Between a Wolf and a Dog
Page 23
She is just a loony old bat. She can see it in his eyes. And in a strange way, it is a relief.
‘Well, now you have.’
She nods at him, and walks to the car without looking back.
He’ll feel like shit, she thinks, when he hears about them finding me, and she almost turns around to tell him not to feel bad, that it’s okay, but the exuberance of the moment is rapidly fading. She needs to get back into the car and drive, to keep propelling herself forward before her nerve fails and she collapses, weak, pain-riddled, and at the mercy of others.
The rains have been here, too. When she reaches the low wooden bridge that takes her onto the last stretch of road, she sees the swollen down-flow rushing over the boards, dirty brown and fast. Strange how she pulls up to see whether it is safe to cross — but then to be swept away, injured and even worse off than she is now, is not a possibility she wants to bring into this very small orbit she is spinning around in. She leans out and looks closely at the depth.
Maurie wouldn’t have paused.
There had been times late at night when she’d told him it wasn’t safe, when she’d insisted he let her and the girls out.
He never did.
She follows his lead, foot steady on the accelerator, the rush of water spraying up against the side of the car and through the window, icy on her arms, smelling of dirt and leaves, both rotten and sweet.
On the other side, the road pulls steeply upwards beneath overarching branches, patches of washed blue sky like tattered holes in fabric.
She drives until she reaches the gate, the ‘For Sale’ sign hanging off the wire, one end loose, the lock rusty.
At the bottom of the dip she can see the house, the crazy angles of the roof and the golden, dappled sway of the new leaves on the poplars beyond the clearing. Her heart lifts, beating too fast, as she looks down.
This is the place she has loved more than any other, she realises. This is Maurie, and the girls, and the sweetest moments of life.
She is here.
In her bag is the white powder.
She runs her fingers over the plastic.
First, she will swim in the river.
Under the shade of the desert oaks, Hilary takes off all her clothes.
Strange, this body of hers. Old now. Knotted veins on her legs, a stomach that droops, small breasts, pale skin. She unties her hair, white-grey, like wool, and lets it loose. Her feet sink in the cold sand, and the touch of the water is like an ice grip, solid around her ankles.
She has had a good life, she thinks, and she lets herself sink down, her breath caught tight in her chest as the chill takes hold. A good life. Floating past her. The girls in the river, her and Maurie drifting on their backs under the light of the full moon, making love on one of the small islands, the grit of the sand against her legs, the sweat on his skin, and she scoops up a mouthful of the water, pure and sweet, and drinks it down, eyes closed to the darkening sky, skin alive to the cold.
Oh God, she whispers.
Perhaps she could just stay here forever, naked in this water, the cold slowly squeezing the life out of her. She looks up now, inhaling deeply as she does.
Her clothes are in a bundle, and she dresses slowly. She does not want to be found naked, and she smiles at her own vanity, her hands shaking as she tries to clasp her bra. Smoothing down her hair, she ties it back again, and then she begins the walk back up to the house, feet slipping in the mud, hands grasping for branches, using her arms to haul herself up to where the grass stretches, pale and long beneath the poplars, crumpled leaves of bronze and gold and silver scrunching underfoot.
Maurie once painted this grove, the metallic lines of the trunks slashed across the canvas. She has filmed it. She remembers the footage — the girls are skipping beneath one of the trees — but she doesn’t think she ever used it. Why not? She shakes her head. It doesn’t matter.
The verandah boards are rough beneath her feet, scattered with twigs and dirt, dry and swollen; they creak beneath her, and she sits for a moment, trying to breathe calmly.
All around her it is quiet and still. It is that hour, she thinks. Where day turns to night.
Her bag is on the ground where she left it. The white powder still inside.
She has written letters. She has told her daughters she loves them. She has urged them to make up. She has told the twins that they are beautiful and special and she adores them. She has asked them all not to be angry with Lawrence, but to remember that he is just respecting her wishes, and that she is grateful to him, more grateful than she was able to allow herself to express at the time. She wrote with her black Artline pen, her script round and clear; words, words, and more words.
Here, far from them all, it no longer matters. In another place, April is standing on Ester’s doorstep, knocking until she is let in; or perhaps she is already inside and they are talking, really talking; or maybe she is at home, her courage having failed her. Ester is smiling; it is her best self she is showing to someone, a man Hilary has never met and will never meet, it is all her hope and promise and goodness unfurling once more. And the girls, those girls; they will live and stumble and fall, and pick themselves up and shine.
The strangeness of imposing last words of advice and wishes now seems ludicrous. At most, her letters will give them some ease about her decision.
She has the spoon, the needle, a cigarette lighter, and the heroin.
Henry has shown her what to do.
As the daylight slides away, Hilary picks up her phone, the text written: I’ve gone, the message reaching Lawrence, who is driving to be with her, behind him a mauve light, deepening like a bruise, the cold breath of the wind a low moan in his ear as he heads out along the highway, on the road already because he knew she wouldn’t falter, and he, too, didn’t want to falter, but to be there, just as he’d promised he would be.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to all the team at Scribe, and particularly Marika Webb-Pullman. Your work on this book was so much appreciated. I’d also like to thank John Stirton for sharing his years of polling experience with me.
This book is dedicated to the four people whom I hold most dear in my heart: Rosie, Anne, Odessa, and Andrew. You have provided joy, counsel, and love, and I am blessed to have had you in my life.
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
NOW
THREE YEARS EARLIER
NOW
THREE YEARS EARLIER
NOW
THE DAY AFTER
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS