The Babysitter

by Sheryl Browne

  Mark sat at the kitchen island, his head in his hands, wondering whether it was him who was going out of his mind. She believed it. She really did believe he was having affairs. Worse, she believed him capable of such horrendous manipulation. And to what end? To move someone else in in her place? Jesus.

  Swallowing hard, he pulled himself to his feet. Going to the kitchen cupboard, he extracted the prescription drugs, pulled out the leaflet and studied it, yet again, desperately trying to find some explanation as to what was happening.

  His wife was delusional, paranoid to the point of insanity. Hallucinating. Having screaming nightmares most nights, for most of the night, and then suffering insomnia when she wasn’t. The drowsiness, dizziness, obvious depression and irritability, those symptoms could be put down to the medication, but not this. This was extreme. He needed to speak to her GP; he hoped data protection wouldn’t prevent Meadows from speaking to him. Somehow, though, Mark doubted changing the medication would make any difference. She needed help, more help than he or her GP could offer. She needed professional help. God help him, she might even need sectioning. Mark could hardly stand the thought, but if he had to, for the sake of their children… How much was this damaging them?

  Thanks to Jade, Poppy seemed almost oblivious, although she had asked him why Mummy was strange when he’d read her a bedtime story the other night. Last night, she’d prayed to God to ‘make Mummy smile again’. Mark swiped angrily at an errant tear on his cheek. Evie was fine, sleeping better than she had been. She’d sat in her bouncer for a good hour after her eleven o’clock feed, smiling and gurgling and reaching a hand towards her mobiles. Her hand–eye coordination was good. She was content. She was unaffected. For now.

  Deliberating whether to take Mel a drink up, he decided against it. She’d been out of it, dead to the world, when he’d retrieved the lunch she hadn’t eaten. He’d taken the opportunity to check the bathroom cabinets. He’d never imagined, even when she’d been at her lowest ebb, after Jacob, that she would ever contemplate taking an overdose, but he was imagining it now.

  Time to bite the bullet, he supposed. Searching the house for hidden bottles – Mark had never imagined himself doing that either. He didn’t want to prove anything, confront her again – he just needed to know.

  * * *

  Three bottles, all partially drunk. Feeling sick to his soul, Mark lined them up in the kitchen. One stuffed down an armchair – Mel’s chair. One in the airing cupboard, nestled between the sheets. Another secreted in a Perspex storage box in a rarely used cupboard. Mark might have missed it, if he hadn’t been looking. How many more were there? One under the mattress maybe? A couple in the workshop? No doubt she would have booze hidden away there. Fuck!

  Grabbing the first bottle, Mark squeezed his hand hard around it, sorely tempted to smash it against the nearest wall. Only Evie’s presence in the house stopped him. Breathing hard, he unscrewed the top. Mel wouldn’t hurt her. He recalled her saying it. But why had she said it? Because the thought had occurred to her? Because the urge had possessed her? Not bloody surprising, putting this lot away on top of the pills. Mark furiously ditched the second bottle, and then the third, down the sink that had been blocked.

  Blocked with clay. Mark stopped, the final bottle still poised. How had it been blocked with clay? From Mel washing her hands there, he’d thought. Hadn’t she said the sink in the workshop had been blocked too? From washing her tools there, he’d thought. He’d assumed the clay had accumulated in the U-bend. Except it hadn’t been particles of clay, collecting at the bottom of the bend like sand. It had been a solid lump.

  Mark thought about it as he headed for the back door to dump the bottles and search the workshop. He was halfway out when he paused, thinking of Evie. She wouldn’t hurt her, he assured himself, carrying on out.

  Still, though, Mark searched with haste. He checked the kiln, the shelves and cupboards, workbenches and the spaces beneath them. He was heading back to the door when he remembered the clay bin. She wouldn’t, would she? But then, it was precisely what addicts did. Mark had been a copper long enough to know that. Crouching, he made sure his sleeve was out of the way and delved down into the slip-sodden clay. Bingo, he thought bitterly, as his hand made contact with what felt like a polythene-wrapped package.

  Tightening his grip, Mark attempted to pull it out, but the clay seemed reluctant to part with it. Bloody hell, what was it? A two-litre bottle? He pulled harder. The package finally unsuckered itself with a squelch, causing Mark to fall back on his haunches. Retrieving the parcel from where it had landed on the floor, he eyed it curiously, wiped some of the muck from it, and then dropped it, scrambling backwards.

  Jesus Christ. Mark’s heart slammed into his ribcage, his stomach turning over as his mind registered what his eyes refused to believe. The cat’s eyes were wild, wide and terrified, its fanged mouth wide open, the polythene clinging to its face.

  * * *

  Mark’s hand shook as he poured a whisky. Knocking it straight back, he poured another and was about to swallow that when he remembered what time it was. Shit! Poppy. Mark pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, breathing in hard and trying for some kind of composure, some equilibrium in a life that was fast careering out of control.

  Attempting to pull himself together, he dumped the glass back on the table and headed for the kitchen, where he heaped coffee granules into a mug. He made it strong and black, topping it up with cold water so he could swill it down as fast as he had the whisky. How much had he had? Two fingers? Three? Mark couldn’t recall. His hands were still shaking. Badly.

  He raced for the stairs, cursing the creaking floorboards on the landing as he approached the main bedroom door. He wanted to check Mel was all right, but he desperately didn’t want to wake her. He couldn’t have a conversation of any kind with her until he’d got his head around what was going on. As if he could. As if anyone other than a trained psychiatrist could make sense of any of this.

  His breath hitched in his chest as he went quietly into the bedroom. Mel was on her stomach, her normal sleeping position, and not one that would normally worry him, except he couldn’t tell whether she was breathing. Going closer, Mark hesitated, and then crouched down and studied her face. Seeing the rapid eye movement behind her eyelids, he dropped his head to his hands, relief sweeping through him. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. To berate the god he wasn’t sure he believed in. A god who could do this! Why?

  He needed to be at the school. He needed to take Evie with him. There was no way he could leave her here, not now. Quickly rechecking the bathroom, praying he hadn’t missed anything, Mark went into the baby’s room, talking softly to her as he gathered her warm, fragile body from the cot. Evie whimpered sleepily, but she didn’t cry. Mark was grateful for this smallest of mercies.

  The tablets. He couldn’t risk leaving them. But he couldn’t empty the whole house of possible suicide tools either. What the hell was he going to do? Thinking of the long row of carving knives in the kitchen, Mark knew he couldn’t do it. Not on his own. Glancing down at Hercules, who was nervously wagging her tail, Mark closed his eyes against the stark image of the startled, petrified cat. Was it even safe to leave the dog?

  Forty-Five

  JADE

  Jade very nearly had a heart attack as she saw Mark pulling out of his drive. Parked in the lane, her skin prickling with apprehension, she held her breath and waited. Then she closed her eyes with relief as Mark turned in the other direction. He must be running late to pick Poppy up from school, Melissa no doubt demanding his attention. As if the poor man hadn’t got enough on his plate without having to deal with his drug-addled wife’s drink problem. Jade understood why he felt he should stay – of course she did, she knew him – but surely he must realise by now that exposing his children to that kind of environment might be worse than the damage a broken home could wreak? But Mark would carry some guilt if he simply walked away from the needy cow. He couldn’t he
lp his caring nature, which was obviously why he hadn’t sought further professional help yet. She would talk to him about it, subtly, when the time was right. Meanwhile, she had to up her game. If Mark was reluctant to do what it was blatantly obvious he should do and get her sectioned, then Jade had to make damn sure Melissa had every reason to leave him.

  ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t have been better to just take her in? You know, just tell him,’ Dylan asked, irritating Jade immensely. Hadn’t she already explained in great detail that Mark didn’t want the child?

  Curtailing her impatience, Jade turned to him. ‘It would be too risky, Dylan,’ she said, arranging her face into a suitably sad smile. ‘He’s… unpredictable. And don’t forget, he’ll have his colleagues behind him whatever I say. Trust me, it’s better this way. She’ll be safer at my house, for now.’

  ‘But… Isn’t your house burned out?’ He was looking in the direction of her cottage, which was little more than a blackened shell. God, he really had been the last in the queue when they handed out brains.

  ‘I’ve made a nice space in the basement,’ Jade assured him. ‘I’ve got her favourite duvet and all her favourite toys. She’ll be fine.’

  ‘She looks a bit pale,’ Dylan said, glancing worriedly back to the girl.

  Jade had to concede she definitely looked peaky, her complexion the shade of a delicate white lily. But the Calpol would help. And she’d probably feel better after a nice sleep. At least she wasn’t suffering at the hands of the bitch mother and paedophile father who’d made her short life such a misery. With any luck, she might slip off quietly, which had to be better than being stuffed in a kiln while still alive.

  ‘She needs some sun on her face, that’s all. And she’ll soon have it. As long as you do your bit tonight. I can count on you, can’t I, Dylan?’ Sighing soulfully, Jade made sure to look uncertain and vulnerable.

  Dylan melted. ‘You can rely on me, Jade,’ he said manfully, reaching out a big paw for her hand. ‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’

  ‘Nor I you.’ Jade smiled tremulously. ‘I just can’t wait for all this to be over. For us to be together, as we should be.’ Aware he might need a little reminder of what their being together meant, she moved closer, one hand pressed to his cheek, her other seeking his groin, which had Dylan squeezing his eyes closed and emitting a low throaty groan in an instant.

  Shit! Jade’s eyes sprang open as Dylan pressed his lips hard against hers and, clearly excited, proceeded to stuff his tongue deep into her mouth. Shuddering inwardly as he probed deeper, his tongue sliding around like a repellent slug, Jade moved her hand lower, applying just enough pressure to his balls to leave him wanting more, rather than with irreparable damage. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said breathily, easing away before he got it into his head that she was going to go the whole hog and give him a blow job.

  Dylan emitted something between a wince and a moan. ‘Promise?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘Most definitely,’ Jade said, lowering her eyelashes and leaning in to press a placatory kiss to his overripe cheek. ‘Now, you know where you’re going, yes?’ she asked him, unclipping her seatbelt and climbing out.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Dylan nodded, climbing across to the driver’s side of Melissa’s car, grimacing a bit as he went. ‘I’m following the satnav, and then when I reach my destination, I’m going to drive around a bit.’

  ‘And?’ Jade prompted him.

  Dylan knitted his brow. ‘I’m going to drive slowly,’ he managed, with a decisive nod.

  ‘That’s right. And what else?’ Smiling, Jade encouraged him on.

  ‘I’m going to stay close to the kerb,’ Dylan said, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Perfect.’ Jade beamed him another smile. ‘And remember, you’re doing this for your poor mother too, Dylan. We owe it to her to make sure that DI Cain gets hurt where it hurts most. We need to make sure his reputation is under suspicion. That he’s labelled unfit to be a policeman and a father. They’ll take him in for questioning. And as soon as they do that, I’ll be free. I can take my children and leave. No one will believe his word against mine once they realise what kind of person he is. Especially when I have a stable home with you if social services come snooping, which they’re bound to.’

  She hoped the halfwit didn’t mess this up. Evidence Mark had been touring red-light districts was all Jade needed. She knew Melissa couldn’t possibly tolerate it.

  ‘Don’t forget to drive past the speed cameras fast,’ she reminded Dylan. ‘But not too fast.’ She wanted him to clock up a speeding ticket or two in the suspect part of the city, not get stopped. If that happened, Jade would have to claim he stole the vehicle, or kill him.

  ‘I won’t.’ Dylan fastened his seatbelt and clutched the steering wheel, his expression now one of steely determination.

  Man on a mission, Jade thought wearily, rolling her eyes as she walked around to the tailgate to collect the bag Mark would have assumed was for her London trip, but which, in fact, had contained her necessary change of clothes for her meeting tonight. The question was, what to do with him when he’d accomplished his mission and she had no further need of him? A fall from the barn roof, possibly? No. She’d have to climb up there with him, or drug him and haul him up, which would be nigh on impossible without winching equipment. Hauling him over a beam in the barn, however? Yes, that might be an option. He’d murdered his mother, after all. That he’d chosen to hang himself rather than live with his conscience would be the natural tragic conclusion.

  Forty-Six

  MARK

  Dr Meadows wasn’t being majorly helpful. And with Evie in his arms, Mark was attracting attention he could do without. He moved away from a group of mothers, all of whom were smiling indulgently in his direction, no doubt thinking he looked lost, like a fish out of water. If only they knew how lost he was.

  ‘I’m not asking you to break patient confidentiality, Dr Meadows,’ he said into his hands-free as he walked. ‘I’m asking you to listen. She needs psychiatric evaluation. She needs it now. I’m concerned. Very.’

  ‘Is she a danger to herself, Mr Cain?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ Mark sighed heavily. ‘I… don’t know.’

  ‘Has she tried anything?’

  ‘No, but I think she might,’ Mark answered honestly.

  ‘Has she had any psychotic episodes?’

  What the fuck defined psychotic episodes? With one eye on the school gates whilst trying to placate Evie, who was growing fractious, Mark tried to think. How to explain. Where to start. How the hell to get some urgency injected into this.

  ‘Hallucinations?’ Dr Meadows went on. ‘Delusions?’

  ‘Both of the above,’ Mark confirmed.

  ‘Do you think she might be a danger to her children, Mr Cain?’ Meadows asked pertinently, causing Mark to draw in a sharp breath. ‘I’m sorry to ask these questions,’ he went on when Mark hesitated, ‘it’s just that in order to make a proper evaluation…’

  Mark glanced down at Evie, catching hold of one of her tiny hands as she flailed it, pressing a soft kiss to her hair. Mel’s hair. She was going to be just like Mel. Beautiful.

  ‘There was a cat,’ he said throatily, after a second. The words, the thought of what he was doing, almost choked him, but Mark knew he had to. He might be wrong, hoped to God he was, but the risk was one he just couldn’t afford to take. ‘In her workshop. Wrapped in polythene. Suffocated, I think.’ Mark didn’t dare imagine when she’d done it, or where she’d stored it, the episode with the freezer still stark in his mind. I was searching for hidden bottles. She’s… drinking – a lot – and I…’

  Mark stopped. This sounded insane. It was insane.

  Dammit. Seeing kids spilling out into the playground, Mark headed quickly back the way he’d come. ‘I have to go. I’m picking my daughter up from school,’ he said, determined not to leave Poppy waiting, or for her to overhear. She didn’t need to know any more than she already did, not yet.

  ‘Get your
wife to make an urgent appointment, Mark,’ Dr Meadows said, sounding more understanding. ‘Or better still, make one for her and try to make sure she keeps it. I’ll text you some numbers. Psychiatric crisis intervention team, helplines, etc.’

  Mark’s heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach. What choices did he have, though? None, it seemed. If only Mel would talk to him. Let him in. If only she would be honest with him.

  Forty-Seven

  MELISSA

  Realising the shrill cry piercing the silence wasn’t part of her nightmare, Mel snapped her eyes open. Her phone was on the bedside table, its persistent ring dragging her from sleep, sleep that was no escape from the insanity her life was becoming.

  It stopped as she reached for it. Lethargic, her limbs too heavy, she couldn’t even manage to take a phone call. Close to tears, Mel summoned up what little energy she could and disentangled herself from the duvet, woozily sitting up and reaching for the phone as it started ringing again. She’d almost hit answer when she realised who was calling. Lisa.

  Anger and humiliation welling up inside her, Mel let it ring. Staring at the phone as it went again to voicemail, she wiped a salty tear from the screen, swiped another determinedly from her face, and then steeled herself to listen. Both voicemails were from Lisa, along with several texts. The gist of it all was that whatever Mel was thinking, she was wrong. Mel swallowed back her heart, which seemed to be wedged painfully in her windpipe, seeing again the fury in Mark’s eyes, the coldness, the accusation. She hadn’t got that wrong. She hadn’t imagined the vodka bottle he’d tossed at her, the disgust on his face. She hadn’t imagined that, any more than she’d imagined she wasn’t drinking.

  Sinks blocking up, kilns breaking down, the freezer… A hand going involuntarily to her breast, Mel drew in a long breath. The key. Poor Hercules.