Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  We lock eyes and there, in that moment, I know.

  Not only that, she knows that I know.

  ‘Norah,’ I say, quietly.

  Jane’s eyes narrow: ‘What about her?’

  ‘When I woke you up, she would have been your first concern. Not my hair, not whether David was around – but Norah.’

  Jane is silent for a moment. After everything, it’s her own daughter who has caught her out.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘All of this was you. David. Everything.’

  Jane bows her head slightly and bites her lip, before pushing up until she’s standing with her arms folded. Her features are fixed and unblinking.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘It took you long enough…’

  Forty-Five

  Jane is between me and the door, but I’m not sure if she feels like a threat anyway. Then my neck starts to singe with pain and I remember that I’ve already been knocked out once.

  ‘What was the point?’ I say. ‘To cut my hair…?’

  ‘It wasn’t a bad start,’ Jane replies. Her posture has changed from slumped and downtrodden to being rigid and primed. She reaches into the drawer that’s closest to her, fumbling underneath some tea towels until she finds what she’s looking for and places it on the table at her side. It looks like some sort of plastic gun, like a heavier water pistol.

  ‘Is that a stun gun?’ I ask.

  ‘What gave it away?’

  I rub my skin once more and look up to see Jane smiling.

  ‘I thought I’d be able to keep this going for months,’ she says. ‘I was going to see how much I could get away with and slowly drive you mad.’

  I look from the Jane to the gun and back again. It’s much closer to her, although I have no idea whether these sorts of weapons need to be primed or loaded. Whether they simply work with a point and a click.

  ‘What did you want to achieve?’ I ask.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Did you want to… kill me?’

  Her lips are tight but, from nowhere, Jane snorts with derision. ‘Kill you? I don’t think I’d have it in me. I suppose I thought about it some nights – but never seriously. I thought I could mess with you and then watch as you blamed everything on your missing husband. You’ve got to admit, it’s a good alibi?’

  It takes everything I have not to laugh. It would be a good alibi if it wasn’t for the fact that David is dead. I knew that. I know that, even though I had a momentary wobble.

  Jane thought she could mess with my mind by making me believe David was back – but that’s only because she doesn’t know the truth.

  I killed him.

  Her plan would have been perfect if David really had disappeared.

  She’s so assured that I know I have to ask the question to which I don’t particularly want the answer. The question to which I probably already know the answer.

  ‘Why?’ I say.

  It’s Jane’s turn to look away. She glances upwards towards Norah’s room and then focuses back on me. ‘All I want is the truth,’ she says. ‘I think you owe me that.’

  Forty-Six

  THE WHY

  Two years, two months ago

  ‘I’d kill for you,’ David says. ‘Do you know that?’

  It’s a strange, mixed-up, almost clichéd thing to say. It’s supposed to convey a degree of romanticism, as if anyone would want that. But who would? It’s an incomprehensibly manic idea to love a person so much that killing someone else is somehow acceptable.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ I ask.

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  For perhaps the first time in our relationship, I genuinely believe him. The doorbell sounds three times in rapid succession and I jump to my feet, spurred on by the urgency.

  ‘Don’t go,’ David says.

  He trails me all the way to the door and, when I open it, Ben is standing there.

  ‘How’s it going, Morgs?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s been worse.’

  He glances past me towards David and then pushes the door wider. ‘Shall we go?’

  I take a breath and then step outside, where the rain continues to lash: ‘Yes.’

  I quick-step across the pavement to his car and clamber into the passenger side, before clipping my seat belt into place. Ben slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. I slouch slightly, watching David in the doorway of my flat as we pull away. He stands unmovingly, leaning with one hand above his head, resting on the frame. It’s only a few seconds until we are around the corner and out of sight.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ben asks.

  ‘I am now. Thanks for coming.’

  We drive in silence for a while, following the road out of Gradingham until we reach the welcome sign. After that, the street lights are behind us and darkness looms.

  ‘Jane’s worried,’ Ben says.

  I turn sideways to take him in, though his eyes are focused on the road.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About you and David. She thinks he’s taking advantage. That he’s living with you rent-free and that you pay for everything.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I say.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘He works hard.’

  ‘Are you telling me, or yourself?’

  I open my mouth to reply and then realise that I don’t know what to say. We both know that Ben’s right.

  ‘He was never one of my friends at university,’ Ben says.

  ‘Jane told me.’

  ‘I’d wanted to say something for ages. Jane and I talked about it, but the time never felt right. We figured you’d break up sooner or later. After a while, it was too late.’

  ‘Does it matter whether you were friends?’

  Ben continues driving, missing a beat, and then says: ‘Maybe not. But if he lied about something your friends could easily disprove, then what else would he lie about?’

  He leaves it there, though I’m not ready to cave on the point quite yet.

  ‘David’s just… misunderstood,’ I say. ‘He’s unorthodox.’

  Ben takes a hand off the steering wheel and touches my arm. It only lasts a moment but, in that second, I know we both feel something. Almost as soon as he put his hand there, he removes it again.

  ‘Why did you marry him?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Why haven’t you married Jane?’

  He laughs a little, but it feels more like deflection than anything humorous. ‘I’m sure we will,’ he says.

  ‘You’ve been together a long time.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not the marrying type…?’

  ‘You’re not answering the question.’

  ‘Neither are you.’

  Ben reaches forward and adjusts the air conditioning. For a few moments, we sit and listen to the warm air firing through the vents and then I can’t take it any longer.

  ‘I didn’t want to be alone,’ I say. He doesn’t reply, so I continue: ‘Do you remember when I broke up with Gary? It was at Jane’s birthday party at your house. I’d lost my job, too and you told me that everything would come together.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘I thought everything was going to fall apart, but then I met David on your stairs and… it didn’t. Things got better.’

  ‘But was that because of him – or because of you?’

  There’s quiet again as I wonder if he has a point.

  ‘Did you know him at all at university?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was a weirdo. It didn’t help that he was older than everyone, but that wasn’t a problem in itself. It was more how he was. He’d have all these stories about how he was a great footballer as a teenager – but he was terrible. He tried out for almost every club. He was a great climber – except he couldn’t even get a quarter of the way up a wall. He’d been in a choir all his life – but couldn’t sing a note. He’d acted in numerous plays but fell out with everyo
ne in the drama club. Most societies had stories about him. I thought he was probably lonely – but nobody’s going to make friends by trying to join clubs and acting like they’re an expert when they’re obviously not.’

  I don’t reply. It’s hard to know whether it matters. Whether it would have made a difference if I’d known this when David and I first met. It probably wouldn’t, although, with all I know now, I suppose it’s hard to reach any conclusion other than that my husband is a habitual and compulsive liar.

  ‘He told me he was off to Newcastle one time,’ I say. ‘But then I found him at the service station outside Kingbridge. He was hiding because he was basically unemployed. I don’t know if he has a job at all. I’m never sure when he’s telling the truth.’

  Ben sighs. He takes his hand from the wheel and, for a moment, I think he’s going to take my hand. I anticipate it, I want it – but then he grips the gearstick and changes down, before returning his hand to the wheel.

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ he says.

  We say little for the rest of the journey. The dark lanes soon become well-lit suburbs and then we’re into Kingbridge and the estate on which Ben and Jane live. Ben pulls onto the driveway, takes my night bag from the boot, and then unlocks the house to let me in. I wait in the hall as he locks the door behind us.

  ‘The spare bed is already made up,’ he says. ‘There’s a bit of a new paint smell in there – but it’s from weeks ago and shouldn’t be too bad. We’ve been leaving windows open, but it’s still taking ages.’

  He puts my bag on the bottom step and then turns to the living room.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asks. ‘There’s wine in the fridge, or whatever you want…?’

  ‘Wine sounds good.’

  He ushers me into the living room and I wait on the sofa. Moments later, he comes in from the kitchen with a pair of glasses and a bottle. He sits next to me, before emptying a good third of the bottle into my glass. He fills his with the same amount.

  ‘Shall we drink to something?’ he asks.

  ‘Old friends…?’

  He clinks my glass with his. ‘To friends. Old and new.’

  We drink and then he presses back onto the sofa. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asks.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Is there something you want to watch on TV? We’ve got Netflix, plus there’s iPlayer and so on.’

  I pause for a second. David controls the television in the apartment and it is perhaps only now that I realise how uncomplicated life is for Jane and Ben. No games. No tall stories. A normal life with normal people.

  ‘I’m not in the mood,’ I say.

  We sit for a short while, each sipping at our wine; each too afraid to say any more. It’s Ben who finally crosses the divide. He puts his glass on the table and twists to face me.

  ‘Jane’s away until morning,’ he says.

  That’s it. All he’s doing is stating a fact of which we are both aware – but we each know that’s not what he’s saying at all.

  I put my glass on the table and turn to face Ben and we both know what happens next.

  Forty-Seven

  THE NOW

  Three weeks after the night that Ben rescued me from my flat, I missed my period. The thing is, even after I’ve told Jane, she nods only with acceptance.

  ‘How long have you known?’ I ask.

  She sighs again and has another brief glance upwards towards Norah’s room. ‘A while,’ she says. ‘Ben was acting so strangely after the night he picked you up. After the night where you called me and asked for help.’

  Jane spits the words and I don’t blame her. How can I? I never said I was a nice person, because I know I’m not. I did this to my best friend and then I killed my husband.

  ‘I thought I was being kind,’ Jane says. ‘I thought I was helping you – and look what you did.’

  I don’t know what to say. Sorry isn’t enough – and nor will it ever be.

  ‘It’s not as if you hid it well,’ she adds. ‘You and Ben used to be decent friends and then, from nowhere, you could barely look at one another. You stopped coming over and, if ever I suggested doing something with Ben, you’d always find a reason not to. After that, you told me about your miscarriage and something clicked. I thought you were lying at first, but then I realised what the dates meant – and it wasn’t hard to see why David left.’ She stops, probably waiting for confirmation, before adding: ‘I’m right, aren’t I? This is why David left. He found out about you and my husband – and then he walked out?’

  I don’t answer. She’s right and yet she’s so, so wrong.

  ‘How did you make him appear in the photo?’ I ask.

  A smirk slips onto Jane’s face: ‘You don’t know how close I’ve been to asking you about that. I almost texted to ask if you’d seen anything weird in the photo. You never said a word and I wondered whether you’d missed it.’

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘Don’t you know what year it is? It’s easy enough to edit someone into a photo on your phone. There are YouTube videos everywhere showing how to do things far harder than this. I have to do something with my time while looking after Norah.’

  She picks up her phone from the table and taps something on the screen before turning it around for me to see. There’s a photo of David in a blue suit – but he’s not at the awards dinner; he’s at some sort of evening party.

  ‘I took it at your engagement party,’ Jane says, although, for some reason, I don’t remember him wearing the suit. I suppose I’ve blocked much of that night from my memory. ‘It wasn’t hard to slice him out and paste him into the back of your picture. I thought you’d missed it.’

  ‘I don’t understand how you managed it all.’

  A shrug: ‘The photo editing is easy enough when you know how. You can send anonymous texts from different apps. I thought you’d like that.’

  ‘What about my car?’

  The smile disappears. ‘When you texted to say you were going to drive back, I was already in your flat.’

  ‘You don’t have a key?’

  ‘I got one when we were sorting out the cleaner. I suppose I hung onto it and then it became useful.’

  ‘What happened to the Tigger pot?’

  She blinks, somewhat surprised. ‘Oh… I wondered if you’d notice that. I accidentally knocked it over when I was at yours – then I spent twenty minutes trying to make sure I’d picked up all the bits. I was only there to get your spare car keys.’

  Even with this information, the truth doesn’t filter through immediately. ‘You crashed into that guy?’

  ‘I figured I’d move your car. Mess with your head a bit. I wasn’t going to go far – but then that Trevor stepped out of nowhere. I didn’t know his name at the time. I got the hell out of there.’

  I wonder if this is how far a person has to be pushed to shrug off something like a car crash. People seem to hit and run all the time and I suppose the biggest reason is that need for self-preservation. Like that one-punch killer. Something stupid then lives change.

  ‘He could be dead,’ I say.

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  I want to say that it’s hers – and it is – but it’s not only her fault.

  ‘I know you’re angry,’ I say, ‘but it took two of us that night.’

  For a moment Jane glances to the stun gun and I feel certain she’s going to lunge for it. I think I see her hand flinch, but then, in a blink, I’m not sure if she’s moved.

  ‘Do you know how easy it is to get a stun gun?’ she asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘On holiday or the internet. They’re quite common in certain places. It wasn’t hard to get. There are all sorts of settings. I wasn’t sure if it would work properly – but then it did. I guess I got my money’s worth…’

  I find myself touching the double pinpricks on my neck – and then the original scar I got from David. She must have been hiding behind the front door
when I stepped inside.

  ‘Ben is Norah’s father,’ Jane says. ‘If you were ever expecting me to choose, then it was always going to be him.’

  ‘You used your own daughter,’ I say. ‘It must have been you in the park.’

  ‘She was always safe. I didn’t expect you to dump her in a toilet while you disappeared to take a phone call.’

  I could argue the point – that’s not how things were – but there are bigger hills. ‘It shouldn’t have happened,’ I say. ‘None of it should have happened.’

  ‘No – but it says plenty because, after all that’s gone on this week, you still couldn’t tell me you thought David might be back. If you did that, you’d have to admit that he ran off because he found out you slept with my husband.’ She stops and then adds: ‘We’re supposed to be friends.’

  Jane waits for a reply but what is there to say?

  Suddenly, the anger overtakes her and her voice rises to a shout: ‘It’s the unfairness I can’t stand. You were going nowhere. You sleep with my husband and force your husband to run off and then, suddenly, you’re a success. You’ve got people inviting you to conferences, to give speeches, to give you awards. You get your own studio, you hook up with the cute guy who looks after kids, and volunteers, and runs a business. The only reason it happens is because people feel sorry for you.’

  Jane has said all this without seemingly taking a breath. She gasps and then picks up the stun gun.

  ‘But they don’t know you, do they? At the awards, when they said, “after all she’s been through”, I wanted to scream. To stand up and tell them who you really were. Do you think they’d be giving you awards if they knew why your husband left?’

  I understand the anger. It’s not only what Ben and I did, it’s compounded by the jealousy that, while Jane has given up her career for a child, however willingly, I’ve gone from strength to strength. There’s supposed to be karma in the world. Good people are supposed to win. What goes around comes around, and all that. These are the lies to get us through the days; to stop madness descending. And here I am – a person for whom none of those things apply.