The Woman in the Dark

by Vanessa Savage

  “Patrick got a letter,” I say to Caroline, when we stop to rest by the lake. Our breath puffs out in white clouds, and I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck. I didn’t realize the letter was still in my head until I spoke. But I can’t shake that sight—the look on his face.

  “And?”

  “It frightened him,” I say. “Whatever the letter was, it scared him. And there was something else…”

  “It scared him?” She frowns and I can see she’s thinking the same as I did. Nothing scares Patrick. That’s why the disquiet’s growing. Caroline leans back on the bench. “Did you see what it was?”

  I shake my head. “The envelope was handwritten, that’s all.” I look at her. “I was wondering if he was ill. Or if he’s had bad news.”

  “Was it from a woman?”

  “I was stupid. It arrived days ago and I hid it. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m worried he’s cheating on me.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Patrick wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.

  Caroline stares at me. She has a strange expression on her face and I can see my own face reflected in her sunglasses, pale and worried. “Look, I’m sure it’s nothing. But maybe you should see if you can find out what was in that letter. Can’t hurt, can it?”

  Patrick’s edgy when he comes home. Joe and Mia are gone. Freed by the knowledge their parents will be out for the evening, they’ve scattered. I’ve already changed into his favorite skirt, the one he bought me for my last birthday. I came back from my walk to find he’d sent flowers that fragranced the whole house, so I’ve dressed up for him.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. “But where are the Doc Martens?”

  I laugh and follow him into the kitchen. There’s a tense energy hovering around him, an electric something I can’t work out as he pours wine for me, water for him. “A toast,” he says. “To James Tucker.”

  I clink my glass against his. “To James Tucker.”

  James Tucker—the boy who stood me up a million years ago. If he’d turned up for our date, I’d never have gone to that party, never have met Patrick. He even mentioned him at our wedding, getting all the guests to stand and toast James Tucker, a boy he’d never met.

  He takes off his jacket and goes through to the sitting room, pulling open the curtain and staring out at the street. It’s not late. The Sawyer boys from across the road are still out on their bikes, bumping up and down the curb. It hasn’t been so very long since Joe and Mia were that age, but I don’t think Patrick’s watching the boys with the same wistful pang I am.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Do you ever feel… claustrophobic?” he says quietly.

  “What?”

  “This house, this street, everything so dull and hemmed in. Not enough space, not enough air.”

  I don’t know what to say. That odd energy is still there, humming in the air, and it makes me uneasy. It’s me, not Patrick, who says things like that, who longs for adventure. It’s never Patrick with restless feet and airless lungs.

  “Are you sure you still want to go out?” I ask. “You sound… Are you ill?”

  He turns from the window and smiles at me, dispelling my unease. “I’m fine—just tired,” he says. “Of course we’re still going out. We’ll have dinner and find some seedy club that plays all those songs you used to listen to.” He pulls me into his arms. “Give me twenty minutes to shower and change.”

  The last time I saw my mother, I could see she was thinner, paler. She was quiet, distracted, just like Patrick. Are you okay? Are you ill? I said to her, and she wouldn’t look at me. I’m fine. Just tired, she said. I turned away and didn’t ask again. I found the letters from the hospital only after she’d died. A stack of them, unopened, hidden away. Maybe she thought that if she hid the letters the cancer wouldn’t be real.

  Is that what I was doing, in keeping the letter from Patrick? Hiding from whatever truth is inside that envelope? But that doesn’t work, does it? The cancer spreads and grows, however much you hide from it.

  I go back out to the hall and listen for the sound of the shower coming on. His coat’s right there, hung up. I can see the corner of the envelope still poking out of the top pocket. It’s open, edges torn. I go over and reach for it, pausing to check that the bathroom door is closed, the shower still running.

  My heart is hammering as I slide the envelope out of his pocket, trying to pull the letter out without tearing it further.

  “What are you doing?”

  I spin around, fumbling behind me to stuff the letter back into his coat, but I can’t find the pocket without looking, so I shove it down the waistband of my skirt, pull my top loose to cover it. Did he see? He’s standing in shadow at the top of the stairs, still wet from the shower, a towel around his waist.

  “Nothing—I was just—”

  “Come upstairs.”

  I can feel the envelope pressing against my back. Why didn’t I just bloody ask him? It’s Caroline’s fault, making me suspicious, hinting Patrick’s up to something, when I know he wouldn’t be. I cling to the banister as I climb the stairs. He pulls me close when I get to the top, burying his face in my hair. His hand is on my waist and he slides it around to rest on the small of my back. His fingers trace the shape of the envelope through the silk of my shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I was worried. I…”

  “Ssh.” He reaches under my shirt, pulls out the envelope, his damp fingers brushing my skin so I shiver.

  “I saw your face. I could see you were scared and I was worried…” I’m babbling, but I can’t stop.

  His frown fades and he laughs instead. “Scared? God, Sarah, I wasn’t scared. I was thrilled. Excited.”

  No, that wasn’t excitement.

  “What is it?” I ask him again. This time he opens the envelope and hands me the folded letter inside.

  “I sometimes drive past it,” he says, rushing the words out as I read the letter. “If I’m out on client visits, I sometimes take a detour and drive past it.”

  At first, all I feel is relief. It’s not bad news—it’s not some love note from another woman. But then I focus on the letter and my heart starts pounding again. Patrick takes the estate agent’s details that accompany the letter and stares at the photo of the house on the front.

  Dear Mr. Walker, the letter reads. You asked us to let you know if this property ever came up for sale… My scalp prickles. How many times has he taken that detour? “When did you contact them?” I ask, holding up the letter.

  “A few years ago.”

  A few years ago. I swallow bile, bitter in my throat. How many years? Two? Ten? Fifteen? Fifteen years ago is when the family living in that house was stabbed to death by a madman. That was when Patrick started having the nightmares that made him wake screaming in the night.

  “You just called them up and… ?”

  “All of them. All the estate agents in the area. I asked them all to let me know if it ever came up for sale.” He looks down at the photo again and I see that his hand is shaking. “I never thought it would.”

  He puts the letter into the envelope and looks at me again, a mix of fear and excitement back in his eyes. “It should still be mine. It should always have been mine.”

  I shiver and hug myself.

  “I’ve arranged to see it on Wednesday. Will you come with me?”

  God, all that wistful hope in his voice… I don’t want to step inside that house, but Patrick doesn’t see what I see when I look at the picture. He sees the beautiful Victorian house he grew up in, with its pitched roof and gabled ends—a fairy-tale house before it became the county House of Horrors. He sees happy memories of a childhood lived by the sea. He doesn’t imagine blood on the walls or whispering ghosts. He doesn’t see the Murder House, but I do.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mia’s watching something on YouTube that, judging by the stream of swear words,
is wildly inappropriate for the dinner table. Joe’s head is bent over his phone, but I can see his smile as Mia shows him her screen and dissolves into laughter. I hum a tune as I finish mashing the potatoes and bring the serving dish to the table. I haven’t seen them so relaxed in weeks.

  “Phones away,” Patrick says as he comes in, lingering to stroke my hair before taking off his cuff links and rolling up his shirtsleeves. Joe’s phone immediately disappears into his pocket, but Mia grumbles as she slides hers onto the table, staring at the screen as a text comes through.

  “Phones away,” he says again, pushing it back toward her, watching as she gets up and puts it on the kitchen counter. I see her hesitate as it vibrates again.

  “Sit down, Mia,” Patrick says, carving the chicken, passing slices of breast to me, a leg each for Mia and Joe. “The world won’t end if you’re parted from your phone for half an hour.”

  He shakes his head as she sighs and stomps back to the table.

  “It’s all kicking off between Tamara and Charlie,” she says to Joe as she sits down. Joe shrugs and doesn’t look up from his plate, but that doesn’t stop her from launching into some convoluted tale of betrayal and heartbreak.

  “Mia, please, give it a rest. It’s like listening to a soap opera,” Patrick says.

  “God, Dad—you don’t know the half of it.”

  “Good. I hope it stays that way.” He looks at me. “We weren’t ever like that, were we, Sarah?”

  I raise my eyebrows, remembering the soaring emotions of our first few dates, both of us giddy with it.

  We all jump as Mia’s phone buzzes, then starts ringing.

  Patrick puts a hand on her arm as Mia moves toward it, so she mutters something under her breath and turns away. “I swear,” she says, “I don’t know how you guys functioned without phones when you were kids.”

  Patrick carries on eating, not rising to the bait. It’s me who answers. “Mobile phones were invented twenty years ago, you know. We just weren’t slaves to them like you are.”

  “But how did you talk to people?”

  “Well, it was very strange, and you might not be able to comprehend this, but we used to stand in front of the other person and speak.”

  “Oh, ha-ha, very funny.”

  “It was good, actually,” Patrick says, putting down his fork. “Wonderful. I lived in a really small town, but all of us knew each other growing up. Properly knew each other. It meant I could go down to the beach in the summer and guarantee I’d see some of my friends. Or we’d meet up at the fairground. But mostly down on the beach. We’d all bring firewood and food, stay there for hours as it got dark, warm by the fire.”

  “Speaking of the small town your father grew up in…” My voice trails off as Patrick looks at me and shakes his head. We didn’t discuss what we’d tell the children about the house viewing tomorrow, but I understand enough from Patrick’s white-knuckled grip on his water glass to keep quiet.

  Joe and Mia disappear to their rooms the moment they finish eating, but Patrick and I linger.

  “Coffee?” Patrick asks as he gets up and takes two mugs out of the cupboard. “Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

  I would, but if I say yes, he’ll see how little is left in the bottle he opened for me yesterday. Patrick doesn’t drink—he doesn’t like anything that makes him feel out of control, and it’s impossible to hide a sneaky extra glass of wine when you’re the only one who drinks.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “Coffee sounds great.”

  He stops me as I get up to clear the table. “No, let me do it—you cooked.”

  “How come you don’t want the children to know where we’re going tomorrow? I was wondering about changing it to the weekend, so Joe and Mia could come with us—have a day at the seaside, like we used to.”

  He shrugs as he picks up my plate. “It’s not a big secret, but I want you to see it first.” He pauses. “It’s not going to look the same as when I lived there, is it? It’s been a long time since it was a happy family home and I wouldn’t want the children to see it like that.”

  “I wish I’d known you in your happy-family beach-picnic days,” I say to his back as he leans over the dishwasher.

  He glances at me over his shoulder. “Do you?”

  “I picture it, when you talk about it. My teenage years were all stifling boredom. Nowhere to go and nothing to do.”

  He closes the dishwasher and turns to face me. I can’t read the expression on his face. “It wasn’t always picnic weather,” he says.

  “No, but at least you had the freedom to go out with your friends. I was lucky if I was allowed out of the house in the day, let alone after dark.”

  “Your mother could have done with a kick in the ass.”

  I freeze. I can’t stand any mention of my mother, not since she died.

  Mum was pretty much housebound by her own fears by the end. But each time we’d visit, I’d go with fingers crossed, hoping she’d be better, stronger, that this time she’d say yes when I suggested lunch out or her coming to stay with us. And each time I’d be disappointed. We’d sit in the living room of the terraced council house that hadn’t changed since I’d lived there, Joe and Mia fidgeting, Patrick glazed with boredom, and I’d feel my cheeks burning as the usual mix of frustration and shame filled me. I’d be torn between wanting to shake her and yell at her to bloody snap out of it and needing to cling to her, the child in me yearning for her to comfort and soothe me. And then we’d get up to go and I’d hate myself for the relief I felt at leaving. I’d want to tell Patrick to drive us home faster, but I’d also want him to go back so I could try again, one more time, to drag her kicking and screaming into the world. All too late now.

  Patrick watches me as I rise stiffly and start clearing the rest of the table.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is gentle. “I shouldn’t have said that. I want you to let the guilt go, that’s all. You couldn’t have done anything for her even if you’d been there.”

  The plates and cutlery rattle as I carry them over to the counter.

  “I think I will have that glass of wine after all.” I sense him watching me as I get down a glass and fill it to the top with red wine, emptying the bottle. “Not all of us had an upbringing like yours,” I say, after the first numbing sip. “Some of us need to drink to forget. Cheers.” I clink my glass against his coffee cup, but he doesn’t return my smile.

  “They’ve said we can look around on our own this time—the house is empty.”

  “This time?”

  He laughs. “You got me. I couldn’t wait. I went to see it on Monday when I got the letter. It’s been so long, I wanted to see it again. We’ll go for lunch after, make a proper day of it.”

  “Fish and chips on the pier? An ice-cream cone?”

  He grins. “Well, I was thinking of a nice warm restaurant, but if you want chips and ice cream on the pier in January…”

  He’s taken off his jacket and tie; his shirt has come untucked at the back and his sleeves are rolled up. We’re driving along the coast road and none of this seems real.

  I’m staring down at the details Patrick gave me. I want to be able to share his happiness, his excitement. My childhood home, my dream house, he said, but I can’t forget the other photo of this house, the one that was on the front of the newspapers fifteen years ago. Someone spray-painted the front door and that’s the photo everyone used: a house, police tape still fluttering around the front, broken window boarded up, Welcome to the Murder House spray-painted in red on the front door.

  If Patrick’s parents hadn’t defaulted on the mortgage and lost it, it would never have become the Murder House. Patrick and I could have raised Mia and Joe there—picnics on the beach, trips to the fair, fish and chips on the promenade, every shelf and windowsill filling with shells and driftwood and sea glass rubbed smooth by the tide. All the things Patrick remembers so fondly from his childhood that are such a contrast to my own: streets and streets
of terraced houses, tiny patches of green, cooking smells seeping through shared walls, net curtains and fitted carpets; shoes off in the house and cushions on their points, my mother with her clinging, strangling arms, keeping me in, holding me back behind the double-locked door. The agoraphobia that only she suffered from still managed to keep us both prisoner.

  We pull up outside and I blink to rid my eyes of the newsprint version of the house. The red paint has long been covered up, the broken window replaced. I’m surprised at how welcoming it looks, the gate standing open, a hanging basket of winter pansies swinging next to the door, the windows scrubbed and gleaming.

  “Has anyone else ever lived in it?”

  “Since the family who…”

  “Was killed here, yes.”

  “It’s the first time it’s come up for sale. Wait here, I’ll go for the keys.”

  I get out of the car and cross the road to lean against the seawall. The first time Patrick took me to visit his parents, he brought me here afterward and you could see the contrast sat bitter in his throat. After the house was repossessed, his parents had retired to an ugly, rented two-bedroom bungalow five miles from here, with no views and no garden. Tiny, cramped rooms full of too-big furniture in dark wood. It was hot and airless, immaculately clean, the TV turned up full volume because his dad was hard of hearing. His mother would follow us around, polishing away every trace of our presence even while we were still there. Taking Joe to visit was always a nightmare—he seemed to throw up his milk or fill his diaper the moment we got there and the smell would linger foul in the air. I could never imagine them looking after a baby Patrick—they looked at six-month-old Joe as if he were a weird alien and spoke to him as if he were an adult.

  His parents lost the house when Patrick was in his early twenties, not long before he met me. Every weekend, beginning when we were first dating and for years afterward, as the kids grew up, he’d drive us down the Heritage Coast, stopping in different seaside towns, picnics on different beaches, hunched against the wind, sand in our sandwiches. He’d stand outside seafront houses we could never afford in a million years and he’d get angry. All the relaxed happiness from the picnics would disappear and he’d be all hunched and tense and gritted, and I’d see in him a frustration echoed in me, but on a far more muted level—he wanted it all right now, wanted back what he’d lost. With me, it was a yearning for what I’d never had.