The Woman in the Dark

by Vanessa Savage

  Part 4—The Dragon in

  the Man Suit

  Headline from the Western Mail, January 2017:

  Who Really Killed Marie and Billy Evans?

  Ian Hooper, jailed in 2002 for the notorious Murder House killings, has been released from jail. He was only ever convicted of killing John Evans due to lack of evidence connecting him to the other two murders.

  Hooper was released quietly on Tuesday. As yet, there have been no reports as to his whereabouts, but he has

  been ordered, as part of his release, not to return to

  his hometown.

  CHAPTER 35

  I can’t get up off the floor. I’m still in the cellar, still in the dark. A thin line of light shows under the door and I blink and wait for my eyes to adjust. My husband is eight feet away, sitting slumped against the wall with his head in his hands and I can’t get up. I don’t know how long I’ve been here—it feels like forever. I’m lying here telling myself to move. I feel numb and I’m clumsy with my bloody, oozing hands as I try to straighten my clothes. He didn’t even take off my jeans, just shoved them down around my knees. My lip is stinging. I think I bit it. I don’t think Patrick did. I make myself sit up, but I don’t think my legs will hold me if I try to stand.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and his voice is lifeless, all the rage spent. Things are escalating, Anna whispers. I know. I know. Anna said something else, when she was still my friend, when she was still who I thought she was. The only way out is if one of you dies. I don’t want to be the one who dies.

  I wipe another trickle of blood off my chin. When he comes over and crouches next to me, I can smell sweat and stale alcohol. I turn my head away, afraid I’m going to be sick. He kisses my cheek and I can’t stop a tear falling. I didn’t even know I was crying. I don’t want to cry.

  “I didn’t intend to,” he says. “I didn’t intend to do anything. But your lies, Sarah. I went past the gallery and saw your name plastered all over posters, and Ben was in there and I…”

  Oh, God—I think of the blood on Patrick’s shirt. “What did you do to him?” I say, despite the pain in my lip—and everywhere else.

  “Get up.”

  He grabs my arm and hauls me upright, his fingers biting into my biceps. I will fall if he lets go of me. He puts his arms around me and rocks back and forth and it’s another fucking parody of our dancing days.

  “I was going to kill your boyfriend,” Patrick says, pushing my hair out of my face, stroking it smooth. “I was going to lock you in the cellar and find him and kill him for touching you.”

  “Leave him alone,” I say. “He hasn’t done anything—we haven’t done anything.”

  He leans in closer. I can smell his sour breath, and the stubble on his chin scrapes against my cheek. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  I can’t stop shaking.

  “I wanted… all I wanted was to love you. I wanted it to be so different. I wanted it to be perfect. This house, this town. I wanted to make it right.”

  I stare at him, looking for the star-gazing and the seashells and the sand in the shoes and the laughter and the warmth. “I know you were taken into care. I know it was never perfect. Are any of the stories you used to tell true?”

  He shakes his head.

  “And the writing on the walls… it was you, wasn’t it?”

  There’s a long pause. It fills with words written on a dirty cellar wall, a scared child whispering, I’ve been bad, I’ve been very bad, over and over.

  “I had a lot of time down here. I was bad,” he says softly. He blinks and looks away from me. “I was sent down here when I was bad.”

  “Your parents?” He nods, and the air seems to have gotten thicker. “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “They’d lock me in overnight sometimes.” He whispers it so quietly I have to strain to hear. “They’d put me down here and they’d take the lightbulb out so I had no light. Then they’d lock the door. Sometimes they let me out after an hour or two—it depended on what they were punishing me for. If I was very bad, they’d leave me here all night. ‘Dirty boy,’ they’d say. ‘Bad, bad boy.’”

  The cold, the creeping damp is everywhere around us. It’s daytime now and so dark. At night, would any light have come in through the frame of the door? Would he have been able to see his breath fogging in the cold, making shadows in the corners, or would it have been total darkness?

  “They wouldn’t put me down here right away,” he says. “I’d usually done some stupid thing—lost a pair of sneakers, got mud on the carpet, kicked a football through a window. I’d do it, and they’d see, or someone would tell them, and then I’d wait, days and days and days locked in the house with fear and guilt squirming in my belly, growing and growing until that fucking broken window, those lost fucking sneakers would haunt my every waking and sleeping moment. They’d say nothing to me in that time. The house would be silent, and I’d wait…”

  I’m trembling, every muscle tense. I’m there with him. I’m him, a little boy pissing himself in terror about what his parents would do over a lost pair of shoes.

  “And then eventually,” he says, “they’d sit me down and make me punish myself.”

  I don’t understand. I don’t understand how the people I met, that vague old couple living in a claustrophobic hothouse, could be so cold to a small child—their son.

  “I’d been living in fear for however long it was, crying myself to sleep and wetting the bed, storing up more future punishments, and they’d sit me down and say, ‘Well, Patrick, what do you think your punishment should be?’ And because I’d had all that time to think, all that time for my crime to build in my head to some monstrous thing, I’d always say the most horrible thing I could think of—they should take away my bike for the lost sneakers, they should lock me up in the dark for the mud on the carpet, beat me for the broken window…”

  “And they did those things?”

  His voice is calm, expressionless. Not his face, though, that’s full…

  “Oh, yes,” he says. “And they’d always make it worse as well. Two days in the cellar under the stairs, locked in with no light, just a bottle of water and a bucket for a toilet.”

  “For mud on a carpet?”

  I imagine the dark, the damp, the skittering noises that to a child would sound like creeping monsters.

  He nods. “That scar on my back? It wasn’t a childhood fall—that was the buckle of the belt my father used to beat me for the broken window. The things they could do…” he whispers. “Her with her hands, him with his fists. But outside, to the world, so normal. You’d never know.” He looks at me. “Once he put me down here and forgot. Because he was drunk. I was locked in for days and I thought I would die down here. That was when I was taken away.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  He moves, putting more distance between us, a sliver of space for the cold to creep in. “I didn’t want to be that person, that boy in the cellar. Not to you. The way you looked at me when we first met, I liked the Patrick you saw, with the childhood I invented.”

  Would I have looked differently at Patrick if I’d known the truth then? Could I have prevented all this? Could I have helped him if I’d known the truth?

  He takes a shuddering breath. “When they first moved here, things were different. Dad had just gotten a really good job and they had this house. They had so much vision. So many plans. I came along and they included me and I could see it all, even as a little kid. I could see it and I wanted it. It all fell apart so slowly and I could see them battling against it for years—battling against the drinking taking hold, battling against everything going wrong with the house. I saw it beat them down and break them.”

  “But…”

  “But I could still see it—all they had planned. The life they saw. I promised myself I could do better, I would do better.” He pauses. “I just wanted to make it right… But look at what I’ve done. I’ve turned into him, my father.
” He peers down at his hands. “I could see it all start to go wrong and I got so… angry. I punched a hole in my bedroom wall once—the plaster was falling apart and my hand went straight through. I hid… I hid a knife there. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I intended to do with it. Was I always planning bad things, do you think, Sarah? Always bound to end up like them? Or could I see things spiraling out of control? Did I think it was for self-defense?”

  “I know about Eve. I know what you did. You told me she was dead. You told me…”

  His face twists. “Eve was as bad as them. Rotten inside. She deserved everything.”

  “And me? You gave me the pills, didn’t you?” I feel again the rough fingers pushing across my tongue. It wasn’t a dream. It was never a dream.

  “I had to get the house back,” he says. “You just needed to see reason. I didn’t know how many you’d already taken.”

  “I could have died.”

  “That was your fault. You’d already taken so many.”

  I’m crying again and I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand. “All for a house? You did it all for a fucking house?”

  “It’s not just a fucking house. It was mine and John stole it.”

  “Were you there? The night… the night of the murders?”

  He must see it in my face, what I’m thinking, because his mouth twists and I see the anger rising again.

  “Don’t look at me like that—don’t ever look at me like that. You think I did it? You think I killed them? You think I’m capable of that?”

  “I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”

  “No, you’ve got it so wrong.” He shakes his head and there’s a silence that lasts an eternity. “I told John what his wife was up to with Hooper. The whole damn town knew, he was being made a laughingstock, but no one had the balls to tell him. I wanted to see his face when he realized the perfect life he’d stolen from me wasn’t so perfect after all.”

  My legs lose their strength and I sink back to the floor.

  “He went insane. Berserk. It was so easy to set him off—I told him his wife was having sex with someone else in his own bed, with his children in the house, that they were all laughing behind his back at how stupid he was, how pathetic, half a man. I told him everyone knew. I told him his sons knew and that they wanted to run away with Hooper and their mum, that all of them were happy to be leaving John.”

  He laughs. “And off he went, burning with all that humiliation, shouting for revenge as he stormed up the street, no one to hear his ridiculous vows but me.”

  “Didn’t you try to stop him from coming here?” I ask, through numb lips.

  He tilts his head. “Why would I stop him from going home to confront his wife? Wouldn’t any man do that if he knew his wife was cheating?” He says it in a mocking tone as he stands over me with Ben’s blood on his shirt, the marks of his fist on my face.

  “I thought he’d beat Hooper up and I wanted that. I wanted him to get into trouble. I never thought the stupid bastard would end up dead. I never expected him to kill them.” He pauses. “If, indeed, he did. It was Hooper who was arrested, after all.”

  “But you knew. You’ve always thought it was John. You should have gone to the police.” I can barely speak.

  “And confess I’d wound him up? Provoked him into storming back there? No. I was being a good friend, telling him the truth. You don’t think he deserved to know his wife was sleeping around?”

  “But you knew his children were there, his wife…”

  “I did him a favor in court, keeping his saintly reputation clean, making sure it was only Hooper who was the villain. My hands are clean, Sarah. I did nothing wrong.”

  “Oh, God.” I put my hand over my mouth. Oh, God.

  I can see from his face that he believes his own words and I shrink back in horror. He’s going to do the same with me, tell himself that I deserved this, that Ben deserved it, like Eve deserved what he did all those years ago. Telling himself he was making things better for Joe. All these imperfect parts of his life rewritten so he can carry on as if nothing has happened.

  “But it doesn’t matter now. None of that matters. We’re going to wipe away the blood, Sarah, that’s what we’re doing here. We’re going to undo it, make it go away.”

  I scramble backward, toward the door, but he comes over, blocks my path.

  “Except… I keep having this dream,” he says.

  I don’t want to hear any more. I’m hovering on the balls of my feet, ready to run when he moves, when the moment breaks, poised on a cusp, the woman in Joe’s drawing. I’ll snatch up the children and run, let the sea breeze I used to long for carry us far away.

  “I dream I’m back in the cellar, but I’m not alone.”

  I can hear his breathing, harsh and fast.

  “My father is here with me and he’s whispering things, terrible things. Then I’m a little boy and I’m back in the cellar and my parents are… my parents are torturing me. But then the dream changes and it’s me doing it to Mia and Joe and you. Torturing you, hurting you. Killing you.”

  I don’t notice I’ve been holding my breath until my chest hurts. I let it out with a gasp.

  Patrick climbs the stairs and pauses at the top. “I have to think… I have to work out how to make this right.”

  Before I can run up past him the door closes and I hear the key turn in the lock. He’s left me in darkness. I’m alone, but I swear I hear things—skittering, crawling, whispering things. I close my eyes and put my sore hands over my ears, curling up into a ball.

  It wasn’t a dream. It was never a dream.

  CHAPTER 36

  My ringing phone pulls me from a broken sleep. I don’t know what time it is or how long Patrick has left me here. I open my eyes and see the screen glowing across the cellar by the stairs and the tiny light reveals Patrick, staring down at me. Has he just come in or has he been standing there in the dark watching me sleep?

  “You’ve been very popular. So many missed calls from Mia and Caroline. But I don’t know who this is. Will it be him? My old school buddy Ben?” he asks, and I shudder. He glances at the screen, then holds out the phone.

  “Answer it. On speaker.”

  I crawl over on my hands and knees, my heart pounding as I fumble for the accept-call button. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Mum…”

  “Joe?”

  There’s silence at the other end and, for a moment, I hope he hangs up.

  “Are you okay? My phone died so I’m using Simon’s.” I hear Patrick react to the name, reaching for the phone, but Joe is still talking. “Mia said she’s been calling and you haven’t answered. She said you were supposed to be meeting her at Caroline’s.”

  My gaze flickers to Patrick to see him staring at me, a tic going in his cheek.

  “I’m fine.” I close my eyes and clutch the phone harder, wishing I could stop him talking. “I’m fine.”

  “She got the train back,” he says. “She told me about the gallery—the window’s been smashed and there was an ambulance outside. She was scared it was you, but your friend was there and—”

  “Friend?”

  “Anna. She told Mia she’s your friend. Mia’s with her.”

  I look at Patrick and gasp. He reacts not to the name but to my gasp. “No, she can’t be. She can’t—Joe, you have to find Mia. Anna is not who she says she is. Your dad— You have to—” Before I can finish, Patrick takes the phone from me.

  “Joe? Where are you, Joe?” He paces back across the cellar, toward the stairs, his voice sickly calm. “Come home, Joe. It’s time you knew the truth. It’s time I told you the truth about your mother.”

  I lunge toward him, but he’s already ended the call, putting my phone into his pocket. I grab his arm.

  “No, you fucking don’t,” he says, pulling my hand away, pressing his thumb into my wounds. I go to scratch his face, but he has my wrist and pushes me back. I stumble and fall.
>
  He pulls a pen out of his pocket and throws it down toward where I lie, sprawled on the dirty cellar floor.

  “Write your lines, Sarah, because you’ve been very fucking bad.”

  I see he means to lock me in here again and I can’t let him find Joe when he’s full of so much bitter rage. When he tells him how we’ve lied all these years, how a stranger, not me, is his mother, Joe will go mad, and then what will Patrick do? I think of him throwing Joe against the wall, almost hitting Mia, everything he’s done to me.

  No. I won’t let Patrick hurt my son.

  I struggle to my feet and run up the stairs, reaching for the door as he opens it, but he grabs my hand, squeezing it, crushing it until I cry out. He’s bending my fingers back and forcing me away from the door.

  “No, you don’t,” he says. “You’re staying right here.” He shoves me then, harder than before, and I lose my footing, falling over and over down the steps. My head smashes on the floor and explodes with pain. The world grays and I try, I try to hold on, but I’m drifting and fading and as I fade, I remember, and all I can think is Don’t, Patrick. Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt my son.

  SARAH AND PATRICK—2000

  James Tucker. That’s it, that was his name, the office boy who asked me out. Stood up by James Tucker, I waited outside the pub for twenty humiliating minutes before I realized he wasn’t coming. Instead of licking my wounds and going home, I went to a party, downed three tequilas, and was swaying in a corner, my cheeks burning, half-drunk from nervously bolting my drinks, when Patrick came over. Dark hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders, killer cheekbones. I wanted to stick him to a canvas and stare at him forever.

  He asked me to dance, then leaned in and suggested we go somewhere and I just said yes. There wasn’t a second of hesitation before the yes. He took me to his apartment and laid me on his bed, and it was only when we were halfway through undressing each other that he stopped to ask me my name.