From the Inside

by Collette Heather

  Did Luke help me up the stairs, or was that a dream? Either way, that is the last thing I remember. The stairs had felt like they were spiralling around me like a giant marble and wrought-iron snake. I shudder at the memory – my very last memory. Because there is nothing between the stairs and opening my eyes a second ago.

  It feels as if no time at all has passed between these two events. Yet time has to have passed, for the morning light is very much here, stabbing at my eyeballs like shards of glass. I moan some more, then twist onto my side, away from the offending light.

  Only then do I realise that I am stark naked. This fact makes my eyes ping open and the familiar surroundings of our bedroom lurch and close in around me. I clutch the duvet to my body, trying to think what happened in that elusive, missing block of time, but everything resolutely remains a big fat blank.

  At first, I think that the opening bedroom door is just an unfortunate side-effect of the current state of my swimming vision, but then I see Luke enter the room. I lurch upright like Dracula rising from his coffin, clutching the duvet to my chest, forcing my vision to focus so that the two Lukes snap into one Luke. He is carrying a mug of steaming liquid, which he gently places on the bedside table next to me.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” he says with a rather smug smirk which I can’t say that I appreciate right now.

  My first thought is for Bella – because why isn’t he with her?

  “Bella.”

  Her name exits my lips like a gasp or a prayer, and to my dismay, he chuckles. In that moment – and only for a fleeting second – I think that I hate him.

  “Bella is fine,” he says soothingly. Or perhaps patronisingly. “She’s watching cbeebies in the living-room and having a whale of a time. She’s been fed and watered and is perfectly happy.”

  I know that. Of course I do. My gaze swivels to the baby monitor on the dressing-table. She is fine and she is safe, and I can hear that she is quite content, burbling nonsense to herself. My hangover is making me irrational and paranoid, for we quite often leave her in a room unattended for short bouts of time when she is awake – this is why we have baby monitors everywhere, after all.

  The aroma of freshly-brewed coffee coming from my bedside table suddenly hits me square in the face and my stomach clenches, but whether it is spasming in anticipation or apprehension, I’m not quite sure. It does smell good, however, but I’m not entirely convinced that my guts can take it. Thankfully, there is a pint glass of water also on the bedside table, and I snatch it up, neither caring nor knowing how long it has been standing there.

  I take a tentative sip. Stomach seems to agree with me that drinking it is a great idea and I drink some more. The water feels unbelievably good, slipping down my parched throat, quenching my poor, dehydrated organs, and I moan in pleasure.

  “I have never seen you as drunk as you were last night,” Luke laughs. “I couldn’t understand a word that you were saying.”

  I gingerly place the glass back on the table, thinking how extraordinarily – and sickeningly – sprightly he is. How very dressed he is, in a different pair of blue jeans to last night, and a black shirt which he wears untucked. Embarrassment slowly claims me, seeing how I can’t remember a damn thing. I don’t remember the last time that I got into such a sorry state. I haven’t since my twenties, anyway, possibly not since my days at University.

  “How long have you been up?” I ask.

  “Not long. An hour or so. I got up when Bella started fussing.”

  Groaning, I flop back down onto the bed, curling into the foetal position with my back to him, facing his side of the bed and the stupid, relentless sunshine that streams in through the window. Although, I am grateful to note, the shafts of sunlight no longer cause me pain.

  “Poor baby, does your head hurt?” he asks from behind me. “I’m going to go and make you some scrambled eggs and freshly-squeezed orange juice.”

  My stomach clenches in protest at the mere suggestion and I groan into the pillow.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t.”

  “I think you should try.”

  A gentle hand cups my bare shoulder and I involuntarily flinch, moaning some more.

  “You’ll feel much better with something inside you, your stomach needs something to work on.”

  I mutter more protests, then concentrate on Bella’s babbling coming from the baby monitor, accompanied by the background noise of the TV. Just listening to her calms me and goes some way to making me feel better.

  “Will you bring her up with the eggs?”

  Luke laughs. “If that’s what you want. I’ll just bring up the baby to the lush of a mother who is too hungover to get out of the bed.”

  His words are intended as light-hearted, I know they are, but they still sting. Mostly, despite the misery of a hangover, what I’m feeling is still that unwavering guilt and embarrassment. How could I allow myself to get into such a state when my daughter is entirely dependent on me? I am a terrible mother, a sorry excuse for a human being.

  It’s okay, I tell myself. Listen to Bella; she’s happy. Nothing bad happened and Luke was here, anyway.

  Yet thinking that doesn’t make me feel any better about myself. Luke pats my shoulder, then his hand lifts entirely.

  “Try to drink some coffee, it’ll make you feel better.”

  The bed creaks as he stands up, but still I do not turn around to face him. I stare wide-eyed at his side of the bed, the strangest feeling curling around me. His pillow is plump and pristine, his side of the duvet and under-sheet crease-free. It suddenly occurs to me that there is no smell coming from his side of the bed. Not that Luke smells bad, but he has a distinctive aroma in the morning – a faint, sleepy, musky warm scent that clings to his skin and the bed linen. What’s more, even if he has vacated the bed for a while, that scent still lingers.

  But the opposite side of the bed is cold and lifeless. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve said that his side of the bed hasn’t been slept in at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The weekend succeeding my blackout was largely uneventful, but pleasant. Luke was more attentive than normal, taking time to play with Bella. The three of us even went out to lunch on Sunday to an upmarket restaurant within walking distance from home.

  The difference in Luke’s behaviour was – is – subtle, but it’s a good subtle, and, despite my lingering shame at getting blind drunk on Friday night, I feel more connected to my husband than I have in a long time. Usually, at weekends, he does a lot of work on the computer, but not this time. He was here with me, with us. I mean, really here. I feel more optimistic – albeit tentatively – for our future than I have for a long time.

  And now, on this sunny, June, Tuesday morning as I talk to our new cleaner, Anne Golby, that feeling of quiet optimism I have harboured since the weekend still clings to me.

  Bella is in the living-room, playing with a pile of padded books and teddy bears, with cbeebies on in the background. It is still early, and I am thinking about taking her for a stroll in the park. If I do, it will be the first time since I got mugged. It would appear that I am feeling better about that little mishap as well.

  I can hear my darling girl gurgling away on the baby monitor on the sideboard as I busy myself making coffee for me and Anne. Normally, I would bring her into the kitchen with me, but Anne is over by the patio doors, where Bella’s special activity corner is. She has pushed Bella’s snakes and ladders rug to one side, along with her little, plastic, red table and chairs.

  “You’re doing a super job,” I call over to her from the other side of the kitchen where I make the coffee.

  “It’s hardly rocket science,” she calls back over her shoulder, laughing.

  Her smile is dazzling. She’s a pretty girl, I think absently, struck as I am by her strong and striking bone structure, not unlike my new friend, Beth’s.

  I frown slightly when I think of Beth. I’ve texted her repeatedly over the weekend, but she has been ignoring
me. I wonder what I possibly could’ve done to offend her. I feel sat at that. It’s no secret that I’ve taken such a shine to her – I honestly thought that I had made a new friend.

  Guess I really did overshare too much, and scared her away, I think glumly.

  I push all thoughts of Beth from my mind. The sun is shining and Luke and I seem to be on the up. I pour the boiled water into the coffee pot, watching the cleaner vigorously attacking the inside of the patio doors with the yellow dust-cloth and the can of Mr Sheen. I don’t know if the Mr Sheen is mine or hers. I encourage her – as I did with the other cleaners – to use my cleaning products, rather than have her bring her own stuff. I know that a lot of cleaners use their own products, but I don’t see the point. There are cupboards in the kitchen and bathrooms that are positively groaning with stuff; stuff that isn’t going to get used, otherwise. Besides, she doesn’t have a car, and I don’t see why she should have to lug a heavy bag around with on the tube.

  I carry the steaming coffee over to Anne.

  “I hope that’s my Mr Sheen, and not yours,” I say with a smile.

  She accepts the coffee with a murmured thanks and a bright smile. “It is. Not many employers are as generous as you, you know. Lots prefer it if we use our own stuff.”

  At the mention of previous employers, I am reminded that I have yet to chase up her references. She has given me a couple of written character references, but she has yet to produce phone numbers and email addresses for the people she has cleaned for in the past. It’s my fault – this is shift number three, and I keep forgetting to ask.

  I don’t suppose that it matters, for I can’t say that I have any intention of contacting anyone, anyway, because I like the girl. But I still want these details, just because. I am about to gently remind her to bring it in next time, when the doorbell chimes, making us both jump.

  Who the hell can that be? I wonder. It’s not like I get many visitors, and door to door salesmen are banned in this wealthy area.

  “Best get that,” I say, striding towards the door.

  She says something in reply, but I don’t hear because I’m already over by the kitchen door.

  *

  There is man that I don’t recognise standing on my doorstep. He is tall and thin, in his late forties or early fifties at a guess, with black hair greying at the temples. But it is less greying and looks more like he has dipped the sides of his head in snow, especially with the way the grey bits look so puffy. If I weren’t suddenly so inexplicably frightened, I might have laughed at this snow analogy. But there is something terribly austere about his appearance. His suit doesn’t necessarily look expensive in the way that my husband’s suit does, but he looks important. Rumpled, but important. He looks like he means business.

  “Mrs Tanya Crawford?” he asks me.

  “Yes,” I say, feeling extremely guilty all of a sudden.

  He reaches inside an inside pocket of his dark grey jacket, and pulls out a small plastic card.

  His ID, I realise. He holds it out in front of me, but I am too dazed to focus on it. I can feel the blank look in my eyes, the way my jaw has suddenly gone so slack.

  “I am Detective Inspector Andrew Breed. Would you mind if I step inside for a few minutes and asked you a few questions?”

  Would I mind? I’m not sure what he means. I’m still staring at him like an imbecile. I can’t seem to stop.

  “This concerns Beth Jameson.”

  Beth.

  I hear the name, I know who he means, but I can’t stop staring at him like I’ve had a stroke, or something.

  “Beth? What do you mean?”

  “Please may I come in, Mrs Crawford? It’s probably best that we discuss this inside.”

  It is inherent good manners that ultimately makes me step to one side and beckon him inside.

  “Would you like a coffee?” I stupidly ask him as we stand in the porch area, surrounded by coats and shoes.

  “No, I’m fine thanks, Mrs Crawford. Perhaps we could go inside and sit somewhere more comfortable?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I say, still feeling dazed. “Let’s go into the living-room. My daughter is in the living-room. We’re in there quite a lot.”

  Dimly, I am aware of how stupid I sound.

  “That sounds like a good idea, Mrs Crawford,” Detective Inspector Breed agrees.

  *

  Once in the living-room, I gesture for DI Breed to take a seat on the long leather sofa. I go straight over to Bella, who is sitting in the middle of the rug, watching the TV. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her over to the opposite, matching armchair near one of the sash windows.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you a coffee?” I ask once more, as my backside connects with the cushion, Bella sprawling ungainly across my knees.

  “Quite sure, thank you. I am afraid that I am here to inform you that Beth and Paul Jameson were murdered on Friday night.”

  I look at him blankly, the words making no sense to me. “Murdered? I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I follow.”

  “They were murdered in their home last Friday, the 28th. It looks like they were the victims of a robbery.”

  I hear the words, but they make little sense to me.

  “Murdered,” I repeat, absently bobbing Bella up and down on my knee. Then the obvious occurs to me. “Why are you here? Am I a suspect?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. But it is my job to follow up every lead. We seized all phones and electronic devices, and you were someone that she was texting during the last week of her life.”

  The last week of her life. Surely I am dreaming, because I can’t get my head around this at all.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Crawford, I know that this is a lot to take in. I would just like to ask you about your relationship with Beth Jameson. How did you know her, and when was the last time that you saw her?”

  I look at him properly for the first time – the way that he is staring so earnestly at me from the sofa. I think how he has a really big nose, and then, randomly, I wonder if he is married, if he has children, and if his wife calls him Andy.

  “My relationship with Beth? I only met her the Friday before last.” I let out a shaky little laugh. “It’s a funny story, really. I was out Friday morning with Bella, in Hyde Park. I got mugged, and Beth happened to be out jogging. She saved me. She even tried to chase the muggers. Then she sorted me out. You know, she picked me up and dusted me off. She took me to the police station, and she was so kind. She helped me report the mugging. It’s all on record,” I add, in case he thinks I’m lying. I don’t know why I should feel guilty, but feel guilty I do. I suppose it is the natural response to being in the presence of an officer of the law.

  “And this was the Friday before last, you say?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And did you see her after that?”

  “Yes, I did. I saw her five days later, on Wednesday.”

  Two days before she was murdered, I realise with a horrible sense of mounting dread.

  “What were the circumstances in which you saw her on Wednesday?”

  “I invited her round to lunch, you know, as a thank you for helping me when I was mugged. She was just so good to me that Friday, I wanted to repay her,” I say, catching myself. I’m babbling. Justifying myself in a really weird way, like I am the one who killed her, or something.

  “And your husband?” Detective Inspector Breed asks me. “Did he meet Beth?”

  Instantly, I am on edge, although there is no reason on God’s earth why I should be. “Yes. Briefly. Our lunch kind of dragged on, you know how it is. One bottle of wine turned into two, and we were just getting on like a house on fire…”

  I stop talking, remembering how lovely Beth was, how well we had got on. Surely she couldn’t be dead, this had to be a mistake.

  “And your husband met her?” he gently prompts me.

  “Yes,” I say, looking him square in the face. “We were having such a nice time, and we l
ost track of time. My husband – he’s a city trader, a hedge fund manager – he came home from work slightly earlier than usual, and we were giggling in the living-room. I introduced them, and she left soon after.”

  “Did the three of you exchange cross words?”

  “What? No, nothing like that. My husband was happy to meet her, she had saved me from the muggers that day, after all.”

  Was that even true? I wonder. He hadn’t been happy to meet her. He had hated her on-sight, in fact. He had been cross that she was in our home.

  DI Breed’s gaunt face with the big nose and the white hair at the temples remains impassive.

  “And you never met Beth’s husband, Mr Paul Jameson?”

  “No.”

  Great sadness suddenly overwhelms me. How could this have happened? Who would do such a thing? I just can’t make sense of it, it’s just too awful.

  “Can you tell me your whereabouts on Friday night?” DI Breed asks me.

  “Yes, of course. We stayed in. Luke ordered a takeaway from the new restaurant that’s opened in Kensington. We had a romantic night, just the two of us. Well, apart from Bella here, of course, but she was asleep…”

  I’m babbling again, and I stop.

  The truth is, I can’t shake my uneasiness. I don’t tell him how I had passed out blind drunk on Friday night, and, technically, Luke could have been anywhere, and I would’ve been none the wiser.

  I catch myself. What, exactly, am I thinking here? A chill seeps through me, and I wrap my arms around Bella, hugging her tightly against me.

  “What happened to Beth and Paul?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case.” His tone softens somewhat. “I’m sorry to spring this news on you, Mrs Crawford, it must come as a terrible shock. When you and Beth were talking over your girly lunch, did you speak of any personal matters?”

  I look at him blankly. “Personal? How do you mean?”

  “I mean, did Beth speak of any personal issues that she may have been experiencing? Say, anything romantically, or money-wise, perhaps?”