by Jane Holland
But what if it’s Jon?
I resist for about five more seconds. Then I lean forward and drag her phone out of her bag. The screen is lit up. Incoming call.
As I suspected, it’s Jon’s number.
Fumbling, I answer the call quickly. ‘Hello? Jon? It’s Meghan. Where are you?’
There’s a short silence.
I can hear him breathing. Thinking.
‘Jon?’
Then the line goes dead.
I close my eyes, my heart beating hard. My husband does not even want to talk to me, and I have no idea why. What the hell have I done?
I look round. Emily is nearly at the front of the queue. I hesitate, then slip her mobile back inside her handbag. I don’t need to tell her it rang and I answered it. She would only be shocked that Jon refused to speak to me, which would be embarrassing. And she might well be offended that I took her phone out of her bag without permission.
My fingers brush hard plastic as I release the mobile. A small box of some kind, lodged in the bottom of her handbag. I glance down, curious, and my breath stops.
I feel oddly disconnected from what I’m seeing, unable at first to understand it fully, to put it in its proper context.
It’s a baby’s dummy.
Brand-new and unopened, still in its see-through plastic display case.
My hands begin to shake again.
It’s blue.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I thank Emily, then wait until she’s pulled away before turning to the house. I don’t know what to make of the baby’s dummy in her bag, but I can’t afford to draw far-fetched conclusions. There could be any number of logical explanations. Maybe she was planning to give it to me as a present at the dinner party, but then forgot. Or maybe she bought it because she wants a baby so much herself, and just wanted to feel like a mother, even if only for thirty seconds while choosing it.
That I could understand. If I’d only been allowed to hold Harry in my arms for thirty seconds before he was taken from me, I would never have let go of that incredible feeling. Never. That’s how power-ful it can be, even a taste of motherhood. Is that how she felt too?
No, I’m being ridiculous. Emily has been good to me. She’s becoming someone I can turn to in need, exactly as I did today, and I want to cling on to that. Not destroy our newfound friendship with needless paranoia. And Simon is a respected lawyer, not to mention Jon’s best friend. He would know for sure if his partner was somehow involved with Harry’s abduction.
Reaching the front door, I find it slightly ajar.
Camilla’s car is parked outside next door. No sign of Treve’s work van. I glance up at their house, and see the bedroom curtain twitch.
The rain is persistent now, drumming noisily on the pavements and car roofs along the street. I run a hand through my wet hair, suddenly self-conscious. I must look like a drowned rat, and I can’t shake off the impression that Camilla is watching me. More paranoia that I can’t afford.
Frowning, I push the door and walk inside.
‘Jon?’
There’s a shuffling noise, then Jon emerges from the lounge. The light is not on in there, even though the persistent rain is making the whole house dark.
‘Home at last?’
He has been sitting there in the gloom, waiting for me. And judging by his expression, he has had ample time to work up a temper.
He hasn’t changed, still wearing his work suit, though it’s looking a little creased now. He’s taken the tie off, the collar and two shirt buttons undone, which is unusual for him. Normally he changes into jeans and a T-shirt as soon as he comes home. I wonder if he came home only recently, or perhaps has been napping on the sofa while he waited for me to arrive. It’s just something about the rumpled state of his hair, a slight sheen to his skin.
‘Where did you go?’ I ask, my voice uneven. ‘I looked for you, and the police said you’d gone. That you’d left without me. Without even finding out if Harry was there.’
‘I knew he wasn’t there.’
‘What? How?’
‘I was waiting for you by the car. That was what the police told me to do. They wouldn’t let me go into the farmyard to find you. Then your voicemail arrived, telling me Harry wasn’t there. So I left.’
‘Without me?’
He shrugs.
I turn and go into the kitchen, if only to put some distance between us. I don’t know why he’s angry with me, but I can feel it, and it puts me on edge.
He follows, saying nothing.
I put the kettle on and turn to face him. ‘Even if the police wouldn’t let you through to find me, you could have rung me. Replied to my message. I would have come to find you.’
‘I didn’t think of it.’
‘Well, I was going out of my mind, wondering where the hell you were.’ I wait, but still he says nothing. ‘They found two babies at the farm. In a pit under the barn. DS Dryer went down there. He found Poppy alive. She looked well. But the other . . . He was dead. The youngest one, Tom.’
A muscle jerks in his jaw. ‘Shit.’
‘Jon, what’s going on?’ I burst out. ‘You drove off without me, you bastard. And I’ve got no idea why.’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘Of course not. I’m not psychic. Why leave me there, Jon? It was a crappy thing to do. Is it because you blame me for Harry’s disappearance? Because it wasn’t my fault. I swear, I locked the front door after Emily left that night. I checked several times before we went outside to eat.’
‘It’s not about Harry.’
‘Then what?’
‘It took me a while but I finally worked it out,’ Jon says, as though answering my question. ‘With hindsight, I’m amazed I didn’t see it before now. I suppose the business with Harry distracted me.’
Bewildered, I study his face for clues.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I tell him frankly.
‘Seriously, is that the best you can do?’ His mouth tightens. ‘Come on, drop the innocent look. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I caught the two of you earlier today, remember?’
I hear the sneer in his voice, the barely disguised hostility, yet can’t seem to register his meaning. The kettle rumbles and hisses behind me.
‘Jon, you’ve lost me.’
‘Enough bullshit, just come out and admit it.’ When I don’t respond, he adds with deliberate exaggeration, ‘You and Treve.’
My eyes widen on a discovery. It’s not me who is mad, it’s him. ‘You think I’ve been having an affair behind your back? At a time like this?’ Then I focus on the name, and it feels like he’s slapped me. ‘With Treve?’
‘With Treve?’ He mocks my tone. ‘Yes, with our next-door neighbour. The classic bored housewife’s choice. You’ve been going next door to borrow a tool.’
The image he has conjured is lewd and ludicrous at the same time. Me in bed with dark, thick-set Treve, whose physique always reminds me of some kind of beast? I have often secretly wondered what Simon would be like as a lover, his lean body so like Jon’s, and his sleek blond looks undeniably head-turning.
But never Treve.
You’ve been going next door to borrow a tool.
He’s serious.
‘You’ve got it wrong. I’m not having an affair with Treve or anyone else. You came home today to tell me about the Snatcher, found me with Treve on the doorstep, and totally misinterpreted what you saw.’
‘Which is what, exactly?’
The kettle has almost reached the boiling point. It’s shuddering and churning, steam constantly escaping, dampening the side of the kitchen cupboards overhead.
‘A kind man trying to help his neighbour out.’
He shakes his head, and one corner of his mouth lifts in a disdainful smile. Treating me with contempt again. ‘Darling, you must think I’m so naïve.’
‘No, I think you’re distraught,’ I say sharply. ‘Either that or
stupid.’
The smile drops straight off his lips.
He comes round the breakfast table, his gaze locked on mine. There’s a sudden air of menace about him that makes me want to shrink away. But I refuse to move, willing myself not to show fear even when he stops right in front of me and stares down into my face.
It has stopped raining at last. I can no longer hear its noisy, restless patter against the windowpane. The kettle comes to the boil, and clicks off.
I do not move to make the tea though. I dare not break eye contact.
The kitchen settles back into silence.
‘I know what a woman looks like when she’s lying,’ he reminds me. ‘And don’t forget, I happen to know what you look like after sex.’
‘No.’
But I am remembering how I must have looked earlier, when he drove up and caught me with Treve on the doorstep. Flushed, dishevelled, a little wild, perhaps. But like a woman in love? I suppose it’s possible. It could have looked to a jealous husband like we were coming out of the house after a secret tryst.
No wonder he was so aggressive towards Treve.
Jon sees me thinking, and his eyes narrow. ‘Now, time for truth, please. You’ve never been to bed with Treve?’
‘No.’
‘Has he ever tried to get you into bed?’
‘No.’
‘Hinted that he wants you?’
‘No.’
‘Behaved suggestively, touched you, made any kind of—?’
I interrupt him with an angry, ‘No.’
‘And you don’t find the man attractive?’ Jon continues, watching me intently. Ever the lawyer, his voice softens, becomes persuasive when I do not answer. ‘Not even a tiny bit?’
For a split second of idiocy, I allow myself to take that question seriously. To consider Treve in those terms, not just as a next-door neighbour and Camilla’s husband, a man who likes to keep his garden scrupulously clean, but as a potential lover. I think of his patient smile. The generous way he fills a space. His large hands and blunt, neatly trimmed fingernails. The unexpected frisson of intimacy I felt when he stood close to me earlier today, and how I had become aware of him physically . . .
‘No.’
Jon’s hand explodes out of nowhere across my face and sends me staggering backwards into the wall.
‘Liar.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Liar,’ he says again, barely a second after his blow knocks me backwards into the kitchen wall. ‘You lying, adulterous bitch.’
I tumble sideways, ending up on the floor, half-supported on my elbow.
He stands over me, his mouth tight, fists clenched like a prize fighter. Like he’s going to slug it out with me.
Except I never hit back, and he knows it.
‘Jon?’
Crouched on the kitchen lino, I look past him, gasping with shock, my heart thumping, ears still buzzing with the effect of his blow.
Camilla is standing in the kitchen doorway.
‘The front door was open. I heard raised voices, and I thought . . .’
At her voice, Jon turns his head in surprise. Even in profile, I see a change come over his face. Like a mask being hurriedly pulled down to hide the ugliness beneath.
Too late.
Camilla looks at me, clearly stunned. ‘M . . . Meghan, are you . . . Do you need any help?’
I say nothing.
This is not her fight, not her business.
‘Get out of our house,’ Jon tells her, his voice like a whip.
But Camilla does not leave. She hesitates, then takes another step forward, as though to see me better, ignoring his angry movement.
‘Meghan?’
I clamber to my feet, gripping on to the kitchen surface for support.
It was more of a slap than a punch this time, across my cheek and into the hairline. Designed not to leave a mark, or not one that cannot be hidden later by strategically applied blusher. But still hard enough to make my eyes moisten and blur; it’s not always something I can control, much as I hate crying in front of him, and even less now Camilla is here. Not a default, more like a reflex action.
‘Go,’ I agree. ‘I’m . . . fine.’
Hysterical laughter rises in me, and I have to suppress it.
Fine?
Who am I kidding?
Camilla stares at me, then Jon. For a second, I think she is going to refuse. But then she nods and stumbles away. I hear the front door closing quietly.
So here we are again. Back to zero.
I don’t know why I’m surprised that he’s started hitting me again. My pregnancy changed us as a couple; softened some of the hard edges between us, made our marriage feel different. But then we discovered that Harry was special, and everything shifted again, became more dangerous, less predictable.
There was a temporary lull in hostilities while we tried to find a place for ourselves in this new, three-person dynamic. I even fooled myself that it was going to work. But now he’s thrown aside that uncomfortable mask of good husband and father, and fallen back on his petty hatreds and feuds, the iron control he likes to wield at home when the outside world is not going his way.
I stare up at him and see that he is still boiling over with anger, still looking for a fight. He’s not angry at me though. Not really. Jon’s anger is at the world, at destiny, at the haphazard and not always one hundred per cent accurate way human DNA seems to work. He’s angry with life for having thrown us this unexpected curveball, a child who is not perfect. He cannot understand why these things have happened to us – or more pertinently, to him, to perfect Jon. He sees it as a personal affront. An attack on who he is and what he stands for. As far as Jon is concerned, there always has to be a reason for the shit in his life, and a range of people he can blame for it – and punish, as often as possible. I fall deep into that category.
But sometimes there’s no reason. Nobody to blame. Shit just happens.
And now our imperfect child is probably dead.
It deadens me inside even to think that. But I have to be practical. Kept so long without medication, in God knows what kind of conditions, how could he still be alive? At some point, you have to give up wishing for the impossible, you have to abandon hope.
Is this the day when I finally reach that point?
‘You blame me, don’t you?’ I meet his eyes, suddenly furious too. ‘For the whole thing. For Harry.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Because it would be easier for you if he never came back. And you can’t bear admitting that, even to yourself.’ I rub my aching cheekbone. ‘I hate you sometimes.’
‘I know you do.’
‘But I’m not having an affair with Treve.’
He hits me again.
I’m not expecting that, and it takes me by surprise.
I try to dodge the blow at the last second, and he catches me fuller than he intended. My head snaps back and I gasp.
‘Don’t say his name.’ He’s more aggressive now that he’s hurting me, not less. ‘I saw you together on the doorstep.’
His voice thickens. ‘Was he coming out or about to go in though? How many times has he been here? Jesus Christ, in my own home.’
‘You’re so full of shit.’ I straighten, my cheek throbbing, my eyes stinging with tears, and push past him.
‘Hold on, where are you going?’ he demands, catching at my arm.
Jon thinks I’m trying to run away, that I’m scared of him. He’s wrong. I just needed to get out of that corner.
I swing round to face him, shaking off his hand.
Then I hit him.
It’s a full-on punch, close-fisted, knuckles first, pushing through his face and beyond it. There’s a muffled crack as bone meets bone.
Jon reels back against the kitchen cabinets, caught off guard, his look one of blank astonishment. His hand flies up to his face and comes away red with blood. He stares down at it, speechless, then grabs the nearest tea towel and clamps it
to his face. From the way he is swearing under his breath, it would seem that it hurts.
‘You sadistic bastard,’ I hiss, both fists still clenched, as though ready to hit him again. ‘How do you like it?’
He stares at me over the top of the blood-stained tea-towel, but says nothing. It looks like I’ve broken his nose. Or done it some serious damage, at least.
Adrenalin has kicked in, like a Class A drug injected straight into my bloodstream. I can barely feel the pain. Not like before. My knuckles are tender where I hit them, but really, it’s nothing. And the throb in my face is like a badge of honour. Yes, that’s where he hit me. But you should have seen what I did to him.
I glance at my face in the reflective glass door of the microwave. I look wild, flushed, exhilarated – and like I’m going to develop a black eye.
‘Get out and don’t come back,’ I tell him unsteadily.
He lowers the bloodied cloth then, staring. ‘You must be joking. This is my fucking house.’
‘Then you’d better get yourself a good lawyer. It shouldn’t be too hard,’ I tell him. ‘Just ask around the office.’
‘You’re out of your mind.’
‘Maybe I am, but I still want you to pack a suitcase. You have one hour.’ I point to my swelling cheek. ‘Or I’m taking this to the police. Is an assault charge crazy enough for you?’
Without waiting for a reply, I leave the kitchen and hurry upstairs. I drag his favourite suitcase out from one of the fitted wardrobes, toss it on to the bed and unzip it. My heart is thudding and I can’t stop my hands from shaking. But it feels good to be in charge of the situation for once.
Then I hear him coming up the stairs. Swiftly, I run into the small bathroom and slam the door behind me, turning the key to lock it.
The lock doesn’t look very strong. I hope he doesn’t decide to kick the door down.
I stare nervously at the key. The window blind has been lowered, and it’s dim and gloomy in the bathroom. I don’t have my phone, so can’t check the time. But I guess it must be early evening. I hadn’t realised how much time had passed while we were arguing downstairs. But with Jon, when he’s angry with me, everything I’ve done is dragged out for appraisal, everything has to be examined and pored over.
