly. I suppose I started noticing themabout a year ago, and gradually, as the months wentpast, they became important to me. I don’t know their names, either, so I had to namethem myself. Jason, because he’s handsome in aBritish film star kind of way, not a Depp or a Pitt,but a Firth, or a Jason Isaacs. And Jess just goeswith Jason, and it goes with her. It fits her, prettyand carefree as she is. They’re a match, they’re aset. They’re happy, I can tell. They’re what I used tobe, they’re Tom and me five years ago. They’re whatI lost, they’re everything I want to be. EVENING My shirt, uncomfortably tight, buttons straining acrossmy chest, is pit-stained, damp patches clammybeneath my arms. My eyes and throat itch. Thisevening I don’t want the journey to stretch out; Ilong to get home, to undress and get into theshower, to be where no one can look at me. I look at the man in the seat opposite mine. He isabout my age, early to midthirties, with dark hair,greying at the temples. Sallow skin. He’s wearing asuit, but he’s taken the jacket off and slung it on theseat next to him. He has a MacBook, paper-thin,open in front of him. He’s a slow typist. He’swearing a silver watch with a large face on his rightwrist—it looks expensive, a Breitling maybe. He’schewing the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’snervous. Or just thinking deeply. Writing animportant email to a colleague at the office in NewYork, or a carefully worded break-up message to hisgirlfriend. He looks up suddenly and meets my eye;his glance travels over me, over the little bottle ofwine on the table in front of me. He looks away. There’s something about the set of his mouth thatsuggests distaste. He finds me distasteful. I am not the girl I used to be. I am no longerdesirable, I’m off-putting in some way. It’s not justthat I’ve put on weight, or that my face is puffyfrom the drinking and the lack of sleep; it’s as ifpeople can see the damage written all over me, cansee it in my face, the way I hold myself, the way Imove. One night last week, when I left my room to getmyself a glass of water, I overheard Cathy talking toDamien, her boyfriend, in the living room. I stood inthe hallway and listened. “She’s lonely,” Cathy wassaying. “I really worry about her. It doesn’t help, herbeing alone all the time.” Then she said, “Isn’t theresomeone from work, maybe, or the rugby club?” andDamien said, “For Rachel? Not being funny, Cath,but I’m not sure I know anyone that desperate.” THURSDAY, JULY 11, 2013 MORNING I’m picking at the plaster on my forefinger. It’sdamp, it got wet when I was washing out my coffeemug this morning; it feels clammy, dirty, though itwas clean on this morning. I don’t want to take it offbecause the cut is deep. Cathy was out when I gothome, so I went to the off-licence and bought twobottles of wine. I drank the first one and then Ithought I’d take advantage of the fact that she wasout and cook myself a steak, make a red-onionrelish, have it with a green salad. A good, healthymeal. I sliced through the top of my finger whilechopping the onions. I must have gone to thebathroom to clean it up and gone to lie down for awhile and just forgotten all about it, because I wokeup around ten and I could hear Cathy and Damientalking and he was saying how disgusting it was thatI would leave the kitchen like that. Cathy cameupstairs to see me, she knocked softly on my doorand opened it a fraction. She cocked her head toone side and asked if I was OK. I apologized withoutbeing sure what I was apologizing for. She said itwas all right, but would I mind cleaning up a bit? There was blood on the chopping board, the roomsmelled of raw meat, the steak was still sitting out onthe countertop, turning grey. Damien didn’t even sayhello, he just shook his head when he saw me andwent upstairs to Cathy’s bedroom. After they’d both gone to bed I remembered that Ihadn’t drunk the second bottle, so I opened that. Isat on the sofa and watched television with thesound turned down really low so they wouldn’t hearit. I can’t remember what I was watching, but atsome point I must have felt lonely, or happy, orsomething, because I wanted to talk to someone. Theneed for contact must have been overwhelming, andthere was no one I could call except for Tom. There’s no one I want to talk to except for Tom. The call log on my phone says I rang four times: at11:02, 11:12, 11:54, 12:09. Judging from the length ofthe calls, I left two messages. He may even havepicked up, but I don’t remember talking to him. Iremember leaving the first message; I think I justasked him to call me. That may be what I said inboth of them, which isn’t too bad. The train shudders to a standstill at the red signaland I look up. Jess is sitting on her patio, drinking acup of coffee. She has her feet up against the tableand her head back, sunning herself. Behind her, Ithink I can see a shadow, someone moving: Jason. Ilong to see him, to catch a glimpse of his handsomeface. I want him to come outside, to stand behindher the way he does, to kiss the top of her head. He doesn’t come out, and her head falls forward. There is something about the way she is movingtoday that seems different; she is heavier, weigheddown. I will him to come out to her, but the trainjolts and slogs forward and still there is no sign ofhim; she’s alone. And now, without thinking, I findmyself looking directly into my house, and I can’tlook away. The French doors are flung open, lightstreaming into the kitchen. I can’t tell, I really can’t,whether I’m seeing this or imagining it—is she there,at the sink, washing up? Is there a little girl sitting inone of those bouncy baby chairs up there on thekitchen table? I close my eyes and let the darkness grow andspread until it morphs from a feeling of sadness intosomething worse: a memory, a flashback. I didn’tjust ask him to call me back. I remember now, Iwas crying. I told him that I still loved him, that Ialways would. Please, Tom, please, I need to talk toyou. I miss you. No no no no no no no. I have to accept it, there’s no point trying to pushit away. I’m going to feel terrible all day, it’s going tocome in waves—stronger then weaker then strongeragain—that twist in the pit of my stomach, theanguish of shame, the heat coming to my face, myeyes squeezed tight as though I could make it alldisappear. And I’ll be telling myself all day, it’s notthe worst thing, is it? It’s not the worst thing I’veever done, it’s not as if I fell over in public, or yelledat a stranger in the street. It’s not as if I humiliatedmy husband at a summer barbecue by shoutingabuse at the wife of one of his friends. It’s not as ifwe got into a fight one night at home and I wentfor him with a golf club, taking a chunk out of theplaster in the hallway outside the bedroom. It’s notlike going back to work after a three-hour lunch andstaggering through the office, everyone looking, MartinMiles taking me to one side, I think you shouldprobably go home, Rachel. I once read a book bya former alcoholic where she described giving oralsex to two different men, men she’d just met in arestaurant on a busy London high street. I read itand I thought, I’m not that bad. This is where thebar is set. EVENING I have been thinking about Jess all day, unable tofocus on anything but what I saw this morning. What was it that made me think that something waswrong? I couldn’t possibly see her expression at thatdistance, but I felt when I was looking at her thatshe was alone. More than alone—lonely. Perhaps shewas—perhaps he’s away, gone to one of those hotcountries he jets off to to save lives. And she misseshim, and she worries, although she knows he has togo. Of course she misses him, just as I do. He is kindand strong, everything a husband should be. Andthey are a partnership. I can see it, I know howthey are. His strength, that protectiveness he radiates,it doesn’t mean she’s weak. She’s strong in otherways; she makes intellectual leaps that leave himopenmouthed in admiration. She can cut to the nubof a problem, dissect and analyse it in the time ittakes other people to say good morning. At parties,he often holds her hand, even though they’ve beentogether years. They respect each other, they don’tput each other down. I feel exhausted this evening. I am sober, stone-cold. Some days I feel so bad that I have to drink; somedays I feel so bad that I can’t. Today, the thought ofalcohol turns my stomach. But sobriety on theevening train is a challenge, particularly now, in thisheat. A film of sweat covers every inch of my skin,the inside of my mouth prickles, my eyes itch,mascara rubbed into their corners. My phone buzzes in my handbag, making me jump. Two girls sitting across the carriage look at me andthen at each other, with a sly exchange of smiles. Idon’t know what they think of me, but I know itisn’t good. My heart is pounding in my chest as Ireach for the phone. I know this will be nothinggood, either: it will be Cathy, perhaps, asking meever so nicely to maybe give the booze a rest thisevening? Or my mother, telling me that she’ll be inLondon next week, she’ll drop by the office, we cango for lunch. I look at the screen. It’s Tom. I hesitatefor just a second and then I answer it. “Rachel?” For the first five years I knew him, I was neverRachel, always Rach. Sometimes Shelley, because heknew I hated it and it made him laugh to watch metwitch with irritation and then giggle because Icouldn’t help but join in when he was laughing. “Rachel, it’s me.” His voice is leaden, he soundsworn out. “Listen, you have to stop this, OK?” Idon’t say anything. The train is slowing, and we arealmost opposite the house, my old house. I want tosay to him, Come outside, go and stand on thelawn. Let me see you. “Please, Rachel, you can’t callme like this all the time. You’ve got to sort yourselfout.” There is a lump in my throat as hard as apebble, smooth and obstinate. I cannot swallow. Icannot speak. “Rachel? Are you there? I know thingsaren’t good with you, and I’m sorry for you, I reallyam, but?.?.?. I can’t help you, and these constant callsare really upsetting Anna. OK? I can’t help youanymore. Go to AA or something. Please, Rachel. Goto an AA meeting after work today.” I pull the filthy plaster off the end of my finger andlook at the pale, wrinkled flesh beneath, dried bloodcaked at the edge of my fingernail. I press thethumbnail of my right hand into the centre of thecut and feel it open up, the pain sharp and hot. Icatch my breath. Blood starts to ooze from thewound. The girls on the other side of the carriageare watching me, their faces blank. MEGAN One year earlier WEDNESDAY, MAY 16, 2012 MORNING I can hear the train coming; I know its rhythm byheart. It picks up speed as it accelerates out ofNorthcote station and then, after rattling round thebend, it starts to slow down, from a rattle to arumble, and then sometimes a screech of brakes asit stops at the signal a couple hundred yards fromthe house. My coffee is cold on the table, but I’mtoo deliciously warm and lazy to bother getting up tomake myself another cup. Sometimes I don’t even watch the trains go past, Ijust listen. Sitting here in the morning, eyes closedand the hot sun orange on my eyelids, I could beanywhere. I could be in the south of Spain, at thebeach; I could be in Italy, the Cinque Terre, all thosepretty coloured houses and the trains ferrying thetourists back and forth. I could be back in Holkham,with the screech of gulls in my ears and salt on mytongue and a ghost train passing on the rusted trackhalf a mile away. The train isn’t stopping today, it trundles slowly past. I can hear the wheels clacking over the points, canalmost feel it rocking. I can’t see the faces of thepassengers and I know they’re just commutersheading to Euston to sit behind desks, but I candream: of more exotic journeys, of adventures at theend of the line and beyond. In my head, I keeptravelling back to Holkham; it’s odd that I still thinkof it, on mornings like this, with such affection, suchlonging, but I do. The wind in the grass, the big slatesky over the dunes, the house infested with mice andfalling down, full of candles and dirt and music. It’slike a dream to me now. I feel my heart beating just a little too fast. I can hear his footfall on the stairs, he calls myname. “You want another coffee, Megs?” The spell is broken, I’m awake. EVENING I’m cool from the breeze and warm from the twofingers of vodka in my martini. I’m out on theterrace, waiting for Scott to come home. I’m going topersuade him to take me out to dinner at the Italianon Kingly Road. We haven’t been out for bloodyages. I haven’t got much done today. I was supposed tosort out my application for the fabrics course at St. Martins; I did start it, I was working downstairs inthe kitchen when I heard a woman screaming,making a horrible noise, I thought someone wasbeing murdered. I ran outside into the garden, but Icouldn’t see anything. I could still hear her, though, it was nasty, it wentright through me, her voice really shrill anddesperate. “What are you doing? What are you doingwith her? Give her to me, give her to me.” Itseemed to go on and on, though it probably onlylasted a few seconds. I ran upstairs and climbed out onto the terrace andI could see, through the trees, two women down bythe fence a few gardens over. One of them wascrying—maybe they both were—and there was a childbawling its head off, too. I thought about calling the police, but it all seemedto calm down then. The woman who’d beenscreaming ran into the house, carrying the baby. Theother one stayed out there. She ran up towards thehouse, she stumbled and got to her feet and thenjust sort of wandered round the garden in circles. Really weird. God knows what was going on. But it’sthe most excitement I’ve had in weeks. My days feel empty now I don’t have the gallery togo to any longer. I really miss it. I miss talking tothe artists. I even miss dealing with all those tediousyummy mummies who used to drop by, Starbucks inhand, to gawk at the pictures, telling their friendsthat little Jessie did better pictures than that atnursery school. Sometimes I feel like seeing if I can track downanybody from the old days, but then I think, whatwould I talk to them about now? They wouldn’t evenrecognize Megan the happily married suburbanite. Inany case, I can’t risk looking backwards, it’s always abad idea. I’ll wait until the summer is over, then I’lllook for work. It seems like a shame to waste theselong summer days. I’ll find something, here orelsewhere, I know I will. TUESDAY, AUGUST 14, 2012 MORNING I find myself standing in front of my wardrobe,staring for the hundredth time at a rack of prettyclothes, the perfect wardrobe for the manager of asmall but cutting-edge art gallery. Nothing in it says“nanny.” God, even the word makes me want to gag. I put on jeans and a T-shirt, scrape my hair back. Idon’t even bother putting on any makeup. There’sno point, is there, prettying myself up to spend allday with a baby? I flounce downstairs, half spoiling for a fight. Scott’smaking coffee in the kitchen. He turns to me with agrin, and my mood lifts instantly. I rearrange mypout to a smile. He hands me a coffee and kissesme. There’s no sense blaming him for this, it was myidea. I volunteered to do it, to become a childminderfor the people down the road. At the time, I thoughtit might be fun. Completely insane, really, I musthave been mad. Bored, mad, curious. I wanted tosee. I think I got the idea after I heard her yellingout in the garden and I wanted to know what wasgoing on. Not that I’ve asked, of course. You can’treally, can you? Scott encouraged me—he was over the moon whenI suggested it. He thinks spending time aroundbabies will make me broody. In fact, it’s doing exactlythe opposite; when I leave their house I run home,can’t wait to strip my clothes off and get into theshower and wash the baby smell off me. I long for my days at the gallery, prettied up, hairdone, talking to adults about art or films or nothingat all. Nothing at all would be a step up from myconversations with Anna. God, she’s dull! You get thefeeling that she probably had something to say forherself once upon a time, but now everything isabout the child: Is she warm enough? Is she toowarm? How much milk did she take? And she’salways there, so most of the time I feel like a sparepart. My job is to watch the child while Anna rests,to give her a break. A break from what, exactly? She’s weirdly nervous, too. I’m constantly aware ofher, hovering, twitching. She flinches every time atrain passes, jumps when the phone rings. “They’rejust so fragile, aren’t they?” she says, and I can’tdisagree with that. I leave the house and walk, leaden-legged, the fiftyyards along Blenheim Road to their house. No skipin my step. Today, she doesn’t open the door, it’shim, the husband. Tom, suited and booted, off towork. He looks handsome in his suit—not Scotthandsome, he’s smaller and paler, and his eyes are alittle too close together when you see him up close,but he’s not bad. He flashes me his wide, TomCruise smile, and then he’s gone, and it’s just meand her and the baby. THURSDAY, AUGUST 16, 2012 AFTERNOON I quit! I feel so much better, as if anything is possible. I’mfree! I’m sitting on the terrace, waiting for the rain. Thesky is black above me, swallows looping and diving,the air thick with moisture. Scott will be home in anhour or so, and I’ll have to tell him. He’ll only bepissed off for a minute or two, I’ll make it up tohim. And I won’t just be sitting around the house allday: I’ve been making plans. I could do aphotography course, or set up a market stall, selljewellery. I could learn to cook. I had a teacher at school who told me once that Iwas a mistress of self-reinvention. I didn’t know whathe was on about at the time, I thought he wasputting me on, but I’ve since come to like the idea. Runaway, lover, wife, waitress, gallery manager,nanny, and a few more in between. So who do Iwant to be tomorrow? I didn’t really mean to quit, the words just cameout. We were sitting there, around the kitchen table,Anna with the baby on her lap, and Tom hadpopped back to pick something up, so he was there,too, drinking a cup of coffee, and it just seemedridiculous, there was absolutely no point in my beingthere. Worse than that, I felt uncomfortable, as if Iwas intruding. “I’ve found another job,” I said, without reallythinking about it. “So I’m not going to be able to dothis any longer.” Anna gave me a look—I don’t thinkshe believed me. She just said, “Oh, that’s a shame,” and I could tell she didn’t mean it. She lookedrelieved. She didn’t even ask me what the job was,which was a relief, because I hadn’t thought up aconvincing lie. Tom looked mildly surprised. He said, “We’ll missyou,” but that’s a lie, too. The only person who’ll really be disappointed isScott, so I have to think of something to tell him. Maybe I’ll tell him Tom was hitting on me. That’llput an end to it. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2012 MORNING It’s just after seven, it’s chilly out here now, but it’sso beautiful like this, all these strips of garden side byside, green and cold and waiting for fingers ofsunshine to creep up from the tracks and makethem all come alive. I’ve been up for hours; I can’tsleep. I haven’t slept in days. I hate this, hateinsomnia more than anything, just lying there, braingoing round, tick, tick, tick, tick. I itch all over. Iwant to shave my head. I want to run. I want to take a road trip, in aconvertible, with the top down. I want to drive to thecoast—any coast. I want to walk on a beach. Me andmy big brother were going to be road trippers. Wehad such plans, Ben and I. Well, they were Ben’splans mostly—he was such a dreamer. We weregoing to ride motorbikes from Paris to the C?ted’Azur, or all the way down the Pacific coast of theUSA, from Seattle to Los Angeles; we were going tofollow in Che Guevara’s tracks from Buenos Aires toCaracas. Maybe if I’d done all that, I wouldn’t haveended up here, not knowing what to do next. Ormaybe, if I’d done all that, I’d have ended up exactlywhere I am and I would be perfectly contented. ButI didn’t do all that, of course, because Ben never gotas far as Paris, he never even made it as far asCambridge. He died on the A10, his skull crushedbeneath the wheels of an articulated lorry. I miss him every day. More than anyone, I think. He’s the big hole in my life, in the middle of mysoul. Or maybe he was just the beginning of it. Idon’t know. I don’t even know whether all this isreally about Ben, or whether it’s about everythingthat happened after that, and everything that’shappened since. All I know is, one minute I’m tickingalong fine and life is sweet and I want for nothing,and the next I can’t wait to get away, I’m all overthe place, slipping and sliding again. So, I’m going to see a therapist! Which could beweird, but it could be a laugh, too. I’ve alwaysthought that it might be fun to be Catholic, to beable to go to the confessional and unburden yourselfand have someone tell you that they forgive you, totake all the sin away, wipe the slate clean. This is not quite the same thing, of course. I’m abit nervous, but I haven’t been able to get to sleeplately, and Scott’s been on my case to go. I told himI find it difficult enough talking to people I knowabout this stuff—I can barely even talk to him aboutit. He said that’s the point, you can say anything tostrangers. But that isn’t completely true. You can’tjust say anything. Poor Scott. He doesn’t know thehalf of it. He loves me so much, it makes me ache. Idon’t know how he does it. I would drive me mad. But I have to do something, and at least this feelslike action. All those plans I had—photographycourses and cookery classes—when it comes down toit, they feel a bit pointless, as if I’m playing at reallife instead of actually living it. I need to findsomething that I must do, something undeniable. Ican’t do this, I can’t just be a wife. I don’tunderstand how anyone does it—there is literallynothing to do but wait. Wait for a man to comehome and love you. Either that or look around forsomething to distract you. EVENINGI’ve been kept waiting. The appointment was for halfan hour ago, and I’m still here, sitting in thereception room flicking through Vogue, thinkingabout getting up and walking out. I know doctors’ appointments run over, but therapists? Films havealways led me to believe that they kick you out themoment your thirty minutes are up. I supposeHollywood isn’t really talking about the kind oftherapist you get referred to on the National HealthService. I’m just about to go up to the receptionist to tellher that I’ve waited long enough, I’m leaving, whenthe doctor’s office door swings open and this verytall, lanky man emerges, looking apologetic andholding out his hand to me. “Mrs. Hipwell, I am so sorry to have kept youwaiting,” he says, and I just smile at him and tellhim it’s all right, and I feel, in this moment, that itwill be all right, because I’ve only been in hiscompany for a moment or two and already I feelsoothed. I think it’s the voice. Soft and low. Slightly accented,which I was expecting, because his name is Dr. Kamal Abdic. I guess he must be midthirties,although he looks very young with his incredible darkhoney skin. He has hands I could imagine on me,long and delicate fingers, I can almost feel them onmy skin. We don’t talk about anything substantial, it’s just theintroductory session, the getting-to-know-you stuff; heasks me what the trouble is and I tell him about thepanic attacks, the insomnia, the fact that I lie awakeat night too frightened to fall asleep. He wants me totalk a bit more about that, but I’m not ready yet. Heasks me whether I take drugs, drink alcohol. I tellhim I have other vices these days, and I catch hiseye and I think he knows what I mean. Then I feelas if I ought to be taking this a bit more seriously,so I tell him about the gallery closing and that I feelat a loose end all the time, my lack of direction, thefact that I spend too much time in my head. Hedoesn’t talk much, just the occasional prompt, but Iwant to hear him speak, so as I’m leaving I ask himwhere he’s from. “Maidstone,” he says, “in Kent. But I moved toCorly a few years back.” He knows that wasn’t whatI was asking; he gives me a wolfish smile. Scott is waiting for me when I get home, he thrustsa drink into my hand, he wants to know all about it. I say it was OK. He asks me about the therapist: didI like him, did he seem nice? OK, I say again,because I don’t want to sound too enthusiastic. Heasks me whether we talked about Ben. Scott thinkseverything is about Ben. He may be right. He mayknow me better than I think he does. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2012 MORNING I woke early this morning, but I did sleep for a fewhours, which is an improvement on last week. I feltalmost refreshed when I got out of bed, so instead ofsitting on the terrace I decided to go for a walk. I’ve been shutting myself away, almost withoutrealizing it. The only places I seem to go these daysare to the shops, my Pilates classes and the therapist. Occasionally to Tara’s. The rest of the time, I’m athome. It’s no wonder I get restless. I walk out of the house, turn right and then leftonto Kingly Road. Past the pub, the Rose. We usedto go there all the time; I can’t remember why westopped. I never liked it all that much, too manycouples just the right side of forty drinking too muchand casting around for something better, wondering ifthey’d have the courage. Perhaps that’s why westopped going, because I didn’t like it. Past the pub,past the shops. I don’t want to go far, just a littlecircuit to stretch my legs. It’s nice being out early, before the school run,before the commute gets going; the streets are emptyand clean, the day full of possibility. I turn left again,walk down to the little playground, the only ratherpoor excuse for green space we have. It’s emptynow, but in a few hours it will be swarming withtoddlers, mothers and au pairs. Half the Pilates girlswill be here, head to toe in Sweaty Betty,competitively stretching, manicured hands wrappedaround their Starbucks. I carry on past the park and down towardsRoseberry Avenue. If I turned right here I’d go uppast my gallery—what was my gallery, now a vacantshop window—but I don’t want to, because that stillhurts a little. I tried so hard to make a success of it. Wrong place, wrong time—no call for art in suburbia,not in this economy. Instead, I turn right, past theTesco Express, past the other pub, the one wherepeople from the estate go, and back towards home. Ican feel butterflies now, I’m starting to get nervous. I’m afraid of bumping into the Watsons, because it’salways awkward when I see them; it’s patentlyobvious that I don’t have a new job, that I liedbecause I didn’t want to carry on working for them. Or rather, it’s awkward when I see her. Tom justignores me. But Anna seems to take thingspersonally. She obviously thinks that my short-livedcareer as a nanny came to an end because of heror because of her child. It actually wasn’t about herchild at all, although the fact that the child neverstops whinging did make her hard to love. It’s all somuch more complicated, but of course I can’t explainthat to her. Anyway. That’s one of the reasons I’vebeen shutting myself away, I suppose, because Idon’t want to see the Watsons. Part of me hopesthey’ll just move. I know she doesn’t like being here: she hates that house, hates living among his ex-wife’sthings, hates the trains. I stop at the corner and peer into the underpass. That smell of cold and damp always sends a littleshiver down my spine, it’s like turning over a rock tosee what’s underneath: moss and worms and earth. It reminds me of playing in the garden as a child,looking for frogs by the pond with Ben. I walk on. The street is clear—no sign of Tom or Anna—andthe part of me that can’t resist a bit of drama isactually quite disappointed. EVENING Scott’s just called to say he has to work late, whichis not the news I wanted to hear. I’m feeling edgy,have been all day. Can’t keep still. I need him tocome home and calm me down, and now it’s goingto be hours before he gets here and my brain isgoing to keep racing round and round and roundand I know I’ve got a sleepless night coming. I can’t just sit here, watching the trains, I’m toojittery, my heartbeat feels like a flutter in my chest,like a bird trying to get out of a cage. I slip myflip-flops on and go downstairs, out of the front doorand on to Blenheim Road. It’s around seven thirty—afew stragglers on their way home from work. There’sno one else around, though you can hear the criesof kids playing in their back gardens, takingadvantage of the last of the summer sunshine beforethey get called in for dinner. I walk down the road, towards the station. I stopfor a moment outside number twenty-three and thinkabout ringing the doorbell. What would I say? Ranout of sugar? Just fancied a chat? Their blinds arehalf open, but I can’t see anyone inside. I carry on towards the corner and, without reallythinking about it, I continue down into the underpass. I’m about halfway through when the train runsoverhead, and it’s glorious: it’s like an earthquake,you can feel it right in the centre of your body,stirring up the blood. I look down and notice thatthere’s something on the floor, a hair band, purple,stretched, well used. Dropped by a runner, probably,but something about it gives me the creeps and Iwant to get out of there quickly, back into thesunshine. On the way back down the road, he passes me inhis car, our eyes meet for just a second and hesmiles at me. RACHEL FRIDAY, JULY 12, 2013 MORNING I am exhausted, my head thick with sleep. When Idrink, I hardly sleep at all. I pass out cold for anhour or two, then I wake, sick with fear, sick withmyself. If I have a day when I don’t drink, that nightI fall into the heaviest of slumbers, a deepunconsciousness, and in the morning I cannot wakeproperly, I cannot shake sleep, it stays with me forhours, sometimes all day long. There is just a handful of people in my carriagetoday, none in my immediate vicinity. There is noone watching me, so I lean my head against thewindow and close my eyes. The screech of the train’s brakes wakes me. We’reat the signal. At this time of morning, at this time ofyear, the sun shines directly onto the back of thetrackside houses, flooding them with light. I canalmost feel it, the warmth of that morning sunshineon my face and arms as I sit at the breakfast table,Tom opposite me, my bare feet resting on top of hisbecause they’re always so much warmer than mine,my eyes cast down at the newspaper. I can feel himsmiling at me, the blush spreading from my chest tomy neck, the way it always did when he looked atme a certain way. I blink hard and Tom’s gone. We’re still at thesignal. I can see Jess in her garden, and behind hera man walking out of the house. He’s carryingsomething—mugs of coffee, perhaps—and I look athim and realize that it isn’t Jason. This man is taller,slender, darker. He’s a family friend; he’s her brotheror Jason’s brother. He bends down, placing themugs on the metal table on their patio. He’s acousin from Australia, staying for a couple of weeks;he’s Jason’s oldest friend, best man at their wedding. Jess walks towards him, she puts her hands aroundhis waist and she kisses him, long and deep. Thetrain moves. I can’t believe it. I snatch air into my lungs andrealize that I’ve been holding my breath. Why wouldshe do that? Jason loves her, I can see it, they’rehappy. I can’t believe she would do that to him, hedoesn’t deserve that. I feel a real sense ofdisappointment, I feel as though I have been cheatedon. A familiar ache fills my chest. I have felt this waybefore. On a larger scale, to a more intense degree,of course, but I remember the quality of the pain. You don’t forget it. I found out the way everyone seems to find outthese days: an electronic slip. Sometimes it’s a text ora voice mail message; in my case it was an email,the modern-day lipstick on the collar. It was anaccident, really, I wasn’t snooping. I wasn’t supposedto go near Tom’s computer, because he was worriedI would delete something important by mistake, orclick on something I shouldn’t and let in a virus or aTrojan or something. “Technology’s not really yourstrong point, is it, Rach?” he said after the time Imanaged to delete all the contacts in his emailaddress book by mistake. So I wasn’t supposed totouch it. But I was actually doing a good thing, I wastrying to make amends for being a bit miserable anddifficult, I was planning a special fourth-anniversarygetaway, a trip to remind us how we used to be. Iwanted it to be a surprise, so I had to check hiswork schedule secretly, I had to look. I wasn’t snooping, I wasn’t trying to catch him outor anything, I knew better than that. I didn’t want tobe one of those awful suspicious wives who gothrough their husband’s pockets. Once, I answeredhis phone when he was in the shower and he gotquite upset and accused me of not trusting him. Ifelt awful because he seemed so hurt. I needed to look at his work schedule, and he’d lefthis laptop on, because he’d run out late for ameeting. It was the perfect opportunity, so I had alook at his calendar, noted down some dates. WhenI closed down the browser window with his calendarin it, there was his email account, logged in, laidbare. There was a message at the top fromaboyd@cinnamon.com. I clicked. XXXXX. That was it,just a line of Xs. I thought it was spam at first, untilI realized that they were kisses. It was a reply to a message he’d sent a few hoursbefore, just after seven, when I was still slumberingin our bed. I fell asleep last night thinking of you,I was dreaming about kissing yourmouth, your breasts, the inside ofyour thighs. I woke this morning withmy head full of you, desperate totouch you. Don’t expect me to besane, I can’t be, not with you. I read through his messages: there were dozens,hidden in a folder entitled “Admin.” I discovered thather name was Anna Boyd, and that my husbandwas in love with her. He told her so, often. He toldher that he’d never felt like this before, that hecouldn’t wait to be with her, that it wouldn’t be longuntil they could be together. I don’t have words to describe what I felt that day,but now, sitting on the train, I am furious, nailsdigging into my palms, tears stinging my eyes. I feela flash of intense anger. I feel as though somethinghas been taken away from me. How could she? How could Jess do this? What is wrong with her? Look at the life they have, look at how beautiful it is! I have never understood how people can blithelydisregard the damage they do by following theirhearts. Who was it said that following your heart is agood thing? It is pure egotism, a selfishness toconquer all. Hatred floods me. If I saw that womannow, if I saw Jess, I would spit in her face. I wouldscratch her eyes out. EVENING There’s been a problem on the line. The 5:56 fasttrain to Stoke has been cancelled, so its passengershave invaded my train and it’s standing room only inthe carriage. I, fortunately, have a seat, but by theaisle, not next to the window, and there are bodiespressed against my shoulder, my knee, invading myspace. I have an urge to push back, to get up andshove. The heat has been building all day, closing inon me, I feel as though I’m breathing through amask. Every single window has been opened and yet,even while we’re moving, the carriage feels airless, alocked metal box. I cannot get enough oxygen intomy lungs. I feel sick. I can’t stop replaying the scenein the coffee shop this morning, I can’t stop feelingas though I’m still there, I can’t stop seeing the lookson their faces. I blame Jess. I was obsessing this morning aboutJess and Jason, about what she’d done and how hewould feel, about the confrontation they would havewhen he found out and when his world, like mine,was ripped apart. I was walking around in a daze,not concentrating on where I was going. Withoutthinking, I went into the coffee shop that everyonefrom Huntingdon Whitely uses. I was through thedoor before I saw them, and by the time I did itwas too late to turn back; they were looking at me,eyes widening for a fraction of a second before theyremembered to fix smiles on their faces. Martin Mileswith Sasha and Harriet, a triumvirate ofawkwardness, beckoning, waving me over. “Rachel!” Martin said, arms outstretched, pulling meinto a hug. I wasn’t expecting it, my hands werecaught between us, fumbling against his body. Sashaand Harriet smiled, gave me tentative air-kisses,trying not to get too close. “What are you doinghere?” For a long, long moment, I went blank. I looked atthe floor, I could feel myself colouring and, realizing itwas making it worse, I gave a false laugh and said,“Interview. Interview.” “Oh.” Martin failed to hide his surprise, while Sashaand Harriet nodded and smiled. “Who’s that with?” I couldn’t remember the name of a single publicrelations firm. Not one. I couldn’t think of a propertycompany, either, let alone one that might realisticallybe hiring. I just stood there, rubbing my lower lipwith my forefinger, shaking my head, and eventuallyMartin said, “Top secret, is it? Some firms are weirdlike that, aren’t they? Don’t want you saying anythinguntil the contracts are signed and it’s all official.” Itwas bullshit and he knew it, he did it to save meand nobody bought it, but everyone pretended theydid and nodded along. Harriet and Sasha werelooking over my shoulder at the door, they wereembarrassed for me, they wanted a way out. “I’d better go and order my coffee,” I said. “Don’twant to be late.” Martin put his hand on my forearm and said, “It’sgreat to see you, Rachel.” His pity was almostpalpable. I’d never realized, not until the last year ortwo of my life, how shaming it is to be pitied. The plan had been to go to Holborn Library onTheobalds Road, but I couldn’t face it, so I went toRegent’s Park instead. I walked to the very far end,next to the zoo. I sat down in the shade beneath asycamore tree, thinking of the unfilled hours ahead,replaying the conversation in the coffee shop,remembering the look on Martin’s face when he saidgood-bye to me. I must have been there for less than half an hourwhen my mobile rang. It was Tom again, calling fromthe home phone. I tried to picture him, working athis laptop in our sunny kitchen, but the image wasspoilt by encroachments from his new life. She wouldbe there somewhere, in the background, making teaor feeding the little girl, her shadow falling over him. I let the call go to voice mail. I put the phone backinto my bag and tried to ignore it. I didn’t want tohear any more, not today; today was already awfulenough and it was not yet ten thirty in the morning. I held out for about three minutes before I retrievedthe phone and dialled into voice mail. I braced myselffor the agony of hearing his voice—the voice thatused to speak to me with laughter and light andnow is used only to admonish or console or pity—butit wasn’t him. “Rachel, it’s Anna.” I hung up. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t stop my brainfrom racing or my skin from itching, so I got to myfeet and walked to the corner shop on TitchfieldStreet and bought four gin and tonics in cans, thenwent back to my spot in the park. I opened the firstone and drank it as fast as I could, and thenopened the second. I turned my back to the path sothat I couldn’t see the runners and the mothers withbuggies and the tourists, and if I couldn’t see them, Icould pretend like a child that they couldn’t see me. Icalled my voice mail again. “Rachel, it’s Anna.” Long pause. “I need to talk toyou about the phone calls.” Another longpause—she’s talking to me and doing something else,multitasking, the way busy wives and mothers do,tidying up, loading the washing machine. “Look, Iknow you’re having a tough time,” she says, asthough she has nothing to do with my pain, “butyou can’t call us at night all the time.” Her tone isclipped, irritable. “It’s bad enough that you wake uswhen you call, but you wake Evie, too, and that’sjust not acceptable. We’re struggling to get her tosleep through at the moment.” We’re struggling toget her to sleep through. We. Us. Our little family. With our problems and our routines. Fucking bitch. She’s a cuckoo, laying her egg in my nest. She hastaken everything from me. She has taken everythingand now she calls me to tell me that my distress isinconvenient for her? I finish the second can and make a start on thethird. The blissful rush of alcohol hitting mybloodstream lasts only a few minutes, and then I feelsick. I’m going too fast, even for me, I need to slowdown; if I don’t slow down something bad is goingto happen. I’m going to do something I will regret. I’m going to call her back, I’m going to tell her Idon’t care about her and I don’t care about herfamily and I don’t care if her child never gets a goodnight’s sleep for the rest of its life. I’m going to tellher that the line he used with her—don’t expect meto be sane—he used it with me, too, when we werefirst together; he wrote it in a letter to me, declaringhis undying passion. It’s not even his line: he stole itfrom Henry Miller. Everything she has is secondhand. I want to know how that makes her feel. I want tocall her back and ask her, What does it feel like,Anna, to live in my house, surrounded by thefurniture I bought, to sleep in the bed that Ishared with him for years, to feed your child atthe kitchen table he fucked me on? I still find it extraordinary that they chose to staythere, in that house, in my house. I couldn’t believeit when he told me. I loved that house. I was theone who insisted we buy it, despite its location. Iliked being down there on the tracks, I likedwatching the trains go by, I enjoyed the sound ofthem, not the scream of an inner-city express butthe old-fashioned trundling of ancient rolling stock. Tom told me, “It won’t always be like this, they’lleventually upgrade the line and then it will be fasttrains screaming past,” but I couldn’t believe it wouldever actually happen. I would have stayed there, Iwould have bought him out if I’d had the money. Ididn’t, though, and we couldn’t find a buyer at adecent price when we divorced, so instead he saidhe’d buy me out and stay on until he got the rightprice for it. But he never found the right buyer,instead he moved her in, and she loved the houselike I did, and they decided to stay. She must bevery secure in herself, I suppose, in them, for it notto bother her, to walk where another woman haswalked before. She obviously doesn’t think of me asa threat. I think about Ted Hughes, moving AssiaWevill into the home he’d shared with Plath, of herwearing Sylvia’s clothes, brushing her hair with thesame brush. I want to ring Anna up and remind herthat Assia ended up with her head in the oven, justlike Sylvia did. I must have fallen asleep, the gin and the hot sunlulling me. I woke with a start, scrabbling arounddesperately for my handbag. It was still there. Myskin was prickling, I was alive with ants, they were inmy hair and on my neck and chest and I leaped tomy feet, clawing them away. Two teenage boys,kicking a football back and forth twenty yards away,stopped to watch, bent double with laughter. The train stops. We are almost opposite Jess andJason’s house, but I can’t see across the carriageand the tracks, there are too many people in theway. I wonder whether they are there, whether heknows, whether he’s left, or whether he’s still living alife he’s yet to discover is a lie. SATURDAY, JULY 13, 2013 MORNING I know without looking at a clock that it issomewhere between seven forty-five and eight fifteen. I know from the quality of the light, from the soundsof the street outside my window, from the sound ofCathy vacuuming the hallway right outside my room. Cathy gets up early to clean the house everySaturday, no matter what. It could be her birthday, itcould be the morning of the Rapture—Cathy will getup early on Saturday to clean. She says it’s cathartic,it sets her up for a good weekend, and because shecleans the house aerobically, it means she doesn’thave to go to the gym. It doesn’t really bother me, this early-morningvacuuming, because I wouldn’t be asleep anyway. Icannot sleep in the mornings; I cannot snoozepeacefully until midday. I wake abruptly, my breathjagged and heart racing, my mouth stale, and Iknow immediately that’s it. I’m awake. The more Iwant to be oblivious, the less I can be. Life and lightwill not let me be. I lie there, listening to the soundof Cathy’s urgent, cheerful busyness, and I thinkabout the clothes on the side of the railway line andabout Jess kissing her lover in the morning sunshine. The day stretches out in front of me, not a minuteof it filled. I could go to the farmer’s market on the Broad; Icould buy venison and pancetta and spend the daycooking. I could sit on the sofa with a cup of tea andSaturday Kitchen on TV. I could go to the gym. I could rewrite my CV. I could wait for Cathy to leave the house, go to theoff-licence and buy two bottles of sauvignon blanc. In another life, I woke early, too, the sound of the8:04 rumbling past; I opened my eyes and listenedto the rain against the window. I felt him behind me,sleepy, warm, hard. Afterwards, he went to get thepapers and I made scrambled eggs, we sat in thekitchen drinking tea, we went to the pub for a latelunch, we fell asleep, tangled up together in front ofthe TV. I imagine it’s different for him now, no lazySaturday sex or scrambled eggs, instead a differentsort of joy, a little girl tucked up between him andhis wife, babbling away. She’ll be just learning to talknow, all “Dada” and “Mama” and a secret languageincomprehensible to anyone but a parent. The pain is solid and heavy, it sits in the middle ofmy chest. I cannot wait for Cathy to leave the house. EVENING I am going to see Jason. I spent all day in my bedroom, waiting for Cathy togo out so that I could have a drink. She didn’t. Shesat steadfast and unmovable in the living room, “justcatching up on a bit of admin.” By late afternoon Icouldn’t stand the confinement or the boredom anylonger, so I told her I was going out for a walk. Iwent to the Wheatsheaf, the big, anonymous pub justoff High Street, and I drank three large glasses ofwine. I had two shots of Jack Daniel’s. Then Iwalked to the station, bought a couple of cans of ginand tonic and got onto the train. I am going to see Jason. I’m not going to visit him, I’m not going to turn upat his house and knock on the door. Nothing likethat. Nothing crazy. I just want to go past the house,roll by on the train. I’ve nothing else to do, and Idon’t feel like going home. I just want to see him. Iwant to see them. This isn’t a good idea. I know it’s not a good idea. But what harm can it do? I’ll go to Euston, I’ll turn around, I’ll come back. (Ilike trains, and what’s wrong with that? Trains arewonderful.)Before, when I was still myself, I used to dream oftaking romantic train journeys with Tom. (TheBergen Line for our fifth anniversary, the Blue Trainfor his fortieth.)Hang on, we’re going to pass them now. The light is bright, but I can’t see all that well. (Vision doubling. Close one eye. Better.)There they are! Is that him? They’re standing onthe terrace. Aren’t they? Is that Jason? Is that Jess? I want to be closer, I can’t see. I want to be closerto them. I’m not going to Euston. I’m going to get off atWitney. (I shouldn’t get off at Witney, it’s toodangerous, what if Tom or Anna sees me?)I’m going to get off at Witney. This is not a good idea. This is a very bad idea. There’s a man on the opposite side of the train,sandy blond hair veering towards ginger. He’s smilingat me. I want to say something to him, but thewords keep evaporating, vanishing off my tonguebefore I have the chance to say them. I can tastethem, but I can’t tell if they are sweet or sour. Is he smiling at me, or is he sneering? I can’t tell. SUNDAY, JULY 14, 2013 MORNING My heartbeat feels as though it is in the base of mythroat, uncomfortable and loud. My mouth is dry, ithurts to swallow. I roll onto my side, my face turnedto the window. The curtains are drawn, but whatlight there is hurts my eyes. I bring my hand up tomy face; I press my fingers against my eyelids, tryingto rub away the ache. My fingernails are filthy. Something is wrong. For a second, I feel as thoughI’m falling, as though the bed has disappeared frombeneath my body. Last night. Something happened. The breath comes sharply into my lungs and I situp, too quickly, heart racing, head throbbing. I wait for the memory to come. Sometimes it takesa while. Sometimes it’s there in front of my eyes inseconds. Sometimes it doesn’t come at all. Something happened, something bad. There was anargument. Voices were raised. Fists? I don’t know, Idon’t remember. I went to the pub, I got onto thetrain, I was at the station, I was on the street. Blenheim Road. I went to Blenheim Road. It comes over me like a wave: black dread. Something happened, I know it did. I can’t pictureit, but I can feel it. The inside of my mouth hurts, asthough I’ve bitten my cheek, there’s a metallic tangof blood on my tongue. I feel nauseated, dizzy. I runmy hands through my hair, over my scalp. I flinch. There’s a lump, painful and tender, on the right sideof my head. My hair is matted with blood. I stumbled, that’s it. On the stairs at Witney station. Did I hit my head? I remember being on the train,but after that there is a gulf of blackness, a void. I’mbreathing deeply, trying to slow my heart rate, toquell the panic rising in my chest. Think. What did Ido? I went to the pub, I got on the train. There wasa man there—I remember now, reddish hair. Hesmiled at me. I think he talked to me, but I can’tremember what he said. There’s something more tohim, more to the memory of him, but I can’t reachit, can’t find it in the black. I’m frightened, but I’m not sure what I’m afraid of,which just exacerbates the fear. I don’t even knowwhether there’s anything to be frightened of. I lookaround the room. My phone is not on the bedsidetable. My handbag is not on the floor, it’s nothanging over the back of the chair where I usuallyleave it. I must have had it, though, because I’m inthe house, which means I have my keys. I get out of bed. I’m naked. I catch sight of myselfin the full-length mirror on the wardrobe. My handsare trembling. Mascara is smeared over mycheekbones, and I have a cut on my lower lip. Thereare bruises on my legs. I feel sick. I sit back downon the bed and put my head between my knees,waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. I get to myfeet, grab my dressing gown and open the bedroomdoor just a crack. The flat is quiet. For some reasonI am certain Cathy isn’t here. Did she tell me thatshe was staying at Damien’s? I feel as though shedid, though I can’t remember when. Before I wentout? Or did I speak to her later? I walk as quietly asI can out into the hallway. I can see that Cathy’sbedroom door is open. I peer into her room. Herbed is made. It’s possible she has already got upand made it, but I don’t think she stayed here lastnight, which is a source of some relief. If she isn’there, she didn’t see or hear me come in last night,which means that she doesn’t know how bad I was. This shouldn’t matter, but it does: the sense ofshame I feel about an incident is proportionate notjust to the gravity of the situation, but also to thenumber of people who witnessed it. At the top of the stairs I feel dizzy again and gripthe banister tightly. It is one of my great fears (alongwith bleeding into my belly when my liver finallypacks up) that I will fall down the stairs and breakmy neck. Thinking about this makes me feel ill again. I want to lie down, but I need to find my bag, checkmy phone. I at least need to know that I haven’t lostmy credit cards, I need to know who I called andwhen. My handbag has been dumped in the hallway,just inside the front door. My jeans and underwearsit next to it in a crumpled pile; I can smell theurine from the bottom of the stairs. I grab my bagto look for my phone—it’s in there, thank God, alongwith a bunch of scrunched-up twenties and abloodstained Kleenex. The nausea comes over meagain, stronger this time; I can taste the bile in theback of my throat and I run, but I don’t make it tothe bathroom, I vomit on the carpet halfway up thestairs. I have to lie down. If I don’t lie down, I’m going topass out, I’m going to fall. I’ll clean up later. Upstairs, I plug in my phone and lie down on thebed. I raise my limbs, gently, gingerly, to inspectthem. There are bruises on my legs, above theknees, standard drink-related stuff, the sort of bruisesyou get from walking into things. My upper armsbear more worrying marks, dark, oval impressionsthat look like fingerprints. This is not necessarilysinister, I have had them before, usually from whenI’ve fallen and someone has helped me up. Thecrack on my head feels bad, but it could be fromsomething as innocuous as getting into a car. I mighthave taken a taxi home. I pick up my phone. There are two messages. Thefirst is from Cathy, received just after five, askingwhere I’ve got to. She’s going to Damien’s for thenight, she’ll see me tomorrow. She hopes I’m notdrinking on my own. The second is from Tom,received at ten fifteen. I almost drop the phone infright as I hear his voice; he’s shouting. “Jesus Christ, Rachel, what the hell is wrong withyou? I have had enough of this, all right? I’ve justspent the best part of an hour driving aroundlooking for you. You’ve really frightened Anna, youknow that? She thought you were going to?.?.?. shethought?.?.?. It’s all I could do to get her not to ringthe police. Leave us alone. Stop calling me, stophanging around, just leave us alone. I don’t want tospeak to you. Do you understand me? I don’t wantto speak to you, I don’t want to see you, I don’twant you anywhere near my family. You can ruinyour own life if you want to, but you’re not ruiningmine. Not anymore. I’m not going to protect you anylonger, understand? Just stay away from us.” I don’t know what I’ve done. What did I do? Between five o’clock and ten fifteen, what was Idoing? Why was Tom looking for me? What did I doto Anna? I pull the duvet over my head, close myeyes tightly. I imagine myself going to the house,walking along the little pathway between their gardenand the neighbour’s garden, climbing over the fence. I think about sliding open the glass doors, stealthilycreeping into the kitchen. Anna’s sitting at the table. Igrab her from behind, I wind my hand into her longblond hair, I jerk her head backwards, I pull her tothe floor and I smash her head against the cool bluetiles. EVENING Someone is shouting. From the angle of the lightstreaming in through my bedroom window I can tellI have been sleeping a long time; it must be lateafternoon, early evening. My head hurts. There’sblood on my pillow. I can hear someone yellingdownstairs. “I do not believe this! For God’s sake! Rachel! RACHEL!” I fell asleep. Oh Jesus, and I didn’t clear up thevomit on the stairs. And my clothes in the hallway. Oh God, oh God. I pull on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. Cathy is standing right outside my bedroom doorwhen I open it. She looks horrified when she seesme. “What on earth happened to you?” she says, thenraises her hand. “Actually, Rachel, I’m sorry, but Ijust don’t want to know. I cannot have this in myhouse. I cannot have?.?.?.” She tails off, but she’slooking back down the hall, towards the stairs. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry, I was just really illand I meant to clear it up—” “You weren’t ill, were you? You were drunk. Youwere hungover. I’m sorry, Rachel. I just can’t havethis. I cannot live like this. You have to go, OK? I’llgive you four weeks to find somewhere else, but thenyou have to go.” She turns around and walkstowards her bedroom. “And for the love of God, willyou clean up that mess?” She slams her bedroomdoor behind her. After I’ve finished cleaning up, I go back to myroom. Cathy’s bedroom door is still closed, but I canfeel her quiet rage radiating through it. I can’t blameher. I’d be furious if I came home to piss-soakedknickers and a puddle of vomit on the stairs. I sitdown on the bed and flip open my laptop, log in tomy email account and start to compose a note tomy mother. I think, finally, the time has come. I haveto ask her for help. If I moved home, I wouldn’t beable to go on like this, I would have to change, Iwould have to get better. I can’t think of the words,though, I can’t think of a way to explain this to her. I can picture her face as she reads my plea for help,the sour disappointment, the exasperation. I canalmost hear her sigh. My phone beeps. There’s a message on it, receivedhours ago. It’s Tom again. I don’t want to hear whathe has to say, but I have to, I can’t ignore him. Myheartbeat quickens as I dial into my voice mail,bracing myself for the worst. “Rachel, will you phone me back?” He doesn’tsound so angry any longer, and my heartbeat slowsa little. “I want to make sure you got home all right. You were in some state last night.” A long, heartfeltsigh. “Look. I’m sorry that I yelled last night, thatthings got a bit?.?.?. overheated. I do feel sorry foryou, Rachel, I really do, but this has just got tostop.” I play the message a second time, listening to thekindness in his voice, and the tears come. It’s a longtime before I stop crying, before I’m able to composea text message to him saying I’m very sorry, I’m athome now. I can’t say anything else because I don’tknow what exactly it is I’m sorry for. I don’t knowwhat I did to Anna, how I frightened her. I don’thonestly care that much, but I do care about makingTom unhappy. After everything he’s been through, hedeserves to be happy. I will never begrudge himhappiness—I only wish it could be with me. I lie down on the bed and crawl under the duvet. Iwant to know what happened; I wish I knew what Ihad to be sorry for. I try desperately to make senseof an elusive fragment of memory. I feel certain thatI was in an argument, or that I witnessed anargument. Was that with Anna? My fingers go to thewound on my head, to the cut on my lip. I canalmost see it, I can almost hear the words, but itshifts away from me again. I just can’t get a handleon it. Every time I think I’m about to seize themoment, it drifts back into the shadow, just beyondmy reach. MEGAN TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2, 2012 MORNING It’s going to rain soon, I can feel it coming. My teethare chattering in my head, the tips of my fingers arewhite with a tinge of blue. I’m not going inside. I likeit out here, it’s cathartic, cleansing, like an ice bath. Scott will come and haul me inside soon anyway,he’ll wrap me in blankets, like a child. I had a panic attack on the way home last night. There was a motorbike, revving its engine over andover and over, and a red car driving slowly past, likea kerb crawler, and two women with buggiesblocking my path. I couldn’t get past them on thepavement, so I went into the street and was almosthit by a car coming in the opposite direction, which Ihadn’t even seen. The driver leaned on the horn andyelled something at me. I couldn’t catch my breath,my heart was racing, I felt that lurch in my stomach,like when you’ve taken a pill and you’re just aboutto come up, that punch of adrenaline that makesyou feel sick and excited and scared all at once. I ran home and through the house and down tothe tracks, then I sat down there, waiting for thetrain to come, to rattle through me and take awaythe other noises. I waited for Scott to come and calmme down, but he wasn’t at home. I tried to climbover the fence, I wanted to sit on the other side fora while, where no one else goes. I cut my hand, soI went inside, and then Scott came back and askedme what had happened. I said I was doing thewashing up and dropped a glass. He didn’t believeme, he got very upset. I got up in the night, left Scott sleeping andsneaked down to the terrace. I dialled his numberand listened to his voice when he picked up, at firstsoft with sleep, and then louder, wary, worried,exasperated. I hung up and waited to see if he’d callback. I hadn’t disguised my number, so I thought hemight. He didn’t, so I called again, and again, andagain. I got voice mail then, bland and businesslike,promising to call me back at his earliest convenience. I thought about calling the practice, bringing forwardmy next appointment, but I don’t think even theirautomated system works in the middle of the night,so I went back to bed. I didn’t sleep at all. I might go to Corly Wood this morning to takesome photographs; it’ll be misty and dark andatmospheric in there, I should be able to get somegood stuff. I was thinking about maybe making littlecards, seeing if I could sell them in the gift shop onKingly Road. Scott keeps saying that I don’t need toworry about working, that I should just rest. Like aninvalid! The last thing I need is rest. I need to findsomething to fill my days. I know what’s going tohappen if I don’t. EVENING Dr. Abdic—Kamal, as I have been invited to callhim—suggested in this afternoon’s session that I startkeeping a diary. I almost said, I can’t do that, Ican’t trust my husband not to read it. I didn’t,because that would feel horribly disloyal to Scott. Butit’s true. I could never write down the things Iactually feel or think or do. Case in point: when Icame home this evening, my laptop was warm. Heknows how to delete browser histories and whatever,he can cover his tracks perfectly well, but I knowthat I turned the computer off before I left. He’sbeen reading my emails again. I don’t really mind, there’s nothing to read in there. (A lot of spam emails from recruitment companiesand Jenny from Pilates asking me if I want to joinher Thursday-night supper club, where she and herfriends take turns cooking one another dinner. I’drather die.) I don’t mind, because it reassures himthat there’s nothing going on, that I’m not up toanything. And that’s good for me—it’s good forus—even if it isn’t true. And I can’t really be angrywith him, because he has good reason to besuspicious. I’ve given him cause in the past andprobably will again. I am not a model wife. I can’tbe. No matter how much I love him, it won’t beenough. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 2012 MORNING I slept for five hours last night, which is longer thanI have done in ages, and the weird thing is, I wasso wired when I got home yesterday evening, Ithought I’d be bouncing off the walls for hours. Itold myself that I wouldn’t do it again, not after lasttime, but then I saw him and I wanted him and Ithought, why not? I don’t see why I should have torestrict myself, lots of people don’t. Men don’t. Idon’t want to hurt anybody, but you have to be trueto yourself, don’t you? That’s all I’m doing, beingtrue to my real self, the self nobody knows—notScott, not Kamal, no one. After my Pilates class last night I asked Tara if shewanted to go to the cinema with me one night nextweek, then if she’d cover for me. “If he calls, can you just say I’m with you, that I’min the loo and I’ll ring him straight back? Then youcall me, and I call him, and it’s all cool.” She smiled and shrugged and said, “All right.” Shedidn’t even ask where I was going or who with. Shereally wants to be my friend. I met him at the Swan in Corly, he’d got us aroom. We have to be careful, we can’t get caught. Itwould be bad for him, life-wrecking. It would be adisaster for me, too. I don’t even want to thinkabout what Scott would do. He wanted me to talk afterwards, about whathappened when I was young, living in Norwich. I’dhinted at it before, but last night he wanted thedetails. I told him things, but not the truth. I lied,made stuff up, told him all the sordid things hewanted to hear. It was fun. I don’t feel bad aboutlying, I doubt he believed most of it anyway. I’mpretty sure he lies, too. He lay on the bed, watching me as I got dressed. He said, “This can’t happen again, Megan. You knowit can’t. We can’t keep doing this.” And he was right,I know we can’t. We shouldn’t, we ought not to, butwe will. It won’t be the last time. He won’t say no tome. I was thinking about it on the way home, andthat’s the thing I like most about it, having powerover someone. That’s the intoxicating thing. EVENING I’m in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine, whenScott comes up behind me and puts his hands onmy shoulders and squeezes and says, “How did it gowith the therapist?” I tell him it was fine, that we’remaking progress. He’s used now to not getting anydetails out of me. Then: “Did you have fun with Taralast night?” I can’t tell, because my back’s to him, whether he’sreally asking or whether he suspects something. Ican’t detect anything in his voice. “She’s really nice,” I say. “You and she’d get on. We’re going to the cinema next week, actually. MaybeI should bring her round for something to eat after?” “Am I not invited to the cinema?” he asks. “You’re very welcome,” I say, and I turn to himand kiss him on the mouth, “but she wants to seethat thing with Sandra Bullock, so?.?.?.” “Say no more! Bring her round for dinnerafterwards, then,” he says, his hands pressing gentlyon my lower back. I pour the wine and we go outside. We sit side byside on the edge of the patio, our toes in the grass. “Is she married?” he asks me. “Tara? No. Single.” “No boyfriend?” “Don’t think so.” “Girlfriend?” he asks, eyebrow raised, and I laugh. “How old is she, then?” “I don’t know,” I say. “Around forty.” “Oh. And she’s all alone. That’s a bit sad.” “Mmm. I think she might be lonely.” “They always go for you, the lonely ones, don’tthey? They make a beeline straight for you.” “Do they?” “She doesn’t have kids, then?” he asks, and I don’tknow if I’m imagining it, but the second the subjectof children comes up, I can hear an edge in hisvoice and I can feel the argument coming and I justdon’t want it, can’t deal with it, so I get to my feetand I tell him to bring the wineglasses, because we’regoing to the bedroom. He follows me and I take off my clothes as I’mgoing up the stairs, and when we get there, when hepushes me down on the bed, I’m not even thinkingabout him, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’tknow that. I’m good enough to make him believethat it’s all about him. RACHEL MONDAY, JULY 15, 2013 MORNING Cathy called me back just as I was leaving the flatthis morning and gave me a stiff little hug. I thoughtshe was going to tell me that she wasn’t kicking meout after all, but instead she slipped a typewrittennote into my hand, giving me formal notice of myeviction, including a departure date. She couldn’t meetmy eye. I felt sorry for her, I honestly did, thoughnot quite as sorry as for myself. She gave me a sadsmile and said, “I hate to do this to you, Rachel, Ihonestly do.” The whole thing felt very awkward. Wewere standing in the hallway, which, despite my bestefforts with the bleach, still smelled a bit of sick. I feltlike crying, but I didn’t want to make her feel worsethan she already did, so I just smiled cheerily andsaid, “Not at all, it’s honestly no problem,” as thoughshe’d just asked me to do her a small favour. On the train, the tears come, and I don’t care ifpeople are watching me; for all they know, my dogmight have been run over. I might have beendiagnosed with a terminal illness. I might be abarren, divorced, soon-to-be-homeless alcoholic. It’s ridiculous, when I think about it. How did I findmyself here? I wonder where it started, my decline; Iwonder at what point I could have halted it. Wheredid I take the wrong turn? Not when I met Tom,who saved me from grief after Dad died. Not whenwe married, carefree, drenched in bliss, on an oddlywintry May day seven years ago. I was happy,solvent, successful. Not when we moved into numbertwenty-three, a roomier, lovelier house than I’dimagined I’d live in at the tender age of twenty-six. Iremember those first days so clearly, walking around,shoeless, feeling the warmth of wooden floorboardsunderfoot, relishing the space, the emptiness of allthose rooms waiting to be filled. Tom and I, makingplans: what we’d plant in the garden, what we’dhang on the walls, what colour to paint the spareroom—already, even then, in my head, the baby’sroom. Maybe it was then. Maybe that was the momentwhen things started to go wrong, the moment whenI imagined us no longer a couple, but a family; andafter that, once I had that picture in my head, justthe two of us could never be enough. Was it thenthat Tom started to look at me differently, hisdisappointment mirroring my own? After all he gaveup for me, for the two of us to be together, I lethim think that he wasn’t enough. I let the tears flow as far as Northcote, then I pullmyself together, wipe my eyes and start writing a listof things to do today on the back of Cathy’s evictionletter: Holborn LibraryEmail MumEmail Martin, reference??? Find out about AAmeetings—centralLondon/AshburyTell Cathy about job? When the train stops at the signal, I look up andsee Jason standing on the terrace, looking down atthe track. I feel as though he’s looking right at me,and I get the oddest sensation—I feel as though he’slooked at me like that before; I feel as though he’sreally seen me. I imagine him smiling at me, and forsome reason I feel afraid. He turns away and the train moves on. EVENING I’m sitting in the emergency room at UniversityCollege Hospital. I was knocked down by a taxi whilecrossing Gray’s Inn Road. I was sober as a judge,I’d just like to point out, although I was in a bit of astate, distracted, panicky almost. I’m having aninch-long cut above my right eye stitched up by anextremely handsome junior doctor who isdisappointingly brusque and businesslike. When he’sfinished stitching, he notices the bump on my head. “It’s not new,” I tell him. “It looks pretty new,” he says. “Well, not new today.” “Been in the wars, have we?” “I bumped it getting into a car.” He examines my head for a good few seconds andthen says, “Is that so?” He stands back and looksme in the eye. “It doesn’t look like it. It looks morelike someone’s hit you with something,” he says, andI go cold. I have a memory of ducking down toavoid a blow, raising my hands. Is that a realmemory? The doctor approaches again and peersmore closely at the wound. “Something sharp,serrated maybe?.?.?.” “No,” I say. “It was a car. I bumped it getting intoa car.” I’m trying to convince myself as much ashim. “OK.” He smiles at me then and steps back again,crouching down a little so that our eyes are level. “Are you all right?.?.?.” He consults his notes. “Rachel?” “Yes.” He looks at me for a long time; he doesn’t believeme. He’s concerned. Perhaps he thinks I’m abattered wife. “Right. I’m going to clean this up foryou, because it looks a bit nasty. Is there someone Ican call for you? Your husband?” “I’m divorced,” I tell him. “Someone else, then?” He doesn’t care that I’mdivorced. “My friend, please, she’ll be worried about me.” Igive him Cathy’s name and number. Cathy won’t beworried at all—I’m not even late home yet—but I’mhoping that the news that I’ve been hit by a taximight make her take pity on me and forgive me forwhat happened yesterday. She’ll probably think thereason I got knocked down is because I was drunk. I wonder if I can ask the doctor to do a blood testor something so that I can provide her with proof ofmy sobriety. I smile up at him, but he isn’t lookingat me, he’s making notes. It’s a ridiculous ideaanyway. It was my fault, the taxi driver wasn’t to blame. Istepped right out—ran right out, actually—in front ofthe cab. I don’t know where I thought I was runningto. I wasn’t thinking at all, I suppose, at least notabout myself. I was thinking about Jess. Who isn’tJess, she’s Megan Hipwell, and she’s missing. I’d been in the library on Theobalds Road. I’d justemailed my mother (I didn’t tell her anything ofsignificance, it was a sort of test-the-waters email, togauge how maternal she’s feeling towards me at themoment) via my Yahoo account. On Yahoo’s frontpage there are news stories, tailored to your postcodeor whatever—God only knows how they know mypostcode, but they do. And there was a picture ofher, Jess, my Jess, the perfect blonde, next to aheadline that read CONCERN FOR MISSING WITNEYWOMAN. At first I wasn’t sure. It looked like her, she lookedexactly the way she looks in my head, but I doubtedmyself. Then I read the story and I saw the streetname and I knew. Buckinghamshire Police arebecoming increasingly concernedfor the welfare of a missingtwenty-nine-year-old woman,Megan Hipwell, of BlenheimRoad, Witney. Mrs. Hipwell waslast seen by her husband, ScottHipwell, on Saturday nightwhen she left the couple’shome to visit a friend ataround seven o’clock. Herdisappearance is “completely outof character,” Mr. Hipwell said. Mrs. Hipwell was wearing jeansand a red T-shirt. She is fivefoot four, slim, with blond hairand blue eyes. Anyone withinformation regarding Mrs. Hipwell is requested to contactBuckinghamshire Police. She’s missing. Jess is missing. Megan is missing. Since Saturday. I Googled her—the story appeared inthe Witney Argus, but with no further details. Ithought about seeing Jason—Scott—this morning,standing on the terrace, looking at me, smiling at me. I grabbed my bag and got to my feet and ran outof the library, into the road, right into the path of ablack cab. “Rachel? Rachel?” The good-looking doctor is tryingto get my attention. “Your friend is here to pick you up.” MEGAN THURSDAY, JANUARY 10, 2013 MORNING Sometimes, I don’t want to go anywhere, I think I’llbe happy if I never have to set foot outside thehouse again. I don’t even miss working. I just wantto remain safe and warm in my haven with Scott,undisturbed. It helps that it’s dark and cold and the weather isfilthy. It helps that it hasn’t stopped raining forweeks—freezing, driving, bitter rain accompanied bygales howling through the trees, so loud they drownout the sound of the train. I can’t hear it on thetracks, enticing me, tempting me to journeyelsewhere. Today, I don’t want to go anywhere, I don’t wantto run away, I don’t even want to go down theroad. I want to stay here, holed up with myhusband, watching TV and eating ice cream, aftercalling him to come home from work early so wecan have sex in the middle of the afternoon. I will have to go out later, of course, because it’smy day for Kamal. I’ve been talking to him latelyabout Scott, about all the things I’ve done wrong, myfailure as a wife. Kamal says I have to find a way ofmaking myself happy, I have to stop looking forhappiness elsewhere. It’s true, I do, I know I do, andthen I’m in the moment and I just think, fuck it,life’s too short. I think about that time when we went on a familyholiday to Santa Margherita in the Easter schoolholidays. I’d just turned fifteen and I met this guy onthe beach, much older than I was—thirties, probably,possibly even early forties—and he invited me to gosailing the next day. Ben was with me and he wasinvited, too, but—ever the protective big brother—hesaid we shouldn’t go because he didn’t trust the guy,he thought he was a sleazy creep. Which, of course,he was. But I was furious, because when were weever going to get the chance to sail around theLigurian Sea on some bloke’s private yacht? Ben toldme we’d have lots of opportunities like that, that ourlives would be full of adventure. In the end we didn’tgo, and that summer Ben lost control of hismotorbike on the A10, and he and I never got to gosailing. I miss the way we were when we were together,Ben and I. We were fearless. I’ve told Kamal all about Ben, but we’re gettingcloser to the other stuff now, the truth, the wholetruth—what happened with Mac, the before, the after. It’s safe with Kamal, he can’t ever tell anyonebecause of patient confidentiality. But even if he could tell someone, I don’t think hewould. I trust him, I really do. It’s funny, but thething that’s been holding me back from telling himeverything is not the fear of what he’d do with it, it’snot the fear of judgement, it’s Scott. It feels like I’mbetraying Scott if I tell Kamal something I can’t tellhim. When you think about all the other stuff I’vedone, the other betrayals, this should be peanuts, butit isn’t. Somehow this feels worse, because this is reallife, this is the heart of me, and I don’t share it withhim. I’m still holding back, because obviously I can’t sayeverything I’m feeling. I know that’s the point oftherapy, but I just can’t. I have to keep things vague,jumble up all the men, the lovers and the exes, but Itell myself that’s OK, because it doesn’t matter whothey are. It matters how they make me feel. Stifled,restless, hungry. Why can’t I just get what I want? Why can’t they give it to me? Well, sometimes they do. Sometimes all I need isScott. If I can just learn how to hold on to thisfeeling, this one I’m having now—if I could justdiscover how to focus on this happiness, enjoy themoment, not wonder about where the next high iscoming from—then everything will be all right. EVENING I have to focus when I’m with Kamal. It’s difficult notto let my mind wander when he looks at me withthose leonine eyes, when he folds his hands togetheron his lap, long legs crossed at the knee. It’s hardnot to think of the things we could do together. I have to focus. We’ve been talking about whathappened after Ben’s funeral, after I ran off. I was inIpswich for a while; not long. I met Mac there, thefirst time. He was working in a pub or something. He picked me up on his way home. He felt sorryfor me. “He didn’t even want?.?.?. you know.” I startlaughing. “We got back to his flat and I asked forthe money, and he looked at me like I was mad. Itold him I was old enough, but he didn’t believe me. And he waited, he did, until my sixteenth birthday. He’d moved, by then, to this old house nearHolkham. An old stone cottage at the end of a laneleading nowhere, with a bit of land around it, abouthalf a mile from the beach. There was an old railwaytrack running along one side of the property. Atnight I’d lie awake—I was always buzzing then, wewere smoking a lot—and I used to imagine I couldhear the trains, I used to be so sure, I’d get up andgo outside and look for the lights.” Kamal shifts in his chair, he nods, slowly. Hedoesn’t say anything. This means I’m to go on, I’mto keep talking. “I was actually really happy there, with Mac. I livedwith him for?.?.?. God, it was about three years, Ithink, in the end. I was?.?.?. nineteen when I left. Yeah. Nineteen.” “Why did you leave, if you were happy there?” heasks me. We’re there now, we got there quicker thanI thought we would. I haven’t had time to gothrough it all, to build up to it. I can’t do it. It’s toosoon. “Mac left me. He broke my heart,” I say, which isthe truth, but also a lie. I’m not ready to tell thewhole truth yet. Scott isn’t home when I get back, so I get mylaptop out and Google him, for the first time ever. For the first time in a decade, I look for Mac. I can’tfind him, though. There are hundreds of CraigMcKenzies in the world, and none of them seems tobe mine. FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2013 MORNING I’m walking in the woods. I’ve been out since beforeit got light, it’s barely dawn now, deathly quiet exceptfor the occasional outburst of chatter from themagpies in the trees above my head. I can feel themwatching me, beady-eyed, calculating. A tiding ofmagpies. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for agirl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, sevenfor a secret never to be told. I’ve got a few of those. Scott is away, on a course somewhere in Sussex. He left yesterday morning and he’s not back untiltonight. I can do whatever I want. Before he left, I told Scott I was going to thecinema with Tara after my session. I told him myphone would be off, and I spoke to her, too. Iwarned her that he might ring, that he might checkup on me. She asked me, this time, what I was upto. I just winked and smiled, and she laughed. Ithink she might be lonely, that her life could do witha bit of intrigue. In my session with Kamal, we were talking aboutScott, about the thing with the laptop. It happenedabout a week ago. I’d been looking for Mac—I’ddone several searches, I just wanted to find outwhere he was, what he was up to. There arepictures of almost everyone on the Internet thesedays, and I wanted to see his face. I couldn’t findhim. I went to bed early that night. Scott stayed upwatching TV, and I’d forgotten to delete my browserhistory. Stupid mistake—it’s usually the last thing I dobefore I shut down my computer, no matter whatI’ve been looking at. I know Scott has ways offinding what I’ve been up to anyway, being the techiehe is, but it takes a lot longer, so most of the timehe doesn’t bother. In any case, I forgot. And the next day, we got intoa fight. One of the bruising ones. He wanted toknow who Craig was, how long I’d been seeing him,where we met, what he did for me that Scott didn’tdo. Stupidly, I told Scott that he was a friend frommy past, which only made it worse. Kamal asked meif I was afraid of Scott, and I got really pissed off. “He’s my husband,” I snapped. “Of course I’m notafraid of him.” Kamal looked quite shocked. I actually shockedmyself. I hadn’t anticipated the force of my anger,the depth of my protectiveness towards Scott. It wasa surprise to me, too. “There are many women who are frightened oftheir husbands, I’m afraid, Megan.” I tried to saysomething, but he held up his hand to silence me. “The behaviour you’re describing—reading youremails, going through your Internet browserhistory—you describe all this as though it iscommonplace, as though it is normal. It isn’t, Megan. It isn’t normal to invade someone’s privacy to thatdegree. It’s what is often seen as a form ofemotional abuse.” I laughed then, because it sounded so melodramatic. “It isn’t abuse,” I told him. “Not if you don’t mind. And I don’t. I don’t mind.” He smiled at me then, a rather sad smile. “Don’tyou think you should?” he asked. I shrugged. “Perhaps I should, but the fact is, Idon’t. He’s jealous, he’s possessive. That’s the way heis. It doesn’t stop me loving him, and some battlesaren’t worth fighting. I’m careful—usually. I cover mytracks, so it isn’t usually an issue.” He gave a little shake of the head, almostimperceptible. “I didn’t think you were here to judge me,” I said. When the session ended, I asked him if he wantedto have a drink with me. He said no, he couldn’t, itwouldn’t be appropriate. So I followed him home. Helives in a flat just down the road from the practice. Iknocked on his door, and when he opened it, Iasked, “Is this appropriate?” I slipped my handaround the back of his neck, stood on tiptoe andkissed him on the mouth. “Megan,” he said, voice like velvet. “Don’t. I can’t dothis. Don’t.” It was exquisite, that push and pull, desire andrestraint. I didn’t want to let the feeling go, I wantedso badly to be able to hold on to it. I got up in the early hours of the morning, headspinning, full of stories. I couldn’t just lie there,awake, alone, my mind ticking over all thoseopportunities that I could take or leave, so I got upand got dressed and started walking. Found myselfhere. I’ve been walking around and playing thingsback in my head—he said, she said, temptation,release; if only I could settle on something, choose tostick, not twist. What if the thing I’m looking for cannever be found? What if it just isn’t possible? The air is cold in my lungs, the tips of my fingersare turning blue. Part of me just wants to lie downhere, among the leaves, let the cold take me. I can’t. It’s time to go. It’s almost nine by the time I get back to BlenheimRoad, and as I turn the corner I see her, comingtowards me, pushing the buggy in front of her. Thechild, for once, is silent. She looks at me and nodsand gives me one of those weak smiles, which Idon’t return. Usually, I would pretend to be nice, butthis morning I feel real, like myself. I feel high, almostlike I’m tripping, and I couldn’t fake nice if I tried. AFTERNOON I fell asleep in the afternoon. I woke feverish,panicky. Guilty. I do feel guilty. Just not guiltyenough. I thought about him leaving in the middle of thenight, telling me, once again, that this was the lasttime, the very last time, we can’t do this again. Hewas getting dressed, pulling on his jeans. I was lyingon the bed and I laughed, because that’s what hesaid last time, and the time before, and the timebefore that. He shot me a look. I don’t know how todescribe it, it wasn’t anger, exactly, not contempt—itwas a warning. I feel uneasy. I walk around the house; I can’tsettle, I feel as though someone else has been herewhile I was sleeping. There’s nothing out of place, butthe house feels different, as though things have beentouched, subtly shifted out of place, and as I walkaround I feel as though there’s someone else here,always just out of my line of sight. I check theFrench doors to the garden three times, but they’relocked. I can’t wait for Scott to get home. I need him. RACHEL TUESDAY, JULY 16, 2013 MORNING I’m on the 8:04, but I’m not going into London. I’mgoing to Witney instead. I’m hoping that being therewill jog my memory, that I’ll get to the station andI’ll see everything clearly, I’ll know. I don’t hold outmuch hope, but there is nothing else I can do. Ican’t call Tom. I’m too ashamed, and in any case,he’s made it clear: he wants nothing more to dowith me. Megan is still missing; she’s been gone more thansixty hours now, and the story is becoming nationalnews. It was on the BBC website and Daily Mailthis morning; there were a few snippets mentioning iton other sites, too. I printed out both the BBC and Daily Mail stories;I have them with me. From them I have gleaned thefollowing: Megan and Scott argued on Saturday evening. Aneighbour reported hearing raised voices. Scottadmitted that they’d argued and said that he believedhis wife had gone to spend the night with a friend,Tara Epstein, who lives in Corly. Megan never got to Tara’s house. Tara says the lasttime she saw Megan was on Friday afternoon attheir Pilates class. (I knew Megan would do Pilates.)According to Ms. Epstein, “She seemed fine, normal. She was in a good mood, she was talking aboutdoing something special for her thirtieth birthday nextmonth.” Megan was seen by one witness walking towardsWitney train station at around seven fifteen onSaturday evening. Megan has no family in the area. Both her parentsare deceased. Megan is unemployed. She used to run a small artgallery in Witney, but it closed down in April lastyear. (I knew Megan would be arty.)Scott is a self-employed IT consultant. (I can’tbloody believe Scott is an IT consultant.)Megan and Scott have been married for threeyears; they have been living in the house onBlenheim Road since January 2012. According to the Daily Mail, their house is worthfour hundred thousand pounds. Reading this, I know that things look bad for Scott. Not just because of the argument, either; it’s just theway things are: when something bad happens to awoman, the police look at the husband or theboyfriend first. However, in this case, the police don’thave all the facts. They’re only looking at thehusband, presumably because they don’t know aboutthe boyfriend. It could be that I am the only person who knowsthat the boyfriend exists. I scrabble around in my bag for a scrap of paper. On the back of a card slip for two bottles of wine, Iwrite down a list of most likely possible explanationsfor the disappearance of Megan Hipwell: She has run off with her boyfriend, who from hereon in, I will refer to as B. B has harmed her. Scott has harmed her. She has simply left her husband and gone to liveelsewhere. Someone other than B or Scott has harmed her. I think the first possibility is most likely, and four isa strong contender, too, because Megan is anindependent, wilful woman, I’m sure of it. And if shewere having an affair, she might need to get away toclear her head, mightn’t she? Five does not seemespecially likely, since murder by a stranger isn’t allthat common. The bump on my head is throbbing, and I can’tstop thinking about the argument I saw, or imagined,or dreamed about, on Saturday night. As we passMegan and Scott’s house, I look up. I can hear theblood pulsing in my head. I feel excited. I feel afraid. The windows of number fifteen, reflecting morningsunshine, look like sightless eyes. EVENING I’m just settling into my seat when my phone rings. It’s Cathy. I let it go to voice mail. She leaves a message: “Hi, Rachel, just phoning tomake sure you’re OK.” She’s worried about me,because of the thing with the taxi. “I just wanted tosay that I’m sorry, you know, about the other day,what I said about moving out. I shouldn’t have. Ioverreacted. You can stay as long as you want to.” There’s a long pause, and then she says, “Give me aring, OK? And come straight home, Rach, don’t goto the pub.” I don’t intend to. I wanted a drink at lunchtime; Iwas desperate for one after what happened inWitney this morning. I didn’t have one, though,because I had to keep a clear head. It’s been a longtime since I’ve had anything worth keeping a clearhead for. It was so strange, this morning, my trip to Witney. Ifelt as though I hadn’t been there in ages, althoughof course it’s only been a few days. It may as wellhave been a completely different place, though, adifferent station in a different town. I was a differentperson than the one who went there on Saturdaynight. Today I was stiff and sober, hyperaware of thenoise and the light and fear of discovery. I was trespassing. That’s what it felt like thismorning, because it’s their territory now, it’s Tomand Anna’s and Scott and Megan’s. I’m the outsider,I don’t belong there, and yet everything is so familiarto me. Down the concrete steps at the station, rightpast the newspaper kiosk into Roseberry Avenue, halfa block to the end of the T-junction, to the right thearchway leading to a dank pedestrian underpassbeneath the track, and to the left Blenheim Road,narrow and tree-lined, flanked with its handsomeVictorian terraces. It feels like coming home—not justto any home, but a childhood home, a place leftbehind a lifetime ago; it’s the familiarity of walking upstairs and knowing exactly which one is going tocreak. The familiarity isn’t just in my head, it’s in mybones; it’s muscle memory. This morning, as Iwalked past the blackened tunnel mouth, theentrance to the underpass, my pace quickened. Ididn’t have to think about it because I always walkeda little faster on that section. Every night, cominghome, especially in winter, I used to pick up thepace, glancing quickly to the right, just to make sure. There was never anyone there—not on any of thosenights and not today—and yet I stopped dead as Ilooked into the darkness this morning, because Icould suddenly see myself. I could see myself a fewmetres in, slumped against the wall, my head in myhands, and both head and hands smeared withblood. My heart thudding in my chest, I stood there,morning commuters stepping around me as theycontinued on their way to the station, one or twoturning to look at me as they passed, as I stoodstock-still. I didn’t know—don’t know—if it was real. Why would I have gone into the underpass? Whatreason would I have had to go down there, whereit’s dark and damp and stinks of piss? I turned around and headed back to the station. Ididn’t want to be there any longer; I didn’t want togo to Scott and Megan’s front door. I wanted to getaway from there. Something bad happened there, Iknow it did. I paid for my ticket and walked quickly up thestation steps to the other side of the platform, and asI did it came to me again in a flash: not theunderpass this time, but the steps; stumbling on thesteps and a man taking my arm, helping me up. Theman from the train, with the reddish hair. I couldsee him, a vague picture but no dialogue. I couldremember laughing—at myself, or at something hesaid. He was nice to me, I’m sure of it. Almost sure. Something bad happened, but I don’t think it hadanything to do with him. I got on the train and went into London. I went tothe library and sat at a computer terminal, lookingfor stories about Megan. There was a short piece onthe Telegraph website that said that “a man in histhirties is helping police with their inquiries.” Scott,presumably. I can’t believe he would have hurt her. Iknow that he wouldn’t. I’ve seen them together; Iknow what they’re like together. They gave aCrimestoppers number, too, which you can ring ifyou have information. I’m going to call it on the wayhome, from a pay phone. I’m going to tell themabout B, about what I saw. My phone rings just as we’re getting into Ashbury. It’s Cathy again. Poor girl, she really is worried aboutme. “Rach? Are you on the train? Are you on your wayhome?” She sounds anxious. “Yes, I’m on my way,” I tell her. “I’ll be fifteenminutes.” “The police are here, Rachel,” she says, and myentire body goes cold. “They want to talk to you.” WEDNESDAY, JULY 17, 2013 MORNING Megan is still missing, and I have lied—repeatedly—tothe police. I was in a panic by the time I got back to the flatlast night. I tried to convince myself that they’d cometo see me about my accident with the taxi, but thatdidn’t make sense. I’d spoken to police at thescene—it was clearly my fault. It had to be somethingto do with Saturday night. I must have donesomething. I must have committed some terrible actand blacked it out. I know it sounds unlikely. What could I have done? Gone to Blenheim Road, attacked Megan Hipwell,disposed of her body somewhere and then forgottenall about it? It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. ButI know something happened on Saturday. I knew itwhen I looked into that dark tunnel under therailway line, my blood turning to ice water in myveins. Blackouts happen, and it isn’t just a matter of beinga bit hazy about getting home from the club orforgetting what it was that was so funny when youwere chatting in the pub. It’s different. Total black;hours lost, never to be retrieved. Tom bought me a book about it. Not very romantic,but he was tired of listening to me tell him howsorry I was in the morning when I didn’t even knowwhat I was sorry for. I think he wanted me to seethe damage I was doing, the kind of things I mightbe capable of. It was written by a doctor, but I’ve noidea whether it was accurate: the author claimed thatblacking out wasn’t simply a matter of forgetting whathad happened, but having no memories to forget inthe first place. His theory was that you get into astate where your brain no longer makes short-termmemories. And while you’re there, in deepest black,you don’t behave as you usually would, becauseyou’re simply reacting to the very last thing that youthink happened, because—since you aren’t makingmemories—you might not actually know what the lastthing that happened really was. He had anecdotes,too, cautionary tales for the blacked-out drinker: There was a guy in New Jersey who got drunk at afourth of July party. Afterwards, he got into his car,drove several miles in the wrong direction on themotorway and ploughed into a van carrying sevenpeople. The van burst into flames and six peopledied. The drunk guy was fine. They always are. Hehad no memory of getting into his car. There was another man, in New York this time,who left a bar, drove to the house he’d grown upin, stabbed its occupants to death, took off all hisclothes, got back into his car, drove home and wentto bed. He got up the next morning feeling terrible,wondering where his clothes were and how he’d gothome, but it wasn’t until the police came to get himthat he discovered he had brutally slain two peoplefor no apparent reason whatsoever. So it sound ridiculous, but it’s not impossible, andby the time I got home last night I had convincedmyself that I was in some way involved in Megan’sdisappearance. The police officers were sitting on the sofa in theliving room, a fortysomething man in plain clothesand a younger one in uniform with acne on hisneck. Cathy was standing next to the window,wringing her hands. She looked terrified. Thepolicemen got up. The plainclothes one, very tall andslightly stooped, shook my hand and introducedhimself as Detective Inspector Gaskill. He told me theother officer’s name as well, but I don’t remember it. I wasn’t concentrating. I was barely breathing. “What’s this about?” I barked at them. “Hassomething happened? Is it my mother? Is it Tom?” “Everyone’s all right, Ms. Watson, we just need totalk to you about what you did on Saturdayevening,” Gaskill said. It’s the sort of thing they sayon television; it didn’t seem real. They want to knowwhat I did on Saturday evening. What the fuck did Ido on Saturday evening? “I need to sit down,” I said, and the detectivemotioned for me to take his place on the sofa, nextto Neck Acne. Cathy was shifting from one foot toanother, chewing on her lower lip. She looked frantic. “Are you all right, Ms. Watson?” Gaskill asked me. He motioned to the cut above my eye. “I was knocked down by a taxi,” I said. “Yesterdayafternoon, in London. I went to the hospital. You cancheck.” “OK,” he said, with a slight shake of his head. “So. Saturday evening?” “I went to Witney,” I said, trying to keep the waverout of my voice. “To do what?” Neck Acne had a notebook out, pencil raised. “I wanted to see my husband,” I said. “Oh, Rachel,” Cathy said. The detective ignored her. “Your husband?” he said. “You mean your ex-husband? Tom Watson?” Yes, Istill bear his name. It was just more convenient. Ididn’t have to change my credit cards, email address,get a new passport, things like that. “That’s right. I wanted to see him, but then Idecided that it wasn’t a good idea, so I came home.” “What time was this?” Gaskill’s voice was even, hisface completely blank. His lips barely moved when hespoke. I could hear the scratch of Neck Acne’s pencilon paper, I could hear the blood pounding in myears. “It was?.?.?. um?.?.?. I think it was around six thirty. Imean, I think I got the train at around six o’clock.” “And you came home?.?.?.??” “Maybe seven thirty?” I glanced up and caughtCathy’s eye and I could see from the look on herface that she knew I was lying. “Maybe a bit laterthan that. Maybe it was closer to eight. Yes, actually,I remember now—I think I got home just aftereight.” I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks; ifthis man didn’t know I was lying then, he didn’tdeserve to be on the police force. The detective turned around, grabbed one of thechairs pushed under the table in the corner andpulled it towards him in a swift, almost violentmovement. He placed it directly opposite me, acouple of feet away. He sat down, his hands on hisknees, head cocked to one side. “OK,” he said. “Soyou left at around six, meaning you’d be in Witneyby six thirty. And you were back here around eight,which means you must have left Witney at aroundseven thirty. Does that sound about right?” “Yes, that seems right,” I said, that wobble back inmy voice, betraying me. In a second or two he wasgoing to ask me what I’d been doing for an hour,and I had no answer to give him. “And you didn’t actually go to see your ex-husband. So what did you do during that hour in Witney?” “I walked around for a bit.” He waited, to see if I was going to elaborate. Ithought about telling him I went to a pub, but thatwould be stupid—that’s verifiable. He’d ask me whichpub, he’d ask me whether I’d spoken to anyone. AsI was thinking about what I should tell him, I realizedthat I hadn’t actually thought to ask him to explainwhy he wanted to know where I was on Saturdayevening, and that that in itself must have seemedodd. That must have made me look guilty ofsomething. “Did you speak to anyone?” he asked me, readingmy mind. “Go into any shops, bars?.?.?.??” “I spoke to a man in the station!” I blurted this outloudly, triumphantly almost, as though it meantsomething. “Why do you need to know this? What isgoing on?” Detective Inspector Gaskill leaned back in the chair. “You may have heard that a woman from Witney—awoman who lives on Blenheim Road, just a fewdoors along from your ex-husband—is missing. Wehave been going door-to-door, asking people if theyremember seeing her that night, or if they rememberseeing or hearing anything unusual. And during thecourse of our enquiries, your name came up.” He fellsilent for a bit, letting this sink in. “You were seenon Blenheim Road that evening, around the time thatMrs. Hipwell, the missing woman, left her home. Mrs. Anna Watson told us that she saw you in the street,near Mrs. Hipwell’s home, not very far from her ownproperty. She said that you were acting strangely,and that she was worried. So worried, in fact, thatshe considered calling the police.” My heart was fluttering like a trapped bird. Icouldn’t speak, because all I could see at thatmoment was myself, slouched in the underpass, bloodon my hands. Blood on my hands. Mine, surely? Ithad to be mine. I looked up at Gaskill, saw his eyeson mine and knew that I had to say somethingquickly to stop him reading my mind. “I didn’t doanything.” I said. “I didn’t. I just?.?.?. I just wanted tosee my husband?.?.?.” “Your ex-husband,” Gaskill corrected me again. Hepulled a photograph out of his jacket pocket andshowed it to me. It was a picture of Megan. “Didyou see this woman on Saturday night?” he asked. Istared at it for a long time. It felt so surreal havingher presented to me like that, the perfect blonde I’dwatched, whose life I’d constructed and deconstructedin my head. It was a close-up head shot, aprofessional job. Her features were a little heavierthan I’d imagined, not quite so fine as those of theJess in my head. “Ms. Watson? Did you see her?” I didn’t know if I’d seen her. I honestly didn’tknow. I still don’t. “I don’t think so,” I said. “You don’t think so? So you might have seen her?” “I?.?.?. I’m not sure.” “Had you been drinking on Saturday evening?” heasked. “Before you went to Witney, had you beendrinking?” The heat came rushing back to my face. “Yes,” Isaid. “Mrs. Watson—Anna Watson—said that she thoughtyou were drunk when she saw you outside herhome. Were you drunk?” “No,” I said, keeping my eyes firmly on the detectiveso that I didn’t catch Cathy’s eye. “I’d had a coupleof drinks in the afternoon, but I wasn’t drunk.” Gaskill sighed. He seemed disappointed in me. Heglanced over at Neck Acne, then back at me. Slowly,deliberately, he got to his feet and pushed the chairback to its position under the table. “If youremember anything about Saturday night, anythingthat might be helpful to us, would you please callme?” he said, handing me a business card. As Gaskill nodded sombrely at Cathy, preparing toleave, I slumped back into the sofa. I could feel myheart rate starting to slow, and then it raced again asI heard him ask me, “You work in public relations, isthat correct? Huntingdon Whitely?” “That’s right,” I said. “Huntingdon Whitely.” He is going to check, and he is going to know Ilied. I can’t let him find out for himself, I have to tellhim. So that’s what I’m going to do this morning. I’mgoing to go round to the police station to comeclean. I’m going to tell him everything: that I lost myjob months ago, that I was very drunk on Saturdaynight and I have no idea what time I came home. I’m going to say what I should have said last night: that he’s looking in the wrong direction. I’m going totell him that I believe Megan Hipwell was having anaffair. EVENINGThe police think I’m a rubbernecker. They think I’ma stalker, a nutcase, mentally unstable. I should neverhave gone to the police station. I’ve made my ownsituation worse and I don’t think I’ve helped Scott,which was the reason I went there in the first place. He needs my help, because it’s obvious the police willsuspect that he’s done something to her, and I knowit isn’t true, because I know him. I really feel that,crazy as it sounds. I’ve seen the way he is with her. He couldn’t hurt her. OK, so helping Scott was not my sole reason forgoing to the police. There was the matter of the lie,which needed sorting out. The lie about my workingfor Huntingdon Whitely. It took me ages to get up the courage to go intothe station. I was on the verge of turning back andgoing home a dozen times, but eventually I went in. I asked the desk sergeant if I could speak toDetective Inspector Gaskill, and he showed me to astuffy waiting room, where I sat for over an houruntil someone came to get me. By that time I wassweating and trembling like a woman on her way tothe scaffold. I was shown into another room, smallerand stuffier still, windowless and airless. I was leftthere alone for a further ten minutes before Gaskilland a woman, also in plain clothes, turned up. Gaskillgreeted me politely; he didn’t seem surprised to seeme. He introduced his companion as DetectiveSergeant Riley. She is younger than I am, tall, slim,dark-haired, pretty in a sharp-featured, vulpine sort ofway. She did not return my smile. We all sat down and nobody said anything; theyjust looked at me expectantly. “I remembered the man,” I said. “I told you therewas a man at the station. I can describe him.” Rileyraised her eyebrows ever so slightly and shifted inher seat. “He was about medium height, mediumbuild, reddish hair. I slipped on the steps and hecaught my arm.” Gaskill leaned forward, his elbowson the table, hands clasped together in front of hismouth. “He was wearing?.?.?. I think he was wearinga blue shirt.” This is not actually true. I do remember a man,and I’m pretty sure he had reddish hair, and I thinkthat he smiled at me, or smirked at me, when I wason the train. I think that he got off at Witney, and Ithink he might have spoken to me. It’s possible Imight have slipped on the steps. I have a memory ofit, but I can’t tell whether the memory belongs toSaturday night or to another time. There have beenmany slips, on many staircases. I have no idea whathe was wearing. The detectives were not impressed with my tale. Riley gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Gaskill unclasped his hands and spread them out,palms upwards, in front of him. “OK. Is that reallywhat you came here to tell me, Ms. Watson?” heasked. There was no anger in his tone, he soundedalmost encouraging. I wished that Riley would goaway. I could talk to him; I could trust him. “I don’t work for Huntingdon Whitely any longer,” Isaid. “Oh.” He leaned back in his seat, looking moreinterested. “I left three months ago. My flatmate—well, she’s mylandlady, really—I haven’t told her. I’m trying to findanother job. I didn’t want her to know because Ithought she would worry about the rent. I havesome money. I can pay my rent, but?.?.?. Anyway, Ilied to you yesterday about my job and I apologizefor that.” Riley leaned forward and gave me an insinceresmile. “I see. You no longer work for HuntingdonWhitely. You don’t work for anyone, is that right? You’re unemployed?” I nodded. “OK. So?.?.?. you’renot registered to collect unemployment benefits,nothing like that?” “No.” “And?.?.?. your flatmate, she hasn’t noticed that youdon’t go to work every day?” “I do. I mean, I don’t go to the office, but I go intoLondon, the way I used to, at the same time andeverything, so that she?.?.?. so that she won’t know.” Riley glanced at Gaskill; he kept his eyes on my face,the hint of a frown between his eyes. “It sounds odd,I know?.?.?.” I said, and I tailed off then, because itdoesn’t just sound odd, it sounds insane when yousay it out loud. “Right. So, you pretend to go to work every day?” Riley asked me, her brow knitted, too, as though shewere concerned about me. As though she thought Iwas completely deranged. I didn’t speak or nod ordo anything, I kept silent. “Can I ask why you leftyour job, Ms. Watson?” There was no point in lying. If they hadn’t intendedto check out my employment record before thisconversation, they bloody well would now. “I wasfired,” I said. “You were dismissed,” Riley said, a note ofsatisfaction in her voice. It was obviously the answershe’d anticipated. “Why was that?” I gave a little sigh and appealed to Gaskill. “Is thisreally important? Does it matter why I left my job?” Gaskill didn’t say anything, he was consulting somenotes that Riley had pushed in front of him, but hedid give the slightest shake of his head. Rileychanged tack. “Ms. Watson, I wanted to ask you about Saturdaynight.” I glanced at Gaskill—we’ve already had thisconversation—but he wasn’t looking at me. “Allright,” I said. I kept raising my hand to my scalp,worrying at my injury. I couldn’t stop myself. “Tell me why you went to Blenheim Road onSaturday night. Why did you want to speak to yourex-husband?” “I don’t really think that’s any of your business,” Isaid, and then, quickly, before she had time to sayanything else, “Would it be possible to have a glassof water?” Gaskill got to his feet and left the room, whichwasn’t really the outcome I was hoping for. Rileydidn’t say a word; she just kept looking at me, thetrace of a smile still on her lips. I couldn’t hold hergaze, I looked at the table, I let my eyes wanderaround the room. I knew this was a tactic: she wasremaining silent so that I would become souncomfortable that I had to say something, even if Ididn’t really want to. “I had some things I needed todiscuss with him,” I said. “Private matters.” I soundedpompous and ridiculous. Riley sighed. I bit my lip, determined not to speakuntil Gaskill came back into the room. The momenthe returned, placing a glass of cloudy water in frontof me, Riley spoke. “Private matters?” she prompted. “That’s right.” Riley and Gaskill exchanged a look, I wasn’t sure ifit was irritation or amusement. I could taste thesweat on my upper lip. I took a sip of water; ittasted stale. Gaskill shuffled the papers in front ofhim and then pushed them aside, as though he wasdone with them, or as though whatever was in themdidn’t interest him all that much. “Ms. Watson, your?.?.?. er?.?.?. your ex-husband’scurrent wife, Mrs. Anna Watson, has raised concernsabout you. She told us that you have been botheringher, bothering her husband, that you have gone tothe house uninvited, that on one occasion?.?.?.” Gaskillglanced back at his notes, but Riley interrupted. “On one occasion you broke into Mr. and Mrs. Watson’s home and took their child, their newbornbaby.” A black hole opened up in the centre of the roomand swallowed me. “That is not true!” I said. “Ididn’t take?.?.?. It didn’t happen like that, that’swrong. I didn’t?.?.?. I didn’t take her.” I got very upset then, I started to shake and cry, Isaid I wanted to leave. Riley pushed her chair backand got to her feet, shrugged at Gaskill and left theroom. Gaskill handed me a Kleenex. “You can leave any time you like, Ms. Watson. Youcame here to talk to us.” He smiled at me then, anapologetic sort of smile. I liked him in that moment, Iwanted to take his hand and squeeze it, but I didn’t,because that would have been weird. “I think youhave more to tell me,” he said, and I liked him evenmore for saying “tell me” rather than “tell us.” “Perhaps,” he said, getting to his feet and usheringme towards the door, “you would like to take abreak, stretch your legs, get yourself something toeat. Then when you’re ready, come back, and youcan tell me everything.” I was planning to just forget the whole thing and gohome. I was walking back towards the train station,ready to turn my back on the whole thing. Then Ithought about the train journey, about goingbackwards and forwards on that line, past thehouse—Megan and Scott’s house—every day. What ifthey never found her? I was going to wonderforever—and I understand that this is not very likely,but even so—whether my saying something mighthave helped her. What if Scott was accused ofharming her just because they never knew about B? What if she was at B’s house right now, tied up inthe basement, hurt and bleeding, or buried in thegarden? I did as Gaskill said, I bought a ham and cheesesandwich and a bottle of water from a corner shopand took it to Witney’s only park, a rather sorry littlepatch of land surrounded by 1930s houses and givenover almost entirely to an asphalted playground. I saton a bench at the edge of this space, watchingmothers and childminders scolding their charges foreating sand out of the pit. I used to dream of this, afew years back. I dreamed of coming here—not toeat ham and cheese sandwiches in between policeinterviews, obviously. I dreamed of coming here withmy own baby. I thought about the buggy I wouldbuy, all the time I would spend in Trotters and atthe Early Learning Centre sizing up adorable outfitsand educational toys. I thought about how I would sithere, bouncing my own bundle of joy on my lap. It didn’t happen. No doctor has been able toexplain to me why I can’t get pregnant. I’m youngenough, fit enough, I wasn’t drinking heavily whenwe were trying. My husband’s sperm was active andplentiful. It just didn’t happen. I didn’t suffer theagony of miscarriage, I just didn’t get pregnant. Wedid one round of IVF, which was all we could afford. It was, as everyone had warned us it would be,unpleasant and unsuccessful. Nobody warned me itwould break us. But it did. Or rather, it broke me,and then I broke us. The thing about being barren is that you’re notallowed to get away from it. Not when you’re in yourthirties. My friends were having children, friends offriends were having children, pregnancy and birthand first birthday parties were everywhere. I wasasked about it all the time. My mother, our friends,colleagues at work. When was it going to be myturn? At some point our childlessness became anacceptable topic of Sunday-lunch conversation, notjust between Tom and me, but more generally. Whatwe were trying, what we should be doing, do youreally think you should be having a second glass ofwine? I was still young, there was still plenty of time,but failure cloaked me like a mantle, it overwhelmedme, dragged me under, and I gave up hope. At thetime, I resented the fact that it was always seen asmy fault, that I was the one letting the side down. But as the speed with which he managed toimpregnate Anna demonstrates, there was never anyproblem with Tom’s virility. I was wrong to suggestthat we should share the blame; it was all down tome. Lara, my best friend since university, had twochildren in two years: a boy first and then a girl. Ididn’t like them. I didn’t want to hear anything aboutthem. I didn’t want to be near them. Lara stoppedspeaking to me after a while. There was a girl atwork who told me—casually, as though she weretalking about an appendectomy or a wisdom-toothextraction—that she’d recently had an abortion, amedical one, and it was so much less traumatic thanthe surgical one she’d had when she was atuniversity. I couldn’t speak to her after that, I couldbarely look at her. Things became awkward in theoffice; people noticed. Tom didn’t feel the way I did. It wasn’t his failure,for starters, and in any case, he didn’t need a childlike I did. He wanted to be a dad, he really did—I’msure he daydreamed about kicking a football aroundin the garden with his son, or carrying his daughteron his shoulders in the park. But he thought ourlives could be great without children, too. “We’rehappy,” he used to say to me. “Why can’t we justgo on being happy?” He became frustrated with me. He never understood that it’s possible to miss whatyou’ve never had, to mourn for it. I felt isolated in my misery. I became lonely, so Idrank a bit, and then a bit more, and then Ibecame lonelier, because no one likes being around adrunk. I lost and I drank and I drank and I lost. Iliked my job, but I didn’t have a glittering career,and even if I had, let’s be honest: women are stillonly really valued for two things—their looks andtheir role as mothers. I’m not beautiful, and I can’thave kids, so what does that make me? Worthless. I can’t blame all this for my drinking—I can’t blamemy parents or my childhood, an abusive uncle orsome terrible tragedy. It’s my fault. I was a drinkeranyway—I’ve always liked to drink. But I did becomesadder, and sadness gets boring after a while, for thesad person and for everyone around them. And thenI went from being a drinker to being a drunk, andthere’s nothing more boring than that. I’m better now, about the children thing; I’ve gotbetter since I’ve been on my own. I’ve had to. I’veread books and articles, I’ve realized that I mustcome to terms with it. There are strategies, there ishope. If I straightened myself out and sobered up,there’s a possibility that I could adopt. And I’m notthirty-four yet—it isn’t over. I am better than I was afew years ago, when I used to abandon my trolleyand leave the supermarket if the place was packedwith mums and kids; I wouldn’t have been able tocome to a park like this, to sit near the playgroundand watch chubby toddlers rolling down the slide. There were times, at my lowest, when the hungerwas at its worst, when I thought I was going to losemy mind. Maybe I did, for a while. The day they asked meabout at the police station, I might have been madthen. Something Tom once said tipped me over, sentme sliding. Something he wrote, rather: I read it onFacebook that morning. It wasn’t a shock—I knewshe was having a baby, he’d told me, and I’d seenher, seen that pink blind in the nursery window. So Iknew what was coming. But I thought of the babyas her baby. Until the day I saw the picture of him,holding his newborn girl, looking down at her andsmiling, and beneath he’d written: So this is whatall the fuss is about! Never knew love like this! Happiest day of my life! I thought about himwriting that—knowing that I would see it, that Iwould read those words and they would kill me, andwriting it anyway. He didn’t care. Parents don’t careabout anything but their children. They are thecentre of the universe; they are all that really counts. Nobody else is important, no one else’s suffering orjoy matters, none of it is real. I was angry. I was distraught. Maybe I wasvengeful. Maybe I thought I’d show them that mydistress was real. I don’t know. I did a stupid thing. I went back to the police station after a couple ofhours. I asked if I could speak to Gaskill alone, buthe said that he wanted Riley to be present. I likedhim a little less after that. “I didn’t break into their home,” I said. “I did gothere, I wanted to speak to Tom. No one answeredthe doorbell?.?.?.” “So how did you get in?” Riley asked me. “The door was open.” “The front door was open?” I sighed. “No, of course not. The sliding door at theback, the one leading into the garden.” “And how did you get into the back garden?” “I went over the fence, I knew the way in—” “So you climbed over the fence to gain access toyour ex-husband’s house?” “Yes. We used to?.?.?. There was always a spare keyat the back. We had a place we hid it, in case oneof us lost our keys or forgot them or something. ButI wasn’t breaking in—I didn’t. I just wanted to talk toTom. I thought maybe?.?.?. the bell wasn’t working orsomething.” “This was the middle of the day, during the week,wasn’t it? Why did you think your husband would beat home? Had you called to find out?” Riley asked. “Jesus! Will you just let me speak?” I shouted, andshe shook her head and gave me that smile again,as if she knew me, as if she could read me. “I wentover the fence,” I said, trying to control the volumeof my voice, “and knocked on the glass doors, whichwere partly open. There was no answer. I stuck myhead inside and called Tom’s name. Again, noanswer, but I could hear a baby crying. I went insideand saw that Anna—” “Mrs. Watson?” “Yes. Mrs. Watson was on the sofa, sleeping. Thebaby was in the carry-cot and was crying—screaming,actually, red in the face, she’d obviously been cryingfor a while.” As I said those words it struck me thatI should have told them that I could hear the babycrying from the street and that’s why I went roundto the back of the house. That would have made mesound less like a maniac. “So the baby’s screaming and her mother’s rightthere, and she doesn’t wake?” Riley asks me. “Yes.” Her elbows are on the table, her hands infront of her mouth so I can’t read her expressionfully, but I know she thinks I’m lying. “I picked herup to comfort her. That’s all. I picked her up toquieten her.” “That’s not all, though, is it, because when Annawoke up you weren’t there, were you? You weredown by the fence, by the train tracks.” “She didn’t stop crying right away,” I said. “I wasbouncing her up and down and she was stillgrizzling, so I walked outside with her.” “Down to the train tracks?” “Into the garden.” “Did you intend to harm the Watsons’ child?” I leaped to my feet then. Melodramatic, I know, butI wanted to make them see—make Gaskill see—whatan outrageous suggestion that was. “I don’t have tolisten to this! I came here to tell you about the man! I came here to help you! And now?.?.?. what exactlyare you accusing me of? What are you accusing meof?” Gaskill remained impassive, unimpressed. Hemotioned at me to sit down again. “Ms. Watson, theother?.?.?. er, Mrs. Watson—Anna—mentioned you tous during the course of our enquiries about MeganHipwell. She said that you had behaved erratically, inan unstable manner, in the past. She mentioned thisincident with the child. She said that you haveharassed both her and her husband, that youcontinue to call the house repeatedly.” He lookeddown at his notes for a moment. “Almost nightly, infact. That you refuse to accept that your marriage isover—” “That is simply not true!” I insisted, and itwasn’t—yes, I called Tom from time to time, but notevery night, it was a total exaggeration. But I wasgetting the feeling that Gaskill wasn’t on my side afterall, and I was starting to feel tearful again. “Why haven’t you changed your name?” Riley askedme. “Excuse me?” “You still use your husband’s name. Why is that? Ifa man left me for another woman, I think I’d wantto get rid of that name. I certainly wouldn’t want toshare my name with my replacement?.?.?.” “Well, maybe I’m not that petty.” I am that petty. Ihate that she’s Anna Watson. “Right. And the ring—the one on a chain aroundyour neck. Is that your wedding band?” “No,” I lied. “It’s a?.?.?. it was my grandmother’s.” “Is that right? OK. Well, I have to say that to me,your behaviour suggests that—as Mrs. Watson hasimplied—you are unwilling to move on, that yourefuse to accept that your ex has a new family.” “I don’t see—” “What this has to do with Megan Hipwell?” Rileyfinished my sentence. “Well. The night Megan wentmissing, we have reports that you—an unstablewoman who had been drinking heavily—were seenon the street where she lives. Bearing in mind thatthere are some physical similarities between Meganand Mrs. Watson—” “They don’t look anything like each other!” I wasoutraged at the suggestion. Jess is nothing like Anna. Megan is nothing like Anna. “They’re both blond, slim, petite, pale-skinned?.?.?.” “So I attacked Megan Hipwell thinking she wasAnna? That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard,” I said. But that lump on my head was throbbingagain, and everything from Saturday night was stilldeepest black. “Did you know that Anna Watson knows MeganHipwell?” Gaskill asked me, and I felt my jaw drop. “I?.?.?. what? No. No, they don’t know each other.” Riley smiled for a moment, then straightened herface. “Yes they do. Megan did some childminding forthe Watsons?.?.?.” She glanced down at her notes. “Back in August and September last year.” I don’t know what to say. I can’t imagine it: Meganin my home, with her, with her baby. “The cut on your lip, is that from when you gotknocked down the other day?” Gaskill asked me. “Yes. I bit it when I fell, I think.” “Where was it, this accident?” “It was in London, Theobalds Road. Near Holborn.” “And what were you doing there?” “I’m sorry?” “Why were you in central London?” I shrugged. “I already told you,” I said coldly. “Myflatmate doesn’t know that I’ve lost my job. So I gointo London, as usual, and I go to libraries, to jobhunt, to work on my CV.” Riley shook her head, in disbelief perhaps, orwonder. How does anyone get to that point? I pushed my chair back, readying myself to leave. I’d had enough of being talked down to, being madeto look like a fool, like a madwoman. Time to playthe trump card. “I don’t really know why we’retalking about this,” I said. “I would have thought thatyou would have better things to do, like investigatingMegan Hipwell’s disappearance, for example. I take ityou’ve spoken to her lover?” Neither of them saidanything, they just stared at me. They weren’texpecting that. They didn’t know about him. “Perhapsyou didn’t know. Megan Hipwell was having anaffair,” I said, and I started to walk to the door. Gaskill stopped me; he moved quietly and surprisinglyquickly, and before I could put my hand on the doorhandle he was standing in front of me. “I thought you didn’t know Megan Hipwell,” he said. “I don’t,” I said, trying to get past him. “Sit down,” he said, blocking my path. I told them then about what I’d seen from thetrain, about how I often saw Megan sitting out onher terrace, sunbathing in the evenings or havingcoffee in the mornings. I told them about how lastweek I saw her with someone who clearly wasn’t herhusband, how I’d seen them kissing on the lawn. “When was this?” Gaskill snapped. He seemedannoyed with me, perhaps because I should havetold them this straightaway, instead of wasting all daytalking about myself. “Friday. It was Friday morning.” “So the day before she went missing, you saw herwith another man?” Riley asked me with a sigh ofexasperation. She closed the file in front of her. Gaskill leaned back in his seat, studying my face. Sheclearly thought I was making it up; he wasn’t sosure. “Can you describe him?” Gaskill asked. “Tall, dark—” “Handsome?” Riley interrupted. I puffed my cheeks out. “Taller than Scott Hipwell. Iknow, because I’ve seen them together—Jessand—sorry, Megan and Scott Hipwell—and this manwas different. Slighter, thinner, darker-skinned. Possibly an Asian man,” I said. “You could determine his ethnic group from thetrain?” Riley said. “Impressive. Who is Jess, by theway?” “I’m sorry?” “You mentioned Jess a moment ago.” I could feel my face flushing again. I shook myhead, “No, I didn’t,” I said. Gaskill got to his feet and held out his hand for meto shake. “I think that’s enough.” I shook his hand,ignored Riley and turned to go. “Don’t go anywherenear Blenheim Road, Ms. Watson,” Gaskill said. “Don’t contact your ex-husband unless it’s important,and don’t go anywhere near Anna Watson or herchild.” On the train on the way home, as I dissect all theways that today went wrong, I’m surprised by thefact that I don’t feel as awful as I might do. Thinkingabout it, I know why that is: I didn’t have a drinklast night, and I have no desire to have one now. Iam interested, for the first time in ages, in somethingother than my own misery. I have purpose. Or atleast, I have a distraction. THURSDAY, JULY 18, 2013 MORNING I bought three newspapers before getting onto thetrain this morning: Megan has been missing for fourdays and five nights, and the story is getting plentyof coverage. The Daily Mail, predictably, hasmanaged to find pictures of Megan in her bikini, butthey’ve also done the most detailed profile I’ve seenof her so far. Born Megan Mills in Rochester in 1983, she movedwith her parents to King’s Lynn in Norfolk when shewas ten. She was a bright child, very outgoing, atalented artist and singer. A quote from a schoolfriend says she was “a good laugh, very pretty andquite wild.” Her wildness seems to have beenexacerbated by the death of her brother, Ben, towhom she was very close. He was killed in amotorcycle accident when he was nineteen and shefifteen. She ran away from home three days after hisfuneral. She was arrested twice—once for theft andonce for soliciting. Her relationship with her parents,the Mail informs me, broke down completely. Bothher parents died a few years ago, without ever beingreconciled with their daughter. (Reading this, I feeldesperately sad for Megan. I realize that perhaps,after all, she isn’t so different from me. She’s isolatedand lonely, too.)When she was sixteen, she moved in with aboyfriend who had a house near the village ofHolkham in north Norfolk. The school friend says,“He was an older guy, a musician or something. Hewas into drugs. We didn’t see Megan much afterthey got together.” The boyfriend’s name is not given,so presumably they haven’t found him. He might noteven exist. The school friend might be making thisstuff up just to get her name into the papers. They skip forward several years after that: suddenlyMegan is twenty-four, living in London, working as awaitress in a North London restaurant. There shemeets Scott Hipwell, an independent IT contractorwho is friendly with the restaurant manager, and thetwo of them hit it off. After an “intense courtship,” Megan and Scott marry, when she is twenty-six andhe is thirty. There are a few other quotes, including one fromTara Epstein, the friend with whom Megan wassupposed to stay on the night she disappeared. Shesays that Megan is “a lovely, carefree girl” and thatshe seemed “very happy.” “Scott would not havehurt her,” Tara says. “He loves her very much.” There isn’t a thing Tara says that isn’t a cliché. Thequote that interests me is from one of the artistswho exhibited his work in the gallery Megan used tomanage, one Rajesh Gujral, who says that Megan is“a wonderful woman, sharp, funny and beautiful, anintensely private person with a warm heart.” Soundsto me like Rajesh has got a crush. The only otherquote comes from a man called David Clark, “aformer colleague” of Scott’s, who says, “Megs andScott are a great couple. They’re very happytogether, very much in love.” There are some news pieces about the investigation,too, but the statements from the police amount toless than nothing: they have spoken to “a number ofwitnesses,” they are “pursuing several lines ofenquiry.” The only interesting comment comes fromDetective Inspector Gaskill, who confirms that twomen are helping the police with their enquiries. I’mpretty sure that means they’re both suspects. Onewill be Scott. Could the other be B? Could B beRajesh? I’ve been so engrossed in the newspapers that Ihaven’t been paying my usual attention to thejourney; it seems as though I’ve only just sat downwhen the train grinds to its customary halt oppositethe red signal. There are people in Scott’sgarden—there are two uniformed police just outsidethe back door. My head swims. Have they foundsomething? Have they found her? Is there a bodyburied in the garden or shoved under thefloorboards? I can’t stop thinking of the clothes onthe side of the railway line, which is stupid, because Isaw those there before Megan went missing. And inany case, if harm has been done to her, it wasn’t byScott, it can’t have been. He’s madly in love with her,everyone says so. The light is bad today, theweather’s turned, the sky leaden, threatening. I can’tsee into the house, I can’t see what’s going on. I feelquite desperate. I cannot stand being on theoutside—for better or worse, I am a part of this now. I need to know what’s going on. At least I have a plan. First, I need to find out ifthere’s any way that I can be made to rememberwhat happened on Saturday night. When I get to thelibrary, I plan to do some research and find outwhether hypnotherapy could make me remember,whether it is in fact possible to recover that lost time. Second—and I believe this is important, because Idon’t think the police believed me when I told themabout Megan’s lover—I need to get in touch withScott Hipwell. I need to tell him. He deserves toknow. EVENING The train is full of rain-soaked people, steam risingoff their clothes and condensing on the windows. Thefug of body odour, perfume and laundry soap hangsoppressively above bowed, damp heads. The cloudsthat menaced this morning did so all day, growingheavier and blacker until they burst, monsoon-like,this evening, just as office workers stepped outsideand the rush hour began in earnest, leaving theroads gridlocked and tube station entrances chokedwith people opening and closing umbrellas. I don’t have an umbrella and am soaked through; Ifeel as though someone has thrown a bucket ofwater over me. My cotton trousers cling to my thighsand my faded blue shirt has become embarrassinglytransparent. I ran all the way from the library to thetube station with my handbag clutched against mychest to hide what I could. For some reason I foundthis funny—there is something ridiculous about beingcaught in the rain—and I was laughing so hard bythe time I got to the top of Gray’s Inn Road, I couldbarely breathe. I can’t remember the last time Ilaughed like that. I’m not laughing now. As soon as I got myself aseat, I checked the latest on Megan’s case on myphone, and it’s the news I’ve been dreading. “Athirty-four-year-old man is being questioned undercaution at Witney police station regarding thedisappearance of Megan Hipwell, missing from herhome since Saturday evening.” That’s Scott, I’m sureof it. I can only hope that he read my email beforethey picked him up, because questioning undercaution is serious—it means they think he did it. Although, of course, it is yet to be defined. It maynot have happened at all. Megan might be fine. Every now and again it does strike me that she’salive and well and sitting on a hotel balcony with aview of the sea, her feet up on the railings, a colddrink at her elbow. The thought of her there both thrills anddisappoints me, and then I feel sick for feelingdisappointed. I don’t wish her ill, no matter howangry I was with her for cheating on Scott, forshattering my illusions about my perfect couple. No,it’s because I feel like I’m part of this mystery, I’mconnected. I am no longer just a girl on the train,going back and forth without point or purpose. Iwant Megan to turn up safe and sound. I do. Justnot quite yet. I sent Scott an email this morning. His address waseasy to find—I Googled him and foundwww.shipwellconsulting.co.uk, the site where headvertises “a range of consultancy, cloud- andweb-based services for business and nonprofitorganizations.” I knew it was him, because hisbusiness address is also his home address. I sent a short message to the contact address givenon the site: Dear Scott,My name is Rachel Watson. Youdon’t know me. I would like to talkto you about your wife. I do nothave any information on herwhereabouts, I don’t know what hashappened to her. But I believe I haveinformation that could help you. You may not want to talk to me, Iwould understand that, but if you do,email me on this address. Yours sincerely,RachelI don’t know if he would have contacted meanyway—I doubt that I would, if I were in his shoes. Like the police, he’d probably just think I’m a nutter,some weirdo who’s read about the case in thenewspaper. Now I’ll never know—if he’s beenarrested, he may never get a chance to see themessage. If he’s been arrested, the only people whosee it may be the police, which won’t be good newsfor me. But I had to try. And now I feel desperate, thwarted. I can’t seethrough the mob of people in the carriage across totheir side of the tracks—my side—and even if I could,with the rain still pouring down I wouldn’t be able tosee beyond the railway fence. I wonder whetherevidence is being washed away, whether right at thismoment vital clues are disappearing forever: smearsof blood, footprints, DNA-loaded cigarette butts. Iwant a drink so badly, I can almost taste the wineon my tongue. I can imagine exactly what it will feellike for the alcohol to hit my bloodstream and makemy head rush. I want a drink and I don’t want one, because if Idon’t have a drink today then it’ll be three days, andI can’t remember the last time I stayed off for threedays in a row. There’s a taste of something else inmy mouth, too, an old stubbornness. There was atime when I had willpower, when I could run 10kbefore breakfast and subsist for weeks on thirteenhundred calories a day. It was one of the thingsTom loved about me, he said: my stubbornness, mystrength. I remember an argument, right at the end,when things were about as bad as they could be; helost his temper with me. “What happened to you,Rachel?” he asked me. “When did you become soweak?” I don’t know. I don’t know where that strengthwent, I don’t remember losing it. I think that overtime it got chipped away, bit by bit, by life, by theliving of it. The train comes to an abrupt halt, brakesscreeching alarmingly, at the signal on the Londonside of Witney. The carriage is filled with murmuredapologies as standing passengers stumble, bumpinginto one another, stepping on one another’s feet. Ilook up and find myself looking right into the eyes ofthe man from Saturday night—the ginger one, theone who helped me up. He’s staring right at me, hisstartlingly blue eyes locked on mine, and I get such afright, I drop my phone. I retrieve it from the floorand look up again, tentatively this time, not directly athim. I scan the carriage, I wipe the steamy windowwith my elbow and stare out, and then eventually Ilook back over at him and he smiles at me, his headcocked a little to one side. I can feel my face burning. I don’t know how toreact to his smile, because I don’t know what itmeans. Is it Oh, hello, I remember you from theother night, or is it Ah, it’s that pissed girl whofell down the stairs and talked shit at me theother night, or is it something else? I don’t know,but thinking about it now, I believe I have a snatchof sound track to go with the picture of me slippingon the steps: him saying, “You all right, love?” I turnaway and look out of the window again. I can feelhis eyes on me; I just want to hide, to disappear. The train judders off, and in seconds we’re pullinginto Witney station and people start jostling oneanother for position, folding newspapers and packingaway tablets and e-readers as they prepare todisembark. I look up again and am flooded withrelief—he’s turned away from me, he’s getting off thetrain. It strikes me then that I’m being an idiot. I shouldget up and follow him, talk to him. He can tell mewhat happened, or what didn’t happen; he might beable to fill in some of the blanks at least. I get to myfeet. I hesitate—I know it’s already too late, the doorsare about to close, I’m in the middle of the carriage,I won’t be able to push my way through the crowdin time. The doors beep and close. Still standing, Iturn and look out of the window as the train pullsaway. He’s standing on the edge of the platform inthe rain, the man from Saturday night, watching meas I go past. The closer I get to home, the more irritated withmyself I feel. I’m almost tempted to change trains atNorthcote, go back to Witney and look for him. Aridiculous idea, obviously, and stupidly risky given thatGaskill warned me to stay away from the area onlyyesterday. But I’m feeling dispirited about everrecalling what happened on Saturday. A few hours of(admittedly hardly exhaustive) Internet research thisafternoon confirmed what I suspected: hypnosis isnot generally useful in retrieving hours lost toblackout because, as my previous reading suggested,we do not make memories during blackout. There isnothing to remember. It is, will always be, a blackhole in my timeline. MEGAN THURSDAY, MARCH 7, 2013 AFTERNOON The room is dark, the air close, sweet with the smellof us. We’re at the Swan again, in the room underthe eaves. It’s different, though, because he’s stillhere, watching me. “Where do you want to go?” he asks me. “A house on the beach on the Costa de la Luz,” Itell him. He smiles. “What will we do?” I laugh. “You mean apart from this?” His fingers are tracing slowly over my belly. “Apartfrom this.” “We’ll open a café, show art, learn to surf.” He kisses me on the tip of my hip bone. “Whatabout Thailand?” he says. I wrinkle my nose. “Too many gap-year kids. Sicily,” I say. “The Egadi islands. We’ll open a beach bar, gofishing?.?.?.” He laughs again and then moves his body up overmine and kisses me. “Irresistible,” he mumbles. “You’re irresistible.” I want to laugh, I want to say it out loud: See? Iwin! I told you it wasn’t the last time, it’s neverthe last time. I bite my lip and close my eyes. I wasright, I knew I was, but it won’t do me any good tosay it. I enjoy my victory silently; I take pleasure init almost as much as in his touch. Afterwards, he talks to me in a way he hasn’t donebefore. Usually I’m the one doing all the talking, butthis time he opens up. He talks about feeling empty,about the family he left behind, about the womanbefore me and the one before that, the one whowrecked his head and left him hollow. I don’t believein soul mates, but there’s an understanding betweenus that I just haven’t felt before, or at least, not fora long time. It comes from shared experience, fromknowing how it feels to be broken. Hollowness: that I understand. I’m starting to believethat there isn’t anything you can do to fix it. That’swhat I’ve taken from the therapy sessions: the holesin your life are permanent. You have to grow aroundthem, like tree roots around concrete; you mouldyourself through the gaps. All these things I know,but I don’t say them out loud, not now. “When will we go?” I ask him, but he doesn’tanswer me, and I fall asleep, and he’s gone when Iwake up. FRIDAY, MARCH 8, 2013 MORNING Scott brings me coffee on the terrace. “You slept last night,” he says, bending down to kissmy head. He’s standing behind me, hands on myshoulders, warm and solid. I lean my head backagainst his body, close my eyes and listen to thetrain rumbling along the track until it stops just infront of the house. When we first moved here, Scottused to wave at the passengers, which always mademe laugh. His grip tightens a little on my shoulders;he leans forward and kisses my neck. “You slept,” he says again. “You must be feelingbetter.” “I am,” I say. “Do you think it’s worked, then?” he asks. “Thetherapy?” “Do I think I’m fixed, do you mean?” “Not fixed,” he says, and I can hear the hurt in hisvoice. “I didn’t mean?.?.?.” “I know.” I lift my hand to his and squeeze. “I wasonly joking. I think it’s a process. It’s not simple, youknow? I don’t know if there will be a time when Ican say that it’s worked. That I’m better.” There’s a silence, and he grips just a little harder. “So you want to keep going?” he asks, and I tell himI do. There was a time when I thought he could beeverything, he could be enough. I thought that foryears. I loved him completely. I still do. But I don’twant this any longer. The only time I feel like me ison those secret, febrile afternoons like yesterday,when I come alive in all that heat and half-light. Who’s to say that once I run, I’ll find that isn’tenough? Who’s to say I won’t end up feeling exactlythe way I do right now—not safe, but stifled? MaybeI’ll want to run again, and again, and eventually I’llend up back by those old tracks, because there’snowhere left to go. Maybe. Maybe not. You have totake the risk, don’t you? I go downstairs to say good-bye as he’s heading offto work. He slips his arms around my waist andkisses the top of my head. “Love you, Megs,” he murmurs, and I feel horriblethen, like the worst person in the world. I can’t waitfor him to shut the door because I know I’m goingto cry. RACHEL FRIDAY, JULY 19, 2013 MORNING The 8:04 is almost deserted. The windows are openand the air is cool after yesterday’s storm. Meganhas been missing for around 133 hours, and I feelbetter than I have in months. When I looked atmyself in the mirror this morning, I could see thedifference in my face: my skin is clearer, my eyesbrighter. I feel lighter. I’m sure I haven’t actually lostan ounce, but I don’t feel encumbered. I feel likemyself—the myself I used to be. There’s been no word from Scott. I scoured theInternet and there was no news of an arrest, either,so I imagine he just ignored my email. I’mdisappointed, but I suppose it was to be expected. Gaskill rang this morning, just as I was leaving thehouse. He asked me whether I would be able tocome by the station today. I was terrified for amoment, but then I heard him say in his quiet, mildtone that he just wanted me to look at a couple ofpictures. I asked him whether Scott Hipwell had beenarrested. “No one has been arrested, Ms. Watson,” he said. “But the man, the one who’s under caution?.?.?.??” “I’m not at liberty to say.” His manner of speaking is so calming, so reassuring,it makes me like him again. I spent yesterday evening sitting on the sofa injogging bottoms and a T-shirt, making lists of thingsto do, possible strategies. For example, I could hangaround Witney station at rush hour, wait until I seethe red-haired man from Saturday night again. Icould invite him for a drink and see where it leads,whether he saw anything, what he knows about thatnight. The danger is that I might see Anna or Tom,they would report me and I would get into trouble(more trouble) with the police. The other danger isthat I might make myself vulnerable. I still have thetrace of an argument in my head—I may havephysical evidence of it on my scalp and lip. What ifthis is the man who hurt me? The fact that hesmiled and waved doesn’t mean anything, he couldbe a psychopath for all I know. But I can’t see himas a psychopath. I can’t explain it, but I warm tohim. I could contact Scott again. But I need to give hima reason to talk to me, and I’m worried thatwhatever I saw will make me look like a madwoman. He might even think I have something to do withMegan’s disappearance, he could report me to thepolice. I could end up in real trouble. I could try hypnosis. I’m pretty sure it won’t helpme remember anything, but I’m curious about itanyway. It can’t hurt, can it? I was still sitting there making notes and going overthe news stories I’d printed out when Cathy camehome. She’d been to the cinema with Damien. Shewas obviously pleasantly surprised to find me sober,but she was wary, too, because we haven’t reallyspoken since the police came round on Tuesday. Itold her that I hadn’t had a drink for three days,and she gave me a hug. “I’m so glad you’re getting yourself back to normal!” she chirruped, as though she knows what mybaseline is. “That thing with the police,” I said, “it was amisunderstanding. There’s no problem with me andTom, and I don’t know anything about that missinggirl. You don’t have to worry about it.” She gave meanother hug and made us both a cup of tea. Ithought about taking advantage of the good will I’dengendered and telling her about the job situation,but I didn’t want to spoil her evening. She was still in a good mood with me this morning. She hugged me again as I was getting ready to leavethe house. “I’m so pleased for you, Rach,” she said. “Gettingyourself sorted. You’ve had me worried.” Then shetold me that she was going to spend the weekend atDamien’s, and the first thing I thought was that I’mgoing to get home tonight and have a drink withoutanyone judging me. EVENING The bitter tang of quinine, that’s what I love about acold gin and tonic. Tonic water should be bySchweppes and it should come out of a glass bottle,not a plastic one. These premixed things aren’t rightat all, but needs must. I know I shouldn’t be doingthis, but I’ve been building up to it all day. It’s notjust the anticipation of solitude, though, it’s theexcitement, the adrenaline. I’m buzzing, my skin istingling. I’ve had a good day. I spent an hour alone with Detective InspectorGaskill this morning. I was taken in to see himstraightaway when I arrived at the station. We sat inhis office, not in the interview room this time. Heoffered me coffee, and when I accepted I wassurprised to find that he got up and made it for mehimself. He had a kettle and some Nescafé on top ofa fridge in the corner of the office. He apologized fornot having sugar. I liked being in his company. I liked watching hishands move—he isn’t expressive, but he moves thingsaround a lot. I hadn’t noticed this before because inthe interview room there wasn’t much for him tomove around. In his office he constantly altered theposition of his coffee mug, his stapler, a jar of pens,he shuffled papers into neater piles. He has largehands and long fingers with neatly manicured nails. No rings. It felt different this morning. I didn’t feel like asuspect, someone he was trying to catch out. I feltuseful. I felt most useful when he took one of hisfolders and laid it in front of me, showing me aseries of photographs. Scott Hipwell, three men I’dnever seen before, and then B. I wasn’t sure at first. I stared at the picture, tryingto conjure up the image of the man I saw with herthat day, his head bent as he stooped to embraceher. “That’s him,” I said. “I think that’s him.” “You’re not sure?” “I think that’s him.” He withdrew the picture and scrutinized it himselffor a moment. “You saw them kissing, that’s whatyou said? Last Friday, was it? A week ago?” “Yes, that’s right. Friday morning. They wereoutside, in the garden.” “And there’s no way you could have misinterpretedwhat you saw? It wasn’t a hug, say, or a?.?.?. aplatonic kind of kiss?” “No, it wasn’t. It was a proper kiss. It was?.?.?. romantic.” I thought I saw his lips flicker then, as though hewere about to smile. “Who is he?” I asked Gaskill. “Is he?.?.?. Do youthink she’s with him?” He didn’t reply, just shook hishead a little. “Is this?.?.?. Have I helped? Have I beenhelpful at all?” “Yes, Ms. Watson. You’ve been helpful. Thank youfor coming in.” We shook hands, and for a second he placed hisleft hand on my right shoulder lightly, and I wantedto turn and kiss it. It’s been a while since anyonetouched me with anything approaching tenderness. Well, apart from Cathy. Gaskill ushered me out of the door and into themain, open-plan part of the office. There wereperhaps a dozen police officers in there. One or twoshot me sideways glances, there might have been aflicker of interest or disdain, I couldn’t be sure. Wewalked through the office and into the corridor andthen I saw him walking towards me, with Riley at hisside: Scott Hipwell. He was coming through the mainentrance. His head was down, but I knew right awaythat it was him. He looked up and nodded anacknowledgment to Gaskill, then he glanced at me. For just a second our eyes met and I could swearthat he recognized me. I thought of that morningwhen I saw him on the terrace, when he waslooking down at the track, when I could feel himlooking at me. We passed each other in the corridor. He was so close to me I could have touchedhim—he was beautiful in the flesh, hollowed out andcoiled like a spring, nervous energy radiating off him. As I got to the main hallway I turned to look at him,sure I could feel his eyes on me, but when I lookedback it was Riley who was watching me. I took the train into London and went to thelibrary. I read every article I could find about thecase, but learned nothing more. I looked forhypnotherapists in Ashbury, but didn’t take it anyfurther—it’s expensive and it’s unclear whether itactually helps with memory recovery. But reading thestories of those who claimed that they had recoveredmemories through hypnotherapy, I realized that I wasmore afraid of success than failure. I’m afraid notjust of what I might learn about that Saturday night,but so much more. I’m not sure I could bear torelive the stupid, awful things I’ve done, to hear thewords I said in spite, to remember the look onTom’s face as I said them. I’m too afraid to ventureinto that darkness. I thought about sending Scott another email, butthere’s really no need. The morning’s meeting withDetective Gaskill proved to me that the police aretaking me seriously. I have no further role to play, Ihave to accept that now. And I can feel at least thatI may have helped, because I cannot believe it couldbe a coincidence that Megan disappeared the dayafter I saw her with that man. With a joyful click, fizz, I open the second can ofG&T and realize, with a rush, that I haven’t thoughtabout Tom all day. Until now, anyway. I’ve beenthinking about Scott, about Gaskill, about B, aboutthe man on the train. Tom has been relegated tofifth place. I sip my drink and feel that at last I havesomething to celebrate. I know that I’m going to bebetter, that I’m going to be happy. It won’t be long. SATURDAY, JULY 20, 2013 MORNING I never learn. I wake with a crushing sensation ofwrongness, of shame, and I know immediately thatI’ve done something stupid. I go through my awful,achingly familiar ritual of trying to remember exactlywhat I did. I sent an email. That’s what it was. At some point last night, Tom got promoted backup the list of men I think about, and I sent him anemail. My laptop is on the floor next to my bed; itsits there, a squat, accusatory presence. I step over itas I get up to go to the bathroom. I drink waterdirectly from the tap, giving myself a cursory glancein the mirror. I don’t look well. Still, three days off isn’t bad, andI’ll start again today. I stand in the shower for ages,gradually reducing the water temperature, making itcooler and cooler until it’s properly cold. You can’tstep directly into a cold stream of water, it’s tooshocking, too brutal, but if you get there gradually,you hardly notice it; it’s like boiling a frog in reverse. The cool water soothes my skin; it dulls the burningpain of the cuts on my head and above my eye. I take my laptop downstairs and make a cup of tea. There’s a chance, a faint one, that I wrote an emailto Tom and didn’t send it. I take a deep breath andopen my Gmail account. I’m relieved to see I haveno messages. But when I click on the Sent folder,there it is: I have written to him, he just hasn’treplied. Yet. The email was sent just after eleven lastnight; I’d been drinking for a good few hours bythen. That adrenaline and booze buzz I had earlieron would have been long gone. I click on themessage. Could you please tell your wife tostop lying to the police about me? Pretty low, don’t you think, trying toget me into trouble? Telling police I’mobsessed with her and her ugly brat? She needs to get over herself. Tellher to leave me the fuck alone. I close my eyes and snap the laptop shut. I amcringing, literally, my entire body folding into itself. Iwant to be smaller; I want to disappear. I’mfrightened, too, because if Tom decides to show thisto the police, I could be in real trouble. If Anna iscollecting evidence that I am vindictive and obsessive,this could be a key piece in her dossier. And whydid I mention the little girl? What sort of persondoes that? What sort of person thinks like that? Idon’t bear her any ill will—I couldn’t think badly of achild, any child, and especially not Tom’s child. Idon’t understand myself; I don’t understand theperson I’ve become. God, he must hate me. I hateme—that version of me, anyway, the version whowrote that email last night. She doesn’t even feel likeme, because I am not like that. I am not hateful. Am I? I try not to think of the worst days, but thememories crowd into my head at times like this. Another fight, towards the end: waking, post-party,post-blackout, Tom telling me how I’d been the nightbefore, embarrassing him again, insulting the wife ofa colleague of his, shouting at her for flirting with myhusband. “I don’t want to go anywhere with youanymore,” he told me. “You ask me why I neverinvite friends round, why I don’t like going to thepub with you anymore. You honestly want to knowwhy? It’s because of you. Because I’m ashamed ofyou.” I pick up my handbag and my keys. I’m going tothe Londis down the road. I don’t care that it’s notyet nine o’clock in the morning, I’m frightened and Idon’t want to have to think. If I take some painkillersand have a drink now, I can put myself out, I cansleep all day. I’ll face it later. I get to the front door,my hand poised above the handle, then I stop. I could apologize. If I apologize right now, I mightbe able to salvage something. I might be able topersuade him not to show the message to Anna orto the police. It wouldn’t be the first time he’dprotected me from her. That day last summer, when I went to Tom andAnna’s, it didn’t happen exactly the way I told thepolice it had. I didn’t ring the doorbell, for starters. Iwasn’t sure what I wanted—I’m still not sure what Iintended. I did go down the pathway and over thefence. It was quiet, I couldn’t hear anything. I wentup to the sliding doors and looked in. It’s true thatAnna was sleeping on the sofa. I didn’t call out, toher or to Tom. I didn’t want to wake her. The babywasn’t crying, she was fast asleep in her carry-cot ather mother’s side. I picked her up and took heroutside as quickly as I could. I remember runningwith her towards the fence, the baby starting to wakeand to grizzle a little. I don’t know what I thought Iwas doing. I wasn’t going to hurt her. I got to thefence, holding her tightly against my chest. She wascrying properly now, starting to scream. I wasbouncing her and shushing her and then I heardanother noise, a train coming, and I turned my backto the fence and I saw her—Anna—hurtling towardsme, her mouth open like a gaping wound, her lipsmoving, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. She took the child from me and I tried to runaway, but I tripped and fell. She was standing overme, screaming at me, she told me to stay put orshe’d call the police. She rang Tom and he camehome and sat with her in the living room. She wascrying hysterically, she still wanted to phone thepolice, she wanted to have me arrested forkidnapping. Tom calmed her down, he begged her tolet it go, to let me go. He saved me from her. Afterwards he drove me home, and when hedropped me off he took my hand. I thought it was agesture of kindness, of reassurance, but he squeezedtighter and tighter and tighter until I cried out, andhis face was red when he told me that he would killme if I ever did anything to harm his daughter. I don’t know what I intended to do that day. I stilldon’t. At the door, I hesitate, my fingers graspedaround the handle. I bite down hard on my lip. Iknow that if I start drinking now, I will feel better foran hour or two and worse for six or seven. I let goof the handle and walk back into the living room,and I open my laptop again. I have to apologize, Ihave to beg forgiveness. I log back in to my emailaccount and see that I have one new message. Itisn’t from Tom. It’s from Scott Hipwell. Dear Rachel,Thank you for contacting me. I don’tremember Megan mentioning you tome, but she had a lot of galleryregulars—I’m not very good withnames. I would like to talk to youabout what you know. Pleasetelephone me on 07583 123657 assoon as possible. Regards,Scott HipwellFor an instant, I imagine that he’s sent the email tothe wrong address. This message is intended forsomeone else. It’s just the briefest of moments, andthen I remember. I remember. Sitting on the sofa,halfway through the second bottle, I realized that Ididn’t want my part to be over. I wanted to be atthe heart of it. So I wrote to him. I scroll down from his email to mine. Dear Scott,Sorry for contacting you again, but Ifeel it’s important that we talk. I’mnot sure if Megan ever mentioned meto you—I’m a friend from thegallery—I used to live in Witney. Ithink I have information that wouldinterest you. Please email me back onthis address. Rachel WatsonI can feel the heat come to my face, my stomach apit of acid. Yesterday—sensible, clearheaded,right-thinking—I decided I must accept that my partin this story was over. But my better angels lostagain, defeated by drink, by the person I am when Idrink. Drunk Rachel sees no consequences, she iseither excessively expansive and optimistic or wrappedup in hate. She has no past, no future. She existspurely in the moment. Drunk Rachel—wanting to bepart of the story, needing a way to persuade Scott totalk to her—she lied. I lied. I want to drag knives over my skin, just so that Ican feel something other than shame, but I’m noteven brave enough to do that. I start writing to Tom,writing and deleting, writing and deleting, trying tofind ways to ask forgiveness for the things I said lastnight. If I had to write down every transgression forwhich I should apologize to Tom, I could fill a book. EVENING A week ago, almost exactly a week ago, MeganHipwell walked out of number fifteen Blenheim Roadand disappeared. No one has seen her since. Neitherher phone nor her bank cards have been used sinceSaturday, either. When I read that in a news storyearlier today, I started to cry. I am ashamed now ofthe secret thoughts I had. Megan is not a mystery tobe solved, she is not a figure who wanders into thetracking shot at the beginning of a film, beautiful,ethereal, insubstantial. She is not a cipher. She isreal. I am on the train, and I’m going to her home. I’mgoing to meet her husband. I had to phone him. The damage was done. Icouldn’t just ignore the email—he would tell thepolice. Wouldn’t he? I would, in his position, if astranger contacted me, claiming to have information,and then disappeared. He might have called thepolice already; they might be waiting for me when Iget there. Sitting here, in my usual seat, though not on myusual day, I feel as though I am driving off a cliff. Itfelt the same this morning when I dialled hisnumber, like falling through the dark, not knowingwhen you’re going to hit the ground. He spoke tome in a low voice, as though there were someoneelse in the room, someone he didn’t want tooverhear. “Can we talk in person?” he asked. “I?.?.?. no. I don’t think so?.?.?.” “Please?” I hesitated just for a moment, and then I agreed. “Could you come to the house? Not now, my?.?.?. there are people here. This evening?” He gave methe address, which I pretended to note down. “Thank you for contacting me,” he said, and hehung up. I knew as I was agreeing that it wasn’t a good idea. What I know about Scott, from the papers, is almostnothing. What I know from my own observations, Idon’t really know. I don’t know anything aboutScott. I know things about Jason—who, I have tokeep reminding myself, doesn’t exist. All I know forsure—for absolutely certain—is that Scott’s wife hasbeen missing for a week. I know that he is probablya suspect. And I know, because I saw that kiss, thathe has a motive to kill her. Of course, he might notknow that he has a motive, but?.?.?. Oh, I’ve tiedmyself up in knots thinking about it, but how could Ipass up the opportunity to approach that house, theone I’ve observed a hundred times from thetrackside, from the street? To walk up to his frontdoor, to go inside, to sit in his kitchen, on histerrace, where they sat, where I watched them? It was too tempting. Now I sit on the train, myarms wrapped around myself, hands jammed againstmy sides to stop them from trembling, like an excitedchild caught up in an adventure. I was so glad tohave a purpose that I stopped thinking about thereality. I stopped thinking about Megan. I’m thinking about her now. I have to convinceScott that I knew her—a little, not a lot. That way,he’ll believe me when I tell him that I saw her withanother man. If I admit to lying right away, he’llnever trust me. So I try to imagine what it wouldhave been like to drop by the gallery, chat with herover a coffee. Does she drink coffee? We would talkabout art, perhaps, or yoga, or our husbands. I don’tknow anything about art, I’ve never done yoga. Idon’t have a husband. And she betrayed hers. I think of the things her real friends said about her: wonderful, funny, beautiful, warmhearted. Loved. She made a mistake. It happens. We are none ofus perfect. ANNA SATURDAY, JULY 20, 2013 MORNING Evie wakes just before six. I get out of bed, slip intothe nursery and pick her up. I feed her and takeher back to bed with me. When I wake again, Tom’s not at my side, but Ican hear his footfalls on the stairs. He’s singing, lowand tuneless, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthdayto you?.?.?.” I hadn’t even thought about it earlier, I’dcompletely forgotten; I didn’t think of anything butfetching my little girl and getting back to bed. NowI’m giggling before I’m even properly awake. I openmy eyes and Evie’s smiling, too, and when I look up,Tom’s standing at the foot of the bed, holding a tray. He’s wearing my Orla Kiely apron and nothing else. “Breakfast in bed, birthday girl,” he says. He placesthe tray at the end of the bed and scoots round tokiss me. I open my presents. I have a pretty silver braceletwith onyx inlay from Evie, and a black silk teddy andmatching knickers from Tom, and I can’t stopsmiling. He climbs back into bed and we lie with Eviebetween us. She has her fingers curled tightly aroundhis forefinger and I have hold of her perfect pinkfoot, and I feel as though fireworks are going off inmy chest. It’s impossible, this much love. A while later, when Evie gets bored of lying there, Iget her up and we go downstairs and leave Tom tosnooze. He deserves it. I potter round, tidying up abit. I drink my coffee outside on the patio, watchingthe half-empty trains rattle past, and think aboutlunch. It’s hot—too hot for a roast, but I’ll do oneanyway, because Tom loves roast beef, and we canhave ice cream afterwards to cool us down. I justneed to pop out to get that Merlot he likes, so I getEvie ready, strap her in the buggy and we strolldown to the shops. Everyone told me I was insane to agree to move into Tom’s house. But then everyone thought I wasinsane to get involved with a married man, let alonea married man whose wife was highly unstable, andI’ve proved them wrong on that one. No matter howmuch trouble she causes, Tom and Evie are worth it. But they were right about the house. On days liketoday, with the sun shining, when you walk downour little street—tree-lined and tidy, not quite acul-de-sac, but with the same sense of community—itcould be perfect. Its pavements are busy withmothers just like me, with dogs on leads andtoddlers on scooters. It could be ideal. It could be, ifyou weren’t able to hear the screeching brakes of thetrains. It could be, so long as you didn’t turn aroundand look back down towards number fifteen. When I get back, Tom is sitting at the dining roomtable looking at something on the computer. He’swearing shorts but no shirt; I can see the musclesmoving under his skin when he moves. It still givesme butterflies to look at him. I say hello, but he’s ina world of his own, and when I run my fingertipsover his shoulder he jumps. The laptop snaps shut. “Hey,” he says, getting to his feet. He’s smiling buthe looks tired, worried. He takes Evie from mewithout looking me in the eye. “What?” I ask. “What is it?” “Nothing,” he says, and he turns away towards thewindow, bouncing Evie on his hip. “Tom, what?” “It’s nothing.” He turns back and gives me a look,and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “Rachel. Another email.” He shakes his head and helooks so wounded, so upset, and I hate it, I can’tbear it. Sometimes I want to kill that woman. “What’s she said?” He just shakes his head again. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just?.?.?. the usual. Bullshit.” “I’m sorry,” I say, and I don’t ask what bullshitexactly, because I know he won’t want to tell me. Hehates upsetting me with this stuff. “It’s OK. It’s nothing. Just the usual pissednonsense.” “God, is she ever going to go away? Is she evergoing to just let us be happy?” He comes over to me and, with our daughterbetween us, kisses me. “We are happy,” he says. “We are.” EVENING We are happy. We had lunch and lay out on thelawn, and then when it got too hot we came insideand ate ice cream while Tom watched the GrandPrix. Evie and I made play dough, and she ate quitea bit of that, too. I think about what’s going ondown the road and I think about how lucky I am,how I got everything that I wanted. When I look atTom, I thank God that he found me, too, that I wasthere to rescue him from that woman. She’d havedriven him mad in the end, I really think that—she’dhave ground him down, she’d have made him intosomething he’s not. Tom’s taken Evie upstairs to give her a bath. I canhear her squealing with delight from here and I’msmiling again—the smile has barely fallen from my lipsall day. I do the washing up, tidy up the living room,think about dinner. Something light. It’s funny,because a few years ago I would have hated the ideaof staying in and cooking on my birthday, but nowit’s perfect, it’s the way it should be. Just the threeof us. I pick up Evie’s toys, scattered around the livingroom floor, and return them to their trunk. I’mlooking forward to putting her down early tonight, toslipping into that teddy Tom bought me. It won’t bedark for hours yet, but I light the candles on themantelpiece and open the second bottle of Merlot tolet it breathe. I’m just leaning over the sofa to pullthe curtains shut when I see a woman, her headbent to her chest, scuttling along the pavement onthe opposite side of the street. She doesn’t look up,but it’s her, I’m sure of it. I lean farther forward, myheart hammering in my chest, trying to get a betterlook, but the angle’s wrong and I can’t see her now. I turn, ready to bolt out of the front door to chaseher down the street, but Tom’s standing there in thedoorway, Evie wrapped in a towel in his arms. “Are you OK?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I say, stuffing my hands into my pocketsso that he can’t see them shaking. “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all.” RACHEL SUNDAY, JULY 21, 2013 MORNING I wake with my head full of him. It doesn’t seemreal, none of it does. My skin prickles. I would dearlylove to have a drink, but I can’t. I need to keep aclear head. For Megan. For Scott. I made an effort yesterday. I washed my hair andput some makeup on. I wore the only jeans I still fitinto, with a cotton print blouse and sandals with alow heel. I looked OK. I kept telling myself that itwas ridiculous to care about my appearance, becausethe last thing Scott was going to be thinking aboutwas what I looked like, but I couldn’t help myself. Itwas the first time I was ever going to be aroundhim, it mattered to me. Much more than it should. I took the train, leaving Ashbury around six thirty,and I was in Witney just after seven. I took thatwalk along Roseberry Avenue, past the underpass. Ididn’t look this time, couldn’t bear to. I hurried pastnumber twenty-three, Tom and Anna’s place, chin tochest and sunglasses on, praying they wouldn’t seeme. It was quiet, no one around, a couple of carsdriving carefully down the centre of the road betweenranks of parked vehicles. It’s a sleepy little street, tidyand affluent, with lots of young families; they’re allhaving their dinner around seven o’clock, or sittingon the sofa, mum and dad with the little onessqueezed between them, watching The X Factor. From number twenty-three to number fifteen can’tbe more than fifty or sixty paces, but that journeystretched out, it seemed to take an age; my legswere leaden, my footing unsteady, as though I weredrunk, as though I might just slip off the pavement. Scott opened the door almost before I’d finishedknocking, my trembling hand still raised as heappeared in the doorway, looming ahead of me, fillingthe space. “Rachel?” he asked, looking down at me, unsmiling. I nodded. He offered his hand and I took it. Hegestured for me to enter the house, but for amoment I didn’t move. I was afraid of him. Up closehe is physically intimidating, tall and broad-shouldered,his arms and chest well defined. His hands are huge. It crossed my mind that he could crush me—myneck, my rib cage—without much effort. I moved past him into the hallway, my armbrushing against his as I did, and felt a flush risingto my face. He smelled of old sweat, and his darkhair was matted against his head as though hehadn’t showered in a while. It was in the living room that the déjà vu hit me,so strong it was almost frightening. I recognized thefireplace flanked by alcoves on the far wall, the waythe light streamed in from the street through slantedblinds; I knew that when I turned to my left therewould be glass and green and beyond that therailway line. I turned and there was the kitchen table,the French doors behind it and the lush patch oflawn. I knew this house. I felt dizzy, I wanted to sitdown; I thought about that black hole last Saturdaynight, all those lost hours. It didn’t mean anything, of course. I know thathouse, but not because I’ve been there. I know itbecause it’s exactly the same as numbertwenty-three: a hallway leads to the stairs, and onthe right-hand side is the living room, knockedthrough into the kitchen. The patio and the gardenare familiar to me because I’ve seen them from thetrain. I didn’t go upstairs, but I know that if I had,there would have been a landing with a large sashwindow on it, and that if you climbed through thatwindow you would find yourself on the makeshiftroof terrace. I know that there will be two bedrooms,the master with two large windows looking out ontothe street and a smaller room at the back,overlooking the garden. Just because I know thathouse inside and out does not mean that I’ve beenthere before. Still, I was trembling when Scott showed me intothe kitchen. He offered me a cup of tea. I sat downat the kitchen table while he boiled the kettle,dropped a tea bag into a mug and slopped boilingwater over the counter, muttering to himself underhis breath. There was a sharp smell of antiseptic inthe room, but Scott himself was a mess, a sweatpatch on the back of his T-shirt, his jeans hangingloose on his hips as though they were too big forhim. I wondered when was the last time he hadeaten. He placed the mug of tea in front of me and saton the opposite side of the kitchen table, his handsfolded in front of him. The silence stretched out,filling the space between us, the whole room; it rangin my ears, and I felt hot and uncomfortable, mymind suddenly blank. I didn’t know what I was doingthere. Why on earth had I come? In the distance, Iheard a low rumbling—the train was coming. It feltcomforting, that old sound. “You’re a friend of Megan’s?” he said at last. Hearing her name from his lips brought a lump tomy throat. I stared down at the table, my handswrapped tightly around the mug. “Yes,” I said. “I know her?.?.?. a little. From thegallery.” He looked at me, waiting, expectant. I could see themuscle flex in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. Isearched for words that wouldn’t come. I shouldhave prepared better. “Have you had any news?” I asked. His gaze heldmine, and for a second I felt afraid. I’d said thewrong thing; it was none of my business whetherthere was any news. He would be angry, he’d askme to leave. “No,” he said. “What was it that you wanted to tellme?” The train rolled slowly past and I looked outtowards the tracks. I felt dizzy, as though I werehaving an out-of-body experience, as though I werelooking out at myself. “You said in your email that you wanted to tell mesomething about Megan.” The pitch of his voiceraised a little. I took a deep breath. I felt awful. I was acutelyaware that what I was about to say was going tomake everything worse, was going to hurt him. “I saw her with someone,” I said. I just blurted itout, blunt and loud with no buildup, no context. He stared at me. “When? You saw her on Saturdaynight? Have you told the police?” “No, it was Friday morning,” I said, and hisshoulders slumped. “But?.?.?. she was fine on Friday. Why is thatimportant?” That pulse in his jaw went again, he wasbecoming angry. “You saw her with?.?.?. you saw herwith who? With a man?” “Yes, I—” “What did he look like?” He got to his feet, hisbody blocking the light. “Have you told the police?” he asked again. “I did, but I’m not sure they took me veryseriously,” I said. “Why?” “I just?.?.?. I don’t know?.?.?. I thought you shouldknow.” He leaned forward, his hands on the table, clenchedinto fists. “What are you saying? You saw herwhere? What was she doing?” Another deep breath. “She was?.?.?. out on yourlawn,” I said. “Just there.” I pointed out to thegarden. “She?.?.?. I saw her from the train.” The lookof incredulity on his face was unmistakable. “I takethe train into London from Ashbury every day. I goright past here. I saw her, she was with someone. And it?.?.?. it wasn’t you.” “How do you know??.?.?. Friday morning? Friday—theday before she went missing?” “Yes.” “I wasn’t here,” he said. “I was away. I was at aconference in Birmingham, I got back on Fridayevening.” Spots of colour appeared high on hischeeks, his scepticism giving way to something else. “So you saw her, on the lawn, with someone? And?.?.?.” “She kissed him,” I said. I had to get it outeventually. I had to tell him. “They were kissing.” He straightened up, his hands, still balled into fists,hanging at his side. The spots of colour on hischeeks grew darker, angrier. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I know this is aterrible thing to hear?.?.?.” He held up his hand, waved me away. Contemptuous. He wasn’t interested in my sympathy. I know how that feels. Sitting there, I rememberedwith almost perfect clarity how it felt when I sat inmy own kitchen, five doors down, while Lara, myformer best friend, sat opposite me, her fat toddlersquirming on her lap. I remember her telling mehow sorry she was that my marriage was over, Iremember losing my temper at her platitudes. Sheknew nothing of my pain. I told her to piss off andshe told me not to speak like that in front of herchild. I haven’t seen her since. “What did he look like, this man you saw herwith?” Scott asked. He was standing with his back tome, looking out onto the lawn. “He was tall—taller than you, maybe. Dark-skinned. Ithink he might have been Asian. Indian—somethinglike that.” “And they were kissing, out here in the garden?” “Yes.” He gave a long sigh. “Jesus, I need a drink. Heturned to face me. “Would you like a beer?” I did, I wanted a drink desperately, but I said no. Iwatched as he fetched himself a bottle from thefridge, opened it, took a long slug. I could almost feelthe cold liquid sliding down my throat as I watchedhim; my hand ached for want of a glass. Scottleaned against the counter, his head bent almost tohis chest. I felt wretched then. I wasn’t helping, I had justmade him feel worse, increased his pain. I wasintruding on his grief, it was wrong. I should neverhave gone to see him. I should never have lied. Obviously, I should never have lied. I was just getting to my feet when he spoke. “Itcould?.?.?. I don’t know. It might be a good thing,mightn’t it? It could mean that she’s all right. She’sjust?.?.?.” He gave a hollow little laugh. “She’s just runoff with someone.” He brushed a tear from his cheekwith the back of his hand and my heart screwed upinto a tight little ball. “But the thing is, I can’t believeshe wouldn’t call.” He looked at me as though I heldthe answers, as though I would know. “Surely shewould call me, wouldn’t she? She would know howpanicked?.?.?. how desperate I would be. She’s notvindictive like that, is she?” He was talking to me like someone he couldtrust—like Megan’s friend—and I knew that it waswrong, but it felt good. He took another swig of hisbeer and turned towards the garden. I followed hisgaze to a little pile of stones against the fence, arockery long since started and never finished. Heraised the bottle halfway to his lips again, and thenhe stopped. He turned to face me. “You saw Megan from the train?” he asked. “Soyou were?.?.?. just looking out of the window andthere she was, a woman you happen to know?” Theatmosphere in the room had changed. He wasn’tsure anymore whether I was an ally, whether I wasto be trusted. Doubt passed over his face like ashadow. “Yes, I?.?.?. I know where she lives,” I said, and Iregretted the words the moment they came out ofmy mouth. “Where you live, I mean. I’ve been herebefore. A long time ago. So sometimes I’d look outfor her when I went past.” He was staring at me; Icould feel the heat rising to my face. “She was oftenout there.” He placed his empty bottle down on the counter,took a couple of steps towards me and sat down inthe seat nearest to me, at the table. “So you knew Megan well then? I mean, wellenough to come round to the house?” I could feel the blood pulsing in my neck, sweat atthe base of my spine, the sickening rush ofadrenaline. I shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t havecomplicated the lie. “It was just one time, but I?.?.?. I know where thehouse is because I used to live nearby.” He raisedhis eyebrows at me. “Down the road. Numbertwenty-three.” He nodded slowly. “Watson,” he said. “So you’re,what, Tom’s ex-wife?” “Yes. I moved out a couple of years ago.” “But you still visited Megan’s gallery?” “Sometimes.” “And when you saw her, what did you?.?.?. Did shetalk about personal things, about me?” His voice washusky. “About anyone else?” I shook my head. “No, no. It was usually just?.?.?. passing the time, you know.” There was a longsilence. The heat in the room seemed to buildsuddenly, the smell of antiseptic rising from everysurface. I felt faint. To my right there was a sidetable adorned with photographs in frames. Megansmiled out at me, cheerfully accusing. “I should go now,” I said. “I’ve taken up enough ofyour time.” I started to get up, but he reached anarm out and placed his hand on my wrist, his eyesnever leaving my face. “Don’t go just yet,” he said softly. I didn’t stand up,but I withdrew my hand from beneath his; it feltuncomfortably as though I were being restrained. “This man,” he said. “This man you saw herwith—do you think you’d recognize him again? If yousaw him?” I couldn’t say that I already had identified the manto the police. My whole rationale for approaching himhad been that the police hadn’t taken my storyseriously. If I admitted the truth, the trust would begone. So I lied again. “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think I might.” Iwaited a moment, and then I went on. “In thenewspapers, there was a quote from a friend ofMegan’s. His name was Rajesh. I was wonderingif—” Scott was already shaking his head. “Rajesh Gujral? I can’t see it. He’s one of the artists who used toexhibit at the gallery. He’s a nice enough guy, but?.?.?. he’s married, he’s got kids.” As if that meantsomething. “Wait a second,” he said, getting to hisfeet. “I think there might be a picture of himsomewhere.” He disappeared upstairs. I felt my shoulders dropand realized that I’d been sitting rigid with tensionsince I arrived. I looked over at the photographsagain: Megan in a sundress on a beach; a close-upof her face, her eyes a startling blue. Just Megan. No pictures of the two of them together. Scott reappeared holding a pamphlet, which hepresented to me. It was a leaflet, advertising a showat the gallery. He turned it over. “There,” he said,“that’s Rajesh.” The man was standing next to a colourful abstractpainting: he was older, bearded, short, stocky. Itwasn’t the man I had seen, the man I had identifiedto the police. “It’s not him,” I said. Scott stood at myside, staring down at the pamphlet, before abruptlyturning and marching out of the room and up thestairs again. A few moments later, he came back witha laptop and sat down at the kitchen table. “I think,” he said, opening the machine and turningit on, “I think I might?.?.?.” He fell silent and Iwatched him, his face a picture of concentration, themuscle in his jaw locked. “Megan was seeing atherapist,” he told me. “His name is?.?.?. Abdic. KamalAbdic. He’s not Asian, he’s from Serbia, or Bosnia,somewhere like that. He’s dark-skinned, though. Hecould pass for Indian from a distance.” He tappedaway at the computer. “There’s a website, I think. I’m sure there is. I think there’s a picture?.?.?.” He spun the laptop round so that I could see thescreen. I leaned forward to get a closer look. “That’shim,” I said. “That’s definitely him.” Scott snapped the laptop shut. For a long time, hedidn’t say anything. He sat with his elbows on thetable, his forehead resting on his fingertips, his armstrembling. “She was having anxiety attacks,” he said at last. “Trouble sleeping, things like that. It started last yearsome time. I don’t remember when exactly.” Hetalked without looking at me, as though he weretalking to himself, as though he’d forgotten I wasthere at all. “I was the one who suggested she talkto someone. I was the one who encouraged her togo, because I didn’t seem to be able to help her.” His voice cracked a little then. “I couldn’t help her. And she told me that she’d had similar problems inthe past and that eventually they’d go away, but Imade her?.?.?. I persuaded her to go to the doctor. That guy was recommended to her.” He gave a littlecough to clear his throat. “The therapy seemed to behelping. She was happier.” He gave a short, sadlaugh. “Now I know why.” I reached out my hand to give him a pat on thearm, a gesture of comfort. Abruptly, he drew awayand got to his feet. “You should go,” he saidbrusquely. “My mother will be here soon—she won’tleave me alone for more than an hour or two.” Atthe door, just as I was leaving, he caught hold of myarm. “Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked. For a moment, I thought about saying, You mighthave done. You might have seen me at the policestation, or here on the street. I was here onSaturday night. I shook my head. “No, I don’t thinkso.” I walked away towards the train station as quicklyas I could. About halfway along the street, I turnedto look back. He was still standing there in thedoorway, watching me. EVENING I’ve been checking my email obsessively, but I’veheard nothing from Tom. How much better life musthave been for jealous drunks before emails and textsand mobile phones, before all this electronica and thetraces it leaves. There was almost nothing in the papers aboutMegan today. They’re moving on already, the frontpages devoted to the political crisis in Turkey, thefour-year-old girl mauled by dogs in Wigan, theEngland football team’s humiliating loss toMontenegro. Megan is being forgotten, and she’s onlybeen gone a week. Cathy invited me out to lunch. She was at a looseend because Damien has gone to visit his mother inBirmingham. She wasn’t invited. They’ve been seeingeach other for almost two years now, and she stillhasn’t met his mother. We went to Giraffe on theHigh Street, a place I loathe. Seated in the centre ofa room heaving with shrieking under-fives, Cathyquizzed me about what I’d been up to. She wascurious about where I was last night. “Have you met someone?” she asked me, her eyesalight with hope. It was quite touching, really. I almost said yes, because it was the truth, but lyingwas easier. I told her I’d been to an AA meeting inWitney. “Oh,” she said, embarrassed, dipping her eyes toher limp Greek salad. “I thought you’d maybe had alittle slip. On Friday.” “Yes. It won’t be plain sailing, Cathy,” I said, and Ifelt awful, because I think she really cares whether Iget sober or not. “But I’m doing my best.” “If you need me to, you know, go with you?.?.?.” “Not at this stage,” I said. “But thank you.” “Well, maybe we could do something else together,like go to the gym?” she asked. I laughed, but when I realized she was beingserious I said I’d think about it. She’s just left—Damien rang to say he was backfrom his mother’s, so she’s gone round to his place. I thought about saying something to her—Why doyou go running to him whenever he calls? But I’mreally not in a great position to give relationshipadvice—or any advice, come to that—and in any caseI feel like a drink. (I’ve been thinking about it eversince we sat down in Giraffe and the spotty waiterasked if we’d like a glass of wine and Cathy said“No, thank you” very firmly.) So I wave her off andfeel the little anticipatory tingle run over my skin andI push away the good thoughts (Don’t do this,you’re doing really well). I’m just putting my shoeson to go to the off-licence when my phone rings. Tom. It’ll be Tom. I grab the phone from my bagand look at the screen and my heart bangs like adrum. “Hi.” There is silence, so I ask, “Is everything OK?” After a little pause Scott says, “Yeah, fine. I’m OK. Ijust called to say thank you, for yesterday. For takingthe time to let me know.” “Oh, that’s all right. You didn’t need—” “Am I disturbing you?” “No. It’s fine.” There is silence on the end of theline, so I say again, “It’s fine. Have you?.?.?. hassomething happened? Did you speak to the police? “The family liaison officer was here this afternoon,” he says. My heart rate quickens. “Detective Riley. Imentioned Kamal Abdic to her. Told her that hemight be worth speaking to.” “You said?.?.?. you told her that you’d spoken tome?” My mouth is completely dry. “No, I didn’t. I thought perhaps?.?.?. I don’t know. Ithought it would be better if I came up with thename myself. I said?.?.?. it’s a lie, I know, but I saidthat I’d been racking my brains to think of anythingsignificant, and that I thought it might be worthspeaking to her therapist. I said that I’d had someconcerns about their relationship in the past.” I can breathe again. “What did she say?” I ask him. “She said they had already spoken to him, but thatthey would do again. She asked me lots of questionsabout why I hadn’t mentioned him before. She’s?.?.?. Idon’t know. I don’t trust her. She’s supposed to beon my side, but all the time I feel like she’ssnooping, like she’s trying to trip me up.” I’m stupidly pleased that he doesn’t like her, either;another thing we have in common, another thread tobind us. “I just wanted to say thank you, anyway. Forcoming forward. It was actually?.?.?. it sounds odd, butit was good to talk to someone?.?.?. someone I’m notclose to. I felt as though I could think morerationally. After you left, I kept thinking about thefirst time Megan went to see him—Abdic—about theway she was when she came back. There wassomething about her, a lightness.” He exhales loudly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it.” I have the same feeling I did yesterday—that he’sno longer really talking to me, he’s just talking. I’vebecome a sounding board, and I’m glad of it. I’mglad to be of use to him. “I’ve spent the whole day going through Megan’sthings again,” he says. “I’ve already searched ourroom, the whole house, half a dozen times, lookingfor something, anything that would give me anindication as to where she could be. Something fromhim, perhaps. But there’s nothing. No emails, noletters, nothing. I thought about trying to contact him,but the practice is closed today and I can’t find amobile number.” “Is that a good idea, do you think?” I ask. “I mean,do you not think you should just leave him to thepolice?” I don’t want to say it out loud, but we mustboth be thinking it: he’s dangerous. Or at least, hecould be dangerous. “I don’t know, I just don’t know.” There’s adesperate edge to his voice that’s painful to hear, butI have no comfort to offer. I can hear his breathingon the other end of the line; it sounds short,quickened, as though he’s afraid. I want to ask himif he has someone there with him, but I can’t: itwould sound wrong, forward. “I saw your ex today,” he says, and I can feel thehairs on my arms stand up. “Oh?” “Yes, I went out for the papers and saw him in thestreet. He asked me if I was all right, whether therewas any news.” “Oh,” I repeat, because it’s all I can say, wordswon’t form. I don’t want him to speak to Tom. Tomknows that I don’t know Megan Hipwell. Tom knowsthat I was on Blenheim Road the night shedisappeared. “I didn’t mention you. I didn’t?.?.?. you know. Iwasn’t sure if I should have mentioned that I’d metyou.” “No, I don’t think you should have. I don’t know. Itmight be awkward.” “All right,” he says. After that, there’s a long silence. I’m waiting for myheartbeat to slow. I think he’s going to ring off, butthen he says, “Did she really never talk about me?” “Of course?.?.?. of course she did,” I say. “I mean,we didn’t talk all that often, but—” “But you came to the house. Megan hardly everinvites people round. She’s really private, protective ofher own space.” I’m searching for a reason. I wish I had never toldhim I’d been to the house. “I just came round to borrow a book.” “Really?” He doesn’t believe me. She’s not a reader. I think of the house—there were no books on theshelves there. “What sort of things did she say? About me?” “Well, she was very happy,” I say. “With you, Imean. Your relationship.” As I’m saying this I realizehow odd it sounds, but I can’t be specific, and so Itry to save myself. “To be honest with you, I washaving a really hard time in my marriage, so I thinkit was a kind of compare-and-contrast thing. She litup when she spoke about you.” What an awfulcliché. “Did she?” He doesn’t seem to notice, there’s anote of wistfulness in his voice. “That’s so good tohear.” He pauses, and I can hear his breathing,quick and shallow, on the other end of the line. “Wehad?.?.?. we had a terrible argument,” he says. “Thenight she left. I hate the idea that she was angrywith me when?.?.?.” He tails off. “I’m sure she wasn’t angry with you for long,” Isay. “Couples fight. Couples fight all the time.” “But this was bad, it was terrible, and I can’t?.?.?. Ifeel like I can’t tell anyone, because if I did theywould look at me like I was guilty.” There’s a different quality to his voice now: haunted,saturated with guilt. “I don’t remember how it started,” he says, andimmediately I don’t believe him, but then I thinkabout all the arguments I’ve forgotten and I bite mytongue. “It got very heated. I was very?.?.?. I wasunkind to her. I was a bastard. A complete bastard. She was upset. She went upstairs and put somethings in a bag. I don’t know what exactly, but Inoticed later that her toothbrush was gone, so Iknew she wasn’t planning on coming home. Iassumed?.?.?. I thought she must have gone to Tara’sfor the night. That happened once before. Just onetime. It wasn’t like this happened all the time. “I didn’t even go after her,” he says, and it hits meyet again that he’s not really talking to me, he’sconfessing. He’s on one side of the confessional andI’m on the other, faceless, unseen. “I just let her go.” “That was on Saturday night?” “Yes. That was the last time I saw her.” There was a witness who saw her—or saw “awoman fitting her description”—walking towardsWitney station at around seven fifteen, I know thatfrom the newspaper reports. That was the finalsighting. No one remembered seeing her on theplatform, or on the train. There is no CCTV atWitney, and she wasn’t picked up on the CCTV atCorly, although the reports said that this didn’t proveshe wasn’t there, because there are “significant blindspots” at that station. “What time was it when you tried to contact her?” Iask him. Another long silence. “I?.?.?. I went to the pub. The Rose, you know, justaround the corner, on Kingly Road? I needed to cooldown, to get things straight in my head. I had acouple of pints, then I went back home. That wasjust before ten. I think I was hoping that she’d havehad time to calm down and that she’d be back. Butshe wasn’t.” “So it was around ten o’clock when you tried to callher?” “No.” His voice is little more than a whisper now. “Ididn’t. I drank a couple more beers at home, Iwatched some TV. Then I went to bed.” I think about all the arguments I had with Tom, allthe terrible things I said after I’d had too much, allthe storming out into the street, shouting at him,telling him I never wanted to see him again. Healways rang me, he always talked me down, coaxedme home. “I just imagined she’d be sitting in Tara’s kitchen,you know, talking about what a shit I am. So I leftit.” He left it. It sounds callous and uncaring, and I’mnot surprised he hasn’t told this story to anyone else. I am surprised that he’s telling anyone at all. This isnot the Scott I imagined, the Scott I knew, the onewho stood behind Megan on the terrace, his bighands on her bony shoulders, ready to protect herfrom anything. I’m ready to hang up the phone, but Scott keepstalking. “I woke up early. There were no messageson my phone. I didn’t panic—I assumed she waswith Tara and that she was still angry with me. Irang her then and got her voice mail, but I stilldidn’t panic. I thought she was probably still asleep,or just ignoring me. I couldn’t find Tara’s number,but I had her address—it was on a business card onMegan’s desk. So I got up and I drove round there.” I wonder, if he wasn’t worried, why he felt heneeded to go round to Tara’s house, but I don’tinterrupt. I let him talk. “I got to Tara’s place a little after nine. It took hera while to come to the door, but when she did, shelooked really surprised to see me. It was obvious thatI was the last person she expected to see on herdoorstep at that time of the morning, and that’swhen I knew?.?.?. That’s when I knew that Meganwasn’t there. And I started to think?.?.?. I started?.?.?.” The words catch, and I feel wretched for doubtinghim. “She told me the last time she’d seen Megan was attheir Pilates class on Friday night. That’s when Istarted to panic.” After I hang up the phone, I think about how, ifyou didn’t know him, if you hadn’t seen how he waswith her, as I have, a lot of what he’d said wouldnot ring quite true. MONDAY, JULY 22, 2013 MORNING I feel quite befuddled. I slept soundly but dreamilyand this morning I am struggling to wake upproperly. The hot weather has returned and thecarriage is stifling today, despite being only half full. Iwas late getting up this morning and didn’t have timeto pick up a newspaper or to check the news on theInternet before I left the house, so I am trying to getthe BBC site on my phone, but for some reason it istaking forever to load. At Northcote a man with aniPad gets on and takes the seat next to me. He hasno problems at all getting the news up, he goesstraight to the Daily Telegraph site and there it is,in big, bold letters, the third story: MAN ARRESTED INCONNECTION WITH MEGAN HIPWELL DISAPPEARANCE. I get such a fright that I forget myself and leanright over to get a better look. He looks up at me,affronted, almost startled. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know her. The missingwoman. I know her.” “Oh, how awful,” he says. He’s a middle-aged man,well-spoken and well-dressed. “Would you like to readthe story?” “Please. I can’t get anything to come up on myphone.” He smiles kindly and hands me the tablet. I touchthe headline and the story comes up. A man in his thirties has beenarrested in connection with thedisappearance of MeganHipwell, twenty-nine, the Witneywoman who has been missingsince Saturday, 13 July. Policewere not able to confirmwhether the man arrested isMegan Hipwell’s husband, ScottHipwell, who was questionedunder caution on Friday. In astatement this morning a policespokesman said: “We canconfirm that we have arrested aman in connection withMegan’s disappearance. He hasnot yet been charged with anoffence. The search for Megancontinues, and we are searchingan address that we believe maybe a crime scene.” We are passing the house now; for once, the trainhas not stopped at the signal. I whip my headaround, but I’m too late. It’s gone. My hands aretrembling as I hand the iPad back to its owner. Heshakes his head sadly. “I’m very sorry,” he says. “She isn’t dead,” I say. My voice is a croak andeven I don’t believe me. Tears are stinging the backof my eyes. I was in his house. I was there. I satacross the table from him, I looked into his eyes, Ifelt something. I think about those huge hands andabout how, if he could crush me, he could destroyher—tiny, fragile Megan. The brakes screech as we approach Witney stationand I leap to my feet. “I have to go,” I tell the man next to me, wholooks a little surprised but nods sagely. “Good luck,” he says. I run along the platform and down the stairs. I’mgoing against the flow of people, and am almost atthe bottom of the stairs when I stumble and a mansays, “Watch it!” I don’t glance up at him becauseI’m looking at the edge of the concrete step, thesecond to last one. There’s a smear of blood on it. Iwonder how long it’s been there. Could it be a weekold? Could it be my blood? Hers? Is her blood inthe house, I wonder, is that why they’ve arrestedhim? I try to picture the kitchen, the living room. The smell: very clean, antiseptic. Was that bleach? Idon’t know, I can’t remember now, all I canremember clearly is the sweat on his back and thebeer on his breath. I run past the underpass, stumbling at the corner ofBlenheim Road. I’m holding my breath as I hurryalong the pavement, head down, too afraid to lookup, but when I do there’s nothing to see. There areno vans parked outside Scott’s house, no police cars. Could they have finished searching the housealready? If they had found something they would stillbe there, surely; it must take hours, going overeverything, processing the evidence. I quicken mypace. When I get to his house I stop, take a deepbreath. The curtains are drawn, upstairs and down. The curtains in the neighbour’s window twitch. I’mbeing watched. I step into the doorway, my handraised. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what I’mdoing here. I just wanted to see. I wanted to know. I’m caught, for a moment, between going against myevery instinct and knocking on that door, andturning away. I turn to leave, and it’s at thatmoment that the door opens. Before I have time to move, his hand shoots out,he grabs my forearm and pulls me towards him. Hismouth is a grim line, his eyes wild. He is desperate. Flooded with dread and adrenaline, I see darknesscoming. I open my mouth to cry out, but I’m toolate, he yanks me into the house and slams the doorbehind me. MEGAN THURSDAY, MARCH 21, 2013 MORNING I don’t lose. He should know this about me. I don’tlose games like this. The screen on my phone is blank. Stubbornly,insolently blank. No text messages, no missed calls. Every time I look at it, it feels like I’ve been slapped,and I get angrier and angrier. What happened to mein that hotel room? What was I thinking? That wemade a connection, that there was something realbetween us? He has no intention of going anywherewith me. But I believed him for a second—more thana second—and that’s what really pisses me off. I wasridiculous, credulous. He was laughing at me allalong. If he thinks I’m going to sit around crying overhim, he’s got another think coming. I can live withouthim, I can do without him just fine—but I don’t liketo lose. It’s not like me. None of this is like me. Idon’t get rejected. I’m the one who walks away. I’m driving myself insane, I can’t help it. I can’t stopgoing back to that afternoon at the hotel and goingover and over what he said, the way he made mefeel. Bastard. If he thinks I will just disappear, go quietly, he’smistaken. If he doesn’t pick up soon, I’m going tostop calling his mobile and call him at home. I’m notjust going to be ignored. At breakfast, Scott asks me to cancel my therapysession. I don’t say anything. I pretend I haven’theard him. “Dave’s asked us round to dinner,” he says. “Wehaven’t been over there for ages. Can you rearrangeyour session?” His tone is light, as though this is a casual request,but I can feel him watching me, his eyes on my face. We’re on the edge of an argument, and I have tobe careful. “I can’t, Scott, it’s too late,” I say. “Why don’t youask Dave and Karen to come here on Saturdayinstead?” Just the thought of entertaining Dave andKaren at the weekend is wearing, but I’m going tohave to compromise. “It’s not too late,” he says, putting his coffee cupdown on the table in front of me. He rests his handon my shoulder for just a moment, says, “Cancel it,OK?” and walks out of the room. The second the front door closes, I pick up thecoffee cup and hurl it against the wall. EVENING I could tell myself that it’s not really a rejection. Icould try to persuade myself that he’s just trying todo the right thing, morally and professionally. But Iknow that isn’t true. Or at least, it’s not the wholetruth, because if you want someone badly enough,morals (and certainly professionalism) don’t come intoit. You’ll do anything to have them. He just doesn’twant me badly enough. I ignored Scott’s calls all afternoon, I turned up tomy session late and walked straight into his officewithout a word to the receptionist. He was sitting athis desk, writing something. He glanced up at mewhen I walked in, didn’t smile, then looked backdown at his papers. I stood in front of his desk,waiting for him to look at me. It felt like foreverbefore he did. “Are you OK?” he asked eventually. He smiled atme then. “You’re late.” The breath was catching in my throat, I couldn’tspeak. I walked around the desk and leaned againstit, my leg brushing against his thigh. He drew back alittle. “Megan,” he said, “are you all right?” I shook my head. I put my hand out to him, andhe took it. “Megan,” he said again, shaking his head. I didn’t say anything. “You can’t?.?.?. You should sit down,” he said. “Let’stalk.” I shook my head. “Megan.” Every time he said my name he made it worse. He got to his feet and circled the desk, walkingaway from me. He stood in the middle of the room. “Come on,” he said, his voice businesslike—brusque,even. “Sit down.” I followed him into the middle of the room, put onehand on his waist, the other against his chest. Heheld me by my wrists and moved away from me. “Don’t, Megan. You can’t?.?.?. we can’t?.?.?.” He turnedaway. “Kamal,” I said, my voice catching. I hated thesound of it. “Please.” “This?.?.?. here. It’s not appropriate. It’s normal,believe me, but?.?.?.” I told him then that I wanted to be with him. “It’s transference, Megan,” he said. “It happens fromtime to time. It happens to me, too. I really shouldhave introduced this topic last time. I’m sorry.” I wanted to scream then. He made it sound sobanal, so bloodless, so common. “Are you telling me you feel nothing?” I asked him. “You’re saying I’m imagining all this?” He shook his head. “You have to understand,Megan, I shouldn’t have let things get this far.” I moved closer to him, put my hands on his hipsand turned him around. He took hold of my armsagain, his long fingers locked around my wrists. “Icould lose my job,” he said, and then I really lostmy temper. I pulled away angrily, violently. He tried to hold me,but he couldn’t. I was yelling at him, telling him Ididn’t give a shit about his job. He was trying toquieten me—worried, I assume, about what thereceptionist thought, what the other patients thought. He grabbed hold of my shoulders, his thumbsdigging into the flesh at the tops of my arms, andtold me to calm down, to stop behaving like a child. He shook me, hard; I thought for a moment he wasgoing to slap my face. I kissed him on the mouth, I bit his lower lip ashard as I could; I could taste his blood in mymouth. He pushed me away. I plotted revenge on my way home. I was thinkingof all the things I could do to him. I could get himfired, or worse. I won’t, though, because I like himtoo much. I don’t want to hurt him. I’m not eventhat upset about the rejection anymore. What bothersme most is that I haven’t got to the end of mystory, and I can’t start over with someone else, it’stoo hard. I don’t want to go home now, because I don’tknow how I’m going to be able to explain thebruises on my arms. RACHEL MONDAY, JULY 22, 2013 EVENING And now I wait. It’s agonizing, the not knowing, theslowness with which everything is bound to move. But there’s nothing more to do. I was right, this morning, when I felt that dread. Ijust didn’t know what I had to be afraid of. Not Scott. When he pulled me inside he must haveseen the terror in my eyes, because almostimmediately he let go of me. Wild-eyed anddishevelled, he seemed to shrink back from the light,and closed the door behind us. “What are you doinghere? There are photographers, journalistseverywhere. I can’t have people coming to the door. Hanging around. They’ll say things?.?.?. They’ll try?.?.?. they’ll try anything, to get pictures, to get—” “There’s no one out there,” I said, though to behonest I hadn’t really looked. There might have beenpeople sitting in cars, waiting for something tohappen. “What are you doing here?” he demanded again. “I heard?.?.?. it was on the news. I just wanted?.?.?. isit him? Have they arrested him?” He nodded. “Yes, early this morning. The familyliaison person was here. She came to tell me. Butshe couldn’t?.?.?. they won’t tell me why. They musthave found something, but they won’t tell me what. It’s not her, though. I know that they haven’t foundher.” He sits down on the stairs and wraps his armsaround himself. His whole body is trembling. “I can’t stand it. I can’t stand waiting for the phoneto ring. When the phone rings, what will it be? Will itbe the worst news? Will it be?.?.?.” He tails off, thenlooks up as though he’s seeing me for the first time. “Why did you come?” “I wanted?.?.?. I thought you wouldn’t want to bealone.” He looked at me as though I was insane. “I’m notalone,” he said. He got up and pushed past me intothe living room. For a moment, I just stood there. Ididn’t know whether to follow him or to leave, butthen he called out, “Do you want a coffee?” There was a woman outside on the lawn, smoking. Tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, she was smartlydressed in black trousers and white blouse done upto the throat. She was pacing up and down thepatio, but as soon as she caught sight of me, shestopped, flicked her cigarette onto the paving stonesand crushed it beneath her toe. “Police?” she asked me doubtfully as she enteredthe kitchen. “No, I’m—” “This is Rachel Watson, Mum,” Scott said. “Thewoman who contacted me about Abdic.” She nodded slowly, as though Scott’s explanationdidn’t really help her; she took me in, her gazesweeping rapidly over me from head to toe and backagain. “Oh.” “I just, er?.?.?.” I didn’t have a justifiable reason forbeing there. I couldn’t say, could I, I just wanted toknow. I wanted to see. “Well, Scott is very grateful to you for comingforward. We’re obviously waiting now to find outwhat exactly is going on.” She stepped towards me,took me by the elbow and turned me gently towardsthe front door. I glanced at Scott, but he wasn’tlooking at me; his gaze was fixed somewhere out ofthe window, across the tracks. “Thank you for stopping by, Ms. Watson. We reallyare very grateful to you.” I found myself on the doorstep, the front doorclosed firmly behind me, and when I looked up Isaw them: Tom, pushing a buggy, and Anna at hisside. They stopped dead when they saw me. Annaraised her hand to her mouth and swooped down tograb her child. The lioness protecting her cub. Iwanted to laugh at her, to tell her, I’m not here foryou, I couldn’t be less interested in your daughter. I’m cast out. Scott’s mother made that clear. I’mcast out and I’m disappointed, but it shouldn’t matter,because they have Kamal Abdic. They’ve got him,and I helped. I did something right. They’ve got him,and it can’t be long now before they find Megan andbring her home. ANNA MONDAY, JULY 22, 2013 MORNING Tom woke me up early with a kiss and a cheekygrin. He has a late meeting this morning, so hesuggested we take Evie around the corner forbreakfast. It’s a place where we used to meet whenwe first started seeing each other. We’d sit in thewindow—she was at work in London so there wasno danger of her walking past and noticing us. Butthere was that thrill, even so—perhaps she’d comehome early for some reason: perhaps she’d befeeling ill or have forgotten some vital papers. Idreamed of it. I willed her to come along one day, tosee him with me, to know in an instant that he wasno longer hers. It’s hard to believe now that therewas once a time when I wanted her to appear. Since Megan went missing I’ve avoided walking thisway whenever possible—it gives me the creepspassing that house—but to get to the café it’s theonly route. Tom walks a little way ahead of me,pushing the buggy; he’s singing something to Evie,making her laugh. I love it when we’re out like this,the three of us. I can see the way people look at us;I can see them thinking, What a beautiful family. Itmakes me proud—prouder than I’ve ever been ofanything in my life. So I’m sailing along in my bubble of happiness, andwe’re almost at number fifteen when the door opens. For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, because shewalks out. Rachel. She comes out of the front doorand stands there for a second, sees us and stopsdead. It’s horrible. She gives us the strangest smile, agrimace almost, and I can’t help myself, I lungeforward and grab Evie out of her buggy, startling herin the process. She starts to cry. Rachel walks quickly away from us. Tom calls after her, “Rachel! What are you doinghere? Rachel!” But she keeps going, faster and fasteruntil she’s almost running, and the two of us juststand there, then Tom turns to me and with oneglance at the expression on my face says, “Come on. Let’s just go home.” EVENING We found out that afternoon that they’ve arrestedsomeone in connection with Megan Hipwell’sdisappearance. Some guy I’d never heard of, atherapist she’d been seeing. It was a relief, I suppose,because I’d been imagining all sorts of awful things. “I told you it wouldn’t be a stranger,” Tom said. “Itnever is, is it? In any case, we don’t even knowwhat’s happened. She’s probably fine. She’s probablyrun off with someone.” “So why have they arrested that man, then?” He shrugged. He was distracted, pulling on hisjacket, straightening his tie, getting ready to go toand meet the day’s last client. “What are we going to do?” I asked him. “Do?” He looked at me blankly. “About her. Rachel. Why was she here? Why wasshe at the Hipwells’ house? Do you think?.?.?. do youthink she was trying to get into our garden—youknow, going through the neighbours’ gardens?” Tom gave a grim laugh. “I doubt it. Come on, thisis Rachel we’re talking about. She wouldn’t be able tohaul her fat arse over all those fences. I’ve no ideawhat she was doing there. Maybe she was pissed,went to the wrong door?” “In other words, she meant to come round here?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Look, don’tworry about it, OK? Keep the doors locked. I’ll giveher a ring and find out what she’s up to.” “I think we should call the police.” “And say what? She hasn’t actually done anything—” “She hasn’t done anything lately—unless you countthe fact that she was here the night Megan Hipwelldisappeared,” I said. “We should have told the policeabout her ages ago.” “Anna, come on.” He slipped his arms around mywaist. “I hardly think Rachel has anything to do withMegan Hipwell’s going missing. But I’ll talk to her,OK?” “But you said after last time—” “I know,” he said softly. “I know what I said.” Hekissed me, slipped his hand into the waistband of myjeans. “Let’s not get the police involved unless wereally need to.” I think we do need to. I can’t stop thinking aboutthat smile she gave us, that sneer. It was almosttriumphant. We need to get away from here. Weneed to get away from her. RACHEL TUESDAY, JULY 23, 2013 MORNING It takes me a while to realize what I’m feeling whenI wake. There’s a rush of elation, tempered withsomething else: a nameless dread. I know we’re closeto finding the truth. I just can’t help feeling that thetruth is going to be terrible. I sit up in bed and grab my laptop, turn it on andwait impatiently for it to boot up, then log on to theInternet. The whole process seems interminable. I canhear Cathy moving around the house, washing upher breakfast things, running upstairs to brush herteeth. She hovers for a few moments outside mydoor. I imagine her knuckles raised, ready to rap. She thinks better of it and runs back down thestairs. The BBC news page comes up. The headline isabout benefit cuts, the second story about yetanother 1970s television star accused of sexualindiscretions. Nothing about Megan; nothing aboutKamal. I’m disappointed. I know that the police havetwenty-four hours to charge a suspect, and they’vehad that now. In some circumstances, they can holdsomeone for an extra twelve hours, though. I know all this because I spent yesterday doing myresearch. After I was shown out of Scott’s house, Icame back here, turned on the television and spentmost of the day watching the news, reading articlesonline. Waiting. By midday, the police had named their suspect. Onthe news, they talked about “evidence discovered atDr. Abdic’s home and in his car,” but they didn’t saywhat. Blood, perhaps? Her phone, as yetundiscovered? Clothes, a bag, her toothbrush? Theykept showing pictures of Kamal, close-ups of his dark,handsome face. The picture they use isn’t a mugshot, it’s a candid shot: he’s on holiday somewhere,not quite smiling, but almost. He looks too soft, toobeautiful to be a killer, but appearances can bedeceptive—they say Ted Bundy looked like CaryGrant. I waited all day for more news, for the charges tobe made public: kidnap, assault or worse. I waited tohear where she is, where he’s been keeping her. They showed pictures of Blenheim Road, the station,Scott’s front door. Commentators mused on the likelyimplications of the fact that neither Megan’s phonenor her bank cards had been used for more than aweek. Tom called more than once. I didn’t pick up. Iknow what he wants. He wants to ask why I was atScott Hipwell’s house yesterday morning. Let himwonder. It has nothing to do with him. Noteverything is about him. I imagine he’s calling at herbehest, in any case. I don’t owe her anyexplanations. I waited and waited, and still no charge; instead, weheard more about Kamal, the trusted mental healthprofessional who listened to Megan’s secrets andtroubles, who gained her trust and then abused it,who seduced her and then, who knows what? I learned that he is a Muslim, a Bosnian, a survivorof the Balkans conflict, who came to Britain as afifteen-year-old refugee. No stranger to violence, helost his father and two older brothers at Srebrenica. He has a conviction for domestic violence. The moreI heard about Kamal, the more I knew that I wasright: I was right to speak to the police about him, Iwas right to contact Scott. I get up and pull my dressing gown around me,hurry downstairs and flick on the TV. I have nointention of going anywhere today. If Cathy comeshome unexpectedly, I can tell her I’m ill. I makemyself a cup of coffee and sit down in front of thetelevision, and I wait. EVENING I got bored around three o’clock. I got bored withhearing about benefits and seventies TV paedophiles,I got frustrated with hearing nothing about Megan,nothing about Kamal, so I went to the off-licence andbought two bottles of white wine. I’m almost at the bottom of the first bottle when ithappens. There’s something else on the news now,shaky camera footage taken from a half-built (orhalf-destroyed) building, explosions in the distance. Syria, or Egypt, maybe Sudan? I’ve got the sounddown, I’m not really paying attention. Then I see it: the ticker running across the bottom of the screentells me that the government is facing a challenge tolegal aid cuts and that Fernando Torres will be outfor up to four weeks with a hamstring strain andthat the suspect in the Megan Hipwell disappearancehas been released without charge. I put my glass down and grab the remote, clickingthe volume button up, up, up. This can’t be right. The war report continues, it goes on and on, myblood pressure rising with it, but eventually it endsand they go back to the studio and the newsreadersays: “Kamal Abdic, the man arrested yesterday inconnection with the disappearance of Megan Hipwell,has been released without charge. Abdic, who wasMrs. Hipwell’s therapist, was detained yesterday, butwas released this morning because police say there isinsufficient evidence to charge him.” I don’t hear what she says after that. I just sitthere, my eyes blurring over, a wash of noise in myears, thinking, They had him. They had him andthey let him go. Upstairs, later. I’ve had too much to drink, I can’tsee the computer screen properly, everything doubles,trebles. I can read if I hold my hand over one eye. It gives me a headache. Cathy is home, she calledout to me and I told her I was in bed, unwell. Sheknows that I’m drinking. My belly is awash with alcohol. I feel sick. I can’tthink straight. Shouldn’t have started drinking soearly. Shouldn’t have started drinking at all. I phonedScott’s number an hour ago, again a few minutesago. Shouldn’t have done that, either. I just want toknow, what lies has Kamal told them? What lies havethey been fool enough to believe? The police havemessed the whole thing up. Idiots. That Riley woman,her fault. I’m sure of it. The newspapers haven’t helped. There was nodomestic violence conviction, they’re saying now. Thatwas a mistake. They’re making him look like thevictim. Don’t want to drink anymore. I know that I shouldpour the rest down the sink, because otherwise it’llbe there in the morning and I’ll get up and drink itstraightaway, and once I’ve started I’ll want to go on. I should pour it down the sink, but I know I’m notgoing to. Something to look forward to in themorning. It’s dark, and I can hear someone calling her name. A voice, low at first, but then louder. Angry,desperate, calling Megan’s name. It’s Scott—he’sunhappy with her. He calls her again and again. It’sa dream, I think. I keep trying to grasp at it, to holdon to it, but the harder I struggle, the fainter andthe further away it gets. WEDNESDAY, JULY 24, 2013 MORNING I’m woken by a soft tapping at the door. Rainbatters against the windows; it’s after eight but stillseems dark outside. Cathy pushes the door gentlyopen and peers into the room. “Rachel? Are you all right?” She catches sight of thebottle next to my bed and her shoulders sag. “Oh,Rachel.” She comes across to my bed and picks upthe bottle. I’m too embarrassed to say anything. “Areyou not going into work?” she asks me. “Did you goyesterday?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, just turns to go,calling back as she does, “You’ll end up gettingyourself sacked if you carry on like this.” I should just say it now, she’s already angry withme. I should go after her and tell her: I was sackedmonths ago for turning up blind drunk after athree-hour lunch with a client during which Imanaged to be so rude and unprofessional that Icost the firm his business. When I close my eyes, Ican still remember the tail end of that lunch, thelook on the waitress’s face as she handed me myjacket, weaving into the office, people turning to look. Martin Miles taking me to one side. I think youshould probably go home, Rachel. There is a crack of thunder, a flash of light. I joltupright. What was it I thought of last night? I checkmy little black book, but I haven’t written anythingdown since midday yesterday: notes aboutKamal—age, ethnicity, conviction for domestic violence. I pick up a pen and cross out that last point. Downstairs, I make myself a cup of coffee and turnon the TV. The police held a press conference lastnight, they’re showing clips from it on Sky News. Detective Inspector Gaskill’s up there, looking paleand gaunt and chastened. Hangdog. He nevermentions Kamal’s name, just says that a suspect hadbeen detained and questioned, but has been releasedwithout charge and that the investigation is ongoing. The cameras pan away from him to Scott, sittinghunched and uncomfortable, blinking in the light ofthe cameras, his face a twist of anguish. It hurts myheart to see him. He speaks softly, his eyes castdown. He says that he has not given up hope, thatno matter what the police say, he still clings to theidea that Megan will come home. The words come out hollow, they ring false, butwithout looking into his eyes, I can’t tell why. I can’ttell whether he doesn’t really believe she’s cominghome because all the faith he once possessed hasbeen ripped away by the events of the past fewdays, or because he really knows that she’s nevercoming home. It comes to me, just then: the memory of calling hisnumber yesterday. Once, twice? I run upstairs to getmy phone and find it tangled up in the bedclothes. Ihave three missed calls: one from Tom and twofrom Scott. No messages. The call from Tom was lastnight, as was the first call from Scott, but later, justbefore midnight. The second call from him was thismorning, just a few minutes ago. My heart lifts a little. This is good news. Despite hismother’s actions, despite their clear implications (Thank you very much for your help, now get lost), Scott still wants to talk to me. He needs me. I’mmomentarily flooded with affection for Cathy, filledwith gratitude to her for pouring the rest of the wineaway. I have to keep a clear head, for Scott. Heneeds me thinking straight. I take a shower, get dressed and make another cupof coffee, and then I sit down in the living room,little black book at my side, and I call Scott. “You should have told me,” he says as soon as hepicks up, “what you are.” His tone is flat, cold. Mystomach is a small, hard ball. He knows. “DetectiveRiley spoke to me after they let him go. He deniedhaving an affair with her. And the witness whosuggested that there was something going on wasunreliable, she said. An alcoholic. Possibly mentallyunstable. She didn’t tell me the witness’s name, but Itake it she was talking about you?” “But?.?.?. no,” I say. “No. I’m not?.?.?. I hadn’t beendrinking when I saw them. It was eight thirty in themorning.” Like that means anything. “And they foundevidence, it said so on the news. They found—” “Insufficient evidence.” The phone goes dead. FRIDAY, JULY 26, 2013 MORNING I am no longer travelling to my imaginary office. Ihave given up the pretence. I can barely be botheredto get out of bed. I think I last brushed my teeth onWednesday. I am still feigning illness, although I’mpretty sure I’m fooling no one. I can’t face getting up, getting dressed, getting ontothe train, going into London, wandering the streets. It’s hard enough when the sun is shining, it’simpossible in this rain. Today is the third day of cold,driving, relentless downpour. I’m having trouble sleeping, and it’s not just thedrinking now, it’s the nightmares. I’m trappedsomewhere, and I know that someone’s coming, andthere’s a way out, I know there is, I know that Isaw it before, only I can’t find my way back to it,and when he does get me, I can’t scream. I try—Isuck the air into my lungs and I force it out—butthere’s no sound, just a rasping, like a dying personfighting for air. Sometimes, in my nightmares, I find myself in theunderpass by Blenheim Road, the way back isblocked and I cannot go farther because there issomething there, someone waiting, and I wake inpure terror. They’re never going to find her. Every day, everyhour that passes I become more certain. She will beone of those names, hers will be one of thosestories: lost, missing, body never found. And Scottwill not have justice, or peace. He will never have abody to grieve over; he will never know whathappened to her. There will be no closure, noresolution. I lie awake thinking about it and I ache. There can be no greater agony, nothing can bemore painful than the not knowing, which will neverend. I have written to him. I admitted my problem, thenI lied again, saying that I had it under control, that Iwas seeking help. I told him that I am not mentallyunstable. I no longer know whether that’s true ornot. I told him that I was very clear about what Isaw, and that I hadn’t been drinking when I saw it. That, at least, is true. He hasn’t replied. I didn’texpect him to. I am cut off from him, shut out. Thethings I want to say to him, I can never say. I can’twrite them down, they don’t sound right. I want himto know how sorry I am that it wasn’t enough topoint them in Kamal’s direction, to say, Look, therehe is. I should have seen something. That Saturdaynight, I should have had my eyes open. EVENING I am soaked through, freezing cold, the ends of myfingers blanched and wrinkled, my head throbbingfrom a hangover that kicked in at about half pastfive. Which is about right, considering I starteddrinking before midday. I went out to get anotherbottle, but I was thwarted by the ATM, which gaveme the much-anticipated riposte: There areinsufficient funds in your account. After that, I started walking. I walked aimlessly forover an hour, through the driving rain. Thepedestrianized centre of Ashbury was mine alone. Idecided, somewhere along that walk, that I have todo something. I have to make amends for beinginsufficient. Now, sodden and almost sober, I’m going to callTom. I don’t want to know what I did, what I said,that Saturday night, but I have to find out. It mightjog something. For some reason, I am certain thatthere is something I’m missing, something vital. Perhaps this is just more self-deception, yet anotherattempt to prove to myself that I’m not worthless. But perhaps it’s real. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Monday,” Tom says when he answers the phone. “I calledyour office,” he adds, and he lets that sink in. I’m on the back foot already, embarrassed,ashamed. “I need to talk to you,” I say, “aboutSaturday night. That Saturday night.” “What are you talking about? I need to talk to youabout Monday, Rachel. What the hell were you doingat Scott Hipwell’s house?” “That’s not important, Tom—” “Yes it bloody is. What were you doing there? Youdo realize, don’t you, that he could be?.?.?. I mean, wedon’t know, do we? He could have done somethingto her. Couldn’t he? To his wife.” “He hasn’t done anything to his wife,” I sayconfidently. “It isn’t him.” “How the hell would you know? Rachel, what isgoing on?” “I just?.?.?. You have to believe me. That isn’t why Icalled you. I needed to talk to you about thatSaturday. About the message you left me. You wereso angry. You said I’d scared Anna.” “Well, you had. She saw you stumbling down thestreet, you shouted abuse at her. She was reallyfreaked out, after what happened last time. WithEvie.” “Did she?.?.?. did she do something?” “Do something?” “To me?” “What?” “I had a cut, Tom. On my head. I was bleeding.” “Are you accusing Anna of hurting you?” He’syelling now, he’s furious. “Seriously, Rachel. That isenough! I have persuaded Anna—on more than oneoccasion—not to go to the police about you, but ifyou carry on like this—harassing us, making upstories—” “I’m not accusing her of anything, Tom. I’m justtrying to figure things out. I don’t—” “You don’t remember! Of course not. Rachel doesn’tremember.” He sighs wearily. “Look. Anna sawyou—you were drunk and abusive. She came hometo tell me, she was upset, so I went out to look foryou. You were in the street. I think you might havefallen. You were very upset. You’d cut your hand.” “I hadn’t—” “Well, you had blood on your hand, then. I don’tknow how it got there. I told you I’d take you home,but you wouldn’t listen. You were out of control, youwere making no sense. You walked off and I went toget the car, but when I came back, you’d gone. Idrove up past the station but I couldn’t see you. Idrove around a bit more—Anna was very worriedthat you were hanging around somewhere, that you’dcome back, that you’d try to get into the house. Iwas worried you’d fall, or get yourself into trouble?.?.?. I drove all the way to Ashbury. I rang the bell, butyou weren’t at home. I called you a couple of times. I left a message. And yes, I was angry. I was reallypissed off by that point.” “I’m sorry, Tom,” I say. “I’m really sorry.” “I know,” he says. “You’re always sorry.” “You said that I shouted at Anna,” I say, cringing atthe thought of it. “What did I say to her?” “I don’t know,” he snaps. “Would you like me to goand get her? Perhaps you’d like to have a chat withher about it?” “Tom?.?.?.” “Well, honestly—what does it matter now?” “Did you see Megan Hipwell that night?” “No.” He sounds concerned now. “Why? Did you? You didn’t do something, did you?” “No, of course I didn’t.” He’s silent for a moment. “Well, why are you askingabout this then? Rachel, if you know something?.?.?.” “I don’t know anything,” I say. “I didn’t seeanything.” “Why were you at the Hipwells’ house on Monday? Please tell me so that I can put Anna’s mind at ease. She’s worried.” “I had something to tell him. Something I thoughtmight be useful.” “You didn’t see her, but you had something usefulto tell him?” I hesitate for a moment. I’m not sure how much Ishould tell him, whether I should keep this just forScott. “It’s about Megan,” I say. “She was having anaffair.” “Wait—did you know her?” “Just a little,” I say. “How?” “From her gallery.” “Oh,” he says. “So who’s the guy?” “Her therapist,” I tell him. “Kamal Abdic. I sawthem together.” “Really? The guy they arrested? I thought they’d lethim go.” “They have. And it’s my fault, because I’m anunreliable witness.” Tom laughs. It’s soft, friendly, he isn’t mocking me. “Rachel, come on. You did the right thing, comingforward. I’m sure it’s not just about you.” In thebackground, I can hear the prattle of the child, andTom says something away from the phone,something I can’t hear. “I should go,” he says. I canimagine him putting down the phone, picking up hislittle girl, giving her a kiss, embracing his wife. Thedagger in my heart twists, round and round andround. MONDAY, JULY 29, 2013 MORNING It’s 8:07 and I’m on the train. Back to the imaginaryoffice. Cathy was with Damien all weekend, and whenI saw her last night, I didn’t give her a chance toberate me. I started apologizing for my behaviourstraightaway, said I’d been feeling really down, butthat I was pulling myself together, turning over anew leaf. She accepted, or pretended to accept, myapologies. She gave me a hug. Niceness writ large. Megan has dropped out of the news almostcompletely. There was a comment piece in theSunday Times about police incompetence thatreferred briefly to the case, an unnamed source atthe Crown Prosecution Service citing it as “one of anumber of cases in which the police have made ahasty arrest on the basis of flimsy or flawedevidence.” We’re coming to the signal. I feel the familiar rattleand jolt, the train slows and I look up, because Ihave to, because I cannot bear not to, but there isnever anything to see any longer. The doors areclosed and the curtains drawn. There is nothing tosee but rain, sheets of it, and muddy water poolingat the bottom of the garden. On a whim, I get off the train at Witney. Tomcouldn’t help me, but perhaps the other mancould—the red-haired man. I wait for thedisembarking passengers to disappear down the stepsand then I sit on the only covered bench on theplatform. I might get lucky. I might see him gettingonto the train. I could follow him, I could talk to him. It’s the only thing I have left, my last roll of the dice. If this doesn’t work, I have to let it go. I just haveto let it go. Half an hour goes by. Every time I hear footstepson the steps, my heart rate goes up. Every time Ihear the clacking of high heels, I am seized withtrepidation. If Anna sees me here, I could be introuble. Tom warned me. He’s persuaded her not toget the police involved, but if I carry on?.?.?. Quarter past nine. Unless he starts work very late,I’ve missed him. It’s raining harder now, and I can’tface another aimless day in London. The only moneyI have is a tenner I borrowed from Cathy, and Ineed to make that last until I’ve summoned up thecourage to ask my mother for a loan. I walk downthe steps, intending to cross underneath to theopposite platform and go back to Ashbury, whensuddenly I spot Scott hurrying out of the newsagentopposite the station entrance, his coat pulled uparound his face. I run after him and catch him at the corner, rightopposite the underpass. I grab his arm and hewheels round, startled. “Please,” I say, “can I talk to you?” “Jesus Christ,” he snarls at me. “What the fuck doyou want?” I back away from him, holding my hands up. “I’msorry,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to apologize,to explain?.?.?.” The downpour has become a deluge. We are theonly people on the street, both of us soaked to theskin. Scott starts to laugh. He throws his hands upin the air and roars with laughter. “Come to thehouse,” he says. “We’re going to drown out here.” Scott goes upstairs to fetch me a towel while thekettle boils. The house is less tidy than it was a weekago, the disinfectant smell displaced by somethingearthier. A pile of newspapers sits in the corner ofthe living room; there are dirty mugs on the coffeetable and the mantelpiece. Scott appears at my side, proffering the towel. “It’sa tip, I know. My mother was driving me insane,cleaning, tidying up after me all the time. We had abit of a row. She hasn’t been round for a few days.” His mobile phone starts to ring, he glances at it, putsit back into his pocket. “Speak of the devil. Shenever bloody stops.” I follow him into the kitchen. “I’m so sorry about what happened,” I say. He shrugs. “I know. And it’s not your fault anyway. I mean, it might’ve helped if you weren’t?.?.?.” “If I wasn’t a drunk?” His back is turned, he’s pouring the coffee. “Well, yes. But they didn’t actually have enough tocharge him with anything anyway.” He hands me themug and we sit down at the table. I notice that oneof the photograph frames on the sideboard has beenturned facedown. Scott is still talking. “They foundthings—hair, skin cells—in his house, but he doesn’tdeny that she went there. Well, he did deny it atfirst, then he admitted that she had been there.” “Why did he lie?” “Exactly. He admitted that she’d been to the housetwice, just to talk. He won’t say what about—there’sthe whole confidentiality thing. The hair and the skincells were found downstairs. Nothing up in thebedroom. He swears blind they weren’t having anaffair. But he’s a liar, so?.?.?.” He passes his handover his eyes. His face looks as though it is sinkinginto itself, his shoulders sag. He looks shrunken. “There was a trace of blood on his car.” “Oh my God.” “Yeah. Matches her blood type. They don’t know ifthey can get any DNA because it’s such a smallsample. It could be nothing, that’s what they keepsaying. How could it be nothing, that her blood’s onhis car?” He shakes his head. “You were right. Themore I hear about this guy, the more I’m sure.” Helooks at me, right at me, for the first time since wegot here. “He was fucking her, and she wanted toend it, so he?.?.?. he did something. That’s it. I’m sureof it.” He’s lost all hope, and I don’t blame him. It’s beenmore than two weeks and she hasn’t turned on herphone, hasn’t used a credit card, hasn’t withdrawnmoney from an ATM. No one has seen her. She isgone. “He told the police that she might have run away,” Scott says. “Dr. Abdic did?” Scott nods. “He told the police that she wasunhappy with me and she might have run off.” “He’s trying to shift suspicion, get them to think thatyou did something.” “I know that. But they seem to buy everything thatbastard says. That Riley woman, I can tell when shetalks about him. She likes him. The poor,downtrodden refugee.” He hangs his head, wretched. “Maybe he’s right. We did have that awful fight. ButI can’t believe?.?.?. She wasn’t unhappy with me. Shewasn’t. She wasn’t.” When he says it the third time, Iwonder whether he’s trying to convince himself. “Butif she was having an affair, she must have beenunhappy, mustn’t she?” “Not necessarily,” I say. “Perhaps it was one ofthose—what do they call it?—transference things. That’s the word they use, isn’t it? When a patientdevelops feelings—or thinks they develop feelings—fora therapist. Only the therapist is supposed to resistthem, to point out that the feelings aren’t real.” His eyes are on my face, but I feel as though heisn’t really listening to what I’m saying. “What happened?” he asks. “With you. You leftyour husband. Was there someone else?” I shake my head. “Other way round. Annahappened.” “Sorry.” He pauses. I know what he’s going to ask, so before he can, Isay, “It started before. While we were still married. The drinking. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’tit?” He nods again. “We were trying for a baby,” I say, and my voicecatches. Still, after all this time, every time I talkabout it the tears come to my eyes. “Sorry.” “It’s all right.” He gets to his feet, goes over to thesink and pours me a glass of water. He puts it onthe table in front of me. I clear my throat, try to be as matter-of-fact aspossible. “We were trying for a baby and it didn’thappen. I became very depressed, and I started todrink. I was extremely difficult to live with, and Tomsought solace elsewhere. And she was all too happyto provide it.” “I’m really sorry, that’s awful. I know?.?.?. I wanted tohave a child. Megan kept saying she wasn’t readyyet.” Now it’s his turn to wipe the tears away. “It’sone of the things?.?.?. we argued about it sometimes.” “Was that what you were arguing about the dayshe left?” He sighs, pushing his chair back and getting to hisfeet. “No,” he says, turning away from me. “It wassomething else.” EVENING Cathy is waiting for me when I get home. She’sstanding in the kitchen, aggressively drinking a glassof water. “Good day at the office?” she asks, pursing her lips. She knows. “Cathy?.?.?.” “Damien had a meeting near Euston today. On hisway out, he bumped into Martin Miles. They knoweach other a little, remember, from Damien’s days atLaing Fund Management. Martin used to do the PRfor them.” “Cathy?.?.?.” She held her hand up, took another gulp of water. “You haven’t worked there in months! In months! Do you know how idiotic I feel? What an idiotDamien felt? Please, please tell me that you haveanother job that you just haven’t told me about. Please tell me that you haven’t been pretending to goto work. That you haven’t been lying to me—day in,day out—all this time.” “I didn’t know how to tell you?.?.?.” “You didn’t know how to tell me? How about: ‘Cathy, I got fired because I was drunk at work’? How about that?” I flinch and her face softens. “I’msorry, but honestly, Rachel.” She really is too nice. “What have you been doing? Where do you go? What do you do all day?” “I walk. Go to the library. Sometimes—” “You go to the pub?” “Sometimes. But—” “Why didn’t you tell me?” She approaches me,placing her hands on my shoulders. “You shouldhave told me.” “I was ashamed,” I say, and I start to cry. It’sawful, cringeworthy, but I start to weep. I sob andsob, and poor Cathy holds me, strokes my hair, tellsme I’ll be all right, that everything will be all right. Ifeel wretched. I hate myself almost more than I everhave. Later, sitting on the sofa with Cathy, drinking tea,she tells me how it’s going to be. I’m going to stopdrinking, I’m going to get my CV in order, I’m goingto contact Martin Miles and beg for a reference. I’mgoing to stop wasting money going backwards andforwards to London on pointless train journeys. “Honestly, Rachel, I don’t understand how you couldhave kept this up for so long.” I shrug. “In the morning, I take the 8:04, and inthe evening, I come back on the 5:56. That’s mytrain. It’s the one I take. That’s the way it is.” THURSDAY, AUGUST 1, 2013 MORNING There’s something covering my face, I can’t breathe,I’m suffocating. When I surface into wakefulness, I’mgasping for air and my chest hurts. I sit up, eyeswide, and see something moving in the corner of theroom, a dense centre of blackness that keepsgrowing, and I almost cry out—and then I’m properlyawake and there’s nothing there, but I am sitting upin bed and my cheeks are wet with tears. It’s almost dawn, the light outside is just beginningto tinge grey, and the rain of the last several days isstill battering against the window. I won’t go back tosleep, not with my heart hammering in my chest somuch it hurts. I think, though I can’t be sure, that there’s somewine downstairs. I don’t remember finishing thesecond bottle. It’ll be warm, because I can’t leave itin the fridge; if I do, Cathy pours it away. She sobadly wants me to get better, but so far, things arenot going according to her plan. There’s a littlecupboard in the hallway where the gas meter is. Ifthere was any wine left, I’ll have stashed it in there. I creep out onto the landing and tiptoe down thestairs in the half-light. I flip the little cupboard openand lift out the bottle: it’s disappointingly light, notmuch more than a glassful in there. But better thannothing. I pour it into a mug (just in case Cathycomes down—I can pretend it’s tea) and put thebottle in the bin (making sure to conceal it under amilk carton and a crisp packet). In the living room, Iflick on the TV, mute it straightaway and sit downon the sofa. I’m flicking through channels—it’s all children’s TVand infomercials until with a flash of recognition I’mlooking at Corly Wood, which is just down the roadfrom here: you can see it from the train. CorlyWood in pouring rain, the fields between the tree lineand train tracks submerged underwater. I don’t know why it takes me so long to realizewhat’s going on. For ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, I’mlooking at cars and blue-and-white tape and a whitetent in the background, and my breath is comingshorter and shorter until I’m holding it and notbreathing at all. It’s her. She’s been in the wood all along, just alongthe railway track from here. I’ve been past thosefields every day, morning and evening, travelling by,oblivious. In the wood. I imagine a grave dug beneathscrubby bushes, hastily covered up. I imagine worsethings, impossible things—her body hanging from arope, somewhere deep in the forest where nobodygoes. It might not even be her. It might be somethingelse. I know it isn’t something else. There’s a reporter on screen now, dark hair slickagainst his skull. I turn up the volume and listen tohim tell me what I already know, what I canfeel—that it wasn’t me who couldn’t breathe, it wasMegan. “That’s right,” he’s saying, talking to someone in thestudio, his hand pressed to his ear. “The police havenow confirmed that the body of a young woman hasbeen found submerged in floodwater in a field at thebottom of Corly Wood, which is less than five milesfrom the home of Megan Hipwell. Mrs. Hipwell, asyou know, went missing in early July—the thirteenthof July, in fact—and has not been seen since. Policeare saying that the body, which was discovered bydog walkers out early this morning, has yet to beformally identified; however, they do believe that thisis Megan that they’ve found. Mrs. Hipwell’s husbandhas been informed.” He stops speaking for a while. The news anchor isasking him a question, but I can’t hear it becausethe blood is roaring in my ears. I bring the mug upto my lips and drink every last drop. The reporter is talking again. “Yes, Kay, that’s right. It would appear that the body was buried here inthe woods, possibly for some time, and that it hasbeen uncovered by the heavy rains that we’ve hadrecently.” It’s worse, so much worse than I imagined. I cansee her now, her ruined face in the mud, pale armsexposed, reaching up, rising up as though she wereclawing her way out of the grave. I taste hot liquid,bile and bitter wine, in my mouth, and I run upstairsto be sick. EVENING I stayed in bed most of the day. I tried to get thingsstraight in my head. I tried to piece together, fromthe memories and the flashbacks and the dreams,what happened on Saturday night. In an attempt tomake sense of it, to see it clearly, I wrote it alldown. The scratching of my pen on paper felt likesomeone whispering to me; it put me on edge, Ikept feeling as though there was someone else in theflat, just on the other side of the door, and Icouldn’t stop imagining her. I was almost too afraid to open the bedroom door,but when I did, there was no one there, of course. Iwent downstairs and turned on the television again. The same pictures were still there: the woods in therain, police cars driving along a muddy track, thathorrible white tent, all of it a grey blur, and thensuddenly Megan, smiling at the camera, still beautiful,untouched. Then it’s Scott, head down, fending offphotographers as he tries to get through his ownfront door, Riley at his side. Then it’s Kamal’s office. No sign of him, though. I didn’t want to hear the sound track, but I had toturn the volume up, anything to stop the silenceringing in my ears. The police say that the woman,still not formally identified, has been dead for sometime, possibly several weeks. They say the cause ofdeath has yet to be established. They say that thereis no evidence of a sexual motive for the killing. That strikes me as a stupid thing to say. I knowwhat they mean—they mean they don’t think shewas raped, which is a blessing, of course, but thatdoesn’t mean there wasn’t a sexual motive. It seemsto me that Kamal wanted her and he couldn’t haveher, that she must have tried to end it and hecouldn’t stand it. That’s a sexual motive, isn’t it? I can’t bear to watch the news any longer, so I goback upstairs and crawl under my duvet. I emptyout my handbag, looking through my notes scribbledon bits of paper, all the scraps of information I’vegleaned, the memories shifting like shadows, and Iwonder, Why am I doing this? What purpose doesit serve? MEGAN THURSDAY, JUNE 13, 2013 MORNING I can’t sleep in this heat. Invisible bugs crawl overmy skin, I have a rash on my chest, I can’t getcomfortable. And Scott seems to radiate warmth;lying next to him is like lying next to a fire. I can’tget far enough away from him and find myselfclinging to the edge of the bed, sheets thrown back. It’s intolerable. I thought about going to lie down onthe futon in the spare room, but he hates to wakeand find me gone, it always leads to a row aboutsomething. Alternative uses for the spare room,usually, or who I was thinking about while I waslying there alone. Sometimes I want to scream athim, Just let me go. Let me go. Let me breathe. So I can’t sleep, and I’m angry. I feel as thoughwe’re having a fight already, even though the fight’sonly in my imagination. And in my head, thoughts go round and round andround. I feel like I’m suffocating. When did this house become so bloody small? When did my life become so boring? Is this reallywhat I wanted? I can’t remember. All I know is thata few months ago I was feeling better, and now Ican’t think and I can’t sleep and I can’t draw andthe urge to run is becoming overwhelming. At nightwhen I lie awake I can hear it, quiet but unrelenting,undeniable: a whisper in my head, Slip away. WhenI close my eyes, my head is filled with images of pastand future lives, the things I dreamed I wanted, thethings I had and threw away. I can’t get comfortable,because every way I turn I run into dead ends: theclosed gallery, the houses on this road, the stiflingattentions of the tedious Pilates women, the track atthe end of the garden with its trains, always takingsomeone else to somewhere else, reminding me overand over and over, a dozen times a day, that I’mstaying put. I feel as though I’m going mad. And yet just a few months ago, I was feeling better,I was getting better. I was fine. I was sleeping. Ididn’t live in fear of the nightmares. I could breathe. Yes, I still wanted to run away. Sometimes. But notevery day. Talking to Kamal helped me, there’s no denyingthat. I liked it. I liked him. He made me happier. And now all that feels so unfinished—I never got tothe crux of it. That’s my fault, of course, because Ibehaved stupidly, like a child, because I didn’t likefeeling rejected. I need to learn to lose a little better. I’m embarrassed now, ashamed. My face goes hot atthe thought of it. I don’t want that to be his finalimpression of me. I want him to see me again, tosee me better. And I do feel that if I went to him,he would help. He’s like that. I need to get to the end of the story. I need to tellsomeone, just once. Say the words out loud. If itdoesn’t come out of me, it’ll eat me up. The holeinside me, the one they left, it’ll just get bigger andbigger until it consumes me. I’m going to have to swallow my pride and myshame and go to him. He’s going to have to listen. I’ll make him. EVENING Scott thinks I’m at the cinema with Tara. I’ve beenoutside Kamal’s flat for fifteen minutes, psychingmyself up to knock on the door. I’m so afraid of theway he’s going to look at me, after last time. I haveto show him that I’m sorry, so I’ve dressed the part: plain and simple, jeans and T-shirt, hardly anymakeup. This is not about seduction, he has to seethat. I can feel my heart starting to race as I step up tohis front door and press the bell. No one comes. The lights are on, but no one comes. Perhaps hehas seen me outside, lurking; perhaps he’s upstairs,just hoping that if he ignores me I’ll go away. Iwon’t. He doesn’t know how determined I can be. Once I’ve made my mind up, I’m a force to bereckoned with. I ring again, and then a third time, and finally Ihear footsteps on the stairs and the door opens. He’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt. He’s barefoot, wet-haired, his face flushed. “Megan.” Surprised, but not angry, which is a goodstart. “Are you all right? Is everything all right?” “I’m sorry,” I say, and he steps back to let me in. Ifeel a rush of gratitude so strong, it feels almost likelove. He shows me into the kitchen. It’s a mess: washingup piled on the counter and in the sink, emptytakeaway cartons spilling out of the bin. I wonder ifhe’s depressed. I stand in the doorway; he leansagainst the counter opposite me, his arms foldedacross his chest. “What can I do for you?” he asks. His face isarranged into a perfectly neutral expression, histherapist face. It makes me want to pinch him, justto make him smile. “I have to tell you?.?.?.” I start, and then I stopbecause I can’t just plunge straight into it, I need apreamble. So I change tack. “I wanted to apologize,” I say, “for what happened. Last time.” “That’s OK,” he says. “Don’t worry about that. Ifyou need to talk to someone, I can refer you tosomeone else, but I can’t—” “Please, Kamal.” “Megan, I can’t counsel you any longer.” “I know. I know that. But I can’t start over withsomeone else. I can’t. We got so far. We were soclose. I just have to tell you. Just once. And then I’llbe gone, I promise. I won’t ever bother you again.” He cocks his head to one side. He doesn’t believeme, I can tell. He thinks that if he lets me back innow, he’ll never be rid of me. “Hear me out, please. This isn’t going to go onforever, I just need someone to listen.” “Your husband?” he asks, and I shake my head. “I can’t—I can’t tell him. Not after all this time. Hewouldn’t?.?.?. He wouldn’t be able to see me as meany longer. I’d be someone else to him. He wouldn’tknow how to forgive me. Please, Kamal. If I don’tspit out the poison, I feel like I’ll never sleep. As afriend, not a therapist, please listen.” His shoulders drop a little as he turns away, and Ithink it’s over. My heart sinks. Then he opens acupboard and pulls out two tumblers. “As a friend, then. Would you like some wine?” He shows me into the living room. Dimly lit bystanding lamps, it has the same air of domesticneglect as the kitchen. We sit down on opposite sidesof a glass table piled high with papers, magazinesand takeaway menus. My hands are locked aroundmy glass. I take a sip. It’s red but cold, dusty. Iswallow, take another sip. He’s waiting for me tostart, but it’s hard, harder than I thought it wasgoing to be. I’ve kept this secret for so long—adecade, more than a third of my life. It’s not thateasy, letting go of it. I just know that I have to starttalking. If I don’t do it now, I might never have thecourage to say the words out loud, I might lose themaltogether, they might stick in my throat and chokeme in my sleep. “After I left Ipswich, I moved in with Mac, into hiscottage outside Holkham at the end of the lane. Itold you that, didn’t I? It was very isolated, a coupleof miles to the nearest neighbour, a couple more tothe nearest shops. At the beginning, we had lots ofparties, there were always a few people crashed outin the living room or sleeping in the hammockoutside in the summer. But we got tired of that, andMac fell out with everyone eventually, so peoplestopped coming, and it was the two of us. Days usedto go by and we wouldn’t see anyone. We’d do ourgrocery shopping at the petrol station. It’s odd,thinking back on it, but I needed it then, aftereverything—after Ipswich and all those men, all thethings I did. I liked it, just Mac and me and the oldrailway tracks and the grass and the dunes and therestless grey sea.” Kamal tilts his head to one side, gives me half asmile. I feel my insides flip. “It sounds nice. But doyou think you are romanticizing? ‘The restless greysea’?” “Never mind that,” I say, waving him away. “Andno, in any case. Have you been to north Norfolk? It’s not the Adriatic. It is restless and relentlesslygrey.” He holds his hands up, smiling. “OK.” I feel instantly better, the tension leaching out of myneck and shoulders. I take another sip of the wine; ittastes less bitter now. “I was happy with Mac. I know it doesn’t soundlike the sort of place I’d like, the sort of life I’d like,but then, after Ben’s death and everything that cameafter, it was. Mac saved me. He took me in, heloved me, he kept me safe. And he wasn’t boring. And to be perfectly honest, we were taking a lot ofdrugs, and it’s difficult to get bored when you’re offyour face all the time. I was happy. I was reallyhappy.” Kamal nods. “I understand, although I’m not surethat sounds like a very real kind of happiness,” hesays. “Not the sort of happiness that can endure,that can sustain you.” I laugh. “I was seventeen. I was with a man whoexcited me, who adored me. I’d got away from myparents, away from the house where everything,everything, reminded me of my dead brother. Ididn’t need it to endure or sustain. I just needed itfor right then.” “So what happened?” It seems as though the room gets darker then. Here we are, at the thing I never say. “I got pregnant.” He nods, waiting for me to go on. Part of mewants him to stop me, to ask more questions, but hedoesn’t, he just waits. It gets darker still. “It was too late when I realized to?.?.?. to get rid ofit. Of her. It’s what I would have done, had I notbeen so stupid, so oblivious. The truth is that shewasn’t wanted, by either of us.” Kamal gets to his feet, goes to the kitchen andcomes back with a sheet of kitchen roll for me towipe my eyes. He hands it to me and sits down. It’sa while before I go on. Kamal sits, just as he usedto in our sessions, his eyes on mine, his handsfolded in his lap, patient, immobile. It must take themost incredible self-control, that stillness, thatpassivity; it must be exhausting. My legs are trembling, my knee jerking as thoughon a puppeteer’s string. I get to my feet to stop it. Iwalk to the kitchen door and back again, scratchingthe palms of my hands. “We were both so stupid,” I tell him. “We didn’treally even acknowledge what was happening, we justcarried on. I didn’t go to see a doctor, I didn’t eatthe right things or take supplements, I didn’t do anyof the things you’re supposed to. We just carried onliving our lives. We didn’t even acknowledge thatanything had changed. I got fatter and slower andmore tired, we both got irritable and fought all thetime, but nothing really changed until she came.” He lets me cry. While I do so, he moves to thechair nearest mine and sits down at my side so thathis knees are almost touching my thigh. He leansforward. He doesn’t touch me, but our bodies areclose, I can smell his scent, clean in this dirty room,sharp and astringent. My voice is a whisper, it doesn’t feel right to saythese words out loud. “I had her at home,” I say. “Itwas stupid, but I had this thing about hospitals atthe time, because the last time I’d been in one waswhen Ben was killed. Plus I hadn’t been for any ofthe scans. I’d been smoking, drinking a bit, I couldn’tface the lectures. I couldn’t face any of it. I think?.?.?. right up until the end, it just didn’t seem like it wasreal, like it was actually going to happen. “Mac had this friend who was a nurse, or who’ddone some nursing training or something. She cameround, and it was OK. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, itwas horrible, of course, painful and frightening,but?.?.?. then there she was. She was very small. Idon’t remember exactly what her weight was. That’sterrible, isn’t it?” Kamal doesn’t say anything, hedoesn’t move. “She was lovely. She had dark eyesand blond hair. She didn’t cry a lot, she slept well,right from the very beginning. She was good. Shewas a good girl.” I have to stop there for a moment. “I expected everything to be so hard, but it wasn’t.” It’s darker still, I’m sure of it, but I look up andKamal is there, his eyes on mine, his expression soft. He’s listening. He wants me to tell him. My mouth isdry, so I take another sip of wine. It hurts toswallow. “We called her Elizabeth. Libby.” It feels sostrange, saying her name out loud after such a longtime. “Libby,” I say again, enjoying the feel of hername in my mouth. I want to say it over and over. Kamal reaches out at last and takes my hand in his,his thumb against my wrist, on my pulse. “One day we had a fight, Mac and I. I don’tremember what it was about. We did that every nowand again—little arguments that blew up into bigones, nothing physical, nothing bad like that, but we’dscream at each other and I’d threaten to leave, orhe’d just walk out and I wouldn’t see him for acouple of days. “It was the first time it had happened since she wasborn—the first time he’d just gone off and left me. She was just a few months old. The roof wasleaking. I remember that: the sound of waterdripping into buckets in the kitchen. It was freezingcold, the wind driving off the sea; it had been rainingfor days. I lit a fire in the living room, but it keptgoing out. I was so tired. I was drinking just towarm up, but it wasn’t working, so I decided to getinto the bath. I took Libby in with me, put her onmy chest, her head just under my chin.” The room gets darker and darker until I’m thereagain, lying in the water, her body pressing againstmine, a candle flickering just behind my head. I canhear it guttering, smell the wax, feel the chill of theair around my neck and shoulders. I’m heavy, mybody sinking into the warmth. I’m exhausted. Andthen suddenly the candle is out and I’m cold. Reallycold, my teeth chattering in my head, my whole bodyshaking. The house feels like it’s shaking, too, thewind screaming, tearing at the slates on the roof. “I fell asleep,” I say, and then I can’t say any more,because I can feel her again, no longer on my chest,her body wedged between my arm and the edge ofthe tub, her face in the water. We were both socold. For a moment, neither of us move. I can hardlybear to look at him, but when I do, he doesn’t recoilfrom me. He doesn’t say a word. He puts his armaround my shoulder and pulls me to him, my faceagainst his chest. I breathe him in and I wait to feeldifferent, to feel lighter, to feel better or worse nowthat there is another living soul who knows. I feelrelieved, I think, because I know from his reactionthat I have done the right thing. He isn’t angry withme, he doesn’t think I’m a monster. I am safe here,completely safe with him. I don’t know how long I stay there in his arms, butwhen I come back to myself, my phone is ringing. Idon’t answer it, but a moment later it beeps to alertme that there’s a text. It’s from Scott. Where areyou? And seconds after that, the phone starts ringingagain. This time it’s Tara. Disentangling myself fromKamal’s embrace, I answer. “Megan, I don’t know what you’re up to, but youneed to call Scott. He’s rung here four times. I toldhim you’d nipped out to the offie to get some wine,but I don’t think he believed me. He says you’re notpicking up your phone.” She sounds pissed off, and Iknow I should appease her, but I don’t have theenergy. “OK,” I say. “Thanks. I’ll ring him now.” “Megan—” she says, but I end the call before I canhear another word. It’s after ten. I’ve been here for more than twohours. I turn off my phone and turn to face Kamal. “I don’t want to go home,” I say. He nods, but he doesn’t invite me to stay. Insteadhe says, “You can come back, if you like. Anothertime.” I step forward, closing the gap between our bodies,stand on tiptoe and kiss his lips. He doesn’t pullaway from me. RACHEL SATURDAY, AUGUST 3, 2013 MORNING I dreamed last night that I was in the woods, walkingby myself. It was dusk, or dawn, I’m not quite sure,but there was someone else there with me. I couldn’tsee them, I just knew they were there, gaining onme. I didn’t want to be seen, I wanted to run away,but I couldn’t, my limbs were too heavy, and when Itried to cry out I made no sound at all. When I wake, white light slips through the slats onthe blind. The rain is finally gone, its work done. Theroom is warm; it smells terrible, rank and sour—I’vebarely left it since Thursday. Outside, I can hear thevacuum purr and whine. Cathy is cleaning. She’ll begoing out later; when she does I can venture out. I’m not sure what I will do, I can’t seem to rightmyself. One more day of drinking, perhaps, and thenI’ll get myself straight tomorrow. My phone buzzes briefly, telling me its battery isdying. I pick it up to plug it into the charger and Inotice that I have two missed calls from last night. Idial into voice mail. I have one message. “Rachel, hi. It’s Mum. Listen, I’m coming down toLondon tomorrow. Saturday. I’ve got a spot ofshopping to do. Could we meet up for a coffee orsomething? Darling, it’s not a good time for you tocome and stay now. There’s?.?.?. well, I’ve got a newfriend, and you know how it is in the early stages.” She titters. “Anyway, I’m very happy to give you aloan to tide you over for a couple of weeks. We’lltalk about it tomorrow. OK, darling. Bye.” I’m going to have to be straight with her, tell herexactly how bad things are. That is not aconversation I want to have stone-cold sober. I haulmyself out of bed: I can go down to the shops nowand just have a couple of glasses before I go out. Take the edge off. I look at my phone again, checkthe missed calls. Only one is from my mother—theother is from Scott. A message left at quarter to onein the morning. I sit there, with the phone in myhand, debating whether to call him back. Not now,too early. Perhaps later? After one glass, though, nottwo. I plug the phone in to charge, pull the blind up andopen the window, then go to the bathroom and runa cold shower. I scrub my skin and wash my hairand try to quieten the voice in my head that tells meit’s an odd thing to do, less than forty-eight hoursafter your wife’s body has been discovered, to ringanother woman in the middle of the night. EVENING The earth is still drying out, but the sun is almostbreaking through thick white cloud. I bought myselfone of those little bottles of wine—just one. Ishouldn’t, but lunch with my mother would test thewillpower of a lifelong teetotaller. Still, she’s promisedto transfer £300 into my bank account, so it wasn’ta complete waste of time. I didn’t admit how bad things were. I didn’t tell herI’ve been out of work for months, or that I wasfired (she thinks her money is tiding me over untilmy unemployment check arrives). I didn’t tell herhow bad things had got on the drinking front, andshe didn’t notice. Cathy did. When I saw her on myway out this morning, she gave me a look and said,“Oh for God’s sake. Already?” I have no idea howshe does that, but she always knows. Even if I’veonly had half a glass, she takes one look at me andshe knows. “I can tell from your eyes,” she says, but when Icheck myself in the mirror I look exactly the same. Her patience is running out, her sympathy, too. Ihave to stop. Only not today. I can’t today. It’s toohard today. I should have been prepared for it, should haveexpected it, but somehow I didn’t. I got onto thetrain and she was everywhere, her face beamingfrom every newspaper: beautiful, blond, happyMegan, looking right into the camera, right at me. Someone has left behind their copy of the Times,so I read their report. The formal identification camelast night, the postmortem is today. A policespokesman is quoted saying that “Mrs. Hipwell’scause of death may be difficult to establish becauseher body has been outside for some time, and hasbeen submerged in water for several days, at least.” It’s horrible to think about, with her picture right infront of me. What she looked like then, what shelooks like now. There’s a brief mention of Kamal, his arrest andrelease, and a statement from Detective InspectorGaskill, saying that they are “pursuing a number ofleads,” which I imagine means they are clueless. Iclose the newspaper and put it on the floor at myfeet. I can’t bear to look at her any longer. I don’twant to read those hopeless, empty words. I lean my head against the window. Soon we’ll passnumber twenty-three. I glance over, just for amoment, but we’re too far away on this side of thetrack to really see anything. I keep thinking about theday I saw Kamal, about the way he kissed her,about how angry I was and how I wanted toconfront her. What would have happened if I haddone? What would have happened if I’d gone roundthen, banged on the door and asked her what thehell she thought she was up to? Would she still beout there, on her terrace? I close my eyes. At Northcote, someone gets on andsits down in the seat next to me. I don’t open myeyes to look, but it strikes me as odd, because thetrain is half empty. The hairs are standing up on theback of my neck. I can smell aftershave undercigarette smoke and I know that I’ve smelled thatscent before. “Hello.” I look round and recognize the man with the redhair, the one from the station, from that Saturday. He’s smiling at me, offering his hand to shake. I’mso surprised that I take it. His palm feels hard andcalloused. “You remember me?” “Yes,” I say, shaking my head as I’m saying it. “Yes,a few weeks ago, at the station.” He’s nodding and smiling. “I was a bit wasted,” hesays, then laughs. “Think you were, too, weren’t you,love?” He’s younger than I’d realized, maybe late twenties. He has a nice face, not good-looking, just nice. Open,a wide smile. His accent’s Cockney, or Estuary,something like that. He’s looking at me as though heknows something about me, as though he’s teasingme, as though we have an in joke. We don’t. I lookaway from him. I ought to say something, ask him,What did you see? “You doing OK?” he asks. “Yes, I’m fine.” I’m looking out of the window again,but I can feel his eyes on me and I have the oddesturge to turn towards him, to smell the smoke on hisclothes and his breath. I like the smell of cigarettesmoke. Tom smoked when we first met. I used tohave the odd one with him, when we were outdrinking or after sex. It’s erotic to me, that smell; itreminds me of being happy. I graze my teeth overmy lower lip, wondering for a moment what hewould do if I turned to face him and kissed hismouth. I feel his body move. He’s leaning forward,bending down, he picks up the newspaper at myfeet. “Awful, innit? Poor girl. It’s weird, ’cos we werethere that night. It was that night, wasn’t it? Thatshe went missing?” It’s like he’s read my mind, and it stuns me. I whipround to look at him. I want to see the expression inhis eyes. “I’m sorry?” “That night when I met you on the train. That wasthe night that girl went missing, the one they justfound. And they’re saying the last time anyone sawher was outside the station. I keep thinking, youknow, that I might’ve seen her. Don’t remember,though. I was wasted.” He shrugs. “You don’tremember anything, do you?” It’s strange, the way I feel when he says this. Ican’t remember ever feeling like this before. I can’treply because my mind has gone somewhere elseentirely, and it’s not the words he’s saying, it’s theaftershave. Under the smoke, that scent—fresh,lemony, aromatic—evokes a memory of sitting on thetrain next to him, just like I am now, only we’regoing the other way and someone is laughing reallyloudly. He’s got his hand on my arm, he’s asking if Iwant to go for a drink, but suddenly something iswrong. I feel frightened, confused. Someone is tryingto hit me. I can see the fist coming and I duckdown, my hands up to protect my head. I’m not onthe train any longer, I’m in the street. I can hearlaughter again, or shouting. I’m on the steps, I’m onthe pavement, it’s so confusing, my heart is racing. Idon’t want to be anywhere near this man. I want toget away from him. I scramble to my feet, saying “Excuse me” loudly sothe other people in the carriage will hear, but there’shardly anyone in here and no one looks around. Theman looks up at me, surprised, and moves his legsto one side to let me past. “Sorry, love,” he says. “Didn’t mean to upset you.” I walk away from him as fast as I can, but thetrain jolts and sways and I almost lose my balance. Igrab on to a seat back to stop myself from falling. People are staring at me. I hurry through to the nextcarriage and all the way through to the one afterthat; I just keep going until I get to the end of thetrain. I feel breathless and afraid. I can’t explain it, Ican’t remember what happened, but I can feel it, thefear and confusion. I sit down, facing in the directionI have just come from so that I’ll be able to see himif he comes after me. Pressing my palms into my eye sockets, Iconcentrate. I’m trying to get it back, to see what Ijust saw. I curse myself for drinking. If only my headwas straight?.?.?. but there it is. It’s dark, and there’sa man walking away from me. A woman walkingaway from me? A woman, wearing a blue dress. It’sAnna. Blood is throbbing in my head, my heart pounding. I don’t know whether what I’m seeing, feeling, is realor not, imagination or memory. I squeeze my eyestightly shut and try to feel it again, to see it again,but it’s gone. ANNA SATURDAY, AUGUST 3, 2013 EVENING Tom is meeting some of his army buddies for adrink and Evie’s down for her nap. I’m sitting in thekitchen, doors and windows closed despite the heat. The rain of the past week has stopped at last; nowit’s stiflingly close. I’m bored. I can’t think of anything to do. I fancygoing shopping, spending a bit of money on myself,but it’s hopeless with Evie. She gets irritable and Iget stressed. So I’m just hanging round the house. Ican’t watch television or look at a newspaper. I don’twant to read about it, I don’t want to see Megan’sface, I don’t want to think about it. How can I not think about it when we’re here, justfour doors away? I rang around to see if anyone was up for aplaydate, but everyone’s got plans. I even called mysister, but of course you’ve got to book her at leasta week in advance. In any case, she said she wastoo hungover to spend time with Evie. I felt ahorrible pang of envy then, a longing for Saturdaysspent lying on the sofa with the newspapers and ahazy memory of leaving the club the night before. Stupid, really, because what I’ve got now is a milliontimes better, and I made sacrifices to secure it. NowI just need to protect it. So here I sit in mysweltering house, trying not to think about Megan. Itry not to think about her and I jump every time Ihear a noise, I flinch when a shadow passes thewindow. It’s intolerable. What I can’t stop thinking about is the fact thatRachel was here the night Megan went missing,stumbling around, totally pissed, and then she justdisappeared. Tom looked for her for ages, but hecouldn’t find her. I can’t stop wondering what shewas doing. There is no connection between Rachel and MeganHipwell. I spoke to the police officer, Detective Riley,about it after we saw Rachel at the Hipwells’ house,and she said it was nothing to worry about. “She’s arubbernecker,” she said. “Lonely, a bit desperate. Shejust wants to be involved in something.” She’s probably right. But then I think about hercoming into my house and taking my child, Iremember the terror I felt when I saw her with Eviedown by the fence. I think about that horrible,chilling little smile she gave me when I saw heroutside the Hipwells’ house. Detective Riley doesn’tknow just how dangerous Rachel can be. RACHEL SUNDAY, AUGUST 4, 2013 MORNING It’s different, the nightmare I wake from thismorning. In it, I’ve done something wrong, but Idon’t know what it is, all I know is that it cannot beput right. All I know is that Tom hates me now, hewon’t talk to me any longer, and he has toldeveryone I know about the terrible thing I’ve done,and everyone has turned against me: old colleagues,my friends, even my mother. They look at me withdisgust, contempt, and no one will listen to me, noone will let me tell them how sorry I am. I feelawful, desperately guilty, I just can’t think what it isthat I’ve done. I wake and I know the dream mustcome from an old memory, some ancienttransgression—it doesn’t matter which one now. After I got off the train yesterday, I hung aroundoutside Ashbury station for a full fifteen or twentyminutes. I watched to see if he’d got off the trainwith me—the red-haired man—but there was no signof him. I kept thinking that I might have missed him,that he was there somewhere, just waiting for me towalk home so that he could follow me. I thoughthow desperately I would love to be able to run homeand for Tom to be waiting for me. To have someonewaiting for me. I walked home via the off-licence. The flat was empty when I got back, it had thefeeling of a place just vacated, as though I’d justmissed Cathy, but the note on the counter said shewas going out for lunch with Damien in Henley andthat she wouldn’t be back until Sunday night. I feltrestless, afraid. I walked from room to room, pickingthings up, putting them down. Something felt off, butI realized eventually that it was just me. Still, the silence ringing in my ears sounded likevoices, so I poured myself a glass of wine, and thenanother, and then I phoned Scott. The phone wentstraight to voice mail: his message from anotherlifetime, the voice of a busy, confident man with abeautiful wife at home. After a few minutes, I phonedagain. The phone was answered, but no one spoke. “Hello?” “Who is this?” “It’s Rachel,” I said. “Rachel Watson.” “Oh.” There was noise in the background, voices, awoman. His mother, perhaps. “You?.?.?. I missed your call,” I said. “No?.?.?. no. Did I call you? Oh. By mistake.” Hesounded flustered. “No, just put it there,” he said,and it took me a moment to realize he wasn’t talkingto me. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Yes.” His tone was flat and even. “So sorry.” “Thank you.” “Did you?.?.?. did you need to talk to me?” “No, I must have rung you by mistake,” he said,with more conviction this time. “Oh.” I could tell he was keen to get off the phone. I knew I should leave him to his family, his grief. Iknew that I should, but I didn’t. “Do you knowAnna?” I asked him. “Anna Watson?” “Who? You mean your ex’s missus?” “Yes.” “No. I mean not really. Megan?.?.?. Megan did a bitof babysitting for her, last year. Why do you ask?” I don’t know why I ask. I don’t know. “Can wemeet?” I asked him. “I wanted to talk to you aboutsomething.” “About what?” He sounded annoyed. “It’s really nota great time.” Stung by his sarcasm, I was ready to hang upwhen he said, “I’ve got a house full of people here. Tomorrow? Come by the house tomorrow afternoon.” EVENING He’s cut himself shaving: there’s blood on his cheekand on his collar. His hair is damp and he smells ofsoap and aftershave. He nods at me and standsaside, gesturing for me to the enter the house, buthe doesn’t say anything. The house is dark, stuffy,the blinds in the living room closed, the curtainsdrawn across the French doors leading to thegarden. There are Tupperware containers on thekitchen counters. “Everyone brings food,” Scott says. He gestures atme to sit down at the table, but he remains standing,his arms hanging limply at his sides. “You wanted totell me something?” He is a man on autopilot, hedoesn’t look me in the eye. He looks defeated. “I wanted to ask you about Anna Watson, aboutwhether?.?.?. I don’t know. What was her relationshipwith Megan like? Did they like each other?” He frowns, places his hands on the back of thechair in front of him. “No. I mean?.?.?. they didn’tdislike each other. They didn’t really know each othervery well. They didn’t have a relationship.” Hisshoulders seem to sag lower still; he’s weary. “Whyare you asking me about this?” I have to come clean. “I saw her. I think I saw her,outside the underpass by the station. I saw her thatnight?.?.?. the night Megan went missing.” He shakes his head a little, trying to comprehendwhat I’m telling him. “Sorry? You saw her. Youwere?.?.?. Where were you?” “I was here. I was on my way to see?.?.?. to seeTom, my ex-husband, but I—” He squeezes his eyes shut, rubs his forehead. “Hang on a minute—you were here—and you sawAnna Watson? And? I know Anna was here. Shelives a few doors away. She told the police that shewent to the station around seven but that she didn’trecall seeing Megan.” His hands grip the chair, I cantell he is losing patience. “What exactly are yousaying?” “I’d been drinking,” I say, my face reddening with afamiliar shame. “I don’t remember exactly, but I’vejust got this feeling—” Scott holds his hand up. “Enough. I don’t want tohear this. You’ve got some problem with your ex,your ex’s new wife, that’s obvious. It’s got nothing todo with me, nothing to do with Megan, has it? Jesus,aren’t you ashamed? Do you have any idea of whatI’m going through here? Do you know that thepolice had me in for questioning this morning?” He’spushing down so hard on the chair, I fear it’s goingto break, I’m steeling myself for the crack. “And youcome here with this bullshit. I’m sorry your life is atotal fucking disaster, but believe me, it’s a picniccompared to mine. So if you don’t mind?.?.?.” Hejerks his head in the direction of the front door. I get to my feet. I feel foolish, ridiculous. And I amashamed. “I wanted to help. I wanted—” “You can’t, all right? You can’t help me. No onecan help me. My wife is dead, and the police think Ikilled her.” His voice is rising, spots of colour appearon his cheeks. “They think I killed her.” “But?.?.?. Kamal Abdic?.?.?.” The chair crashes against the kitchen wall with suchforce that one of the legs splinters away. I jumpback in fright, but Scott has barely moved. His handsare back at his sides, balled into fists. I can see theveins under his skin. “Kamal Abdic,” he says, teeth gritted, “is no longer asuspect.” His tone is even, but he is struggling torestrain himself. I can feel the anger vibrating offhim. I want to get to the front door, but he is in myway, blocking my path, blocking out what little lightthere was in the room. “Do you know what he’s been saying?” he asks,turning away from me to pick up the chair. Ofcourse I don’t, I think, but I realize once again thathe’s not really talking to me. “Kamal’s got all sorts ofstories. Kamal says that Megan was unhappy, that Iwas a jealous, controlling husband, a—what was theword?—an emotional abuser.” He spits the wordsout in disgust. “Kamal says Megan was afraid of me.” “But he’s—” “He isn’t the only one. That friend of hers,Tara—she says that Megan asked her to cover forher sometimes, that Megan wanted her to lie to meabout where she was, what she was doing.” He places the chair back at the table and it fallsover. I take a step towards the hallway, and he looksat me then. “I am a guilty man,” he says, his face atwist of anguish. “I am as good as convicted.” He kicks the broken chair aside and sits down onone of the three remaining good ones. I hover,unsure. Stick or twist? He starts to talk again, hisvoice so soft I can barely hear him. “Her phone wasin her pocket,” he says. I take a step closer to him. “There was a message on it from me. The last thingI ever said to her, the last words she ever read,were Go to hell you lying bitch.” His chin on his chest, his shoulders start to shake. Iam close enough to touch him. I raise my hand and,trembling, put my fingers lightly on the back of hisneck. He doesn’t shrug me away. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it, because althoughI’m shocked to hear the words, to imagine that hecould speak to her like that, I know what it is tolove someone and to say the most terrible things tothem, in anger or anguish. “A text message,” I say. “It’s not enough. If that’s all they have?.?.?.” “It’s not, though, is it?” He straightens up then,shrugging my hand away from him. I walk backaround the table and sit down opposite him. Hedoesn’t look up at me. “I have a motive. I didn’tbehave?.?.?. I didn’t react the right way when shewalked out. I didn’t panic soon enough. I didn’t callher soon enough.” He gives a bitter laugh. “Andthere is a pattern of abusive behaviour, according toKamal Abdic.” It’s then that he looks up at me, thathe sees me, that a light comes on. Hope. “You?.?.?. you can talk to the police. You can tell them that it’sa lie, that he’s lying. You can at least give anotherside of the story, tell them that I loved her, that wewere happy.” I can feel panic rising in my chest. He thinks I canhelp him. He is pinning his hopes on me and all Ihave for him is a lie, a bloody lie. “They won’t believe me,” I say weakly. “They don’tbelieve me. I’m an unreliable witness.” The silence between us swells and fills the room; afly buzzes angrily against the French doors. Scottpicks at the dried blood on his cheek, I can hear hisnails scraping against his skin. I push my chair back,the legs scraping on the tiles, and he looks up. “You were here,” he says, as though the piece ofinformation I gave him fifteen minutes ago is onlynow sinking in. “You were in Witney the night Megan went missing?” I can barely hear him above the blood thudding inmy ears. I nod. “Why didn’t you tell the police that?” he asks. I cansee the muscle tic in his jaw. “I did. I did tell them that. But I didn’t have?.?.?. Ididn’t see anything. I don’t remember anything.” He gets to his feet, walks over to the French doorsand pulls back the curtain. The sunshine ismomentarily blinding. Scott stands with his back tome, his arms folded. “You were drunk,” he says matter-of-factly. “But youmust remember something. You must—that’s whyyou keep coming back here, isn’t it?” He turnsaround to face me. “That’s it, isn’t it? Why you keepcontacting me. You know something.” He’s saying thisas though it’s fact: not a question, not an accusation,not a theory. “Did you see his car?” he asks. “Think. Blue Vauxhall Corsa. Did you see it?” I shake myhead and he throws his arms up in frustration. “Don’t just dismiss it. Really think. What did you see? You saw Anna Watson, but that doesn’t meananything. You saw—come on! Who did you see?” Blinking into the sunlight, I try desperately to piecetogether what I saw, but nothing comes. Nothing real,nothing helpful. Nothing I could say out loud. I wasin an argument. Or perhaps I witnessed anargument. I stumbled on the station steps, a manwith red hair helped me up—I think that he waskind to me, although now he makes me feel afraid. Iknow that I had a cut on my head, another on mylip, bruises on my arms. I think I remember being inthe underpass. It was dark. I was frightened,confused. I heard voices. I heard someone callMegan’s name. No, that was a dream. That wasn’treal. I remember blood. Blood on my head, blood onmy hands. I remember Anna. I don’t rememberTom. I don’t remember Kamal or Scott or Megan. He is watching me, waiting for me to say something,to offer him some crumb of comfort, but I havenone. “That night,” he says, “that’s the key time.” He sitsback down at the table, closer to me now, his backto the window. There is a sheen of sweat on hisforehead and his upper lip, and he shivers as thoughwith fever. “That’s when it happened. They thinkthat’s when it happened. They can’t be sure?.?.?.” Hetails off. “They can’t be sure. Because of thecondition?.?.?. of the body.” He takes a deep breath. “But they think it was that night. Or soon after.” He’s back on autopilot, speaking to the room, not tome. I listen in silence as he tells the room that thecause of death was head trauma, her skull wasfractured in several places. No sexual assault, or atleast none that they could confirm, because of hercondition. Her condition, which was ruined. When he comes back to himself, back to me, thereis fear in his eyes, desperation. “If you remember anything,” he says, “you have tohelp me. Please, try to remember, Rachel.” Thesound of my name on his lips makes my stomachflip, and I feel wretched. On the train, on the way home, I think about whathe said, and I wonder if it’s true. Is the reason thatI can’t let go of this trapped inside my head? Isthere some knowledge I’m desperate to impart? Iknow that I feel something for him, something I can’tname and shouldn’t feel. But is it more than that? Ifthere’s something in my head, then maybe someonecan help me get it out. Someone like a psychiatrist. A therapist. Someone like Kamal Abdic. TUESDAY, AUGUST 6, 2013 MORNING I’ve barely slept. All night, I lay awake thinking aboutit, turning it over and over in my mind. Is thisstupid, reckless, pointless? Is it dangerous? I don’tknow what I’m doing. I made an appointmentyesterday morning to see Dr. Kamal Abdic. I rang hissurgery and spoke to a receptionist, asked for himby name. I might have been imagining it, but Ithought she sounded surprised. She said he couldsee me today at four thirty. So soon? My heartbattering my ribs, my mouth dry, I said that wouldbe fine. The session costs £75. That £300 from mymother is not going to last very long. Ever since I made the appointment, I haven’t beenable to think of anything else. I’m afraid, but I’mexcited, too. I can’t deny that there’s a part of methat finds the idea of meeting Kamal thrilling. Becauseall this started with him: a glimpse of him and mylife changed course, veered off the tracks. Themoment I saw him kiss Megan, everything changed. And I need to see him. I need to do something,because the police are only interested in Scott. Theyhad him in for questioning again yesterday. Theywon’t confirm it, of course, but there’s footage on theInternet: Scott, walking into the police station, hismother at his side. His tie was too tight, he lookedstrangled. Everyone speculates. The newspapers say that thepolice are being more circumspect, that they cannotafford to make another hasty arrest. There is talk ofa botched investigation, suggestions that a change inpersonnel may be required. On the Internet, the talkabout Scott is horrible, the theories wild, disgusting. There are screen grabs of him giving his first tearfulappeal for Megan’s return, and next to them arepictures of killers who had also appeared ontelevision, sobbing, seemingly distraught at the fate oftheir loved ones. It’s horrific, inhuman. I can onlypray that he never looks at this stuff. It would breakhis heart. So, stupid and reckless I may be, but I am going tosee Kamal Abdic, because unlike all the speculators, Ihave seen Scott. I’ve been close enough to touchhim, I know what he is, and he isn’t a murderer. EVENING My legs are still trembling as I climb the steps toCorly station. I’ve been shaking like this for hours, itmust be the adrenaline, my heart just won’t slowdown. The train is packed—no chance of a seat here,it’s not like getting on at Euston, so I have to stand,midway through a carriage. It’s like a sweatbox. I’mtrying to breathe slowly, my eyes cast down to myfeet. I’m just trying to get a handle on what I’mfeeling. Exultation, fear, confusion and guilt. Mostly guilt. It wasn’t what I expected. By the time I got to the practice, I’d worked myselfup into a state of complete and utter terror: I wasconvinced that he was going to look at me andsomehow know that I knew, that he was going toview me as a threat. I was afraid that I would saythe wrong thing, that somehow I wouldn’t be able tostop myself from saying Megan’s name. Then Iwalked into a doctor’s waiting room, boring andbland, and spoke to a middle-aged receptionist, whotook my details without really looking at me. I satdown and picked up a copy of Vogue and flickedthrough it with trembling fingers, trying to focus mymind on the task ahead while at the same timeattempting to look unremarkably bored, just like anyother patient. There were two others in there: a twentysomethingman reading something on his phone and an olderwoman who stared glumly at her feet, not oncelooking up, even when her name was called by thereceptionist. She just got up and shuffled off, sheknew where she was going. I waited there for fiveminutes, ten. I could feel my breathing gettingshallow. The waiting room was warm and airless, andI felt as though I couldn’t get enough oxygen intomy lungs. I worried that I might faint. Then a door flew open and a man came out, andbefore I’d even had time to see him properly, I knewthat it was him. I knew the way I knew that hewasn’t Scott the first time I saw him, when he wasnothing but a shadow moving towards her—just animpression of tallness, of loose, languid movement. Heheld out his hand to me. “Ms. Watson?” I raised my eyes to meet his and felt a jolt ofelectricity all the way down my spine. I put my handinto his. It was warm and dry and huge, envelopingthe whole of mine. “Please,” he said, indicating for me to follow himinto his office, and I did, feeling sick, dizzy all theway. I was walking in her footsteps. She did all this. She sat opposite him in the chair he told me to sitin, he probably folded his hands just below his chinthe way he did this afternoon, he probably noddedat her in the same way, saying, “OK, what wouldyou like to talk to me about today?” Everything about him was warm: his hand, when Ishook it; his eyes; the tone of his voice. I searchedhis face for clues, for signs of the vicious brute whosmashed Megan’s head open, for a glimpse of thetraumatized refugee who had lost his family. Icouldn’t see any. And for a while, I forgot myself. Iforgot to be afraid of him. I was sitting there and Iwasn’t panicking any longer. I swallowed hard andtried to remember what I had to say, and I said it. Itold him that for four years I’d had problems withalcohol, that my drinking had cost me my marriageand my job, it was costing me my health, obviously,and I feared it might cost me my sanity, too. “I don’t remember things,” I said. “I black out andI can’t remember where I’ve been or what I’ve done. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve done or said terriblethings, and I can’t remember. And if?.?.?. if someonetells me something I’ve done, it doesn’t even feel likeme. It doesn’t feel like it was me who was doing thatthing. And it’s so hard to feel responsible forsomething you don’t remember. So I never feel badenough. I feel bad, but the thing that I’ve done—it’sremoved from me. It’s like it doesn’t belong to me.” All this came out, all this truth, I just spilled it infront of him in the first few minutes of being in hispresence. I was so ready to say it, I’d been waitingto say it to someone. But it shouldn’t have been him. He listened, his clear amber eyes on mine, his handsfolded, motionless. He didn’t look around the roomor make notes. He listened. And eventually henodded slightly and said, “You want to takeresponsibility for what you have done, and you find itdifficult to do that, to feel fully accountable if youcannot remember it?” “Yes, that’s it, that’s exactly it.” “So, how do we take responsibility? You canapologize—and even if you cannot remembercommitting your transgression, that doesn’t mean thatyour apology, and the sentiment behind your apology,is not sincere.” “But I want to feel it. I want to feel?.?.?. worse.” It’s an odd thing to say, but I think this all thetime. I don’t feel bad enough. I know what I’mresponsible for, I know all the terrible things I’vedone, even if I don’t remember the details—but I feeldistanced from those actions. I feel them at oneremove. “You think that you should feel worse than you do? That you don’t feel bad enough for your mistakes?” “Yes.” Kamal shook his head. “Rachel, you have told methat you lost your marriage, you lost your job—doyou not think this is punishment enough?” I shook my head. He leaned back a little in his chair. “I think perhapsyou are being rather hard on yourself.” “I’m not.” “All right. OK. Can we go back a bit? To when theproblem started. You said it was?.?.?. four years ago? Can you tell me about that time?” I resisted. I wasn’t completely lulled by the warmthof his voice, by the softness of his eyes. I wasn’tcompletely hopeless. I wasn’t going to start telling himthe whole truth. I wasn’t going to tell him how Ilonged for a baby. I told him that my marriagebroke down, that I was depressed, and that I’dalways been a drinker, but that things just got out ofhand. “Your marriage broke down, so?.?.?. you left yourhusband, or he left you, or?.?.?. you left each other?” “He had an affair,” I said. “He met another womanand fell in love with her.” He nodded, waiting for meto go on. “It wasn’t his fault, though. It was myfault.” “Why do you say that?” “Well, the drinking started before?.?.?.” “So your husband’s affair was not the trigger?” “No, I’d already started, my drinking drove himaway, it was why he stopped?.?.?.” Kamal waited, he didn’t prompt me to go on, hejust let me sit there, waiting for me to say the wordsout loud. “Why he stopped loving me,” I said. I hate myself for crying in front of him. I don’tunderstand why I couldn’t keep my guard up. Ishouldn’t have talked about real things, I should havegone in there with some totally made-up problems,some imaginary persona. I should have been betterprepared. I hate myself for looking at him and believing, for amoment, that he felt for me. Because he looked atme as though he did, not as though he pitied me,but as though he understood me, as though I wassomeone he wanted to help. “So then, Rachel, the drinking started before thebreakdown of your marriage. Do you think you canpoint to an underlying cause? I mean, not everyonecan. For some people, there is just a general slideinto a depressive or an addicted state. Was theresomething specific for you? A bereavement, someother loss?” I shook my head, shrugged. I wasn’t going to tellhim that. I will not tell him that. He waited for a few moments and then glancedquickly at the clock on his desk. “We will pick up next time, perhaps?” he said, andthen he smiled and I went cold. Everything about him is warm—his hands, his eyes,his voice—everything but the smile. You can see thekiller in him when he shows his teeth. My stomach ahard ball, my pulse skyrocketing again, I left his officewithout shaking his outstretched hand. I couldn’tstand to touch him. I understand, I do. I can see what Megan saw inhim, and it’s not just that he’s arrestingly handsome. He’s also calm and reassuring, he exudes a patientkindness. Someone innocent or trusting or simplytroubled might not see through all that, might not seethat under all that calm he’s a wolf. I understandthat. For almost an hour, I was drawn in. I letmyself open up to him. I forgot who he was. Ibetrayed Scott, and I betrayed Megan, and I feelguilty about that. But most of all, I feel guilty because I want to goback. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2013 MORNING I had it again, the dream where I’ve done somethingwrong, where everyone is against me, sides withTom. Where I can’t explain, or even apologize,because I don’t know what the thing is. In the spacebetween dreaming and wakefulness, I think of a realargument, long ago—four years ago—after our firstand only round of IVF failed, when I wanted to tryagain. Tom told me we didn’t have the money, and Ididn’t question that. I knew we didn’t—we’d taken ona big mortgage, he had some debts left over from abad business deal his father had coaxed him intopursuing—I just had to deal with it. I just had tohope that one day we would have the money, and inthe meantime I had to bite back the tears that came,hot and fast, every time I saw a stranger with abump, every time I heard someone else’s happynews. It was a couple of months after we’d found out thatthe IVF had failed that he told me about the trip. Vegas, for four nights, to watch the big fight and letoff some steam. Just him and a couple of his matesfrom the old days, people I had never met. It cost afortune, I know, because I saw the booking receiptfor the flight and the room in his email inbox. I’veno idea what the boxing tickets cost, but I can’timagine they were cheap. It wasn’t enough to pay fora round of IVF, but it would have been a start. Wehad a horrible fight about it. I don’t remember thedetails because I’d been drinking all afternoon,working myself up to confront him about it, so whenI did it was in the worst possible way. I rememberhis coldness the next day, his refusal to speak aboutit. I remember him telling me, in flat disappointedtones, what I’d done and said, how I’d smashed ourframed wedding photograph, how I’d screamed athim for being so selfish, how I’d called him a uselesshusband, a failure. I remember how much I hatedmyself that day. I was wrong, of course I was, to say those thingsto him, but what comes to me now is that I wasn’tunreasonable to be angry. I had every right to beangry, didn’t I? We were trying to have ababy—shouldn’t we have been prepared to makesacrifices? I would have cut off a limb if it meant Icould have had a child. Couldn’t he have forgone aweekend in Vegas? I lie in bed for a bit, thinking about that, and thenI get up and decide to go for a walk, because if Idon’t do something I’m going to want to go roundto the corner shop. I haven’t had a drink sinceSunday and I can feel the fight going on within me,the longing for a little buzz, the urge to get out ofmy head, smashing up against the vague feeling thatsomething has been accomplished and that it wouldbe a shame to throw it away now. Ashbury isn’t really a good place to walk, it’s justshops and suburbs, there isn’t even a decent park. Ihead off through the middle of town, which isn’t sobad when there’s no one else around. The trick is tofool yourself into thinking that you’re headedsomewhere: just pick a spot and set off towards it. Ichose the church at the top of Pleasance Road,which is about two miles from Cathy’s flat. I’ve beento an AA meeting there. I didn’t go to the local onebecause I didn’t want to bump into anyone I mightsee on the street, in the supermarket, on the train. When I get to the church, I turn around and walkback, striding purposefully towards home, a womanwith things to do, somewhere to go. Normal. I watchthe people I pass—the two men running, backpackson, training for the marathon, the young woman in ablack skirt and white trainers, heels in her bag, onher way to work—and I wonder what they’re hiding. Are they moving to stop drinking, running to standstill? Are they thinking about the killer they metyesterday, the one they’re planning to see again? I’m not normal. I’m almost home when I see it. I’ve been lost inthought, thinking about what these sessions withKamal are actually supposed to achieve: am I reallyplanning to rifle through his desk drawers if hehappens to leave the room? To try to trap him intosaying something revealing, to lead him intodangerous territory? Chances are he’s a lot clevererthan I am; chances are he’ll see me coming. Afterall, he knows his name has been in the papers—hemust be alert to the possibility of people trying to getstories on him or information from him. This is what I’m thinking about, head down, eyeson the pavement, as I pass the little Londis shop onthe right and try not to look at it because it raisespossibilities, but out of the corner of my eye I seeher name. I look up and it’s there, in huge letters onthe front of a tabloid newspaper: WAS MEGAN ACHILD KILLER? ANNA WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2013 MORNING I was with the National Childbirth Trust girls atStarbucks when it happened. We were sitting in ourusual spot by the window, the kids were spreading Lego all over the floor, Beth was trying (yet again) topersuade me to join her book club, and then Dianeshowed up. She had this look on her face, theself-importance of someone who is about to deliver apiece of particularly juicy gossip. She could barelycontain herself as she struggled to get her doublebuggy through the door. “Anna,” she said, her face grave, “have you seenthis?” She held up a newspaper with the headlineWAS MEGAN A CHILD KILLER? I was speechless. I juststared at it and, ridiculously, burst into tears. Eviewas horrified. She howled. It was awful. I went to the loos to clean myself (and Evie) up,and when I got back they were all speaking inhushed tones. Diane glanced slyly up at me andasked, “Are you all right, sweetie?” She was enjoyingit, I could tell. I had to leave then, I couldn’t stay. They were allbeing terribly concerned, saying how awful it must befor me, but I could see it on their faces: thinlydisguised disapproval. How could you entrust yourchild to that monster? You must be the worstmother in the world. I tried to call Tom on the way home, but his phonejust went straight to voice mail. I left him a messageto ring me back as soon as possible—I tried to keepmy voice light and even, but I was trembling and mylegs felt shaky, unsteady. I didn’t buy the paper, but I couldn’t resist readingthe story online. It all sounds rather vague. “Sourcesclose to the Hipwell investigation” claim an allegationhas been made that Megan “may have been involvedin the unlawful killing of her own child” ten yearsago. The “sources” also speculate that this could be amotive for her murder. The detective in charge ofthe whole investigation—Gaskill, the one who came tospeak to us after she went missing—made nocomment. Tom rang me back—he was in between meetings,he couldn’t come home. He tried to placate me, hemade all the right noises, he told me it was probablya load of rubbish anyway. “You know you can’tbelieve half the stuff they print in the newspapers.” Ididn’t make too much of a fuss, because he was theone who suggested she come and help out with Eviein the first place. He must be feeling horrible. And he’s right. It may not even be true. But whowould come up with a story like that? Why wouldyou make up a thing like that? And I can’t helpthinking, I knew. I always knew there was somethingoff about that woman. At first I just thought she wasa bit immature, but it was more than that, she wassort of absent. Self-involved. I’m not going to lie—I’mglad she’s gone. Good riddance. EVENING I’m upstairs, in the bedroom. Tom’s watching TVwith Evie. We’re not talking. It’s my fault. He walkedin the door and I just went for him. I was building up to it all day. I couldn’t help it,couldn’t hide from it, she was everywhere I looked. Here, in my house, holding my child, feeding her,changing her, playing with her while I was taking anap. I kept thinking of all the times I left Evie alonewith her, and it made me sick. And then the paranoia came, that feeling I’ve hadalmost all the time I’ve lived in this house, of beingwatched. At first, I used to put it down to the trains. All those faceless bodies staring out of the windows,staring right across at us, it gave me the creeps. Itwas one of the many reasons why I didn’t want tomove in here in the first place, but Tom wouldn’tleave. He said we’d lose money on the sale. At first the trains, and then Rachel. Rachel watchingus, turning up on the street, calling us up all thetime. And then even Megan, when she was herewith Evie: I always felt she had half an eye on me,as though she were assessing me, assessing myparenting, judging me for not being able to cope onmy own. Ridiculous, I know. Then I think about thatday when Rachel came to the house and took Evie,and my whole body goes cold and I think, I’m notbeing ridiculous at all. So by the time Tom came home, I was spoiling fora fight. I issued an ultimatum: we have to leave,there’s no way I can stay in this house, on this road,knowing everything that has gone on here. Everywhere I look now I have to see not onlyRachel, but Megan, too. I have to think abouteverything she touched. It’s too much. I said I didn’tcare whether we got a good price for the house ornot. “You will care when we’re forced to live in a muchworse place, when we can’t make our mortgagepayments,” he said, perfectly reasonably. I askedwhether he couldn’t ask his parents to help out—theyhave plenty of money—but he said he wouldn’t askthem, that he’d never ask them for anything again,and he got angry then, said he didn’t want to talkabout it anymore. It’s because of how his parentstreated him when he left Rachel for me. I shouldn’teven have mentioned them, it always pisses him off. But I can’t help it. I feel desperate, because nowevery time I close my eyes I see her, sitting there atthe kitchen table with Evie on her lap. She’d beplaying with her and smiling and chattering, but itnever seemed real, it never seemed as if she reallywanted to be there. She always seemed so happy tobe handing Evie back to me when it was time forher to go. It was almost as though she didn’t likethe feel of a child in her arms. RACHEL WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2013 EVENING The heat is insufferable, it builds and builds. With theapartment windows open, you can taste the carbonmonoxide rising from the street below. My throatitches. I’m taking my second shower of the daywhen the phone rings. I let it go, and it rings again. And again. By the time I’m out, it’s ringing for afourth time, and I answer. He sounds panicky, his breath short. His voicecomes to me in snatches. “I can’t go home,” he says. “There are cameras everywhere.” “Scott?” “I know this is?.?.?. this is really weird, but I justneed to go somewhere, somewhere they won’t bewaiting for me. I can’t go to my mother’s, myfriends’. I’m just?.?.?. driving around. I’ve been drivingaround since I left the police station?.?.?.” There’s acatch in his voice. “I just need an hour or two. Tosit, to think. Without them, without the police, withoutpeople asking me fucking questions. I’m sorry, butcould I come to your house?” I say yes, of course. Not just because he soundspanicked, desperate, but because I want to see him. Iwant to help him. I give him the address and hesays he’ll be here in fifteen minutes. The doorbell rings ten minutes later: short, sharp,urgent bursts. “I’m sorry to do this,” he says as I open the frontdoor. “I didn’t know where to go.” He has a huntedlook to him: he’s shaken, pale, his skin slick withsweat. “It’s all right,” I say, stepping aside to allow him topass me. I show him into the living room, tell him tosit down. I fetch him a glass of water from thekitchen. He drinks it, almost in one gulp, then sits,bent over, forearms on his knees, head hangingdown. I hover, unsure whether to speak or to hold mytongue. I fetch his glass and refill it, saying nothing. Eventually, he starts to speak. “You think the worst has happened,” he saysquietly. “I mean, you would think that, wouldn’tyou?” He looks up at me. “My wife is dead, and thepolice think that I killed her. What could be worsethan that?” He’s talking about the news, about the thingsthey’re saying about her. This tabloid story,supposedly leaked by someone in the police, aboutMegan’s involvement in the death of a child. Murky,speculative stuff, a smear campaign on a deadwoman. It’s despicable. “It isn’t true, though,” I say to him. “It can’t be.” His expression is blank, uncomprehending. “DetectiveRiley told me this morning,” he says. He coughs,clears his throat. “The news I always wanted to hear. You can’t imagine,” he goes on, his voice barelymore than a whisper, “how I’ve longed for it. I usedto daydream about it, imagine how she’d look, howshe’d smile at me, shy and knowing, how she’d takemy hand and press it to her lips?.?.?.” He’s lost, he’sdreaming, I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Today,” he says, “today I got the news that Meganwas pregnant.” He starts to cry, and I am choking, too, crying foran infant who never existed, the child of a woman Inever knew. But the horror of it is almost too muchto bear. I cannot understand how Scott is stillbreathing. It should have killed him, should havesucked the life right out of him. Somehow, though,he is still here. I can’t speak, can’t move. The living room is hot,airless despite the open windows. I can hear noisesfrom the street below: a police siren, young girlsshouting and laughing, bass booming from a passingcar. Normal life. But in here, the world is ending. ForScott, the world is ending, and I can’t speak. I standthere, mute, helpless, useless. Until I hear footfalls on the steps outside, thefamiliar jangle of Cathy fishing around in her hugehandbag for her house keys. It jolts me to life. Ihave to do something: I grab Scott’s hand and helooks up at me, alarmed. “Come with me,” I say, pulling him to his feet. Helets me drag him into the hallway and up the stairsbefore Cathy unlocks the door. I close the bedroomdoor behind us. “My flatmate,” I say by way of explanation. “She’d?.?.?. she might ask questions. I know that’s notwhat you want at the moment.” He nods. He looks around my tiny room, taking inthe unmade bed, the clothes, both clean and dirty,piled on my desk chair, the blank walls, the cheapfurniture. I am embarrassed. This is my life: messy,shabby, small. Unenviable. As I’m thinking this, Ithink how ridiculous I am to imagine that Scott couldpossibly care about the state of my life at thismoment. I motion for him to sit down on the bed. He obeys,wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Hebreathes out heavily. “Can I get you something?” I ask him. “A beer?” “I don’t keep alcohol in the house,” I say, and Ican feel myself going red as I say it. Scott doesn’tnotice, though, he doesn’t even look up. “I can makeyou a cup of tea?” He nods again. “Lie down,” I say. “Rest.” He does as he’s told, kicking off his shoesand lying back on the bed, docile as a sick child. Downstairs, while I boil the kettle I make small talkwith Cathy, listening to her going on about the newplace in Northcote she’s discovered for lunch (“reallygood salads”) and how annoying the new woman atwork is. I smile and nod, but I’m only half hearingher. My body is braced: I’m listening out for him, forcreaks or footsteps. It feels unreal to have him here,in my bed, upstairs. It makes me dizzy to thinkabout it, as though I’m dreaming. Cathy stops talking eventually and looks at me, herbrow furrowed. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Youlook?.?.?. kind of out of it.” “I’m just a bit tired,” I tell her. “I’m not feeling verywell. I think I’ll go to bed.” She gives me a look. She knows I’ve not beendrinking (she can always tell), but she probablyassumes I’m about to start. I don’t care, I can’t thinkabout it now; I pick up the cup of tea for Scott andtell her I’ll see her in the morning. I stop outside my bedroom door and listen. It’squiet. Carefully, I twist the doorknob and push thedoor open. He’s lying there, in exactly the sameposition I left him, his hands at his sides, his eyesshut. I can hear his breathing, soft and ragged. Hisbulk takes up half the bed, but I’m tempted to liedown in the space next to him, to put my armacross his chest, to comfort him. Instead, I give alittle cough and hold out the cup of tea. He sits up. “Thank you,” he says gruffly, taking themug from me. “Thank you for?.?.?. giving mesanctuary. It’s been?.?.?. I can’t describe how it’s been,since that story came out.” “The one about what happened years ago?” “Yeah, that one.” How the tabloids got hold of that story is hotlydisputed. The speculation has been rife, fingerspointed at the police, at Kamal Abdic, at Scott. “It’s a lie,” I say to him. “Isn’t it?” “Of course it is, but it gives someone a motive,doesn’t it? That’s what they’re saying: Megan killedher baby, which would give someone—the father ofthe child, presumably—a motive to kill her. Years andyears later.” “It’s ridiculous.” “But you know what everyone’s saying. That I madethis story up, not just to make her look like a badperson, but to shift suspicion away from me, ontosome unknown person. Some guy from her past thatno one even knows about.” I sit down next to him on the bed. Our thighsalmost touch. “What are the police saying about it?” He shrugs. “Nothing really. They asked me what Iknew about it. Did I know she’d had a child before? Did I know what happened? Did I know who thefather was? I said no, it was all bullshit, she’d neverbeen pregnant?.?.?.” His voice catches again. He stops,takes a sip of the tea. “I asked them where the storycame from, how it made it into the newspapers. They said they couldn’t tell me. It’s from him, Iassume. Abdic.” He gives a long, shuddering sigh. “Idon’t understand why. I don’t understand why hewould say things like that about her. I don’t knowwhat he’s trying to do. He’s obviously fuckingdisturbed.” I think of the man I met the other day: the calmdemeanour, the soft voice, the warmth in the eyes. As far from disturbed as it’s possible to get. Thatsmile, though. “It’s outrageous that this has beenprinted. There should be rules?.?.?.” “Can’t libel the dead,” he says. He falls silent for amoment, then says, “They’ve assured me that theywon’t release the information about this?.?.?. about herpregnancy. Not yet. Perhaps not at all. But certainlynot until they know for sure.” “Until they know?” “It’s not Abdic’s child,” he says. “They’ve done DNA testing?” He shakes his head. “No, I just know. I can’t sayhow, but I know. The baby is—was—mine.” “If he thought it was his baby, it gives him amotive, doesn’t it?” He wouldn’t be the first man toget rid of an unwanted child by getting rid of itsmother—although I don’t say that out loud. And—Idon’t say this, either—it gives Scott a motive, too. Ifhe thought his wife was pregnant with another man’schild?.?.?. only he can’t have done. His shock, hisdistress—it has to be real. No one is that good anactor. Scott doesn’t appear to be listening any longer. Hiseyes, fixed on the back of the bedroom door, areglazed over, and he seems to be sinking into the bedas though into quicksand. “You should stay here a while,” I say to him. “Tryto sleep.” He looks at me then, and he almost smiles. “Youdon’t mind?” he asks. “It would be?.?.?. I would begrateful. I find it hard to sleep at home. It’s not justthe people outside, the sense of people trying to getto me. It’s not just that. It’s her. She’s everywhere, Ican’t stop seeing her. I go down the stairs and Idon’t look, I force myself not to look, but when I’mpast the window, I have to go back and check thatshe’s not out there, on the terrace.” I can feel thetears pricking my eyes as he tells me. “She liked tosit out there, you see—on this little terrace we’ve got. She liked to sit out there and watch the trains.” “I know,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. “Iused to see her there sometimes.” “I keep hearing her voice,” he says. “I keep hearingher calling me. I lie in bed and I can hear hercalling me from outside. I keep thinking she’s outthere.” He’s trembling. “Lie down,” I say, taking the mug from his hand. “Rest.” When I’m sure that he’s fallen asleep, I lie down athis back, my face inches from his shoulder blade. Iclose my eyes and listen to my heart beating, thethrob of blood in my neck. I inhale the sad, stalescent of him. When I wake, hours later, he’s gone. THURSDAY, AUGUST 8, 2013 MORNING I feel treacherous. He left me just hours ago, andhere I am, on my way to see Kamal, to meet onceagain the man he believes killed his wife. His child. Ifeel sick. I wonder whether I should have told himmy plan, explained that I’m doing all this for him. Only I’m not sure that I am doing it just for him,and I don’t really have a plan. I will give something of myself. That’s my plan fortoday. I will talk about something real. I will talkabout wanting a child. I’ll see whether that provokessomething—an unnatural response, any kind ofreaction. I’ll see where that gets me. It gets me nowhere. He starts out by asking me how I’m feeling, when Ilast had a drink. “Sunday,” I tell him. “Good. That’s good.” He folds his hands in his lap. “You look well.” He smiles, and I don’t see the killer. I’m wondering now what I saw the other day. Did Iimagine it? “You asked me, last time, about how the drinkingstarted.” He nods. “I became depressed,” I say. “Wewere trying?.?.?. I was trying to get pregnant. Icouldn’t, and I became depressed. That’s when itstarted.” In no time at all, I find myself crying again. It’simpossible to resist the kindness of strangers. Someone who looks at you, who doesn’t know you,who tells you it’s OK, whatever you did, whateveryou’ve done: you suffered, you hurt, you deserveforgiveness. I confide in him and I forget, once again,what I’m doing here. I don’t watch his face for areaction, I don’t study his eyes for some sign of guiltor suspicion. I let him comfort me. He is kind, rational. He talks about coping strategies,he reminds me that youth is on my side. So maybe it doesn’t get me nowhere, because Ileave Kamal Abdic’s office feeling lighter, morehopeful. He has helped me. I sit on the train and Itry to conjure up the killer I saw, but I can’t seehim any longer. I am struggling to see him as a mancapable of beating a woman, of crushing her skull. A terrible, shameful image comes to me: Kamal withhis delicate hands, his reassuring manner, his sibilantspeech, contrasted with Scott, huge and powerful,wild, desperate. I have to remind myself that this isScott now, not as he was. I have to keep remindingmyself of what he was before all this. And then Ihave to admit that I don’t know what Scott wasbefore all this. FRIDAY, AUGUST 9, 2013 EVENING The train stops at the signal. I take a sip from thecold can of gin and tonic and look up at his house,her terrace. I was doing so well, but I need this. Dutch courage. I’m on my way to see Scott, and I’llhave to run all the risks of Blenheim Road before Ido: Tom, Anna, police, press. The underpass, with itshalf memories of terror and blood. But he asked meto come, and I couldn’t refuse him. They found the little girl last night. What was left ofher. Buried in the grounds of a farmhouse near theEast Anglian coast, just where someone had toldthem to look. It was in the papers this morning: Police have opened aninvestigation into the death of achild after they found humanremains buried in the garden ofa house near Holkham, northNorfolk. The discovery cameafter police were tipped offabout a possible unlawful killingduring the course of theirinvestigation into the death ofMegan Hipwell, from Witney,whose body was found in CorlyWoods last week. I phoned Scott this morning when I saw the news. He didn’t answer, so I left a message, telling him Iwas sorry. He called back this afternoon. “Are you all right?” I asked him. “Not really.” His voice was thick with drink. “I’m so sorry?.?.?. do you need anything?” “I need someone who isn’t going to say ‘I told youso.’” “I’m sorry?” “My mother’s been here all afternoon. She knew allalong, apparently—‘something not right about that girl,something off, no family, no friends, came fromnowhere.’ Wonder why she never told me.” Thesound of glass breaking, swearing. “Are you all right?” I said again. “Can you come here?” he asked. “To the house?” “Yes. “I?.?.?. the police, journalists?.?.?. I’m not sure?.?.?.” “Please. I just want some company. Someone whoknew Megs, who liked her. Someone who doesn’tbelieve all this?.?.?.” He was drunk and I knew it and I said yesanyway. Now, sitting on the train, I’m drinking, too, and I’mthinking about what he said. Someone who knewMegs, who liked her. I didn’t know her, and I’mnot sure that I like her anymore. I finish my drinkas quickly as I can and open another one. I get off at Witney. I’m part of the Friday-eveningcommuter throng, just another wage slave amongstthe hot, tired masses, looking forward to gettinghome and sitting outside with a cold beer, dinnerwith the kids, an early night. It might just be the gin,but it feels indescribably good to be swept along withthe crowd, everyone phone-checking, fishing inpockets for rail passes. I’m taken back, way back tothe first summer we lived on Blenheim Road, when Iused to rush home from work every night, desperateto get down the steps and out of the station, halfrunning down the street. Tom would be workingfrom home and I’d barely be through the doorbefore he was taking my clothes off. I find myselfsmiling about it even now, the anticipation of it: heatrising to my cheeks as I skipped down the road,biting my lip to stop myself from grinning, my breathquickening, thinking of him and knowing he’d becounting the minutes until I got home, too. My head is so full of those days that I forget toworry about Tom and Anna, the police and thephotographers, and before I know it I’m at Scott’sdoor, ringing the doorbell, and the door is openingand I’m feeling excited, although I shouldn’t be, but Idon’t feel guilty about it, because Megan isn’t what Ithought she was anyway. She wasn’t that beautiful,carefree girl out on the terrace. She wasn’t a lovingwife. She wasn’t even a good person. She was a liar,a cheat. She was a killer. MEGAN THURSDAY, JUNE 20, 2013 EVENING I’m sitting on the sofa in his living room, a glass ofwine in my hand. The house is still a total mess. Iwonder, does he always live like this, like a teenageboy? And I think about how he lost his family whenhe was a teenager, so maybe he does. I feel sad forhim. He comes in from the kitchen and sits at myside, comfortably close. If I could, I would come hereevery day, just for an hour or two. I’d just sit hereand drink wine, feel his hand brush against mine. But I can’t. There’s a point to this, and he wantsme to get to it. “OK, Megan,” he says. “Do you feel ready now? Tofinish what you were telling me before?” I lean back a little against him, against his warmbody. He lets me. I close my eyes, and it doesn’ttake me long to get back there, back to thebathroom. It’s weird, because I’ve spent so longtrying not to think about it, about those days, thosenights, but now I can close my eyes and it’s almostinstant, like falling asleep, right into the middle of adream. It was dark and very cold. I wasn’t in the bath anylonger. “I don’t know exactly what happened. Iremember waking up, I remember knowing thatsomething was wrong, and then the next thing Iknow Mac was home. He was calling for me. I couldhear him downstairs, shouting my name, but Icouldn’t move. I was sitting on the floor in thebathroom, she was in my arms. The rain washammering down, the beams in the roof creaking. Iwas so cold. Mac came up the stairs, still calling outto me. He came to the doorway and turned on thelight.” I can feel it now, the light searing my retinas,everything stark and white, horrifying. “I remember screaming at him to turn the light off. I didn’t want to see, I didn’t want to look at her likethat. I don’t know—I don’t know what happenedthen. He was shouting at me, he was screaming inmy face. I gave her to him and ran. I ran out of thehouse into the rain, I ran to the beach. I don’tremember what happened after that. It was a longtime before he came for me. It was still raining. Iwas in the dunes, I think. I thought about going inthe water, but I was too scared. He came for meeventually. He took me home. “We buried her in the morning. I wrapped her in asheet and Mac dug the grave. We put her down atthe edge of the property, near the disused railwayline. We put stones on top to mark it. We didn’t talkabout it, we didn’t talk about anything, we didn’t lookat each other. That night, Mac went out. He said hehad to meet someone. I thought maybe he wasgoing to go to the police. I didn’t know what to do. Ijust waited for him, for someone to come. He didn’tcome back. He never came back.” I’m sitting in Kamal’s warm living room, his warmbody at my side, and I’m shivering. “I can still feelit,” I tell him. “At night, I can still feel it. It’s thething I dread, the thing that keeps me awake: thefeeling of being alone in that house. I was sofrightened—too frightened to go to sleep. I’d just walkaround those dark rooms and I’d hear her crying,I’d smell her skin. I saw things. I’d wake in the nightand be sure that there was someone else—somethingelse—in the house with me. I thought I was goingmad. I thought I was going to die. I thought thatmaybe I would just stay there, and that one daysomeone would find me. At least that way I wouldn’thave left her.” I sniff, leaning forward to take a Kleenex from thebox on the table. Kamal’s hand runs down my spineto my lower back and rests there. “But in the end I didn’t have the courage to stay. Ithink I waited about ten days, and then there wasnothing left to eat—not a tin of beans, nothing. Ipacked up my things and I left.” “Did you see Mac again?” “No, never. The last time I saw him was that night. He didn’t kiss me or even say good-bye properly. Hejust said he had to go out for a bit.” I shrug. “Thatwas it.” “Did you try to contact him?” I shook my head. “No. I was too frightened, at first. I didn’t know what he would do if I did get intouch. And I didn’t know where he was—he didn’teven have a mobile phone. I lost touch with thepeople who knew him. His friends were all kind ofnomadic. Hippies, travellers. A few months ago, afterwe talked about him, I Googled him. But I couldn’tfind him. It’s odd?.?.?.” “What is?” “In the early days, I used to see him all the time. Like, in the street, or I’d see a man in a bar and beso sure it was him that my heart would start racing. I used to hear his voice in crowds. But that stopped,a long time ago. Now, I think he might be dead.” “Why do you think that?” “I don’t know. He just?.?.?. he feels dead to me.” Kamal sits up straighter and gently moves his bodyaway from mine. He turns so that he’s facing me. “I think that’s probably just your imagination,Megan. It’s normal to think you see people who havebeen a big part of your life after you part companywith them. In the early days, I used to catchglimpses of my brother all the time. As for him‘feeling dead,’ that’s probably just a consequence ofhis being gone from your life for so long. In somesenses he no longer feels real to you.” He’s gone back into therapy mode now, we’re notjust two friends sitting on the sofa anymore. I wantto reach out and pull him back to me, but I don’twant to cross any lines. I think about last time, whenI kissed him before I left—the look on his face,longing and frustration and anger. “I wonder if, now that we’ve spoken about this,now that you’ve told me your story, it might help foryou to try to contact Mac. To give you closure, toseal that chapter in your past.” I thought he might suggest this. “I can’t,” I say. “Ican’t.” “Just think about it for a moment.” “I can’t. What if he still hates me? What if it justbrings it all back, or if he goes to the police?” Whatif—I can’t say this out loud, can’t even whisperit—what if he tells Scott what I really am? Kamal shakes his head. “Perhaps he doesn’t hateyou at all, Megan. Perhaps he never hated you. Perhaps he was afraid, too. Perhaps he feels guilty. From what you have told me, he isn’t a man whobehaved responsibly. He took in a very young, veryvulnerable girl and left her alone when she neededsupport. Perhaps he knows that what happened isyour shared responsibility. Perhaps that’s what heran away from.” I don’t know if he really believes that or if he’s justtrying to make me feel better. I only know that itisn’t true. I can’t shift the blame onto him. This isone thing I have to take as my own. “I don’t want to push you into doing something youdon’t want to do,” Kamal says. “I just want you toconsider the possibility that contacting Mac might helpyou. And it’s not because I believe that you owe himanything. Do you see? I believe that he owes you. Iunderstand your guilt, I do. But he abandoned you. You were alone, afraid, panicking, grieving. He leftyou on your own in that house. It’s no wonder youcannot sleep. Of course the idea of sleeping frightensyou: you fell asleep and something terrible happenedto you. And the one person who should have helpedyou left you all alone.” In the moments when Kamal is saying these things,it doesn’t sound so bad. As the words slip seductivelyoff his tongue, warm and honeyed, I can almostbelieve them. I can almost believe that there is a wayto leave all this behind, lay it to rest, go home toScott and live my life as normal people do, neitherglancing over my shoulder nor desperately waiting forsomething better to come along. Is that what normalpeople do? “Will you think about it?” he asks, touching myhand as he does so. I give him a bright smile andsay that I will. Maybe I even mean it, I don’t know. He walks me to the door, his arm around myshoulders, I want to turn and kiss him again, but Idon’t. Instead I ask, “Is this the last time I’m going to seeyou?” and he nods. “Couldn’t we?.?.?.??” “No, Megan. We can’t. We have to do the rightthing.” I smile up at him. “I’m not very good at that,” Isay. “Never have been.” “You can be. You will be. Go home now. Go hometo your husband.” I stand on the pavement outside his house for along time after he shuts the door. I feel lighter, Ithink, freer—but sadder, too, and all of a sudden Ijust want to get home to Scott. I’m just turning to walk to the station when a mancomes running along the pavement, earphones on,head down. He’s heading straight for me, and as Istep back, trying to get out of the way, I slip off theedge of the pavement and fall. The man doesn’t apologize, he doesn’t even lookback at me, and I’m too shocked to cry out. I get tomy feet and stand there, leaning against a car, tryingto catch my breath. All the peace I felt in Kamal’shouse is suddenly shattered. It’s not until I get home that I realize I cut myhand when I fell, and at some point I must haverubbed my hand across my mouth. My lips aresmeared with blood. RACHEL SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 2013 MORNING I wake early. I can hear the recycling van trundlingup the street and the soft patter of rain against thewindow. The blinds are half up—we forgot to closethem last night. I smile to myself. I can feel himbehind me, warm and sleepy, hard. I wriggle myhips, pressing against him a little closer. It won’t takelong for him to stir, to grab hold of me, roll meover. “Rachel,” his voice says, “don’t.” I go cold. I’m notat home, this isn’t home. This is all wrong. I roll over. Scott is sitting up now. He swings hislegs over the side of the bed, his back to me. Isqueeze my eyes tightly shut and try to remember,but it’s all too hazy. When I open my eyes I canthink straight because this room is the one I’vewoken up in a thousand times or more: this iswhere the bed is, this is the exact aspect—if I sit upnow I will be able to see the tops of the oak treeson the opposite side of the street; over there, on theleft, is the en suite bathroom, and to the right arethe built-in wardrobes. It’s exactly the same as theroom I shared with Tom. “Rachel,” he says again, and I reach out to touchhis back, but he stands quickly and turns to face me. He looks hollowed out, like the first time I saw himup close, in the police station—as though someonehas scraped away his insides, leaving a shell. This islike the room I shared with Tom, but it is the onehe shared with Megan. This room, this bed. “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This waswrong.” “Yes, it was,” he says, his eyes not meeting mine. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. I lie back and close my eyes and feel myself sinkinto dread, that awful gnawing in my gut. What haveI done? I remember him talking a lot when I firstarrived, a rush of words. He was angry—angry withhis mother, who never liked Megan; angry with thenewspapers for what they were writing about her,the implication that she got what was coming to her;angry with the police for botching the whole thing,for failing her, failing him. We sat in the kitchendrinking beers and I listened to him talk, and whenthe beers were finished we sat outside on the patioand he stopped being angry then. We drank andwatched the trains go by and talked about nothing: television and work and where he went to school,just like normal people. I forgot to feel what I wassupposed to be feeling, we both did, because I canremember now. I can remember him smiling at me,touching my hair. It hits me like a wave, I can feel blood rushing tomy face. I remember admitting it to myself. Thinkingthe thought and not dismissing it, embracing it. Iwanted it. I wanted to be with Jason. I wanted tofeel what Jess felt when she sat out there with him,drinking wine in the evening. I forgot what I wassupposed to be feeling. I ignored the fact that at thevery best, Jess is nothing but a figment of myimagination, and at the worst, Jess is not nothing,she is Megan—she is dead, a body battered and leftto rot. Worse than that: I didn’t forget. I didn’t care. I didn’t care because I’ve started to believe whatthey’re saying about her. Did I, for just the briefestof moments, think she got what was coming to her,too? Scott comes out of the bathroom. He’s taken ashower, washed me off his skin. He looks better forit, but he won’t look me in the eye when he asks ifI’d like a coffee. This isn’t what I wanted: none ofthis is right. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want tolose control again. I dress quickly and go into the bathroom, splashcold water on my face. My mascara’s run, smudgedat the corners of my eyes, and my lips are dark. Bitten. My face and neck are red where his stubblehas grazed my skin. I have a quick flashback to thenight before, his hands on me, and my stomach flips. Feeling dizzy, I sit down on the edge of the bathtub. The bathroom is grubbier than the rest of the house: grime around the sink, toothpaste smeared on themirror. A mug, with just one toothbrush in it. There’s no perfume, no moisturizer, no makeup. Iwonder if she took it when she left, or whether he’sthrown it all away. Back in the bedroom, I look around for evidence ofher—a robe on the back of the door, a hairbrush onthe chest of drawers, a pot of lip balm, a pair ofearrings—but there’s nothing. I cross the bedroom tothe wardrobe and am about to open it, my handresting on the handle, when I hear him call out,“There’s coffee here!” and I jump. He hands me the mug without looking at my face,then turns away and stands with his back to me, hisgaze fixed on the tracks or something beyond. Iglance to my right and notice that the photographsare gone, all of them. There’s a prickle at the backof my scalp, the hairs on my forearms raised. I sipmy coffee and struggle to swallow. None of this isright. Maybe his mother did it: cleared everything out,took the pictures away. His mother didn’t like Megan,he’s said that over and over. Still, who does what hedid last night? Who fucks a strange woman in themarital bed when his wife has been dead less than amonth? He turns then, he looks at me, and I feel asthough he’s read my mind because he’s got astrange look on his face—contempt, or revulsion—andI’m repulsed by him, too. I put the mug down. “I should go,” I say, and he doesn’t argue. The rain has stopped. It’s bright outside, and I’msquinting into hazy morning sunshine. A manapproaches me—he’s right up in my face themoment I’m on the pavement. I put my hands up,turn sideways and shoulder-barge him out of theway. He’s saying something but I don’t hear what. Ikeep my hands raised and my head down, so I’mbarely five feet away from her when I see Anna,standing next to her car, hands on hips, watchingme. When she catches my eye she shakes her head,turns away and walks quickly towards her own frontdoor, almost but not quite breaking into a run. Istand stock-still for a second, watching her slightform in black leggings and a red T-shirt. I have thekeenest sense of déjà vu. I’ve watched her run awaylike this before. It was just after I moved out. I’d come to see Tom,to pick up something I’d left behind. I don’t evenremember what it was, it wasn’t important, I justwanted to go to the house, to see him. I think it wasa Sunday, and I’d moved out on the Friday, so I’dbeen gone about forty-eight hours. I stood in thestreet and watched her carrying things from a carinto the house. She was moving in, two days afterI’d left, my bed not yet cold. Talk about unseemlyhaste. She caught sight of me and I went towardsher. I have no idea what I was going to say toher—nothing rational, I’m sure. I was crying, Iremember that. And she, like now, ran away. I didn’tknow the worst of it then—she wasn’t yet showing. Thankfully. I think it might have killed me. Standing on the platform, waiting for the train, I feeldizzy. I sit down on the bench and tell myself it’sjust a hangover—nothing to drink for five days andthen a binge, that’ll do it. But I know it’s more thanthat. It’s Anna—the sight of her and the feeling I gotwhen I saw her walking away like that. Fear. ANNA SATURDAY, AUGUST 10, 2013 MORNING I drove to the gym in Northcote for my spin classthis morning, then dropped into the Matches storeon the way back and treated myself to a very cuteMax Mara minidress (Tom will forgive me once hesees me in it). I was having a perfectly lovelymorning, but as I parked the car there was somesort of commotion outside the Hipwells’ place—thereare photographers there all the time now—and thereshe was. Again! I could hardly believe it. Rachel,barrelling past a photographer, looking rough. I’mpretty sure she’d just left Scott’s house. I didn’t even get upset. I was just astounded. Andwhen I brought it up with Tom—calmly,matter-of-factly—he was just as baffled as I was. “I’ll get in touch with her,” he said. “I’ll find outwhat’s going on.” “You’ve tried that,” I said as gently as I could. “Itdoesn’t make any difference.” I suggested that maybeit was time to take legal advice, to look into getting arestraining order or something. “She isn’t actually harassing us, though, is she?” hesaid. “The phone calls have stopped, she hasn’tapproached us or come to the house. Don’t worryabout it, darling. I’ll sort it.” He’s right, of course, about the harassment thing. But I don’t care. There’s something up, and I’m notprepared to just ignore it. I’m tired of being told notto worry. I’m tired of being told that he’ll sort thingsout, that he’ll talk to her, that eventually she’ll goaway. I think the time has come to take matters intomy own hands. The next time I see her, I’m callingthat police officer—the woman, Detective Riley. Sheseemed nice, sympathetic. I know Tom feels sorry forRachel, but honestly I think it’s time I dealt with thatbitch once and for all. RACHEL MONDAY, AUGUST 12, 2013 MORNING We’re in the car park at Wilton Lake. We used tocome here sometimes, to go swimming on really hotdays. Today we’re just sitting side by side in Tom’scar, windows down, letting the warm breeze in. Iwant to lean my head back against the headrest andclose my eyes and smell the pine and listen to thebirds. I want to hold his hand and stay here all day. He called me last night and asked if we could meet. I asked if this was about the thing with Anna, seeingher on Blenheim Road. I said it had nothing to dowith them—I hadn’t been there to bother them. Hebelieved me, or at least he said he did, but he stillsounded wary, a little anxious. He said he needed totalk to me. “Please, Rach,” he said, and that was it—the way hesaid it, just like the old days, I thought my heartwould burst. “I’ll come and pick you up, OK?” I woke up before dawn and was in the kitchenmaking coffee at five. I washed my hair and shavedmy legs and put on makeup and changed fourtimes. And I felt guilty. Stupid, I know, but I thoughtabout Scott—about what we did and how it felt—andI wished I hadn’t done it, because it felt like abetrayal. Of Tom. The man who left me for anotherwoman two years ago. I can’t help how I feel. Tom arrived just before nine. I went downstairs andthere he was, leaning on his car, wearing jeans andan old grey T-shirt—old enough that I can rememberexactly how the fabric felt against my cheek when Ilay across his chest. “I’ve got the morning off work,” he said when hesaw me. “I thought we could go for a drive.” We didn’t say much on the drive to the lake. Heasked me how I was and told me I looked well. Hedidn’t mention Anna until we were sitting there inthe car park and I was thinking about holding hishand. “Yeah, um, Anna said she saw you?.?.?. and shethought you might have been coming from ScottHipwell’s house. Is that right?” He’s turned to faceme, but he isn’t actually looking at me. He seemsalmost embarrassed to be asking me the question. “You don’t have to worry about it,” I tell him. “I’vebeen seeing Scott?.?.?. I mean, not like that, not seeinghim. We’ve become friendly. That’s all. It’s difficult toexplain. I’ve just been helping him out a bit. Youknow—obviously you know—that he’s been goingthrough a terrible time.” Tom nods, but he still doesn’t look at me. Insteadhe chews on the nail of his left forefinger, a suresign that he’s worried. “But Rach?.?.?.” I wish he’d stop calling me that, because it makesme feel light-headed, it makes me want to smile. It’sbeen so long since I’ve heard him say my name likethat, and it’s making me hope. Maybe things aren’tgoing so well with Anna, maybe he remembers someof the good things about us, maybe there’s a part ofhim that misses me. “I’m just?.?.?. I’m really concerned about this.” He looks up at me at last, his big brown eyes lockon mine and he moves his hand a little, as if he’sgoing to take mine, but then he thinks better of itand stops. “I know—well, I don’t really know muchabout it, but Scott?.?.?. I know that he seems like aperfectly decent bloke, but you can’t be sure, canyou?” “You think he did it?” He shakes his head, swallows hard. “No, no. I’mnot saying that. I know?.?.?. Well, Anna says that theyargued a lot. That Megan sometimes seemed a littleafraid of him.” “Anna says?” My instinct is to dismiss anything thatbitch says, but I can’t get away from the feeling Ihad when I was at Scott’s house on Saturday, thatsomething was off, something was wrong. He nods. “Megan did some babysitting for us whenEvie was tiny. Jesus, I don’t even like to think aboutthat now, after what’s been in the papers lately. Butit goes to show, doesn’t it, that you think you knowsomeone and then?.?.?.” He sighs heavily. “I don’twant anything bad to happen. To you.” He smiles atme then, gives a little shrug. “I still care about you,Rach,” he says, and I have to look away because Idon’t want him to see the tears in my eyes. Heknows, of course, and he puts his hand on myshoulder and says, “I’m so sorry.” We sit for a while in comfortable silence. I bitedown hard on my lip to stop myself from crying. Idon’t want to make this any harder for him, I reallydon’t. “I’m all right, Tom. I’m getting better. I am.” “I’m really glad to hear that. You’re not—” “Drinking? Less. It’s getting better.” “That’s good. You look well. You look?.?.?. pretty.” Hesmiles at me and I can feel myself blush. He looksaway quickly. “Are you?.?.?. um?.?.?. are you all right,you know, financially?” “I’m fine.” “Really? Are you really, Rachel, because I don’t wantyou to—” “I’m OK.” “Will you take a little? Fuck, I don’t want to soundlike an idiot, but will you just take a little? To tideyou over?” “Honestly, I’m OK.” He leans across then, and I can hardly breathe, Iwant to touch him so badly. I want to smell hisneck, bury my face in that broad, muscular gapbetween his shoulder blades. He opens the glove box. “Let me just write you a cheque, just in case, youknow? You don’t even have to cash it.” I start laughing. “You still keep a chequebook in theglove box?” He starts laughing, too. “You never know,” he says. “You never know when you’re going to have to bailout your insane ex-wife?” He rubs his thumb over my cheekbone. I raise myhand and take his in mine and kiss his palm. “Promise me,” he says gruffly, “you’ll stay awayfrom Scott Hipwell. Promise me, Rach.” “I promise,” I say, and I mean it, and I can hardlysee for joy, because I realize that he’s not justworried about me, he’s jealous. TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2013 EARLY MORNING I’m on the train, looking out at a pile of clothes onthe side of the tracks. Dark-blue cloth. A dress, Ithink, with a black belt. I can’t imagine how it endedup down there. That certainly wasn’t left behind bythe engineers. We’re moving, glacially though, so Ihave plenty of time to look, and it seems to me thatI’ve seen that dress before, I’ve seen someonewearing it. I can’t remember when. It’s very cold. Too cold for a dress like that. I think it might snowsoon. I’m looking forward to seeing Tom’s house—myhouse. I know that he’ll be there, sitting outside. Iknow he’ll be alone, waiting for me. He’ll stand upwhen we go past, he’ll wave and smile. I know allthis. First, though, we stop in front of number fifteen. Jason and Jess are there, drinking wine on theterrace, which is odd, because it isn’t yet eight thirtyin the morning. Jess is wearing a dress with redflowers on it, she’s wearing little silver earrings withbirds on them—I can see them moving back andforth as she talks. Jason is standing behind her, hishands on her shoulders. I smile at them. I want towave, but I don’t want people to think I’m weird. Ijust watch, and I wish that I had a glass of wine,too. We’ve been here for ages and the train still isn’tmoving. I wish we’d get going, because if we don’tTom won’t be there and I’ll miss him. I can seeJess’s face now, more clearly than usual—it’ssomething to do with the light, which is very bright,shining directly on her like a spotlight. Jason is stillbehind her, but his hands aren’t on her shouldersnow, they’re on her neck, and she looksuncomfortable, distressed. He’s choking her. I can seeher face turning red. She’s crying. I get to my feet,I’m banging on the window and I’m screaming athim to stop, but he can’t hear me. Someone grabsmy arm—the guy with the red hair. He tells me tosit down, says that we’re not far from the next stop. “It’ll be too late by then,” I tell him, and he says,“It’s already too late, Rachel,” and when I look backat the terrace, Jess is on her feet and Jason has afistful of her blond hair and he’s going to smash herskull against the wall. MORNING It’s hours since I woke, but I’m still shaky, my legstrembling as I sit down in my seat. I woke from thedream with a sense of dread, a feeling thateverything I thought I knew was wrong, thateverything I’d seen—of Scott, of Megan—I’d made upin my head, that none of it was real. But if my mindis playing tricks, isn’t it more likely to be the dreamthat’s illusory? Those things Tom said to me in thecar, all mixed up with guilt over what happened withScott the other night: the dream was just my brainpicking all that apart. Still, that familiar sense of dread grows when thetrain stops at the signal, and I’m almost too afraid tolook up. The window is shut, there’s nothing there. It’s quiet, peaceful. Or it’s abandoned. Megan’s chairis still out on the terrace, empty. It’s warm today,but I can’t stop shivering. I have to keep in mind that the things Tom saidabout Scott and Megan came from Anna, and noone knows better than I do that she can’t betrusted. Dr. Abdic’s welcome this morning seems a littlehalfhearted to me. He’s almost stooped over, asthough he’s in pain, and when he shakes my handhis grip is weaker than before. I know that Scott saidthey wouldn’t release any information about thepregnancy, but I wonder if they’ve told him. Iwonder if he’s thinking about Megan’s child. I want to tell him about the dream, but I can’tthink of a way to describe it without showing myhand, so instead I ask him about recoveringmemories, about hypnosis. “Well,” he says, spreading his fingers out in front ofhim on the desk, “there are therapists who believethat hypnosis can be used to recover repressedmemories, but it’s very controversial. I don’t do it,nor do I recommend it to my patients. I’m notconvinced that it helps, and in some instances I thinkit can be harmful.” He gives me a half smile. “I’msorry. I know this isn’t what you want to hear. Butwith the mind, I think, there are no quick fixes.” “Do you know therapists who do this kind ofthing?” I ask. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’trecommend one. You have to bear in mind thatsubjects under hypnosis are very suggestible. Thememories that are ‘retrieved’”—he puts air quotesaround the word—“cannot always be trusted. Theyare not real memories at all.” I can’t risk it. I couldn’t bear to have other imagesin my head, yet more memories that I can’t trust,memories that merge and morph and shift, foolingme into believing that what is is not, telling me tolook one way when really I should be lookinganother way. “So what do you suggest, then?” I ask him. “Isthere anything I can do to try to recover what I’velost?” He rubs his long fingers back and forth over hislips. “It’s possible, yes. Just talking about a particularmemory can help you to clarify things, going overthe details in a setting in which you feel safe andrelaxed?.?.?.” “Like here, for example?” He smiles. “Like here, if indeed you do feel safeand relaxed here.” His voice rises, he’s asking aquestion that I don’t answer. The smile fades. “Focusing on senses other than sight often helps. Sounds, the feel of things?.?.?. smell is particularlyimportant when it comes to recall. Music can bepowerful, too. If you are thinking of a particularcircumstance, a particular day, you might considerretracing your steps, returning to the scene of thecrime, as it were.” It’s a common enough expression,but the hairs on the back of my neck are standingup, my scalp tingling. “Do you want to talk about aparticular incident, Rachel?” I do, of course, but I can’t tell him that, so I tellhim about that time with the golf club, when Iattacked Tom after we’d had a fight. I remember waking that morning filled with anxiety,instantly knowing that something terrible hadhappened. Tom wasn’t in bed with me, and I feltrelieved. I lay on my back, playing it over. Iremembered crying and crying and telling him that Iloved him. He was angry, telling me to go to bed; hedidn’t want to listen to it any longer. I tried to think back to earlier in the evening, towhere the argument started. We were having such agood time. I’d done grilled prawns with lots of chilliand coriander, and we were drinking this deliciousChenin Blanc that he’d been given by a gratefulclient. We ate outside on the patio, listening to theKillers and Kings of Leon, albums we used to playwhen we first got together. I remember us laughing and kissing. I remembertelling him a story about something—he didn’t find itas funny as I did. I remember feeling upset. Then Iremember us shouting at each other, trippingthrough the sliding doors as I went inside, beingfurious that he didn’t rush to help me up. But here’s the thing: “When I got up that morning,I went downstairs. He wouldn’t talk to me, barelyeven looked at me. I had to beg him to tell me whatit was that I’d done. I kept telling him how sorry Iwas. I was desperately panicky. I can’t explain why, Iknow it makes no sense, but if you can’t rememberwhat you’ve done, your mind just fills in all theblanks and you think the worst possible things?.?.?.” Kamal nods. “I can imagine. Go on.” “So eventually, just to get me to shut up, he toldme. Oh, I’d taken offence at something he’d said,and then I’d kept at it, needling and bitching, and Iwouldn’t let it go, and he tried to get me to stop, hetried to kiss and make up, but I wouldn’t have it. And then he decided to just leave me, to go upstairsto bed, and that’s when it happened. I chased himup the stairs with a golf club in my hand and triedto take his head off. I’d missed, fortunately. I justtook a chunk out of the plaster in the hall.” Kamal’s expression doesn’t change. He isn’t shocked. He just nods. “So, you know what happened, butyou can’t quite feel it, is that right? You want to beable to remember it for yourself, to see it andexperience it in your own memory, so that—how didyou put it?—so that it belongs to you? And that way,you’ll feel fully responsible?” “Well.” I shrug. “Yes. I mean, that’s partly it. Butthere’s something more. And it happened later, muchlater—weeks, maybe months afterwards. I keptthinking about that night. Every time I passed thathole in the wall I thought about it. Tom said he wasgoing to patch it up, but he didn’t, and I didn’t wantto pester him about it. One day I was standingthere—it was evening and I was coming out of thebedroom and I just stopped, because I remembered. I was on the floor, my back to the wall, sobbing andsobbing, Tom standing over me, begging me to calmdown, the golf club on the carpet next to my feet,and I felt it, I felt it. I was terrified. The memorydoesn’t fit with the reality, because I don’t rememberanger, raging fury. I remember fear.” EVENING I’ve been thinking about what Kamal said, aboutreturning to the scene of the crime, so instead ofgoing home I’ve come to Witney, and instead ofscurrying past the underpass, I walk slowly anddeliberately right up to its mouth. I place my handsagainst the cold, rough brick at the entrance andclose my eyes, running my fingers over it. Nothingcomes. I open my eyes and look around. The roadis very quiet: just one woman walking in mydirection a few hundred yards off, no one else. Nocars driving past, no children shouting, only a veryfaint siren in the distance. The sun slides behind acloud and I feel cold, immobilized on the threshold ofthe tunnel, unable to go any farther. I turn to leave. The woman I saw walking towards me a momentago is just turning the corner; she’s wearing adeep-blue trench wrapped around her. She glancesup at me as she passes and it’s then that it comesto me. A woman?.?.?. blue?.?.?. the quality of the light. Iremember: Anna. She was wearing a blue dress witha black belt and was walking away from me, walkingfast, almost like she did the other day, only this timeshe did look back, she looked over her shoulder andthen she stopped. A car pulled up next to her onthe pavement—a red car. Tom’s car. She leaneddown to speak to him through the window and thenopened the door and got in, and the car droveaway. I remember that. On that Saturday night I stoodhere, at the entrance to the underpass, and watchedAnna getting into Tom’s car. Only I can’t beremembering right, because that doesn’t make sense. Tom came to look for me in the car. Anna wasn’t inthe car with him—she was at home. That’s what thepolice told me. It doesn’t make sense, and I couldscream with the frustration of it, the not knowing, theuselessness of my own brain. I cross the street and walk along the left-hand sideof Blenheim Road. I stand under the trees for awhile, opposite number twenty-three. They’verepainted the front door. It was dark green when Ilived there; it’s black now. I don’t remember noticingthat before. I preferred the green. I wonder whatelse is different inside? The baby’s room, obviously,but I wonder whether they still sleep in our bed,whether she puts on her lipstick in front of themirror that I hung. I wonder if they’ve repainted thekitchen, or filled in that hole in the plasterwork in thecorridor upstairs. I want to cross over and thump the knockeragainst the black paint. I want to talk to Tom, to askhim about the night Megan went missing. I want toask him about yesterday, when we were in the carand I kissed his hand, I want to ask him what hefelt. Instead, I just stand there for a bit, looking upat my old bedroom window until I feel tears sting theback of my eyes, and I know it’s time to go. ANNA TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2013 MORNING I watched Tom getting ready for work this morning,putting on his shirt and tie. He seemed a littledistracted, probably running through his schedule forthe day—meetings, appointments, who, what, where. Ifelt jealous. For the first time ever, I actually enviedhim the luxury of getting dressed up and leaving thehouse and rushing around all day, with purpose, allin the service of a pay cheque. It’s not the work I miss—I was an estate agent, nota neurosurgeon, it’s not exactly a job you dreamabout as a child—but I did like being able to wanderaround the really expensive houses when the ownersweren’t there, running my fingers over the marbleworktops, sneaking a peek into the walk-inwardrobes. I used to imagine what my life would belike if I lived like that, the kind of person I would be. I’m well aware there is no job more important thanthat of raising a child, but the problem is that it isn’tvalued. Not in the sense that counts to me at themoment, which is financial. I want us to have moremoney so that we can leave this house, this road. It’s as simple as that. Perhaps not quite as simple as that. After Tom leftfor work, I sat down at the kitchen table to do battlewith Evie over breakfast. Two months ago, I swearshe would eat anything. Now, if it’s not strawberryyoghurt, she’s not having it. I know this is normal. Ikeep telling myself this while I’m trying to get eggyolk out of my hair, while I’m crawling around onthe floor picking up spoons and upturned bowls. Ikeep telling myself this is normal. Still, when we were finally done and she wasplaying happily by herself, I let myself cry for aminute. I allow myself these tears sparingly, only everwhen Tom’s not here, just a few moments to let itall out. It was when I was washing my faceafterwards, when I saw how tired I looked, howblotchy and bedraggled and bloody awful, that I felt itagain—that need to put on a dress and high heels,to blow-dry my hair and put on some makeup andwalk down the street and have men turn and lookat me. I miss work, but I also miss what work meant tome in my last year of gainful employment, when Imet Tom. I miss being a mistress. I enjoyed it. I loved it, in fact. I never felt guilty. Ipretended I did. I had to, with my marriedgirlfriends, the ones who live in terror of the pert aupair or the pretty, funny girl in the office who cantalk about football and spends half her life in thegym. I had to tell them that of course I felt terribleabout it, of course I felt bad for his wife, I nevermeant for any of this to happen, we fell in love,what could we do? The truth is, I never felt bad for Rachel, evenbefore I found out about her drinking and howdifficult she was, how she was making his life amisery. She just wasn’t real to me, and anyway, Iwas enjoying myself too much. Being the otherwoman is a huge turn-on, there’s no point denyingit: you’re the one he can’t help but betray his wifefor, even though he loves her. That’s just howirresistible you are. I was selling a house. Number thirty-four CranhamRoad. It was proving difficult to shift, because thelatest interested buyer hadn’t been granted amortgage. Something about the lender’s survey. Sowe arranged to get an independent surveyor in, justto make sure everything was OK. The sellers hadalready moved on, the house was empty, so I had tobe there to let him in. It was obvious from the moment I opened the doorto him that it was going to happen. I’d never doneanything like that before, never even dreamed of it,but there was something in the way he looked atme, the way he smiled at me. We couldn’t helpourselves—we did it there in the kitchen, up againstthe counter. It was insane, but that’s how we were. That’s what he always used to say to me. Don’texpect me to be sane, Anna. Not with you. I pick Evie up and we go out into the gardentogether. She’s pushing her little trolley up and down,giggling to herself as she does it, this morning’stantrum forgotten. Every time she grins at me I feellike my heart’s going to explode. No matter howmuch I miss working, I would miss this more. Andin any case, it’s never going to happen. There’s noway I’ll be leaving her with a childminder again, nomatter how qualified or vouched for they are. I’mnot leaving her with anyone else ever again, not afterMegan. EVENING Tom texted me to say he was going to be a bit latethis evening, he had to take a client out for a drink. Evie and I were getting ready for our evening walk. We were in the bedroom, Tom’s and mine, and Iwas getting her changed. The light was just gorgeous,a rich orange glow filling the house, turning suddenlyblue-grey when the sun went behind a cloud. I’d hadthe curtains pulled halfway across to stop the roomgetting too hot, so I went to open them, and that’swhen I saw Rachel, standing on the opposite side ofthe road, looking at our house. Then she just tookoff, walking back towards the station. I’m sitting on the bed and I’m shaking with fury,digging my nails into my palms. Evie’s kicking herfeet in the air, and I’m so bloody angry, I don’t wantto pick her up for fear I would crush her. He told me he’d sorted this out. He told me thathe phoned her, they talked, she admitted that shehad struck up some sort of friendship with ScottHipwell, but that she didn’t intend seeing him anylonger, that she wouldn’t be hanging aroundanymore. Tom said she promised him, and that hebelieved her. Tom said she was being reasonable, shedidn’t seem drunk, she wasn’t hysterical, she didn’tmake threats or beg him to go back to her. He toldme he thought she was getting better. I take a few deep breaths and pull Evie up ontomy lap, I lie her back against my legs and hold herhands with mine. “I think I’ve had enough of this, don’t you,sweetie?” It’s just so wearing: every time I think that thingsare getting better, that we’re finally over the RachelIssue, there she is again. Sometimes I feel like she’snever, ever going to go away. Deep inside me, a rotten seed has been planted. When Tom tells me it’s OK, everything’s all right,she’s not going to bother us any longer, and thenshe does, I can’t help wondering whether he’s tryingas hard as he can to get rid of her, or whetherthere’s some part of him, deep down, that likes thefact that she can’t let go. I go downstairs and scrabble around in the kitchendrawer for the card that Detective Riley left. I dialher number quickly, before I have time to changemy mind. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 14, 2013 MORNING In bed, his hands on my hips, his breath hot againstmy neck, his skin slick with sweat against mine, hesays, “We don’t do this enough anymore.” “I know.” “We need to make more time for ourselves.” “We do.” “I miss you,” he says. “I miss this. I want more ofthis.” I roll over and kiss him on the lips, my eyes tightshut, trying to suppress the guilt I feel for going tothe police behind his back. “I think we should go somewhere,” he mumbles,“just the two of us. Get away for a bit.” And leave Evie with whom? I want to ask. Yourparents, whom you don’t speak to? Or my mother,who is so frail, she can barely care for herself? I don’t say that, I don’t say anything, I just kisshim again, more deeply. His hand slips down to theback of my thigh and he grips it, hard. “What do you think? Where would you like to go? Mauritius? Bali?” I laugh. “I’m serious,” he says, pulling back from me, lookingme in the eye. “We deserve it, Anna. You deserve it. It’s been a hard year, hasn’t it?” “But?.?.?.” “But what?” He flashes his perfect smile at me. “We’ll figure something out with Evie, don’t worry.” “Tom, the money.” “We’ll be OK.” “But?.?.?.” I don’t want to say this, but I have to. “We don’t have enough money to even considermoving house, but we do have enough money for aholiday in Mauritius or Bali?” He puffs out his cheeks, then exhales slowly, rollingaway from me. I shouldn’t have said it. The babymonitor crackles into life: Evie’s waking up. “I’ll get her,” he says, and gets up and leaves theroom. At breakfast, Evie is doing her thing. It’s a game toher now, refusing food, shaking her head, chin up,lips firmly closed, her little fists pushing at the bowlin front of her. Tom’s patience wears thin quickly. “I don’t have time for this,” he says to me. “You’llhave to do it.” He gets to his feet, holding out thespoon for me to take, the expression on his facepained. I take a deep breath. It’s OK, he’s tired, he has a lot of work on, he’spissed off because I didn’t enter into his holidayfantasy this morning. But it isn’t OK, because I’m tired, too, and I’d liketo have a conversation about money and oursituation here that doesn’t end with him just walkingout of the room. Of course, I don’t say that. Instead,I break my promise to myself and I go ahead andmention Rachel. “She’s been hanging around again,” I say, “sowhatever you said to her the other day didn’t do thetrick.” He gives me a sharp look. “What do you mean,hanging around?” “She was here last night, standing in the street rightopposite the house.” “Was she with someone?” “No. She was alone. Why d’you ask that?” “Fuck’s sake,” he says, and his face darkens theway it does when he’s really angry. “I told her tostay away. Why didn’t you say anything last night?” “I didn’t want to upset you,” I say softly, alreadyregretting bringing this up. “I didn’t want to worryyou.” “Jesus!” he says, and he dumps his coffee cuploudly in the sink. The noise gives Evie a fright, andshe starts to cry. This doesn’t help. “I don’t knowwhat to tell you, I honestly don’t. When I spoke toher, she was fine. She listened to what I was sayingand promised not to come around here any longer. She looked fine. She looked healthy, actually, back tonormal—” “She looked fine?” I ask him, and before he turnshis back on me I can see in his face that he knowshe’s been caught. “I thought you said you spoke toher on the phone?” He takes a deep breath, sighs heavily, then turnsback to me, his face a blank. “Yeah, well, that’s whatI told you, darling, because I knew you’d get upset ifI saw her. So I hold my hands up—I lied. Anythingfor an easy life.” “Are you kidding me?” He smiles at me, shaking his head as he stepstowards me, his hands still raised in supplication. “I’msorry, I’m sorry. She wanted to chat in person and Ithought it might be best. I’m sorry, OK? We justtalked. We met in a crappy coffee shop in Ashburyand talked for twenty minutes—half an hour, tops. OK?” He puts his arms around me and pulls me towardshis chest. I try to resist him, but he’s stronger thanme, and anyway he smells great and I don’t want afight. I want us to be on the same side. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles again, into my hair. “It’s all right,” I say. I let him get away with it, because I’m dealing withthis now. I spoke to Detective Riley yesterdayevening, and I knew the moment we started talkingthat I’d done the right thing by calling her, becausewhen I told her that I’d seen Rachel leaving ScottHipwell’s house “on several occasions” (a slightexaggeration), she seemed very interested. Shewanted to know dates and times (I could furnish herwith two; I was vague about the other incidents), ifthey’d had a relationship prior to Megan Hipwell’sdisappearance, whether I thought they were in asexual relationship now. I have to say the thoughthadn’t really crossed my mind—I can’t imagine himgoing from Megan to Rachel. In any case, his wife’sbarely cold in the ground. I went over the stuff about Evie as well—theattempted abduction—just in case she’d forgotten. “She’s very unstable,” I said. “You might think I’moverreacting, but I can’t take any risks where myfamily is concerned.” “Not at all,” she said. “Thank you very much forcontacting me. If you see anything else that youconsider suspicious, let me know.” I’ve no idea what they’ll do about her—perhaps justwarn her off? It’ll help, in any case, if we do startlooking into things like restraining orders. Hopefully,for Tom’s sake, it won’t come to that. After Tom leaves for work, I take Evie to the park,we play on the swings and the little wooden rockinghorses, and when I put her back into her buggy shefalls asleep almost immediately, which is my cue to goshopping. We cut through the back streets towardsthe big Sainsbury’s. It’s a bit of a roundabout way ofgetting there, but it’s quiet, with very little traffic, andin any case we get to pass number thirty-fourCranham Road. It gives me a little frisson even now, walking pastthat house—butterflies suddenly swarm in mystomach, and a smile comes to my lips and colour tomy cheeks. I remember hurrying up the front steps,hoping none of the neighbours would see me lettingmyself in, getting myself ready in the bathroom,putting on perfume, the kind of underwear you puton just to be taken off. Then I’d get a text messageand he’d be at the door, and we’d have an hour ortwo in the bedroom upstairs. He’d tell Rachel he was with a client, or meetingfriends for a beer. “Aren’t you worried she’ll checkup on you?” I’d ask him, and he’d shake his head,dismissing the idea. “I’m a good liar,” he told meonce with a grin. Once, he said, “Even if she didcheck, the thing with Rachel is, she won’t rememberwhat happened tomorrow anyway.” That’s when Istarted to realize just how bad things were for him. It wipes the smile off my face, though, thinkingabout those conversations. Thinking about Tomlaughing conspiratorially while he traced his fingerslower over my belly, smiling up at me, saying, “I’m agood liar.” He is a good liar, a natural. I’ve seen himdoing it: convincing check-in staff that we werehoneymooners, for example, or talking his way out ofextra hours at work by claiming a family emergency. Everyone does it, of course they do, only when Tomdoes it, you believe him. I think about breakfast this morning—but the pointis that I caught him in the lie, and he admitted itstraightaway. I don’t have anything to worry about. He isn’t seeing Rachel behind my back! The idea isridiculous. She might have been attractive once—shewas quite striking when he met her, I’ve seenpictures: all huge dark eyes and generouscurves—but now she’s just run to fat. And in anycase, he would never go back to her, not aftereverything she did to him, to us—all the harassment,all those late-night phone calls, hang-ups, textmessages. I’m standing in the tinned goods aisle, Evie stillmercifully sleeping in the buggy, and I start thinkingabout those phone calls, and about the time—or wasit times?—when I woke up and the bathroom lightwas on. I could hear his voice, low and gentle,behind the closed door. He was calming her down, Iknow he was. He told me that sometimes she’d beso angry, she’d threaten to come round to thehouse, go to his work, throw herself in front of atrain. He might be a very good liar, but I knowwhen he’s telling the truth. He doesn’t fool me. EVENING Only, thinking about it, he did fool me, didn’t he? When he told me that he’d spoken to Rachel on thephone, that she sounded fine, better, happy almost, Ididn’t doubt him for a moment. And when he camehome on Monday night and I asked him about hisday and he talked to me about a really tiresomemeeting that morning, I listened sympathetically, notonce suspecting that there was no meeting, that allthe while he was in a coffee shop in Ashbury withhis ex-wife. This is what I’m thinking about while I’m unloadingthe dishwasher, with great care and precision,because Evie is napping and the clatter of cutleryagainst crockery might wake her up. He does foolme. I know he’s not always 100 percent honestabout everything. I think about that story about hisparents—how he invited them to the wedding butthey refused to come because they were so angrywith him for leaving Rachel. I always thought thatwas odd, because on the two occasions when I’vespoken to his mum she sounded so pleased to betalking to me. She was kind, interested in me, inEvie. “I do hope we’ll be able to see her soon,” she said,but when I told Tom about it he dismissed it. “She’s trying to get me to invite them round,” hesaid, “just so she can refuse. Power games.” Shedidn’t sound like a woman playing power games tome, but I didn’t press the point. The workings ofother people’s families are always so impenetrable. He’ll have his reasons for keeping them at arm’slength, I know he will, and they’ll be centred onprotecting me and Evie. So why am I wondering now whether that wastrue? It’s this house, this situation, all the things thathave been going on here—they’re making me doubtmyself, doubt us. If I’m not careful they’ll end upmaking me crazy, and I’ll end up like her. LikeRachel. I’m just sitting here, waiting to take the sheets outof the tumble dryer. I think about turning on thetelevision and seeing if there’s an episode of Friendson that I haven’t watched three hundred times, Ithink about doing my yoga stretches, and I thinkabout the novel on my bedside table, which I’ve readtwelve pages of in the past two weeks. I think aboutTom’s laptop, which is on the coffee table in theliving room. And then I do the things I never thought I would. Igrab the bottle of red that we opened last night withdinner and I pour myself a glass. Then I fetch hislaptop, power it up and start trying to guess thepassword. I’m doing the things she did: drinking alone andsnooping on him. The things she did and he hated. But recently—as recently as this morning—things haveshifted. If he’s going to lie, then I’m going to checkup on him. That’s a fair deal, isn’t it? I feel I’mowed a bit of fairness. So I try to crack thepassword. I try names in different combinations: mineand his, his and Evie’s, mine and Evie’s, all three ofus together, forwards and backwards. Our birthdays,in various combinations. Anniversaries: the first timewe saw each other, the first time we had sex. Number thirty-four, for Cranham Road; numbertwenty-three, this house. I try to think outside thebox—most men use football teams as passwords, Ithink, but Tom isn’t into football; he quite likescricket, so I try Boycott and Botham and Ashes. Idon’t know names of any of the recent ones. I drainmy glass and pour another half. I’m actually ratherenjoying myself, trying to solve the puzzle. I think ofbands he likes, films he enjoys, actresses he fancies. Itype password; I type 1234. There’s an awful screeching outside as the Londontrain stops at the signal, like nails on a chalkboard. Iclench my teeth and take another long swig of wine,and as I do, I notice the time—Jesus, it’s almostseven and Evie’s still sleeping and he’ll be home in aminute, and I’m literally thinking that he’ll be homein a minute when I hear the rattle of the key in thedoor and my heart stops. I snap the laptop shut and jump to my feet,knocking my chair over with a clatter. Evie wakesand starts to cry. I put the computer back on thetable before he gets into the room, but he knowssomething’s up and he just stares at me and says,“What’s going on?” I tell him, “Nothing, nothing, Iknocked over a chair by mistake.” He picks Evie upout of her pram to give her a cuddle, and I catchsight of myself in the hallway mirror, my face paleand my lips stained dark red with wine. RACHEL THURSDAY, AUGUST 15, 2013 MORNING Cathy has got me a job interview. A friend of hershas set up her own public relations firm and sheneeds an assistant. It’s basically a glorified secretarialjob and it pays next to nothing, but I don’t care. This woman is prepared to see me withoutreferences—Cathy’s told her some story about myhaving a breakdown but being fully recovered now. The interview’s tomorrow afternoon at this woman’shome—she runs her business from one of thoseoffice sheds in the back garden—which just happensto be in Witney. So I was supposed to be spendingthe day polishing up my CV and my interviewingskills. I was—only Scott phoned me. “I was hoping we could talk,” he said. “We don’t need?.?.?. I mean, you don’t need to sayanything. It was?.?.?. We both know it was a mistake.” “I know,” he said, and he sounded so sad, not likethe angry Scott of my nightmares, more the brokenone that sat on my bed and told me about his deadchild. “But I really want to talk to you.” “Of course,” I said. “Of course we can talk.” “In person?” “Oh,” I said. The last thing I wanted was to have togo back to that house. “I’m sorry, I can’t today.” “Please, Rachel? It’s important.” He soundeddesperate and, despite myself, I felt bad for him. Iwas trying to think of an excuse when he said itagain. “Please?” So I said yes, and I regretted it thesecond the word came out of my mouth. There’s a story about Megan’s child—her first deadchild—in the newspapers. Well, it’s about the child’sfather, actually. They tracked him down. His name’sCraig McKenzie, and he died of a heroin overdose inSpain four years ago. So that rules him out. It neversounded to me like a likely motive in any case—ifsomeone wanted to punish her for what she’d doneback then, they’d have done it years ago. So who does that leave? It leaves the usualsuspects: the husband, the lover. Scott, Kamal. Orsome random man who snatched her from thestreet—a serial killer just starting out? Will she be thefirst of a series, a Wilma McCann, a Pauline Reade? And who said, after all, that the killer had to be aman? She was a small woman, Megan Hipwell. Tiny,birdlike. It wouldn’t take much force to take herdown. AFTERNOON The first thing I notice when he opens the door isthe smell. Sweat and beer, rank and sour, and underthat something else, something worse. Somethingrotting. He’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and a stainedgrey T-shirt, his hair is greasy, his skin slick, asthough with fever. “Are you all right?” I ask him, and he grins at me. He’s been drinking. “I’m fine, come in, come in.” I don’t want to, but Ido. The curtains on the street side of the house areclosed, and the living room is cast in a reddish huethat seems to suit the heat and the smell. Scott wanders into the kitchen, opens the fridge andtakes a beer out. “Come and sit down,” he says. “Have a drink.” Thegrin on his face is fixed, joyless, grim. There’ssomething unkind about the set of his face. Thecontempt that I saw on Saturday morning, after weslept together, it’s still there. “I can’t stay long,” I tell him. “I have a jobinterview tomorrow, I need to prepare.” “Really?” He raises his eyebrows. He sits down andkicks a chair out towards me. “Sit down and have adrink,” he says, an order, not an invitation. I sitdown opposite him and he pushes the beer bottletowards me. I pick it up and take a sip. Outside, Ican hear shrieking—children playing in a back gardensomewhere—and beyond that, the faint and familiarrumble of the train. “They got the DNA results yesterday,” Scott says tome. “Detective Riley came to see me last night.” Hewaits for me to say something, but I’m frightened ofsaying the wrong thing, so I stay silent. “It’s notmine. It wasn’t mine. The funny thing is, it wasn’tKamal’s, either.” He laughs. “So she had someoneelse on the go. Can you believe it?” He’s smiling thathorrible smile. “You didn’t know anything about that,did you? About another bloke? She didn’t confide inyou about another man, did she?” The smile isslipping from his face and I’m getting a bad feelingabout this, a very bad feeling. I get to my feet andtake a step towards the door, but he’s there in frontof me, his hands gripping my arms, and he pushesme back into the chair. “Sit the fuck down.” He grabs my handbag frommy shoulder and throws it into the corner of theroom. “Scott, I don’t know what’s going on—” “Come on!” he shouts, leaning over me. “You andMegan were such good friends! You must haveknown about all her lovers!” He knows. And as the thought comes to me, hemust see it in my face because he leans in closer, hisbreath rancid in my face, and says, “Come on,Rachel. Tell me.” I shake my head and he swings a hand out,catching the beer bottle in front of me. It rolls off thetable and smashes on the tiled floor. “You never even fucking met her!” he yells. “Everything you said to me—everything was a lie.” Ducking my head, I get to my feet, mumbling, “I’msorry, I’m sorry.” I’m trying to get round the table,to retrieve my handbag, my phone, but he grabs myarm again. “Why did you do this?” he asks. “What made youdo this? What is wrong with you?” He’s looking at me, his eyes locked on mine, andI’m terrified of him, but at the same time I knowthat his question isn’t unreasonable. I owe him anexplanation. So I don’t pull my arm away, I let hisfingers dig into my flesh and I try to speak clearlyand calmly. I try not to cry. I try not to panic. “I wanted you to know about Kamal,” I tell him. “Isaw them together, like I told you, but you wouldn’thave taken me seriously if I’d just been some girl onthe train. I needed—” “You needed!” He lets go of me, turning away. “You’re telling me what you needed?.?.?.” His voice issofter, he’s calming down. I breathe deeply, trying toslow my heart. “I wanted to help you,” I say. “I knew that thepolice always suspect the husband, and I wanted youto know—to know there was someone else?.?.?.” “So you made up a story about knowing my wife? Do you have any idea how insane you sound?” “I do.” I walk over to the kitchen counter to pick up adishcloth, then get down on my hands and kneesand clean up the spilled beer. Scott sits, elbows onknees, head hanging down. “She wasn’t who Ithought she was,” he says. “I have no idea who shewas.” I wring the cloth out over the sink and run coldwater over my hands. My handbag is a couple offeet away, in the corner of the room. I make a movetowards it, but Scott looks up at me, so I stop. Istand there, my back to the counter, my handsgripping the edge for stability. For comfort. “Detective Riley told me,” he says. “She was askingme about you. Whether I was in a relationship withyou.” He laughs. “A relationship with you! Jesus. Iasked her, ‘Have you seen what my wife looked like? Standards haven’t fallen that fast.’” My face is hot,there is cold sweat under my armpits and at thebase of my spine. “Apparently Anna’s beencomplaining about you. She’s seen you hangingaround. So that’s how it all came out. I said, ‘We’renot in a relationship, she’s just an old friend ofMegan’s, she’s helping me out.’” He laughs again, lowand mirthless. “She said, ‘She doesn’t know Megan. She’s just a sad little liar with no life.’” The smilefaded from his face. “You’re all liars. Every last oneof you.” My phone beeps. I take a step towards the bag, butScott gets there before me. “Hang on a minute,” he says, picking it up. “We’renot finished yet.” He tips the contents of myhandbag onto the table: phone, purse, keys, lipstick,Tampax, credit card receipts. “I want to know exactlyhow much of what you told me was total bullshit.” Idly, he picks up the phone and looks at the screen. He raises his eyes to mine and they are suddenlycold. He reads aloud: “This is to confirm yourappointment with Dr. Abdic at four thirty P.M. onMonday, nineteen August. If you are unable to makethis appointment, please be advised that we requiretwenty-four hours’ notice.” “Scott—” “What the hell is going on?” he asks, his voice littlemore than a rasp. “What have you been doing? What have you been saying to him?” “I haven’t been saying anything?.?.?.” He’s droppedthe phone on the table and is coming towards me,his hands balled into fists. I’m backing away into thecorner of the room, pressing myself between the walland the glass door. “I was trying to find out?.?.?. Iwas trying to help.” He raises his hand and I cringe,ducking my head, waiting for the pain, and in thatmoment I know that I’ve done this before, felt thisbefore, but I can’t remember when and I don’t havetime to think about it now, because although hehasn’t hit me, he’s placed his hands on my shouldersand he’s gripping them tightly, his thumbs digginginto my clavicles, and it hurts so much I cry out. “All this time,” he says through gritted teeth, “all thistime I thought you were on my side, but you wereworking against me. You were giving him information,weren’t you? Telling him things about me, aboutMegs. It was you, trying to make the police comeafter me. It was you—” “No. Please don’t. It wasn’t like that. I wanted tohelp you.” His right hand slides up, he grabs hold ofmy hair at the nape of my neck and he twists. “Scott, please don’t. Please. You’re hurting me. Please.” He’s dragging me now, towards the frontdoor. I’m flooded with relief. He’s going to throw meout into the street. Thank God. Only he doesn’t throw me out, he keeps draggingme, spitting and cursing. He’s taking me upstairs andI’m trying to resist, but he’s so strong, I can’t. I’mcrying, “Please don’t. Please,” and I know thatsomething terrible is about to happen. I try toscream, but I can’t, the noise won’t come. I’m blind with tears and terror. He shoves me intoa room and slams the door behind me. The keytwists in the lock. Hot bile rises to my throat and Ithrow up onto the carpet. I wait, I listen. Nothinghappens, and no one comes. I’m in the spare room. In my house, this roomused to be Tom’s study. Now it’s their baby’snursery, the room with the soft pink blind. Here, it’sa box room, filled with papers and files, a fold-uptreadmill and an ancient Apple Mac. There is a boxof papers lined with figures—accounts, perhaps fromScott’s business—and another filled with oldpostcards—blank ones, with bits of Blu-Tack on theback, as though they were once stuck onto a wall: the roofs of Paris, children skateboarding in an alley,old railway sleepers covered in moss, a view of thesea from inside a cave. I delve through thepostcards—I don’t know why or what I’m looking for,I’m just trying to keep panic at bay. I’m trying notto think about that news report, Megan’s body beingdragged out of the mud. I’m trying not to think ofher injuries, of how frightened she must have beenwhen she saw it coming. I’m scrabbling around in the postcards, and thensomething bites me and I rock back on my heelswith a yelp. The tip of my forefinger is sliced neatlyacross the top, and blood is dripping onto my jeans. I stop the blood with the hem of my T-shirt andsort more carefully through the cards. I spot theculprit immediately: a framed picture, smashed, with apiece of glass missing from the top, the exposed edgesmeared with my blood. It’s not a photo I’ve seen before. It’s a picture ofMegan and Scott together, their faces close to thecamera. She’s laughing, and he’s looking at heradoringly. Jealously? The glass is shattered in a starradiating from the corner of Scott’s eye, so it’sdifficult to read his expression. I sit there on the floorwith the picture in front of me and think about howthings get broken all the time by accident, and howsometimes you just don’t get round to getting themfixed. I think about all the plates that were smashedwhen I fought with Tom, about that hole in theplaster in the corridor upstairs. Somewhere on the other side of the locked door, Ican hear Scott laughing, and my entire body goescold. I scrabble to my feet and go to the window,open it and lean right out, then with just the verytips of my toes on the ground, I cry out for help. Icall out for Tom. It’s hopeless. Pathetic. Even if hewas, by some chance, out in the garden a few doorsdown, he wouldn’t hear me, it’s too far away. I lookdown and lose my balance, then pull myself backinside, bowels loosening, sobs catching in my throat. “Please, Scott!” I call out. “Please?.?.?.” I hate thesound of my voice, the wheedling note, thedesperation. I look down at my blood-soaked T-shirtand I’m reminded that I am not without options. Ipick up the photo frame and tip it over onto thecarpet. I select the longest of the glass shards andslip it carefully into my back pocket. I can hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I backmyself up against the wall opposite the door. The keyturns in the lock. Scott has my handbag in one hand and tosses it atmy feet. In the other hand he is holding a scrap ofpaper. “Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew!” he says with asmile. He puts on a girly voice and reads aloud: “Megan has run off with her boyfriend, who fromhere on in, I shall refer to as B.” He snickers. “Bhas harmed her?.?.?. Scott has harmed her?.?.?.” Hecrumples up the paper and throws it at my feet. “Jesus Christ. You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” He looks around, taking in the puke on the floor, theblood on my T-shirt. “Fucking hell, what have youbeen doing? Trying to top yourself? Going to do myjob for me?” He laughs again. “I should break yourfucking neck, but you know what, you’re just notworth the hassle.” He stands to one side. “Get out ofmy house.” I grab my bag and make for the door, but just asI do, he steps out in front of me with a boxer’sfeint, and for a moment I think he’s going to stopme, put his hands on me again. There must beterror in my eyes because he starts to laugh, heroars with laughter. I can still hear him when I slamthe front door behind me. FRIDAY, AUGUST 16, 2013 MORNING I’ve barely slept. I drank a bottle and a half of winein an attempt to get off to sleep, to stop my handsshaking, to quieten my startle reflex, but it didn’treally work. Every time I started to drop off, I’d joltawake. I felt sure I could feel him in the room withme. I turned the light on and sat there, listening tothe sounds of the street outside, to people movingaround in the building. It was only when it started toget light that I relaxed enough to sleep. I dreamed Iwas in the woods again. Tom was with me, but still Ifelt afraid. I left Tom a note last night. After I left Scott’s, Iran down to number twenty-three and banged onthe door. I was in such a panic, I didn’t even carewhether Anna was there, whether she’d be pissed offwith me for showing up. No one came to the door,so I scribbled a note on a scrap of paper andshoved it through the letter box. I don’t care if shesees it—I think a part of me actually wants her tosee it. I kept the note vague—I told him we neededto talk about the other day. I didn’t mention Scott byname, because I didn’t want Tom to go round thereand confront him—God knows what might happen. I rang the police almost as soon as I got home. Ihad a couple of glasses of wine first, to calm medown. I asked to speak to Detective Inspector Gaskill,but they said he wasn’t available, so I ended uptalking to Riley. It wasn’t what I wanted—I knowGaskill would have been kinder. “He imprisoned me in his home,” I told her. “Hethreatened me.” She asked how long I was “imprisoned” for. I couldhear the air quotes over the line. “I don’t know,” I said. “Half an hour, maybe.” There was a long silence. “And he threatened you. Can you tell me the exactnature of the threat?” “He said he’d break my neck. He said?.?.?. he saidhe ought to break my neck?.?.?.” “He ought to break your neck?” “He said that he would if he could be bothered.” Silence. Then, “Did he hit you? Did he injure you inany way?” “Bruising. Just bruising.” “He hit you?” “No, he grabbed me.” More silence. Then: “Ms. Watson, why were you in Scott Hipwell’shouse?” “He asked me to go to see him. He said he neededto talk to me.” She gave a long sigh. “You were warned to stay outof this. You’ve been lying to him, telling him youwere a friend of his wife’s, you’ve been telling allsorts of stories and—let me finish—this is a personwho, at best, is under a great deal of strain and isextremely distressed. At best. At worst, he might bedangerous.” “He is dangerous, that’s what I’m telling you, forGod’s sake.” “This is not helpful—you going round there, lying tohim, provoking him. We’re in the middle of a murderinvestigation here. You need to understand that. Youcould jeopardize our progress, you could—” “What progress?” I snapped. “You haven’t madeany bloody progress. He killed his wife, I’m tellingyou. There’s a picture, a photograph of the two ofthem—it’s smashed. He’s angry, he’s unstable—” “Yes, we saw the photograph. The house has beensearched. It’s hardly evidence of murder.” “So you’re not going to arrest him?” She gave a long sigh. “Come to the stationtomorrow. Make a statement. We’ll take it from there. And Ms. Watson? Stay away from Scott Hipwell.” Cathy came home and found me drinking. Shewasn’t happy. What could I tell her? There was noway to explain it. I just said I was sorry and wentupstairs to my room, like a teenager in a sulk. Andthen I lay awake, trying to sleep, waiting for Tom tocall. He didn’t. I wake early, check my phone (no calls), wash myhair and dress for my interview, hands trembling,stomach in knots. I’m leaving early because I have tostop off at the police station first, to give them mystatement. Not that I’m expecting it to do any good. They never took me seriously and they certainlyaren’t going to start now. I wonder what it wouldtake for them to see me as anything other than afantasist. On the way to the station I can’t stop looking overmy shoulder; the sudden scream of a police sirenhas me literally leaping into the air in fright. On thestation platform I walk as close to the railings as Ican, my fingers trailing against the iron fence, just incase I need to hold on tight. I realize it’s ridiculous,but I feel so horribly vulnerable now that I’ve seenwhat he is; now that there are no secrets betweenus. AFTERNOON The matter should be closed for me now. All thistime, I’ve been thinking that there was something toremember, something I was missing. But there isn’t. Ididn’t see anything important or do anything terrible. I just happened to be on the same street. I knowthis now, courtesy of the red-haired man. And yetthere’s an itch at the back of my brain that I justcan’t scratch. Neither Gaskill nor Riley were at the police station; Igave my statement to a bored-looking uniformedofficer. It will be filed and forgotten about, I assume,unless I turn up dead in a ditch somewhere. Myinterview was on the opposite side of town fromwhere Scott lives, but I took a taxi from the policestation. I’m not taking any chances. It went as wellas it could: the job itself is utterly beneath me, butthen I seem to have become beneath me over thepast year or two. I need to reset the scale. The bigdrawback (other than the crappy pay and thelowliness of the job itself) will be having to come toWitney all the time, to walk these streets and riskrunning into Scott or Anna and her child. Because bumping into people is all I seem to do inthis neck of the woods. It’s one of the things I usedto like about the place: thevillage-on-the-edge-of-London feel. You might notknow everyone, but faces are familiar. I’m almost at the station, just passing the Crown,when I feel a hand on my arm and I wheel around,slipping off the pavement and into the road. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It’s him again, thered-haired man, pint in one hand, the other raised insupplication. “You’re jumpy, aren’t you?” He grins. Imust look really frightened, because the grin fades. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to scare you.” He’s knocked off early, he says, and invites me tohave a drink with him. I say no, and then I changemy mind. “I owe you an apology,” I say, when he—Andy, asit turns out—brings me my gin and tonic, “for theway I behaved on the train. Last time, I mean. I washaving a bad day.” “S’all right,” Andy says. His smile is slow and lazy, Idon’t think this is his first pint. We’re sitting oppositeeach other in the beer garden at the back of thepub; it feels safer here than on the street side. Perhaps it’s the safe feeling that emboldens me. Itake my chance. “I wanted to ask you about what happened,” I say. “The night that I met you. The night that Meg—Thenight that woman disappeared.” “Oh. Right. Why? What d’you mean?” I take a deep breath. I can feel my face reddening. No matter how many times you have to admit this,it’s always embarrassing, it always makes you cringe. “I was very drunk and I don’t remember. There aresome things I need to sort out. I just want to knowif you saw anything, if you saw me talking to anyoneelse, anything like that?.?.?.” I’m staring down at thetable, I can’t meet his eye. He nudges my foot with his. “It’s all right, youdidn’t do anything bad.” I look up and he’s smiling. “I was pissed, too. We had a bit of a chat on thetrain, I can’t remember what about. Then we bothgot off here, at Witney, and you were a bit unsteadyon your feet. You slipped on the steps. Youremember? I helped you up and you were allembarrassed, blushing like you are now.” He laughs. “We walked out together, and I asked you if youwanted to go to the pub. But you said you had togo and meet your husband.” “That’s it?” “No. Do you really not remember? It was a whilelater—I don’t know, half an hour, maybe? I’d been tothe Crown, but a mate rang and said he wasdrinking in a bar over on the other side of therailway track, so I was heading down to theunderpass. You’d fallen over. You were in a bit of amess then. You’d cut yourself. I was a bit worried, Isaid I’d see you home if you wanted, but youwouldn’t hear of it. You were?.?.?. well, you were veryupset. I think there’d been a row with your bloke. He was heading off down the street, and I said I’dgo after him if you wanted me to, but you said notto. He drove off somewhere after that. He was?.?.?. er?.?.?. he was with someone.” “A woman?” He nods, ducks his head a bit. “Yeah, they got intoa car together. I assumed that was what theargument was about.” “And then?” “Then you walked off. You seemed a little?.?.?. confused or something, and you walked off. You keptsaying you didn’t need any help. As I said, I was abit wasted myself, so I just left it. I went downthrough the underpass and met my mate in the pub. That was it.” Climbing the stairs to the apartment, I feel sure thatI can see shadows above me, hear footsteps ahead. Someone waiting on the landing above. There’s noone there, of course, and the flat is empty, too: itfeels untouched, it smells empty, but that doesn’t stopme checking every room—under my bed and underCathy’s, in the wardrobes and the closet in thekitchen that couldn’t conceal a child. Finally, after about three tours of the flat, I canstop. I go upstairs and sit on the bed and thinkabout the conversation I had with Andy, the fact thatit tallies with what I remember. There is no greatrevelation: Tom and I argued in the street, I slippedand hurt myself, he stormed off and got into his carwith Anna. Later he came back looking for me, butI’d already gone. I got into a taxi, I assume, or backonto the train. I sit on my bed looking out of the window andwonder why I don’t feel better. Perhaps it’s simplybecause I still don’t have any answers. Perhaps it’sbecause, although what I remember tallies with whatother people remember, something still feels off. Thenit strikes me: Anna. It’s not just that Tom nevermentioned going anywhere in the car with her, it’sthe fact that when I saw her, walking away, gettinginto the car, she wasn’t carrying the baby. Wherewas Evie while all this was going on? SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 2013 EVENING I need to speak to Tom, to get things straight in myhead, because the more I go over it, the less sense itmakes, and I can’t stop going over it. I’m worried, inany case, because it’s two days since I left him thatnote and he hasn’t got back to me. He didn’tanswer his phone last night, he’s not been answeringit all day. Something’s not right, and I can’t shakethe feeling that it has to do with Anna. I know that he’ll want to talk to me, too, after hehears about what happened with Scott. I know thathe’ll want to help. I can’t stop thinking about theway he was that day in the car, about how thingsfelt between us. So I pick up the phone and dial hisnumber, butterflies in my stomach, just the way italways used to be, the anticipation of hearing hisvoice as acute now as it was years ago. “Yeah?” “Tom, it’s me.” “Yes.” Anna must be there with him, he doesn’t want tosay my name. I wait for a moment, to give him timeto move to another room, to get away from her. Ihear him sigh. “What is it?” “Um, I wanted to talk to you?.?.?. As I said in mynote, I—” “What?” He sounds irritated. “I left you a note a couple of days ago. I thoughtwe should talk—” “I didn’t get a note.” Another, heavier sigh. “Fuck’ssake. That’s why she’s pissed off with me.” Annamust have taken it, she didn’t give it to him. “Whatdo you need?” I want to hang up, dial again, start over. Tell himhow good it was to see him on Monday, when wewent to the woods. “I just wanted to ask you something.” “What?” he snaps. He sounds really annoyed. “Is everything OK?” “What do you want, Rachel?” It’s gone, all thetenderness that was there a week ago. I curse myselffor leaving that note, I’ve obviously got him intotrouble at home. “I wanted to ask you about that night—the nightMegan Hipwell went missing.” “Oh, Jesus. We’ve talked about this—you can’t haveforgotten already.” “I just—” “You were drunk,” he says, his voice loud, harsh. “Itold you to go home. You wouldn’t listen. Youwandered off. I drove around looking for you, but Icouldn’t find you.” “Where was Anna?” “She was at home.” “With the baby?” “With Evie, yes.” “She wasn’t in the car with you?” “No.” “But—” “Oh for God’s sake. She was supposed to be goingout, I was going to babysit. Then you came along, soshe came and cancelled her plans. And I wasted yetmore hours of my life running around after you.” I wish I hadn’t called. To have my hopes raisedand dashed again, it’s like cold steel twisting in mygut. “OK,” I say. “It’s just, I remember it differently?.?.?. Tom, when you saw me, was I hurt? Was I?.?.?. Did Ihave a cut on my head?” Another heavy sigh. “I’m surprised you rememberanything at all, Rachel. You were blind drunk. Filthy,stinking drunk. Staggering all over the place.” Mythroat starts to close up, hearing him say thesewords. I’ve heard him say these sorts of thingsbefore, in the bad old days, the very worst days,when he was tired of me, sick of me, disgusted byme. Wearily, he goes on. “You’d fallen over in thestreet, you were crying, you were a total mess. Whyis this important?” I can’t find the words right away,I take too long to answer. He goes on: “Look, Ihave to go. Don’t call anymore, please. We’ve beenthrough this. How many times do I have to askyou? Don’t call, don’t leave notes, don’t come here. Itupsets Anna. All right?” The phone goes dead. SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 EARLY MORNING I’ve been downstairs in the living room all night, withthe television on for company, fear ebbing andflowing. Strength ebbing and flowing. It feels a bit likeI’ve gone back in time, the wound he made yearsago ripped open again, new and fresh. It’s silly, Iknow. I was an idiot to think that I had a chancewith him again, just on the basis of one conversation,a few moments that I took for tenderness and thatwere probably nothing more than sentimentality andguilt. Still, it hurts. And I’ve just got to let myself feelthe pain, because if I don’t, if I keep numbing it, it’llnever really go away. And I was an idiot to let myself think that therewas a connection between me and Scott, that I couldhelp him. So, I’m an idiot. I’m used to that. I don’thave to continue to be one, do I? Not any longer. Ilay here all night and I promised myself that I’ll geta handle on things. I’ll move away from here, faraway. I’ll get a new job. I’ll go back to my maidenname, sever ties with Tom, make it hard for anyoneto find me. Should anyone come looking. I haven’t had much sleep. Lying here on the sofa,making plans, every time I started drifting off to sleepI heard Tom’s voice in my head, as clear as if hewere right there, right next to me, his lips against myear—You were blind drunk. Filthy, stinking drunk—and I jolted awake, shame washing over me like awave. Shame, but also the strongest sense of déjàvu, because I’ve heard those words before, thoseexact words. And then I couldn’t stop running the scenesthrough my head: waking with blood on the pillow,the inside of my mouth hurting, as though I’d bittenmy cheek, fingernails dirty, terrible headache, Tomcoming out of the bathroom, that expression hewore—half hurt, half angry—dread rising in me likefloodwater. “What happened?” Tom, showing me the bruises on his arm, on hischest, where I’d hit him. “I don’t believe it, Tom. I’d never hit you. I’ve neverhit anyone in my life.” “You were blind drunk, Rachel. Do you rememberanything you did last night? Anything you said?” Andthen he’d tell me, and I still couldn’t believe it,because nothing he said sounded like me, none of it. And the thing with the golf club, that hole in theplaster, grey and blank like a blinded eye trained onme every time I passed it, and I couldn’t reconcilethe violence that he talked about with the fear that Iremembered. Or thought that I remembered. After a while Ilearned not to ask what I had done, or to arguewhen he volunteered the information, because I didn’twant to know the details, I didn’t want to hear theworst of it, the things I said and did when I was likethat, filthy, stinking drunk. Sometimes he threatenedto record me, he told me he’d play it back for me. He never did. Small mercies. After a while, I learned that when you wake up likethat, you don’t ask what happened, you just say thatyou’re sorry: you’re sorry for what you did and whoyou are and you’re never, ever going to behave likethat again. And now I’m not, I’m really not. I can be thankfulto Scott for this: I’m too afraid, now, to go out inthe middle of the night to buy booze. I’m too afraidto let myself slip, because that’s when I make myselfvulnerable. I’m going to have to be strong, that’s all there is toit. My eyelids start to feel heavy again and my headnods against my chest. I turn the TV down sothere’s almost no sound at all, roll over so that I’mfacing the sofa back, snuggle down and pull theduvet over me, and I’m drifting off, I can feel it, I’mgoing to sleep, and then—bang, the ground is rushingup at me and I jerk upright, my heart in my throat. I saw it. I saw it. I was in the underpass and he was coming towardsme, one slap across the mouth and then his fistraised, keys in his hand, searing pain as the serratedmetal smashed down against my skull. ANNA SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 2013 EVENING I hate myself for crying, it’s so pathetic. But I feelexhausted, these past few weeks have been so hardon me. And Tom and I have had another rowabout—inevitably—Rachel. It’s been brewing, I suppose. I’ve been torturingmyself about the note, about the fact that he lied tome about them meeting up. I keep telling myself it’scompletely stupid, but I can’t fight the feeling thatthere is something going on between them. I’ve beengoing round and round: after everything she did tohim—to us—how could he? How could he evencontemplate being with her again? I mean, if youlook at the two of us, side by side, there isn’t a manon earth who would pick her over me. And that’swithout even going into all her issues. But then I think, this happens sometimes, doesn’t it? People you have a history with, they won’t let yougo, and as hard as you might try, you can’tdisentangle yourself, can’t set yourself free. Maybeafter a while you just stop trying. She came by on Thursday, banging on the doorand calling out for Tom. I was furious, but I didn’tdare open up. Having a child with you makes youvulnerable, it makes you weak. If I’d been on myown I would have confronted her, I’d have had noproblems sorting her out. But with Evie here, I justcouldn’t risk it. I’ve no idea what she might do. I know why she came. She was pissed off that I’dtalked to the police about her. I bet she came cryingto Tom to tell me to leave her alone. She left anote—We need to talk, please call me as soon aspossible, it’s important (important underlined threetimes)—which I threw straight into the bin. Later, Ifished it out and put it in my bedside drawer, alongwith the printout of that vicious email she sent andthe log I’ve been keeping of all the calls and all thesightings. The harassment log. My evidence, should Ineed it. I called Detective Riley and left a messagesaying that Rachel had been round again. She stillhasn’t rung back. I should have mentioned the note to Tom, I know Ishould have, but I didn’t want him to get annoyedwith me about talking to the police, so I just shovedit in that drawer and hoped that she’d forget aboutit. She didn’t, of course. She rang him tonight. Hewas fuming when he got off the phone with her. “What the fuck is all this about a note?” hesnapped. I told him I’d thrown it away. “I didn’t realize thatyou’d want to read it,” I said. “I thought you wantedher out of our lives as much as I do.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point and youknow it. Of course I want Rachel gone. What I don’twant is for you to start listening to my phone callsand throwing away my mail. You’re?.?.?.” He sighed. “I’m what?” “Nothing. It’s just?.?.?. it’s the sort of thing she usedto do.” It was a punch in the gut, a low blow. Ridiculously,I burst into tears and ran upstairs to the bathroom. I waited for him to come up to soothe me, to kissand make up like he usually does, but after abouthalf an hour he called out to me, “I’m going to thegym for a couple of hours,” and before I could replyI heard the front door slam. And now I find myself behaving exactly like sheused to: polishing off the half bottle of red left overfrom dinner last night and snooping around on hiscomputer. It’s easier to understand her behaviourwhen you feel like I feel right now. There’s nothingso painful, so corrosive, as suspicion. I cracked the laptop password eventually: it’sBlenheim. As innocuous and boring as that—thename of the road we live on. I’ve found noincriminating emails, no sordid pictures or passionateletters. I spend half an hour reading through workemails so mind-numbing that they dull even the painof jealousy, then I shut down the laptop and put itaway. I’m feeling really quite jolly, thanks to the wineand the tedious contents of Tom’s computer. I’vereassured myself I was just being silly. I go upstairs to brush my teeth—I don’t want himto know that I’ve been at the wine again—and then Idecide that I’ll strip the bed and put on fresh sheets,I’ll spray a bit of Acqua di Parma on the pillows andput on that black silk teddy he got me for mybirthday last year, and when he comes back, I’llmake it up to him. As I’m pulling the sheets off the mattress I almosttrip over a black bag shoved under the bed: his gymbag. He’s forgotten his gym bag. He’s been gone anhour, and he hasn’t been back for it. My stomachflips. Maybe he just thought, sod it, and decided togo to the pub instead. Maybe he has some sparestuff in his locker at the gym. Maybe he’s in bedwith her right now. I feel sick. I get down on my knees and rummagethrough the bag. All his stuff is there, washed andready to go, his iPod shuffle, the only trainers heruns in. And something else: a mobile phone. Aphone I’ve never seen before. I sit down on the bed, the phone in my hand, myheart hammering. I’m going to turn it on, there’s noway I’ll be able to resist, and yet I’m sure that whenI do, I’ll regret it, because this can only meansomething bad. You don’t keep spare mobile phonestucked away in gym bags unless you’re hidingsomething. There’s a voice in my head saying, Justput it back, just forget about it, but I can’t. Ipress my finger down hard on the power button andwait for the screen to light up. And wait. And wait. It’s dead. Relief floods my system like morphine. I’m relieved because now I can’t know, but I’m alsorelieved because a dead phone suggests an unusedphone, an unwanted phone, not the phone of a maninvolved in a passionate affair. That man would wanthis phone on him at all times. Perhaps it’s an oldone of his, perhaps it’s been in his gym bag formonths and he just hasn’t got around to throwing itaway. Perhaps it isn’t even his: maybe he found it atthe gym and meant to hand it in at the desk andhe forgot? I leave the bed half-stripped and go downstairs tothe living room. The coffee table has a couple ofdrawers underneath it filled with the kind of domesticjunk that accumulates over time: rolls of Sellotape,plug adaptors for foreign travel, tape measures,sewing kits, old mobile-phone chargers. I grab allthree of the chargers; the second one I try fits. Iplug it in on my side of the bed, phone and chargerhidden behind the bedside table. Then I wait. Times and dates, mostly. Not dates. Days. Mondayat 3? Friday, 4:30. Sometimes, a refusal. Can’ttomorrow. Not Weds. There’s nothing else: nodeclarations of love, no explicit suggestions. Just textmessages, about a dozen of them, all from a withheldnumber. There are no contacts in the phone bookand the call log has been erased. I don’t need dates, because the phone recordsthem. The meetings go back months. They go backalmost a year. When I realized this, when I saw thatthe first one was from September last year, a hardlump formed in my throat. September! Evie was sixmonths old. I was still fat, exhausted, raw, off sex. But then I start to laugh, because this is justridiculous, it can’t be true. We were blissfully happyin September, in love with each other and with ournew baby. There is no way he was sneaking aroundwith her, no way in hell that he’s been seeing her allthis time. I would have known. It can’t be true. Thephone isn’t his. Still. I get my harassment log from the bedside tableand look at the calls, comparing them with themeetings arranged on the phone. Some of themcoincide. Some calls are a day or two before, some aday or two after. Some don’t correlate at all. Could he really have been seeing her all this time,telling me that she was hassling him, harassing him,when in reality they were making plans to meet up,to sneak around behind my back? But why wouldshe be calling him on the landline if she had thisphone to call? It doesn’t make sense. Unless shewanted me to know. Unless she was trying toprovoke trouble between us? Tom has been gone almost two hours now, he’ll beback soon from wherever he’s been. I make the bed,put the log and the phone in the bedside table, godownstairs, pour myself one final glass of wine anddrink it quickly. I could call her. I could confront her. But what would I say? There’s no moral high groundfor me to take. And I’m not sure I could bear it, thedelight she would take in telling me that all this time,I’ve been the fool. If he does it with you, he’ll do itto you. I hear footsteps on the pavement outside and Iknow it’s him, I know his gait. I shove the wineglassinto the sink and I stand there, leaning against thekitchen counter, the blood pounding in my ears. “Hello,” he says when he sees me. He lookssheepish, he’s weaving just a little. “They serve beer at the gym now, do they?” He grins. “I forgot my stuff. I went to the pub.” Just as I thought. Or just as he thought I wouldthink? He comes a little closer. “What have you been upto?” he asks me, a smile on his lips. “You lookguilty.” He slips his arms around my waist and pullsme close. I can smell the beer on his breath. “Haveyou been up to no good?” “Tom?.?.?.” “Shhh,” he says, and he kisses my mouth, startsunbuttoning my jeans. He turns me around. I don’twant to, but I don’t know how to say no, so I closemy eyes and try not to think of him with her, I tryto think of the early days, running round to theempty house on Cranham Road, breathless,desperate, hungry. SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 EARLY MORNING I wake with a fright; it’s still dark. I think I can hearEvie crying, but when I go through to check on her,she’s sleeping deeply, her blanket clutched tightlybetween closed fists. I go back to bed, but I can’t fallasleep again. All I can think about is the phone inthe bedside drawer. I glance over at Tom, lying withhis left arm flung out, his head thrown back. I cantell from the cadence of his breathing that he’s farfrom consciousness. I slip out of bed, open thedrawer and take out the phone. Downstairs in the kitchen, I turn the phone overand over in my hand, preparing myself. I want toknow, but I don’t. I want to be sure, but I want sodesperately to be wrong. I turn it on. I press oneand hold it, I hear the voice mail welcome. I hearthat I have no new messages and no savedmessages. Would I like to change my greeting? I endthe call, but am suddenly gripped by the completelyirrational fear that the phone could ring, that Tomwould hear it from upstairs, so I slide the Frenchdoors open and step outside. The grass is damp beneath my feet, the air cool,heavy with the scent of rain and roses. I can hear atrain in the distance, a slow growl, it’s a long wayoff. I walk almost as far as the fence before I dialthe voice mail again: would I like to change mygreeting? Yes, I would. There’s a beep and a pauseand then I hear her voice. Her voice, not his. Hi,it’s me, leave a message. My heart has stopped beating. It’s not his phone, it’s hers. I play it again. Hi, it’s me, leave a message. It’s her voice. I can’t move, can’t breathe. I play it again, andagain. My throat is closed, I feel as though I’m goingto faint, and then the light comes on upstairs. RACHEL SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 EARLY MORNING One piece of the memory led to the next. It’s asthough I’d been blundering about in the dark fordays, weeks, months, then finally caught hold ofsomething. Like running my hand along a wall tofind my way from one room to the next. Shiftingshadows started at last to coalesce, and after a whilemy eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and Icould see. Not at first. At first, although it felt like a memory, Ithought it must be a dream. I sat there, on the sofa,almost paralysed with shock, telling myself that itwouldn’t be the first time I’d misrememberedsomething, wouldn’t be the first time that I’d thoughtthings went a certain way when in fact they hadplayed out differently. Like that time we went to a party thrown by acolleague of Tom’s, and I was very drunk, but we’dhad a good night. I remember kissing Claragood-bye. Clara was the colleague’s wife, a lovelywoman, warm and kind. I remember her saying thatwe should get together again; I remember herholding my hand in hers. I remembered that so clearly, but it wasn’t true. Iknew it wasn’t true the next morning when Tomturned his back on me when I tried to speak to him. I know it isn’t true because he told me howdisappointed and embarrassed he was that I’daccused Clara of flirting with him, that I’d beenhysterical and abusive. When I closed my eyes I could feel her hand,warm against my skin, but that didn’t actuallyhappen. What really happened is that Tom had tohalf carry me out of the house, me crying andshouting all the way, while poor Clara cowered in thekitchen. So when I closed my eyes, when I drifted into ahalf dream and found myself in that underpass, Imay have been able to feel the cold and smell therank, stale air, I may have been able to see a figurewalking towards me, spitting rage, fist raised, but itwasn’t true. The terror I felt wasn’t real. And whenthe shadow struck, leaving me there on the ground,crying and bleeding, that wasn’t real, either. Only it was, and I saw it. It’s so shocking that Ican scarcely believe it, but as I watch the sun rise itfeels like mist lifting. What he told me was a lie. Ididn’t imagine him hitting me. I remember it. Justlike I remember saying good-bye to Clara after thatparty and her hand holding mine. Just like Iremember the fear when I found myself on the floornext to that golf club—and I know now, I know forsure that I wasn’t the one swinging it. I don’t know what to do. I run upstairs, pull on apair of jeans and some trainers, run back downstairs. I dial their number, the landline, and let it ring acouple of times, then I hang up. I don’t know whatto do. I make coffee, let it go cold, dial DetectiveRiley’s number, then hang up straightaway. She won’tbelieve me. I know she won’t. I head out to the station. It’s a Sunday service, thefirst train isn’t for half an hour, so there’s nothing todo but sit there on a bench, going round and round,from disbelief to desperation and back again. Everything is a lie. I didn’t imagine him hitting me. Ididn’t imagine him walking away from me quickly, hisfists clenched. I saw him turn, shout. I saw himwalking down the road with a woman, I saw himgetting into the car with her. I didn’t imagine it. AndI realize then that it’s all very simple, so very simple. I do remember, it’s just that I had confused twomemories. I’d inserted the image of Anna, walkingaway from me in her blue dress, into anotherscenario: Tom and a woman getting into a car. Because of course that woman wasn’t wearing a bluedress, she was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt. Shewas Megan. ANNA SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 EARLY MORNING I hurl the phone over the fence, as far as I can; itlands somewhere on the edge of the scree at the topof the embankment. I think I can hear it rollingdown towards the track. I think I can still hear hervoice. Hi. It’s me. Leave a message. I think I mightbe hearing her voice for a long time to come. He’s at the bottom of the stairs by the time I getback to the house. He’s watching me, blinking,bleary-eyed, struggling out of sleep. “What’s going on?” “Nothing,” I say, but I can hear the tremor in myvoice. “What were you doing outside?” “I thought I heard someone,” I tell him. “Somethingwoke me. I couldn’t get back to sleep.” “The phone rang,” he says, rubbing his eyes. I clasp my hands together to stop them shaking. “What? What phone?” “The phone.” He’s looking at me as though I’minsane. “The phone rang. Someone called and hungup.” “Oh. I don’t know. I don’t know who that was.” He laughs. “Of course you don’t. Are you all right?” He comes across to me and puts his arms aroundmy waist. “You’re being weird.” He holds me for abit, his head bowed against my chest. “You should’vewoken me if you heard something,” he says. “Youshouldn’t be going out there on your own. That’s myjob.” “I’m fine,” I say, but I have to clench my jaw tostop my teeth from chattering. He kisses my lips,pushes his tongue into my mouth. “Let’s go back to bed,” he says. “I think I’m going to have a coffee,” I say, trying topull away from him. He’s not letting me go. His arms are tight aroundme, his hand gripping the back of my neck. “Come on,” he says. “Come with me. I’m not takingno for an answer.” RACHEL SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 MORNING I’m not really sure what to do, so I just ring thedoorbell. I wonder whether I should have called first. It’s not polite to turn up early on a Sunday morningwithout calling, is it? I start to giggle. I feel slightlyhysterical. I don’t really know what I’m doing. No one comes to the door. The hysterical feelinggrows as I walk round the side of the house, downthe little passageway. I have the strongest feeling ofdéjà vu. That morning, when I came to the house,when I took the little girl. I never meant her anyharm. I’m sure of that now. I can hear her chattering as I make my way alongthe path in the cool shadow of the house, and Iwonder whether I’m imagining things. But no, thereshe is, and Anna, too, sitting on the patio. I call outto her and hoist myself over the fence. She looks atme. I expect shock, or anger, but she barely evenlooks surprised. “Hello, Rachel,” she says. She gets to her feet,taking her child by the hand, drawing her to herside. She looks at me, unsmiling, calm. Her eyes arered, her face pale, scrubbed, devoid of makeup. “What do you want?” she asks. “I rang the doorbell,” I tell her. “I didn’t hear it,” she says, hoisting the child uponto her hip. She half turns away from me, asthough she’s about to go into the house, but thenshe just stops. I don’t understand why she’s notyelling at me. “Where’s Tom, Anna?” “He went out. Army boys get-together.” “We need to go, Anna,” I say, and she starts tolaugh. ANNA SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 MORNING For some reason, the whole thing seems very funnyall of a sudden. Poor fat Rachel standing in mygarden, all red and sweaty, telling me we need to go. We need to go. “Where are we going?” I ask her when I stoplaughing, and she just looks at me, blank, lost forwords. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” Eviesquirms and complains and I put her back down. My skin still feels hot and tender from where Iscrubbed myself in the shower this morning; theinside of my mouth, my cheeks, my tongue, they feelbitten. “When will he be back?” she asks me. “Not for a while yet, I shouldn’t think.” I’ve no idea when he’ll be back, in fact. Sometimeshe can spend whole days at the climbing wall. Or Ithought he spent whole days at the climbing wall. Now I don’t know. I do know that he’s taken the gym bag; it can’t belong before he discovers that the phone is gone. I was thinking of taking Evie and going to mysister’s for a while, but the phone is troubling me. What if someone finds it? There are workers on thisstretch of track all the time; one of them might findit and hand it in to the police. It has my fingerprintson it. Then I was thinking that perhaps it wouldn’t be allthat difficult to get it back, but I’d have to wait untilnighttime so no one would see me. I’m aware that Rachel is still talking, she’s askingme questions. I haven’t been listening to her. I feelso tired. “Anna,” she says, coming closer to me, those intensedark eyes searching mine. “Have you ever met anyof them?” “Met who?” “His friends from the army. Have you ever actuallybeen introduced to any of them?” I shake my head. “Do you not think that’s odd?” It strikes me thenthat what’s really odd is her showing up in mygarden first thing on a Sunday morning. “Not really,” I say. “They’re part of another life. Another of his lives. Like you are. Like you weresupposed to be, anyway, but we can’t seem to getrid of you.” She flinches, wounded. “What are youdoing here, Rachel?” “You know why I’m here,” she says. “You knowthat something?.?.?. something has been going on.” Shehas this earnest look on her face, as though she’sconcerned about me. Under different circumstances, itmight be touching. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I say, and shenods. I make the coffee and we sit side by side on thepatio in silence that feels almost companionable. “What were you suggesting?” I ask her. “That Tom’sfriends from the army don’t really exist? That hemade them up? That he’s actually off with someother woman?” “I don’t know,” she says. “Rachel?” She looks at me then and I can see inher eyes that she’s afraid. “Is there something youwant to tell me?” “Have you ever met Tom’s family?” she asks me. “His parents?” “No. They’re not talking. They stopped talking tohim when he ran off with me.” She shakes her head. “That isn’t true,” she says. “I’ve never met them, either. They don’t even knowme, so why would they care about his leaving me?” There’s darkness in my head, right at the back ofmy skull. I’ve been trying to keep it at bay eversince I heard her voice on the phone, but now itstarts to swell, it blooms. “I don’t believe you,” I say. “Why would he lieabout that?” “Because he lies about everything.” I get to my feet and walk away from her. I feelannoyed with her for telling me this. I feel annoyedwith myself, because I think I do believe her. I thinkI’ve always known that Tom lies. It’s just that in thepast, his lies tended to suit me. “He is a good liar,” I say to her. “You were totallyclueless for ages, weren’t you? All those months wewere meeting up, fucking each other’s brains out inthat house on Cranham Road, and you neversuspected a thing.” She swallows, bites her lip hard. “Megan,” she says. “What about Megan?” “I know. They had an affair.” The words soundstrange to me—this is the first time that I’ve saidthem out loud. He cheated on me. He cheated onme. “I’m sure that amuses you,” I say to her, “butshe’s gone now, so it doesn’t matter, does it?” “Anna?.?.?.” The darkness gets bigger; it’s pushing at the edgesof my skull, clouding my vision. I grab Evie by thehand and start to drag her inside. She protestsvociferously. “Anna?.?.?.” “They had an affair. That’s it. Nothing else. Itdoesn’t necessarily mean—” “That he killed her?” “Don’t say that!” I find myself yelling at her. “Don’tsay that in front of my child.” I give Evie her midmorning snack, which she eatswithout complaint for the first time in weeks. It’salmost as though she knows that I have other thingsto worry about, and I adore her for it. I feelimmeasurably calmer when we go back outside, evenif Rachel is still there, standing down at the bottomof the garden by the fence, watching one of thetrains go past. After a while, when she realizes thatI’m back outside, she walks towards me. “You like them, don’t you?” I say. “The trains. Ihate them. Absolutely bloody loathe them.” She gives me a half smile. I notice that she has adeep dimple on the left side of her face. I’ve neverseen that before. I suppose I haven’t seen her smilevery often. Ever. “Another thing he lied about,” she says. “He toldme you loved this house, loved everything about it,even the trains. He told me that you wouldn’t dreamof finding a new place, that you wanted to move inhere with him, even if I had been here first.” I shake my head. “Why on earth would he tell youthat?” I ask her. “It’s utter bullshit. I’ve been tryingto get him to sell this house for two years.” She shrugs. “Because he lies, Anna. All the time.” The darkness blossoms. I pull Evie onto my lap andshe sits there quite contentedly, she’s getting sleepy inthe sunshine. “So all those phone calls?.?.?.” I say. It’sonly really starting to make sense now. “They weren’tfrom you? I mean, I know some of them were, butsome—” “Were from Megan? Yes, I imagine so.” It’s odd, because I know now that all this time I’vebeen hating the wrong woman, and yet knowing thisdoesn’t make me dislike Rachel any less. If anything,seeing her like this, calm, concerned, sober, I’mstarting to see what she once was and I resent hermore, because I’m starting to see what he must haveseen in her. What he must have loved. I glance down at my watch. It’s after eleven. He leftaround eight, I think. It might even have beenearlier. He must know about the phone by now. Hemust have known for quite some time. Perhaps hethinks it fell out of the bag. Perhaps he imagines it’sunder the bed upstairs. “How long have you known?” I ask her. “About theaffair.” “I didn’t,” she says. “Until today. I mean I don’tknow what was going on. I just know?.?.?.” Thankfullyshe falls silent, because I’m not sure I can standhearing her talk about my husband’s infidelity. Thethought that she and I—fat, sad Rachel and I—arenow in the same boat is unbearable. “Do you think it was his?” she asks me. “Do youthink the baby was his?” I’m looking at her, but I’m not really seeing her, notseeing anything but darkness, not hearing anythingbut a roaring in my ears, like the sea, or a planeright overhead. “What did you say?” “The?.?.?. I’m sorry.” She’s red in the face, flustered. “I shouldn’t have?.?.?. She was pregnant when shedied. Megan was pregnant. I’m so sorry.” But she’s not sorry at all, I’m sure of it, and Idon’t want to go to pieces in front of her. But I lookdown then, I look down at Evie, and I feel a sadnessunlike anything I’ve ever felt before crashing over melike a wave, crushing the breath right out of me. Evie’s brother, Evie’s sister. Gone. Rachel sits at myside and puts her arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she says again, and I want to hit her. The feeling of her skin against mine makes my fleshcrawl. I want to push her away, I want to scream ather, but I can’t. She lets me cry for a while andthen she says in a clear, determined voice, “Anna, Ithink we should go. I think you should pack somethings, for you and Evie, and then we should go. You can come to my place for now. Until?.?.?. until wesort all this out.” I dry my eyes and pull away from her. “I’m notleaving him, Rachel. He had an affair, he?.?.?. It’s notthe first time, is it?” I start to laugh, and Evie laughs,too. Rachel sighs and gets to her feet. “You know thisisn’t just about an affair, Anna. I know that youknow.” “We don’t know anything,” I say, and it comes outin a whisper. “She got into the car with him. That night. I sawher. I didn’t remember it—I thought at first it wasyou,” she says. “But I remember. I remember now.” “No.” Evie’s sticky little hand presses against mymouth. “We have to speak to the police, Anna.” She takesa step towards me. “Please. You can’t stay here withhim.” Despite the sun, I’m shivering. I’m trying to think ofthe last time Megan came to the house, the look onhis face when she said that she couldn’t work for usany longer. I’m trying to remember whether helooked pleased or disappointed. Unbidden, a differentimage comes into my head: one of the first timesshe came to look after Evie. I was supposed to begoing out to meet the girls, but I was so tired, so Iwent upstairs to sleep. Tom must have come homewhile I was up there, because they were togetherwhen I came downstairs. She was leaning against thecounter, and he was standing a bit too close to her. Evie was in the high chair, she was crying andneither of them were looking at her. I feel very cold. Did I know then that he wantedher? Megan was blond and beautiful—she was likeme. So yes, I probably knew that he wanted her,just like I know when I walk down the street thatthere are married men with their wives at their sidesand their children in their arms who look at me andthink about it. So perhaps I did know. He wantedher, he took her. But not this. He couldn’t do this. Not Tom. A lover, husband twice over. A father. Agood father, an uncomplaining provider. “You loved him,” I remind her. “You still love him,don’t you?” She shakes her head, but there’s no convictionthere. “You do. And you know?.?.?. you know that this isn’tpossible.” I stand up, hauling Evie up with me, and movecloser to her. “He couldn’t have, Rachel. You knowhe couldn’t have done this. You couldn’t love a manwho would do that, could you?” “But I did,” she says. “We both did.” There aretears on her cheeks. She wipes them away, and asshe does so something in her expression changesand her face loses all colour. She’s not looking at me,but over my shoulder, and as I turn around tofollow her gaze, I see him at the kitchen window,watching us. MEGAN FRIDAY, JULY 12, 2013 MORNING She’s forced my hand. Or maybe he has. My guttells me she. Or my heart tells me so, I don’t know. I can feel her, the way I could before, curled up, aseed within a pod, only this seed’s smiling. Biding hertime. I can’t hate her. And I can’t get rid of her. Ican’t. I thought I would be able to, I thought I wouldbe desperate to scrape her out, but when I thinkabout her, all I can see is Libby’s face, her darkeyes. I can smell her skin. I can feel how cold shewas at the end. I can’t get rid of her. I don’t wantto. I want to love her. I can’t hate her, but she scares me. I’m afraid ofwhat she’ll do to me, or what I’ll do to her. It’s thatfear that woke me just after five this morning,soaked in sweat despite the open windows and thefact that I’m alone. Scott’s at a conference,somewhere in Hertfordshire or Essex or somewhere. He’s back tonight. What is it with me, that I’m desperate to be alonewhen he’s here, and when he’s gone I can’t bear it? I can’t stand the silence. I have to talk out loud justto make it go away. In bed this morning, I keptthinking, what if it happens again? What’s going tohappen when I’m alone with her? What’s going tohappen if he won’t have me, won’t have us? Whathappens if he guesses that she isn’t his? She might be, of course. I don’t know, but I justfeel that she isn’t. Same way I feel that she’s a she. But even if she isn’t, how would he know? He won’t. He can’t. I’m being stupid. He’ll be so happy. He’llbe mental with joy when I tell him. The thought thatshe might not be his won’t even cross his mind. Telling him would be cruel, it would break his heart,and I don’t want to hurt him. I’ve never wanted tohurt him. I can’t help the way I am. “You can help what you do, though.” That’s whatKamal says. I called Kamal just after six. The silence was righton top of me and I was starting to panic. I thoughtabout ringing Tara—I knew she’d come running—butI didn’t think I could stand it, she’d be all clingy andoverprotective. Kamal was the only person I couldthink of. I called him at home. I told him I was introuble, I didn’t know what to do, I was freaking out. He came over right away. Not quite without question,but almost. Perhaps I made things sound worse thanthey are. Perhaps he was afraid I was going to DoSomething Stupid. We’re in the kitchen. It’s still early, just after seventhirty. He has to leave soon if he’s going to make hisfirst appointment. I look at him, sitting there acrossfrom me at our kitchen table, his hands foldedtogether neatly in front of him, his deep doe eyes onmine, and I feel love. I do. He’s been so good tome, despite the crap way I’ve behaved. Everything that went before, he’s forgiven, just likedI hoped he would. He wiped everything away, all mysins. He told me that unless I forgave myself thiswould go on and on and I would never be able tostop running. And I can’t run anymore, can I? Notnow she’s here. “I’m scared,” I tell him. “What if I do it all wrongagain? What if there’s something wrong with me? What if things go wrong with Scott? What if I endup on my own again? I don’t know if I can do it,I’m so afraid of being on my own again—I mean, onmy own with a child?.?.?.” He leans forward and puts his hand over mine. “You won’t do anything wrong. You won’t. You’renot some grieving, lost child any longer. You’re acompletely different person. You’re stronger. You’rean adult now. You don’t have to be afraid of beingalone. It’s not the worst thing, is it?” I don’t say anything, but I can’t help wonderingwhether it is, because if I close my eyes I canconjure up the feeling that comes to me when I’mon the edge of sleep, which jolts me back intowakefulness. It’s the feeling of being alone in a darkhouse, listening for her cries, waiting to hear Mac’sfootball on the wooden floors downstairs andknowing that they’re never going to come. “I can’t tell you what to do about Scott. Yourrelationship with him?.?.?. Well, I’ve expressed myconcerns, but you have to decide what to do foryourself. Decide whether you trust him, whether youwant him to take care of you and your child. Thatmust be your decision. But I think you can trustyourself, Megan. You can trust yourself to do theright thing.” Outside, on the lawn, he brings me a cup of coffee. I put it down and put my arms around him, pullinghim closer. Behind us a train is rumbling up to thesignal. The noise is like a barrier, a wall surroundingus, and I feel as though we are truly alone. He putshis arms around me and kisses me. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for coming, forbeing here.” He smiles, drawing back from me, and rubs histhumb across my cheekbone. “You’ll be fine, Megan.” “Couldn’t I just run away with you? You and I?.?.?. couldn’t we just run away together?” He laughs. “You don’t need me. And you don’tneed to keep running. You’ll be fine. You and yourbaby will be fine.” SATURDAY, JULY 13, 2013 MORNING I know what I have to do. I thought about it all dayyesterday, and all night, too. I hardly slept at all. Scott came home exhausted and in a shitty mood; allhe wanted to do was eat, fuck and sleep, no timefor anything else. It certainly wasn’t the right time totalk about this. I lay awake most of the night, with him hot andrestless at my side, and I made my decision. I’mgoing to do the right thing. I’m going to doeverything right. If I do everything right, then nothingcan go wrong. Or if it does, it cannot be my fault. Iwill love this child and raise her knowing that I didthe right thing from the start. All right, perhaps notfrom the very start, but from the moment when Iknew she was coming. I owe it to this baby, and Iowe it to Libby. I owe it to her to do everythingdifferently this time. I lay there and I thought of what that teacher said,and of all the things I’d been: child, rebelliousteenager, runaway, whore, lover, bad mother, badwife. I’m not sure if I can remake myself as a goodwife, but a good mother—that I have to try. It’s going to be hard. It might be the hardest thingI’ve ever had to do, but I’m going to tell the truth. No more lies, no more hiding, no more running, nomore bullshit. I’m going to put everything out in theopen, and then we’ll see. If he can’t love me then,so be it. EVENING My hand is against his chest and I’m pushing ashard as I can, but I can’t breathe and he’s so muchstronger than I am. His forearm presses against mywindpipe, I can feel the blood pulsing at my temples,my eyes blurring. I try to cry out, my back to thewall. I snatch a handful of his T-shirt and he lets go. He turns away from me and I slide down the wallonto the kitchen floor. I cough and spit, tears running down my face. He’sstanding a few feet from me, and when he turnsback to me my hand instinctively goes to my throatto protect it. I see the shame on his face and wantto tell him that it’s OK. I’m OK. I open my mouthbut the words won’t come, just more coughing. Thepain is unbelievable. He’s saying something to me butI can’t hear, it’s as though we’re under water, thesound muffled, reaching me in blurry waves. I can’tmake anything out. I think he’s saying that he’s sorry. I haul myself to my feet, push past him and run upthe stairs, then slam the bedroom door behind meand lock it. I sit down on the bed and wait, listeningfor him, but he doesn’t come. I get to my feet andgrab my overnight bag from under the bed, go overto the chest to grab some clothes and catch sight ofmyself in the mirror. I bring my hand up to myface: it looks startlingly white against my reddenedskin, my purple lips, my bloodshot eyes. Part of me is shocked, because he’s never laid ahand on me like that before. But there’s another partof me that expected this. Somewhere inside I alwaysknew that this was a possibility, that this was wherewe were headed. Where I was leading him. Slowly, Istart pulling things out of the drawers—underwear, acouple of T-shirts; I stuff them into the bag. I haven’t even told him anything yet. I’d juststarted. I wanted to tell him about the bad stuff first,before we got to the good news. I couldn’t tell himabout the baby and then say that there was apossibility it wasn’t his. That would be too cruel. We were outside on the patio. He was talking aboutwork and he caught me not-quite-listening. “Am I boring you?” he asked. “No. Well, maybe a bit.” He didn’t laugh. “No, I’mjust distracted. Because there’s something I need totell you. There are a few things I need to tell you,actually, some of which you’re not going to like, butsome—” “What am I not going to like?” I should have known then that it wasn’t the time,his mood was off. He was immediately suspicious,searching my face for clues. I should have knownthen that this was all a terrible idea. I suppose I did,but it was too late to go back then. And in any case,I had made my decision. To do the right thing. I sat down next to him on the edge of the pavingand slipped my hand into his. “What aren’t I going to like?” he asked again, buthe didn’t let go of my hand. I told him I loved him and I felt every muscle in hisbody tense, as if he knew what was coming and wasbracing himself for it. You do, don’t you, whensomeone tells you they love you like that. I love you,I do, but?.?.?. But. I told him that I’d made some mistakes and he letgo of my hand. He got to his feet and walked a fewyards in the direction of the track before turning tolook at me. “What sort of mistakes?” he asked. Hisvoice was even, but I could hear that it was a strainto keep it so. “Come and sit with me,” I said. “Please?” He shook his head. “What sort of mistakes,Megan?” Louder that time. “There was?.?.?. it’s finished now, but there was?.?.?. someone else.” I kept my eyes lowered, I couldn’tlook at him. He spat something under his breath, but I couldn’thear it. I looked up then, but he’d turned away andwas facing the track again, his hands up at histemples. I got to my feet and went to him, stoodbehind him and placed my hands on his hips, but heleaped away from me. He turned to go into thehouse and, without looking at me, spat, “Don’t touchme, you little whore.” I should have let him go then, given him time to gethis head around it, but I couldn’t. I wanted to getover the bad stuff so that I could get to the good,so I followed him into the house. “Scott, please, just listen, it’s not as awful as youthink. It’s over now. It’s completely over, please listen,please—” He grabbed the photograph of the two of us thathe loves—the one I had framed as a gift for oursecond wedding anniversary—and threw it as hard ashe could at my head. As it smashed against the wallbehind me, he lunged, grabbing me by the tops ofmy arms and wrestling me across the room,throwing me against the opposite wall. My headrocked back, my skull hitting plaster. Then he leanedin, his forearm across my throat, he leaned harder,harder, saying nothing. He closed his eyes so that hedidn’t have to watch me choke. As soon as my bag is packed, I start unpackingagain, stuffing everything back into the drawers. If Itry to walk out of here with a bag, he won’t let mego. I have to leave empty-handed, with nothing but ahandbag and a phone. Then I change my mindagain and start stuffing everything back into the bag. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I can’t behere. I close my eyes and can feel his hands aroundmy throat. I know what I decided—no more running, no morehiding—but I can’t stay here tonight. I hear footstepson the stairs, slow, leaden. It takes forever for him toget to the top—usually he bounds, but today he’s aman ascending the scaffold. I just don’t knowwhether he’s the condemned man or the executioner. “Megan?” He doesn’t try to open the door. “Megan,I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry that I hurt you.” Ican hear tears in his voice. It makes me angry, itmakes me want to fly out there and scratch his face. Don’t you bloody dare cry, not after what youjust did. I’m furious with him, I want to scream athim, tell him to get the hell away from the door,away from me, but I bite my tongue, because I’mnot stupid. He has reason to be angry. And I haveto think rationally, I have to think clearly. I’mthinking for two now. This confrontation has givenme strength, it’s made me more determined. I canhear him outside the door, begging for forgiveness,but I can’t think about that now. Right now, I haveother things to do. At the very back of the wardrobe, in the bottom ofthree rows of carefully labelled shoe boxes, there is adark-grey box marked red wedge boots, and in thatbox there is an old mobile phone, a pay-as-you-gorelic I bought years ago and hung on to just in case. I haven’t used it for a while, but today’s the day. I’mgoing to be honest. I’m going to put everything outin the open. No more lies, no more hiding. It’s timefor Daddy to face up to his responsibilities. I sit on the bed and switch the phone on, prayingthat it still has some charge. It lights up and I canfeel the adrenaline in my blood, it’s making me dizzy,a little bit sick, and it’s making me buzz, as thoughI’m high. I’m starting to enjoy myself, enjoy theanticipation of putting everything out there,confronting him—all of them—with what we are andwhere we’re going. By the end of the day, everyoneis going to know where they stand. I call his number. Predictably, it goes straight tovoice mail. I hang up and send a text: I need totalk to you. URGENT. Call me back. Then I sitthere, and I wait. I look at the call log. The last time I used thisphone was April. A lot of calls, all of themunanswered, in early April and late March. I calledand called and called, and he ignored me, he didn’teven respond to the threats I made—I’d go to thehouse, I’d talk to his wife. I think he’ll listen to menow, though. I’m going to make him listen to menow. When we started all this, it was just a game. Adistraction. I used to see him from time to time. He’dpop by the gallery and smile and flirt, and it washarmless—there were plenty of men who came bythe gallery and smiled and flirted. But then thegallery closed and I was here at home all the time,bored and restless. I just needed something else,something different. Then one day, when Scott wasaway, I bumped into him in the street, we startedtalking and I invited him in for coffee. The way helooked at me, I could see exactly what was goingthrough his mind, and so it just happened. And thenit happened again, and I never meant for it to goanywhere, I didn’t want it to go anywhere. I justenjoyed feeling wanted; I liked the feeling of control. It was as simple and stupid as that. I didn’t wanthim to leave his wife; I just wanted him to want toleave her. To want me that much. I don’t remember when I started believing that itcould be more, that we should be more, that wewere right for each other. But the moment I did, Icould feel him start to pull away. He stopped texting,stopped answering my calls, and I’ve never feltrejection like that before, never. I hated it. So then itbecame something else: an obsession. I can see thatnow. In the end I really thought I could just walkaway from it, a little bruised, but no real harm done. But it’s not that simple any longer. Scott is still outside the door. I can’t hear him, but Ican feel him. I go into the bathroom and dial thenumber again. I get voice mail again, so I hang upand dial again, and again. I whisper a message. “Pickup the phone, or I’m coming round there. I mean itthis time. I have to talk to you. You can’t just ignoreme.” I stand in the bathroom for a while, the phone onthe edge of the sink. Willing it to ring. The screenstays stubbornly grey and blank. I brush my hairand my teeth, put on some makeup. My colour isreturning to normal. My eyes are still red, my throatstill hurts, but I look all right. I start counting. If thephone doesn’t ring before I get to fifty, I’m justgoing to go down there and knock on the door. Thephone doesn’t ring. I stuff the phone into my jeans pocket, walk quicklythrough the bedroom and open the door. Scott issitting on the landing, his arms around his knees, hishead down. He doesn’t look up at me, so I walkpast him and start to run downstairs, my breathcatching in my throat. I’m afraid that he’ll grab mefrom behind and push me. I can hear him getting tohis feet, and he calls, “Megan! Where are you going? Are you going to him?” At the bottom of the stairs, I turn. “There is nohim, OK? It’s over.” “Please wait, Megan. Please don’t go.” I don’t want to hear him beg, don’t want to listento the whine in his voice, the self-pity. Not when mythroat still feels like someone’s poured acid down it. “Don’t follow me,” I croak at him. “If you follow me,I’ll never come back. Do you understand? If I turnaround and see you behind me, that’ll be the lasttime you ever see my face.” I can hear him calling my name as I slam the doorbehind me. I wait on the pavement outside for a few momentsto make sure he isn’t following me, then I walk,quickly at first, then slower, and slower, alongBlenheim Road. I get to number twenty-three and it’sthen that I lose my nerve. I’m not ready for thisscene yet. I need a minute to collect myself. A fewminutes. I walk on, past the house, past theunderpass, past the station. I keep going until I getto the park and then I dial his number one moretime. I tell him that I’m in the park, that I’ll wait for himthere, but if he doesn’t come, that’s it, I’m goinground to the house. This is his last chance. It’s a lovely evening, a little after seven but stillwarm and light. A bunch of kids are still playing onthe swings and the slide, their parents standing off toone side, chatting animatedly. It looks nice, normal,and as I watch them I have a sickening feeling thatScott and I will not bring our daughter here to play. I just can’t see us happy and relaxed like that. Notnow. Not after what I’ve just done. I was so convinced this morning that gettingeverything out in the open would be the bestway—not just the best way, the only way. No morelying, no more hiding. And then when he hurt me, itonly made me all the more sure. But now, sittinghere on my own, with Scott not just furious butheartbroken, I don’t think it was the right thing atall. I wasn’t being strong, I was being reckless, andthere’s no telling how much damage I’ve done. Maybe the courage I need has nothing to do withtelling the truth and everything to do with walkingaway. It’s not just restlessness—this is more thanthat. For her sake and mine, now is the time to go,to walk away from them both, from all of it. Mayberunning and hiding is exactly what I need to do. I get to my feet and walk round the park justonce. I’m half willing the phone to ring and halfdreading it ringing, but in the end I’m pleased whenit stays silent. I’ll take it as a sign. I head back theway I came, towards home. I’ve just passed the station when I see him. He’swalking quickly, striding out of the underpass, hisshoulders hunched over and his fists clenched, andbefore I can stop myself, I call out. He turns to face me. “Megan! What the hell?.?.?.” The expression on his face is pure rage, but hebeckons me to go to him. “Come on,” he says, when I get closer. “We can’ttalk here. The car’s over there.” “I just need—” “We can’t talk here!” he snaps. “Come on.” He tugsat my arm. Then, more gently, “We’ll drivesomewhere quiet, OK? Somewhere we can talk.” As I get into the car, I glance over my shoulder,back the way he came. The underpass is dark, but Ifeel as though I can see someone in there, in theshadows—someone watching us go. RACHEL SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 AFTERNOON Anna turns on her heel and runs into the house thesecond she sees him. My heart hammering againstmy ribs, I follow cautiously, stopping just short of thesliding doors. Inside, they are embracing, his armsenveloping her, the child between them. Anna’s headis bent, her shoulders shaking. His mouth is pressedto the top of her scalp, but his eyes are on me. “What’s going on here, then?” he asks, the trace ofa smile on his lips. “I have to say that finding youtwo ladies gossiping in the garden when I got homewas not what I expected.” His tone is light, but he’s not fooling me. He’s notfooling me anymore. I open my mouth to speak, butI find that I don’t have the words. I have nowhereto start. “Rachel? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He relinquishes Anna from his grasp and takes astep towards me. I take a step back, and he startsto laugh. “What on earth’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?” he asks, but I can see in his eyes that he knows I’msober and I’m betting that for once he wishes Iwasn’t. I slip my hand into the back pocket of myjeans—my phone is there, hard and compact andcomforting, only I wish I’d had the sense to makethe call already. No matter whether they believed meor not, if I’d told them I was with Anna and herchild, the police would have come. Tom is now just a couple of feet away fromme—he’s just inside the door and I’m just outside it. “I saw you,” I say at last, and I feel euphoria,fleeting but unmistakable, when I say the words outloud. “You think I don’t remember anything, but Ido. I saw you. After you hit me, you left me there,in the underpass?.?.?.” He starts to laugh, but I can see it now and Iwonder how I never read him this easily before. There’s panic in his eyes. He shoots a glance atAnna, but she doesn’t meet his eye. “What are you talking about?” “In the underpass. On the day Megan Hipwell wentmissing?.?.?.” “Oh, bullshit,” he says, waving a hand at me. “I didnot hit you. You fell.” He reaches for Anna’s handand pulls her closer to him. “Darling, is this whyyou’re so upset? Don’t listen to her, she’s talkingabsolute rubbish. I didn’t hit her. I’ve never laid ahand on her in my life. Not like that.” He puts hisarm around Anna’s shoulders and pulls her closerstill. “Come on. I’ve told you how she is. She doesn’tknow what happens when she drinks, she makes upthe most—” “You got into the car with her. I watched you go.” He’s still smiling, but there’s no longer any convictionthere, and I don’t know whether I’m imagining it, buthe looks a little paler to me now. He relaxes his gripon Anna, releasing her once again. She sits down atthe table, her back to her husband, her daughtersquirming on her lap. Tom passes his hand over his mouth and leansback against the kitchen counter, folding his armsacross his chest. “You saw me get into the car withwho?” “With Megan.” “Oh, right!” He starts laughing again, a loud, forcedroar. “Last time we talked about this, you told meyou saw me get into the car with Anna. Now it’sMegan, is it? Who’s it going to be next week? Princess Diana?” Anna looks up at me. I can see the doubt, thehope, flash across her face. “You’re not sure?” sheasks. Tom drops to his knees at her side. “Of course sheisn’t sure. She’s making this up—she does it all thetime. Sweetheart, please. Why don’t you go upstairsfor a bit, OK? I’ll talk this through with Rachel. Andthis time”—he glances up at me—“I promise I’ll makesure she won’t bother us anymore.” Anna’s wavering, I can see it—the way she’s lookingat him, searching his face for the truth, his eyesintently on hers. “Anna!” I call out, trying to bringher back to me. “You know. You know he’s lying. You know that he was sleeping with her.” For a second, no one says a thing. Anna looksfrom Tom to me and back again. She opens hermouth to say something, but no words come. “Anna! What does she mean? There’s?.?.?. there wasnothing between me and Megan Hipwell.” “I found the phone, Tom,” she says, her voice sosmall, she’s almost inaudible. “So please, don’t. Don’tlie. Just don’t lie to me.” The child starts to grizzle and moan. Very gently,Tom takes her from Anna’s arms. He walks acrossto the window, rocking his daughter from side toside, murmuring to her all the while. I can’t hearwhat he’s saying. Anna’s head is bowed, tearsdripping from her chin onto the kitchen table. “Where is it?” Tom says, turning to face us, thelaughter gone from his face. “The phone, Anna. Didyou give it to her?” He jerks his head in mydirection. “Do you have it?” “I don’t know anything about a phone,” I tell him,wishing that Anna had mentioned this earlier. Tom ignores me. “Anna? Did you give it to her?” Anna shakes her head. “Where is it?” “I threw it away,” she says. “Over the fence. By thetrack.” “Good girl. Good girl,” he says distractedly. He’strying to figure things out, work out where to gofrom here. He glances at me and then looks away. For just a moment, he looks beaten. He turns to Anna. “You were so tired all the time,” he says. “You just weren’t interested. Everything wasabout the baby. Isn’t that right? It was all about you,wasn’t it? All about you!” And just like that, he’s ontop again, perked up, pulling faces at his daughter,tickling her tummy, making her smile. “And Meganwas so?.?.?. well, she was available. “At first, it was over at her place,” he says. “Butshe was so paranoid about Scott finding out. So westarted meeting at the Swan. It was?.?.?. Well, youremember what it was like, don’t you, Anna? At thebeginning, when we used to go to that house onCranham Road. You understand.” He glances backover his shoulder at me and winks. “That’s whereAnna and I used to meet, back in the good olddays.” He shifts his daughter from one arm to the other,allowing her to rest against his shoulder. “You thinkI’m being cruel, but I’m not. I’m telling the truth. That’s what you want, isn’t it, Anna? You asked menot to lie.” Anna doesn’t look up. Her hands are gripping theedge of the table, her entire body rigid. Tom gives a loud sigh. “It’s a relief, if I’m honest.” He’s talking to me, looking at me directly. “You haveno idea how exhausting it is, coping with people likeyou. And, fuck, I tried. I tried so hard to help you. To help both of you. You’re both?.?.?. I mean, I lovedyou both, I really did, but you can both be incrediblyweak.” “Fuck you, Tom,” Anna says, getting up from thetable. “Don’t you lump me in with her.” I look at her and realize how well suited they are,Anna and Tom. She’s a much better match than Iam, because this is what bothers her: not that herhusband is a liar and a killer, but that he’s justcompared her to me. Tom goes to her side and says soothingly, “I’msorry, darling. That was unfair of me.” She brusheshim away and he looks over at me. “I did my best,you know. I was a good husband to you, Rach. Iput up with a lot—your drinking and yourdepression. I put up with all that for a long timebefore I threw in the towel.” “You lied to me,” I say. “You told me everythingwas my fault. You made me believe that I wasworthless. You watched me suffer, you—” He shrugs. “Do you have any idea how boring youbecame, Rachel? How ugly? Too sad to get out ofbed in the morning, too tired to take a shower orwash your fucking hair? Jesus. It’s no wonder I lostpatience, is it? It’s no wonder I had to look for waysto amuse myself. You’ve no one to blame butyourself.” His expression changes from contempt to concernas he turns to talk to his wife. “Anna, it was differentwith you, I swear. That thing with Megan, it wasjust?.?.?. just a bit of fun. That’s what it was meant tobe. I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest hour, but I justneeded a release. That’s all. It was never going tolast. It was never going to interfere with us, with ourfamily. You must understand that.” “You?.?.?.” Anna is trying to say something, but shecan’t get the words out. Tom puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezesit. “What, love?” “You had her looking after Evie,” she spits. “Wereyou screwing her while she was working here? Whileshe was looking after our child?” He removes his hand, his face a picture ofcontrition, of deep shame. “That was terrible. Ithought?.?.?. I thought it would be?.?.?. Honestly, I don’tknow what I thought. I’m not sure I was thinking atall. It was wrong. It was terribly wrong of me.” Andthe mask changes again—now he’s wide-eyedinnocence, pleading with her: “I didn’t know then,Anna. You have to believe that I didn’t know whatshe was. I didn’t know about the baby she killed. Iwould never have let her look after Evie if I’d knownthat. You have to believe me.” Without warning, Anna jumps to her feet, pushingher chair back—it clatters onto the kitchen floor,startling their daughter. “Give her to me,” Anna says,holding her arms out. Tom backs away a little. “Now,Tom, give her to me. Give her to me. ” But he doesn’t, he walks away from her, rockingthe child, whispering to her again, coaxing her backto sleep, and then Anna starts to scream. At firstshe’s repeating give her to me, give her to me, butthen it’s just an indistinguishable howl of fury andanguish. The child is screaming, too. Tom is trying toquieten her, he’s ignoring Anna, so it falls to me totake hold of her. I drag her outside and talk to her,low and urgent. “You have to calm down, Anna. Do you understandme? I need you to calm down. I need you to talk tohim, to distract him for a moment while I ring thepolice. All right?” She’s shaking her head—she’s shaking all over. Shegrabs hold of my arms, her fingernails digging intomy flesh. “How could he do this?” “Anna! Listen to me. You need to keep him busyfor a moment.” Finally, she looks at me, really looks at me, andnods. “All right.” “Just?.?.?. I don’t know. Get him away from thisdoor, try to keep him occupied for a bit.” She goes back inside. I take a deep breath, thenturn and take a few steps away from the slidingdoor. Not too far, just onto the lawn. I turn andlook back. They’re still in the kitchen. I walk slightlyfarther away. The wind is getting up now; the heat isabout to break. Swifts are swooping low in the sky,and I can smell the rain coming. I love that smell. I slip my hand into my back pocket and take outmy phone. Hands trembling, I fail to unlock thekeypad once, twice—I get it on the third time. For amoment I think about calling Detective Riley, someonewho knows me. I scroll through my call log but can’tfind her number, so I give up—I’ll just dial 999. I’mon the second nine when I feel his foot punch thebase of my spine and I go sprawling forward ontothe grass, the wind knocked out of me. The phoneflies from my grasp—he has it in his hand before Ican raise myself to my knees, before I can take abreath. “Now, now, Rach,” he says, grabbing my arm andhoisting me to my feet effortlessly. “Let’s not doanything stupid.” He leads me back into the house, and I let him,because I know there’s no point fighting now, I won’tget away from him here. He shoves me through thedoorway, sliding the glass door closed behind us andlocking it. He tosses the key onto the kitchen table. Anna is standing there. She gives me a small smile,and I wonder, then, whether she told him that I wasabout to call the police. Anna sets about making lunch for her daughter andputs the kettle on to make the rest of us a cup oftea. In this utterly bizarre facsimile of reality, I feel asthough I could just politely bid them both good-bye,walk across the room and out into the safety of thestreet. It’s so tempting, I actually take a few steps inthat direction, but Tom blocks my path. He puts ahand on my shoulder, then runs his fingers undermy throat, applying just the slightest pressure. “What am I going to do with you, Rach?” MEGAN SATURDAY, JULY 13, 2013 EVENING It’s not until we get into the car that I notice he hasblood on his hand. “You’ve cut yourself,” I say. He doesn’t reply; his knuckles are white on thesteering wheel. “Tom, I needed to talk to you,” I say. I’m trying tobe conciliatory, trying to be grown-up about this, butI suppose it’s a little late for that. “I’m sorry abouthassling you, but for God’s sake! You just cut meoff. You—” “It’s OK,” he says, his voice soft. “I’m not?.?.?. I’mpissed off about something else. It’s not you.” Heturns his head and tries to smile at me, but fails. “Problems with the ex,” he says. “You know how itis.” “What happened to your hand?” I ask him. “Problems with the ex,” he says again, and there’s anasty edge to his voice. We drive the rest of the wayto Corly Wood in silence. We drive into the car park, right up to the veryend. It’s a place we’ve been before. There’s neveranyone much around in the evenings—sometimes afew teenagers with cans of beer, but that’s about it. Tonight we’re alone. Tom turns off the engine and turns to me. “Right. What is it you wanted to talk about?” The anger isstill there, but it’s simmering now, no longer boilingover. Still, after what’s just happened I don’t feel likebeing in an enclosed space with an angry man, so Isuggest we walk a bit. He rolls his eyes and sighsheavily, but he agrees. It’s still warm; there are clouds of midges under thetrees and the sunshine is streaming through theleaves, bathing the path in an oddly subterraneanlight. Above our heads, magpies chatter angrily. We walk a little way in silence, me in front, Tom afew paces behind. I’m trying to think of what to say,how to put this. I don’t want to make things worse. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m trying todo the right thing. I stop walking and turn to face him—he’s standingvery close to me. He puts his hands on my hips. “Here?” he asks. “Is this what you want?” He looks bored. “No,” I say, pulling away from him. “Not that.” The path descends a little here. I slow down, but hematches my stride. “What then?” Deep breath. My throat still hurts. “I’m pregnant.” There’s no reaction at all—his face is completelyblank. I could be telling him that I need to go toSainsbury’s on the way home, or that I’ve got adentist’s appointment. “Congratulations,” he says eventually. Another deep breath. “Tom, I’m telling you thisbecause?.?.?. well, because there’s a possibility that thechild could be yours.” He stares at me for a few moments, then laughs. “Oh? Lucky me. So what—we’re going to run away,the three of us? You, me and the baby? Where wasit we were going? Spain?” “I thought you should know, because—” “Have an abortion,” he says. “I mean, if it’s yourhusband’s, do what you want. But if it’s mine, get ridof it. Seriously, let’s not be stupid about this. I don’twant another kid.” He runs his fingers down the sideof my face. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’rereally motherhood material, are you, Megs?” “You can be as involved as you like—” “Did you hear what I just said?” he snaps, turninghis back on me and striding back up the pathtowards the car. “You’d be a terrible mother, Megan. Just get rid of it.” I go after him, walking quickly at first and thenrunning, and when I get close enough I shove himin the back. I’m yelling at him, screaming, trying toscratch his fucking smug face, and he’s laughing,fending me off with ease. I start saying the worstthings I can think of. I insult his manhood, hisboring wife, his ugly child. I don’t even know why I’m so angry, because whatdid I expect? Anger, maybe, worry, upset. Not this. It’s not even rejection, it’s dismissal. All he wants isfor me to go away—me and my child—and so I tellhim, I scream at him, “I’m not going away. I amgoing to make you pay for this. For the rest of yourbloody life, you’re going to be paying for this.” He’s not laughing anymore. He’s coming towards me. He has something in hishand. I’ve fallen. I must have slipped. Hit my head onsomething. I think I’m going to be sick. Everything isred. I can’t get up. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl?.?.?. Three for a girl. I’m stuck on three, I just can’t getany further. My head is thick with sounds, mymouth thick with blood. Three for a girl. I can hearthe magpies—they’re laughing, mocking me, a raucouscackling. A tiding. Bad tidings. I can see them now,black against the sun. Not the birds, something else. Someone’s coming. Someone is speaking to me. Nowlook. Now look what you made me do. RACHEL SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 AFTERNOON In the living room, we sit in a little triangle: Tom onthe sofa, the adoring father and dutiful husband,daughter on his lap, wife at his side. And the ex-wifeopposite, sipping her tea. Very civilized. I’m sitting inthe leather armchair that we bought from Heal’s justafter we got married—it was the first piece offurniture we got as a married couple: soft tan butteryleather, expensive, luxurious. I remember how excitedI was when it was delivered. I remember curling upin it, feeling safe and happy, thinking, This is whatmarriage is—safe, warm, comfortable. Tom is watching me, his brow knitted. He’s workingout what to do, how to fix things. He’s not worriedabout Anna, I can see that. I’m the problem. “She was a bit like you,” he says all of a sudden. He leans back on the sofa, shifting his daughter to amore comfortable position on his lap. “Well, she wasand she wasn’t. She had that thing?.?.?. messy, youknow. I can’t resist that.” He grins at me. “Knight inshining armour, me.” “You’re no one’s knight,” I say quietly. “Ah, Rach, don’t be like that. Don’t you remember? You all sad, because Daddy’s died, and just wantingsomeone to come home to, someone to love you? Igave you all that. I made you feel safe. Then youdecided to piss it all away, but you can’t blame mefor that.” “I can blame you for a lot of things, Tom.” “No, no.” He wags a finger at me. “Let’s not startrewriting history. I was good to you. Sometimes?.?.?. well, sometimes you forced my hand. But I was goodto you. I took care of you,” he says, and it’s onlythen that it really registers: he lies to himself the wayhe lies to me. He believes this. He actually believesthat he was good to me. The child starts to wail suddenly and loudly, andAnna gets abruptly to her feet. “I need to change her,” she says“Not now.” “She’s wet, Tom. She needs changing. Don’t becruel.” He looks at Anna sharply, but he hands the cryingchild to her. I try to catch her eye, but she won’tlook at me. My heart rises into my throat as sheturns to go upstairs, but it sinks again just as fast,because Tom is on his feet, his hand on her arm. “Do it here,” he says. “You can do it here.” Anna goes across into the kitchen and changes thechild’s nappy on the table. The smell of shit fills theroom, it turns my stomach. “Are you going to tell us why?” I ask him. Annastops what’s she’s doing and looks across at us. Theroom is still, quiet, save for the babbling of the child. Tom shakes his head, almost in disbelief himself. “She could be very like you, Rach. She wouldn’t letthings go. She didn’t know when she was over. Shejust?.?.?. she wouldn’t listen. Remember how youalways argued with me, how you always wanted thelast word? Megan was like that. She wouldn’t listen.” He shifts in his seat and leans forward, his elbowson his knees, as if he’s telling me a story. “When westarted, it was just fun, just fucking. She led me tobelieve that was what she was into. But then shechanged her mind. I don’t know why. She was allover the place, that girl. She’d have a bad day withScott, or she’d just be a bit bored, and she’d starttalking about us going away together, starting over,about me leaving Anna and Evie. As if I would! Andif I wasn’t there on demand when she wanted me,she’d be furious, calling here, threatening me, tellingme she was going to come round, that she wasgoing to tell Anna about us. “But then it stopped. I was so relieved. I thoughtshe’d finally managed to get it into her head that Iwasn’t interested any longer. But then that Saturdayshe called, saying she needed to talk, that she hadsomething important to tell me. I ignored her, so shestarted making threats again—she was going to cometo the house, that sort of thing. I wasn’t too worriedat first, because Anna was going out. You remember,darling? You were supposed to be going out todinner with the girls, and I was going to babysit. Ithought perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing—shewould come round and I’d have it out with her. I’dmake her understand. But then you came along,Rachel, and fucked everything up.” He leans back on the sofa, his legs spread wideapart, the big man, taking up space. “It was yourfault. The whole thing was actually your fault, Rachel. Anna didn’t end up having dinner with herfriends—she was back here after five minutes, upsetand angry because you were out there, pissed asusual, stumbling around with some bloke outside thestation. She was worried that you were going tohead over here. She was worried about Evie. “So instead of sorting things out with Megan, I hadto go out and deal with you.” His lip curls. “God, thestate of you. Looking like shit, stinking of wine?.?.?. you tried to kiss me, do you remember?” Hepretends to gag, then starts laughing. Anna laughs,too, and I can’t tell whether she finds it funny orwhether she’s trying to appease him. “I needed to make you understand that I didn’twant you anywhere near me—near us. So I took youback up the road into the underpass so that youwouldn’t be making a scene in the street. And I toldyou to stay away. And you cried and whined, so Igave you a smack to shut you up, and you criedand whined some more.” He’s talking through grittedteeth; I can see the muscle tensing in his jaw. “I wasso pissed off, I just wanted you to go away andleave us alone, you and Megan. I have my family. Ihave a good life.” He glances over at Anna, who istrying to get the child to sit down in the high chair. Her face is completely expressionless. “I’ve made agood life for myself, despite you, despiteMegan—despite everything. “It was after I’d seen you that Megan came along. She was heading down towards Blenheim Road. Icouldn’t let her go to the house. I couldn’t let hertalk to Anna, could I? I told her that we could gosomewhere and talk, and I meant it—that was all Iwas going to do. So we got into the car and droveto Corly, to the wood. It was a place we sometimesused to go, if we hadn’t got a room. Do it in thecar.” From my seat on the sofa, I can feel Anna flinch. “You have to believe me, Anna, I didn’t intend forthings to go the way they did.” Tom looks at her,then hunches over, looking down at the palms of hishands. “She started going on about the baby—shedidn’t know if it was mine or his. She wantedeverything out in the open, and if it was mine she’dbe OK with me seeing it?.?.?. I was saying, ‘I’m notinterested in your baby, it’s got nothing to do withme.’” He shakes his head. “She got all upset, butwhen Megan gets upset?.?.?. she’s not like Rachel. There’s no crying and whining. She was screaming atme, swearing, saying all sorts of shit, telling me she’dgo straight to Anna, she wasn’t going to be ignored,her child wasn’t going to be neglected?.?.?. Christ, shejust wouldn’t fucking shut up. So?.?.?. I don’t know, Ijust needed her to stop. So I picked up a rock”—hestares down at his right hand, as though he can seeit now—“and I just?.?.?.” He closes his eyes and sighsdeeply. “It was just one hit, but she was?.?.?.” Hepuffs out his cheeks, exhales slowly. “I didn’t meanfor this. I just wanted her to stop. She was bleedinga lot. She was crying, making a horrible noise. Shetried to crawl away from me. There was nothing Icould do. I had to finish it.” The sun is gone, the room is dark. It’s quiet, savefor the sound of Tom’s breathing, ragged andshallow. There’s no street noise. I can’t rememberthe last time I heard a train. “I put her in the boot of the car,” he says. “I drovea bit farther into the wood, off the road. There wasno one around. I had to dig?.?.?.” His breathing isshallower still, quickening. “I had to dig with my barehands. I was afraid.” He looks up at me, his pupilshuge. “Afraid that someone would come. And it waspainful, my fingernails ripped in the soil. It took along time. I had to stop to phone Anna, to tell her Iwas out looking for you.” He clears his throat. “The ground was actually quitesoft, but I still couldn’t go down as deep as Iwanted. I was so afraid that someone would come. Ithought there would be a chance to go back, lateron, when things had all died down. I thought Iwould be able to move her, put her somewhere?.?.?. better. But then it started raining and I never got thechance.” He looks up at me with a frown. “I was almostsure that the police would go for Scott. She told mehow paranoid he was about her screwing around,that he used to read her emails, check up on her. Ithought?.?.?. well, I was planning to put her phone inhis house at some point. I don’t know. I thought Imight go round there for a beer or something, afriendly neighbour kind of thing. I don’t know. Ididn’t have a plan. I hadn’t thought it all through. Itwasn’t like a premeditated thing. It was just a terribleaccident.” But then his demeanour changes again. It’s likeclouds scudding across the sky, now dark, now light. He gets to his feet and walks slowly over to thekitchen, where Anna is now sitting at the table,feeding Evie. He kisses her on the top of the head,then lifts his daughter out of the chair. “Tom?.?.?.” Anna starts to protest. “It’s OK.” He smiles at his wife. “I just want acuddle. Don’t I, darling?” He goes over to the fridgewith his daughter in his arms and pulls out a beer. He looks over at me. “You want one?” I shake my head. “No, best not, I suppose.” I hardly hear him. I’m calculating whether I canreach the front door from here before he can gethold of me. If it’s just on the latch, I reckon I couldmake it. If he’s locked it, then I’d be in trouble. Ipitch myself forward and run. I get into thehallway—my hand is almost on the doorhandle—when I feel the bottle hit the back of myskull. There’s an explosion of pain, white before myeyes, and I crumple to my knees. His fingers twistinto my hair as he grabs a fistful and pulls, draggingme back into the living room, where he lets go. Hestands above me, straddling me, one foot on eitherside of my hips. His daughter is still in his arms, butAnna is at his side, tugging at her. “Give her to me, Tom, please. You’re going to hurther. Please, give her to me.” He hands the wailing Evie over to Anna. I can hear Tom talking, but it seems like he’s along way away, or as though I’m hearing himthrough water. I can make out the words but theysomehow don’t seem to apply to me, to what’shappening to me. Everything is happening at oneremove. “Go upstairs,” he says. “Go into the bedroom andshut the door. You mustn’t call anyone, OK? I meanit, Anna. You don’t want to call anyone. Not withEvie here. We don’t want things to turn nasty.” Annadoesn’t look down at me. She clutches the child toher chest, steps over me and hurries away. Tom bends down, slips his hands into the waistbandof my jeans, grabs hold of them and drags me alongthe floor into the kitchen. I’m kicking out with mylegs, trying to get a hold of something, but I can’t. Ican’t see properly—tears are stinging my eyes,everything is a blur. The pain in my head isexcruciating as I bump along the floor, and I feel awave of nausea come over me. There’s hot, whitepain as something connects with my temple. Thennothing. ANNA SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 EVENING She’s on the floor in the kitchen. She’s bleeding, butI don’t think it’s serious. He hasn’t finished it. I’mnot really sure what he’s waiting for. I suppose it’snot easy for him. He did love her, once. I was upstairs, putting Evie down, and I wasthinking that this is what I wanted, isn’t it? Rachelwill be gone at last, once and for all, never to return. This is what I dreamed about happening. Well, notexactly this, obviously. But I did want her gone. Idreamed of a life without Rachel, and now I couldhave one. It would be just the three of us, me andTom and Evie, like it should be. For just a moment, I let myself enjoy the fantasy,but then I looked down at my sleeping daughter andI knew that was all it was. A fantasy. I kissed myfinger and touched it to her perfect lips and I knewthat we would never be safe. I would never be safe,because I know, and he won’t be able to trust me. And who’s to say another Megan won’t come along? Or—worse—another Anna, another me? I went back downstairs and he was sitting at thekitchen table, drinking a beer. I couldn’t see her atfirst, but then I noticed her feet, and I thought atfirst that it was done, but he said she was all right. “Just a little knock,” he said. He won’t be able tocall this one an accident. So we waited. I got myself a beer, too, and wedrank them together. He told me he was really sorryabout Megan, about the affair. He kissed me, he told me he’d make it up to me, that we’d be OK, thateverything would be all right. “We’ll move away from here, just like you’ve alwayswanted. We’ll go anywhere you want. Anywhere.” Heasked me if I could forgive him, and I said that Icould, given time, and he believed me. I think hebelieved me. The storm has started, just like they said it would. The rumble of thunder wakes her, brings her to. Shestarts to make a noise, to move around on the floor. “You should go,” he says to me. “Go back upstairs.” I kiss him on the lips and I leave him, but I don’tgo back upstairs. Instead I pick up the phone in thehallway, sit on the bottom stair and listen, thehandset in my hand, waiting for the right moment. I can hear him talking to her, soft and low, andthen I hear her. I think she’s crying. RACHEL SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013 EVENING I can hear something, a hissing sound. There’s aflash of light and I realize it’s the rain, pouring down. It’s dark outside, there’s a storm. Lightning. I don’tremember when it got dark. The pain in my headbrings me back to myself, my heart crawls into mythroat. I’m on the floor. In the kitchen. With difficulty,I manage to lift my head and raise myself onto oneelbow. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, looking out atthe storm, a beer bottle between his hands. “What am I going to do, Rach?” he asks when hesees me raise my head. “I’ve been sitting here for?.?.?. almost half an hour now, just asking myself thatquestion. What am I supposed to do with you? Whatchoice are you giving me?” He takes a long draughtof beer and regards me thoughtfully. I pull myself upto a sitting position, my back to the kitchencupboards. My head swims, my mouth floods withsaliva. I feel as though I’m going to throw up. I bitemy lip and dig my fingernails into my palms. I needto bring myself out of this stupor, I can’t afford tobe weak. I can’t rely on anyone else. I know that. Anna isn’t going to call the police. She isn’t going torisk her daughter’s safety for me. “You have to admit it,” Tom is saying. “You’vebrought this upon yourself. Think about it: if you’djust left us alone, you’d never be in this situation. Iwouldn’t be in this situation. None of us would. Ifyou hadn’t been there that night, if Anna hadn’tcome running back here after she saw you at thestation, then I’d probably have just been able to sortthings out with Megan. I wouldn’t have been so?.?.?. riled up. I wouldn’t have lost my temper. I wouldn’thave hurt her. None of this would have happened.” I can feel a sob building in the back of my throat,but I swallow it down. This is what he does—this iswhat he always does. He’s a master at it, making mefeel as though everything is my fault, making me feelworthless. He finishes his beer and rolls the empty bottleacross the table. With a sad shake of his head, hegets to his feet, comes over to me and holds out hishands. “Come on,” he says. “Grab hold. Come on,Rach, up you come.” I let him pull me to my feet. My back is to thekitchen counter, he is standing in front of me, againstme, his hips pressing against mine. He reaches up tomy face, wipes the tears off my cheekbones with histhumb. “What am I supposed to do with you, Rach? What do you think I should do?” “You don’t have to do anything,” I say to him, andI try to smile. “You know that I love you. I still do. You know that I wouldn’t tell anyone?.?.?. I couldn’tdo that to you.” He smiles—that wide, beautiful smile that used tomake me melt—and I start to sob. I can’t believe it,can’t believe we are brought to this, that the greatesthappiness I have ever known—my life with him—wasan illusion. He lets me cry for a while, but it must bore him,because the dazzling smile disappears and now his lipis twisted into a sneer. “Come on, Rach, that’s enough,” he says. “Stopsnivelling.” He steps away and grabs a handful ofKleenex from a box on the kitchen table. “Blow yournose,” he says, and I do what I’m told. He watches me, his face a study in contempt. “Thatday when we went to the lake,” he says. “Youthought you had a chance, didn’t you?” He starts tolaugh. “You did, didn’t you? Looking up at me, alldoe-eyed and pleading?.?.?. I could have had you,couldn’t I? You’re so easy.” I bite down hard on mylip. He steps closer to me again. “You’re like one ofthose dogs, the unwanted ones that have beenmistreated all their lives. You can kick them and kickthem, but they’ll still come back to you, cringing andwagging their tails. Begging. Hoping that this time it’llbe different, that this time they’ll do something rightand you’ll love them. You’re just like that, aren’t you,Rach? You’re a dog.” He slips his hand around mywaist and puts his mouth on mine. I let his tongueslip between my lips and press my hips against his. Ican feel him getting hard. I don’t know if everything’s in the same place that itwas when I lived here. I don’t know whether Annarearranged the cupboards, put the spaghetti in adifferent jar, moved the weighing scales from bottomleft to bottom right. I don’t know. I just hope, as Islip my hand into the drawer behind me, that shedidn’t. “You could be right, you know,” I say when thekiss breaks. I tilt my face up to his. “Maybe if Ihadn’t come to Blenheim Road that night, Meganwould still be alive.” He nods and my right hand closes around afamiliar object. I smile and lean in to him, closer,closer, snaking my left hand around his waist. Iwhisper into his ear, “But do you honestly think,given you’re the one who smashed her skull, thatI’m responsible?” He jerks his head away from me and it’s then thatI lunge forward, pressing all my weight against him,throwing him off balance so that he stumbles backagainst the kitchen table. I raise my foot and stampdown on his as hard as I can, and as he pitchesforward in pain, I grab a fistful of hair at the backof his head and pull him towards me, while at thesame time driving my knee up into his face. I feel acrunch of cartilage as he cries out. I push him to thefloor, grab the keys from the kitchen table and amout of the French doors before he’s able to get tohis knees. I head for the fence, but I slip in the mud and losemy footing, and he’s on top of me before I getthere, dragging me backwards, pulling my hair,clawing at my face, spitting curses throughblood—“You stupid, stupid bitch, why can’t you stayaway from us? Why can’t you leave me alone?” I getaway from him again, but there’s nowhere to go. Iwon’t make it back through the house and I won’tmake it over the fence. I cry out, but no one’s goingto hear me, not over the rain and the thunder andthe sound of the approaching train. I run to thebottom of the garden, down towards the tracks. Dead end. I stand on the spot where, a year ormore ago, I stood with his child in my arms. I turn,my back to the fence, and watch him stridingpurposefully towards me. He wipes his mouth withhis forearm, spitting blood to the ground. I can feelthe vibrations from the tracks in the fence behindme—the train is almost upon us, its sound like ascream. Tom’s lips are moving, he’s saying somethingto me, but I can’t hear him. I watch him come, Iwatch him, and I don’t move until he’s almost uponme, and then I swing. I jam the vicious twist of thecorkscrew into his neck. His eyes widen as he falls without a sound. Heraises his hands to his throat, his eyes on mine. Helooks as though he’s crying. I watch until I can’t lookany longer, then I turn my back on him. As thetrain goes past I can see faces in brightly lit windows,heads bent over books and phones, travellers warmand safe on their way home. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2013 MORNING You can feel it: it’s like the hum of electric lights, thechange in atmosphere as the train pulls up to thered signal. I’m not the only one who looks now. Idon’t suppose I ever was. I suppose that everyonedoes it—looks out at the houses they pass—only weall see them differently. All saw them differently. Now,everyone else is seeing the same thing. Sometimesyou can hear people talk about it. “There, it’s that one. No, no, that one, on theleft—there. With the roses by the fence. That’s whereit happened.” The houses themselves are empty, number fifteenand number twenty-three. They don’t look it—theblinds are up and the doors open, but I know that’sbecause they’re being shown. They’re both on themarket now, though it may be a while before eithergets a serious buyer. I imagine the estate agentsmostly escorting ghouls around those rooms,rubberneckers desperate to see it up close, the placewhere he fell and his blood soaked the earth. It hurts to think of them walking through thehouse—my house, where I once had hope. I try notto think about what came after. I try not to thinkabout that night. I try and I fail. Side by side, drenched in his blood, we sat on thesofa, Anna and I. The wives, waiting for theambulance. Anna called them—she called the police,she did everything. She took care of everything. Theparamedics arrived, too late for Tom, and on theirheels came uniformed police, then the detectives,Gaskill and Riley. Their mouths literally fell openwhen they saw us. They asked questions, but Icouldn’t make out their words. I could barely move,barely breathe. Anna spoke, calm and assured. “It was self-defence,” she told them. “I saw thewhole thing. From the window. He went for her withthe corkscrew. He would have killed her. She had nochoice. I tried?.?.?.” It was the only time she faltered,the only time I saw her cry. “I tried to stop thebleeding, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” One of the uniformed police fetched Evie, whomiraculously had slept soundly through the wholething, and they took us all to the police station. Theysat Anna and me in separate rooms and asked yetmore questions that I don’t remember. I struggled toanswer, to concentrate. I struggled to form words atall. I told them he attacked me, hit me with a bottle. I said that he came at me with the corkscrew. I saidthat I managed to take the weapon from him, that Iused it to defend myself. They examined me: theylooked at the wound on my head, at my hands, atmy fingernails. “Not much in the way of defensive wounds,” Rileysaid doubtfully. They went away and left me there,with a uniformed officer—the one with the neck acnewho came to Cathy’s flat in Ashbury a lifetimeago—standing at the door, avoiding my eye. Later,Riley came back. “Mrs. Watson confirms your story,Rachel,” she said. “You can go now.” She couldn’tmeet my gaze, either. A uniformed policeman tookme to the hospital, where they stitched up thewound on my scalp. There’s been a lot of stuff about Tom in the papers. I found out that he was never in the army. He triedto get in, but he was rejected twice. The story abouthis father was a lie, too—he’d twisted it all round. Hetook his parents’ savings and lost it all. They forgavehim, but he cut all ties with them when his fatherdeclined to remortgage their house in order to lendhim more money. He lied all the time, abouteverything. Even when he didn’t need to, even whenthere was no point. I have the clearest memory of Scott talking aboutMegan, saying I don’t even know who she was,and I feel exactly the same way. Tom’s whole lifewas constructed on lies—falsehoods and half-truthstold to make him look better, stronger, moreinteresting than he was. And I bought them, I fell forthem all. Anna, too. We loved him. I wonder whetherwe would have loved the weaker, flawed,unembellished version. I think that I would. I wouldhave forgiven his mistakes and his failures. I havecommitted enough of my own. EVENING I’m at a hotel in a little town on the Norfolk coast. Tomorrow, I go farther north. Edinburgh, maybe,perhaps farther still. I haven’t made my mind up yet. I just want to make sure I put plenty of distancebehind me. I have some money. Mum was quitegenerous when she discovered everything I’d beenthrough, so I don’t have to worry. Not for a while. I hired a car and drove to Holkham this afternoon. There’s a church just outside the village whereMegan’s ashes are buried, next to the bones of herdaughter, Libby. I read about it in the papers. Therewas some controversy over the burial, because ofMegan’s supposed role in the child’s death. But itwas allowed, in the end, and it seems right that itwas. Whatever she did, she’s been punished enough. It was just starting to rain when I got there, withnot a soul in sight, but I parked the car and walkedaround the graveyard anyway. I found her graveright in the furthermost corner, almost hidden undera line of firs. You would never know that she wasthere, unless you knew to go looking. The headstonemarker bears her name and the dates of her life—no“loving memory,” no “beloved wife,” or “daughter,” or“mother.” Her child’s stone just says Libby. At leastnow her grave is properly marked; she’s not allalone by the train tracks. The rain started to fall harder, and when I walkedback through the churchyard I saw a man standingin the doorway of the chapel, and for just a secondI imagined that he was Scott. My heart in mymouth, I wiped the rain from my eyes and lookedagain and saw that it was a priest. He raised a handto me in greeting. I half ran back to the car, feeling needlessly afraid. Iwas thinking of the violence of my last meeting withScott, of the way he was at the end—wild andparanoiac, on the edge of madness. There’ll be nopeace for him now. How can there be? I think aboutthat, and the way he used to be—the way they usedto be, the way I imagined them to be—and I feelbereft. I feel their loss, too. I sent an email to Scott, apologizing for all the lies Itold him. I wanted to say sorry about Tom, too,because I should have known. If I’d been sober allthose years, would I have known? Maybe there willbe no peace for me, either. He didn’t reply to my message. I didn’t expect himto. I drive to the hotel and check in, and to stopmyself thinking about how nice it would be to sit ina leather armchair in their cosy, low-lit bar with aglass of wine in my hand, I go for a walk out to theharbour instead. I can imagine exactly how good I would feel halfwaythrough my first drink. To push away the feeling, Icount the days since I last had a drink: twenty. Twenty-one, if you include today. Three weeksexactly: my longest dry spell in years. It was Cathy, oddly enough, who served me my lastdrink. When the police brought me home, grimly paleand bloody, and told her what happened, she fetcheda bottle of Jack Daniel’s from her room and pouredus each a large measure. She couldn’t stop crying,saying how sorry she was, as though it was in someway her fault. I drank the whisky and then Ivomited it straight back up; I haven’t touched a dropsince. Doesn’t stop me wanting to. When I reach the harbour, I turn left and walkaround its edge towards the stretch of beach alongwhich I could walk, if I wanted to, all the way backto Holkham. It’s almost dark now, and cold down bythe water, but I keep going. I want to walk until I’mexhausted, until I’m so tired I can’t think, and maybethen I will be able to sleep. The beach is deserted, and it’s so cold, I have toclench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering. I walkquickly along the shingle, past the beach huts, sopretty in daylight but now sinister, each one of thema hiding place. When the wind picks up they comealive, their wooden boards creaking against oneanother, and under the sound of the sea there aremurmurs of movement: someone or something,coming closer. I turn back, I start to run. I know there’s nothing out here, there’s nothing tobe afraid of, but it doesn’t stop the fear rising frommy stomach to my chest and into my throat. I runas fast as I can. I don’t stop until I’m back on theharbour, in bright street light. Back in my room I sit on my bed, sitting on myhands until they stop shaking. I open the minibarand take out the bottled water and the macadamianuts. I leave the wine and the little bottles of gin,even though they would help me sleep, even thoughthey would let me slide, warm and loose, intooblivion. Even though they would let me forget, for awhile, the look on his face when I turned back towatch him die. The train had passed. I heard a noise behind meand saw Anna coming out of the house. She walkedquickly towards us and, reaching his side, she fell toher knees and put her hands on his throat. He had this look on his face of shock, of hurt. Iwanted to say to her, It’s no good, you won’t beable to help him now, but then I realized shewasn’t trying to stop the bleeding. She was makingsure. Twisting the corkscrew in, farther and farther,ripping into his throat, and all the time she wastalking to him softly, softly. I couldn’t hear what shewas saying. The last time I saw her was in the police station,when they took us to give our statements. She wasled to one room and I to another, but just beforeshe parted, she touched my arm. “You take care ofyourself, Rachel,” she said, and there was somethingabout the way she said it that made it feel like awarning. We are tied together, forever bound by thestories we told: that I had no choice but to stab himin the neck; that Anna tried her best to save him. I get into bed and turn the lights out. I won’t beable to sleep, but I have to try. Eventually, I suppose,the nightmares will stop and I’ll stop replaying it overand over and over in my head, but right now Iknow that there’s a long night ahead. And I have toget up early tomorrow morning to catch the train. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Many people have helped in the writing of this book,but none more than my agent, Lizzy Kremer, who iswonderful and wise. Huge thanks also to HarrietMoore, Alice Howe, Emma Jamison, Chiara Natalucciand everyone at David Higham, as well as to TineNeilsen and Stella Giatrakou. I am very grateful to my brilliant editors on bothsides of the Atlantic: Sarah Adams, Sarah McGrathand Nita Provonost. My thanks also to AlisonBarrow, Katy Loftus, Bill Scott-Kerr, Helen Edwards,Kate Samano and the fantastic teams both atTransworld and at Riverhead—there are too many ofyou to mention. Thank you, Kate Neil, Jamie Wilding, Mum, Dadand Rich for all your support and encouragement. Finally, thank you to the commuters of London,who provided that little spark of inspiration. The End