Lock the Door

by Jane Holland

  I see his gaze studying my face, and look away, a little awkward. The bruising from Jon’s handiwork must be pretty obvious.

  ‘So why did the trip switch go off?’ I ask, hoping to distract him.

  He shrugs. ‘Plenty of things can throw a trip switch. Did you have anything electric on at the time?’

  ‘Nothing unusual.’

  ‘You said, you were in the shower . . .’

  ‘I’d finished and turned it off by the time the lights went out.’

  ‘Right,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Then I’m afraid it sounds like somebody tripped the switch deliberately.’

  I shiver.

  He studies my face again. ‘That looks painful.’

  ‘I fell over. In . . . In the dark.’

  ‘Right.’

  I can tell he does not believe me, and feel my cheeks grow warm. No doubt Camilla has told him all about the appalling scene she witnessed in the kitchen earlier.

  He looks up the stairs without comment though, one hand on the wooden newel post at the base of the banisters. I keep remembering how it felt to be standing up there in the dark, utterly terrified, wondering if I was about to be attacked.

  The stairs are lit now.

  Everything looks ordinary, reassuringly so.

  He asks, ‘Want me to check the house over before I leave?’

  God, yes, absolutely.

  Mutely, I shake my head though. Jon may not be here to see us together, but I still feel awkward. Not least because, although Treve is not my type, he is very attractive. And I know from the way his gaze keeps running over me that he is not immune to me either. We are both married though, and we know it.

  He nods slowly, his eyes very dark and thoughtful. Like he can tell exactly what I’m thinking. ‘I’d better get back home, then. If you’re sure that you’re okay.’

  I hesitate, feeling very far from okay, and see Treve glance down at my feet. I’ve been absentmindedly rubbing my sore heel over my other foot all this time.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ he says sharply.

  I look down. My bare foot is streaked with fresh blood. ‘Shit.’ I turn my other foot up and hold on to the banister for balance. There’s a small cut on my heel; it’s seeping blood and looks messy.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  I am bewildered, then suddenly remember. ‘There was something on the carpet at the top of the stairs. I trod on it when I came out of the bathroom.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Small and hard. Made of plastic, maybe. I couldn’t see; it was too dark.’ I pause; my heel is stinging now. ‘Whoever came into the house must have dropped it.’

  We both glance up the stairs.

  ‘That’s it, I’m going to check the house,’ Treve says grimly, pushing past me and starting up the stairs. ‘Every room, up and down. I’m sorry, Meghan, but I’m not leaving you alone here when there could be an intruder on the premises. If this was Camilla, and I was out somewhere, I’d expect Jon to do the same.’

  I start to protest, but he’s already halfway up the stairs. He stops at the top, and bends to pick something up.

  I follow him upstairs, limping awkwardly, trying not to touch my bleeding heel to the carpet. ‘What is it? What have you found?’

  He straightens and holds out a piece of broken plastic. ‘This.’ He watches as I turn it over in my hand, frowning. ‘Some kind of toy?’

  I feel suddenly icy cold, my stomach tight with apprehension. It’s part of a tube of rigid plastic, with numbers marked along one side.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What?’ Treve is staring at me. ‘Meghan, talk to me. You’ve gone completely white. You look like you’re going to be sick.’

  ‘That’s because I probably am,’ I say faintly.

  ‘Come here.’

  He helps me limp back into the bathroom, but I am not sick. I refuse to vomit, to collapse, to allow these disasters to take me over. I sway instead, beating off the nausea, and lean forward slightly, my forehead against the steamed-up tiles.

  The room is spinning.

  I try to focus on the moment, to think what needs to be done, but it’s impossible now. All I can think about is Harry, lying on the changing mat in his nursery, chubby legs kicking, blue eyes widening as I handle his regular morning and afternoon injections.

  Regular injections he can’t manage without, or not without becoming very, very ill. Medication that my baby needs to survive.

  Treve bends down and checks the sole of my foot. His hands are cool and gentle, the very opposite of Jon’s.

  ‘Here.’ He grabs a handful of baby wipes and cleans my cut heel, then leans across to throw them in the bathroom bin. ‘You need some antiseptic cream on that.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell him.

  ‘Let me get you a plaster, at least.’

  I nod towards the bathroom cabinet, and wait in silence as Treve rummages in there, returning a few seconds later with a tube of antiseptic cream and plasters.

  ‘Sit down,’ he tells me, pointing to the toilet.

  I put the lid down and perch on the edge of the white toilet unit, then close my eyes as he kneels down before me and squeezes a small amount of antiseptic cream on to my foot. The smell is sharp in my nostrils, almost unpleasant. It makes me think of hospitals, and Harry’s diagnosis, his long stay in the incubator as a newborn. But not for long. Treve’s fingers are careful, rubbing the cream into my skin with tiny, circular motions while he cups my heel. I look down at his dark head, and become aware of a creeping sensation of warmth, a flutter of sensuality trying to get my attention, and fight against it.

  He opens a plaster and covers the cut with it, smoothing down the corners. ‘There,’ he says calmly, glancing up at me. ‘Better?’

  I nod. ‘Thank you,’ I say huskily.

  ‘You need something for that too?’

  He is looking at my cheek. It must look badly bruised.

  ‘I told you, it’s fine.’

  He does not release my foot, still cradling my heel. His dark eyes lock with mine. ‘So?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What was it?’ He glances down at the piece of plastic still clenched in my fist. ‘The thing you trod on.’

  I hesitate, then relax my fist, letting him see. The piece of plastic rolls over, then settles in my palm. ‘Part of a syringe.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You seem so upset. What’s the significance?’

  ‘Harry’s sick,’ I remind him wearily. ‘He needs daily injections. The hospital supplied us with syringes and medication.’

  ‘So?’ he asks again.

  ‘So, some medication was taken with Harry. But not enough. Whoever took him must have run out by now.’ I stare down at the broken syringe, remembering the creaking footsteps on the landing, the rustling sounds I heard from the nursery. ‘So they came looking for more tonight.’

  His eyes widen. ‘But that’s fantastic news, Meghan.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘It means Harry’s still alive,’ he points out.

  My heart jerks violently at those words.

  ‘Yes,’ I stammer, ‘of course, you’re . . . you’re right.’

  My head clears abruptly, the sickness abating, and I am flooded by a sudden sense of urgency. ‘I need to call DS Dryer straightaway. That woman, the Cornish Snatcher . . . She must have an accomplice. That’s who’s got Harry.’ Understanding hits me, and I stiffen. ‘That’s why he wasn’t in that pit under the barn. Because there’s someone else involved. And whoever that is, they came here tonight to get more of Harry’s medicine.’

  His fingers have circled my bare ankle and are now stroking upwards, light and unemphatic, as though he is not quite aware of what he is doing.

  ‘I heard you two earlier,’ he says suddenly, still gazing at my bare ankle and shin.

  My attention snaps back to him. ‘Wh . . . what?’

  ‘You and Jon. You were arguing again. Then . . .’ He looks up, nodding at the bruise on
my cheek. ‘You didn’t fall over in the dark, did you? Jon hit you.’

  Heat floods my face. ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘It’s not the first time he’s hit you, is it?’ He releases my foot and stands up in one strong, lithe movement. His gaze is on my face. It’s hard to look away. ‘Camilla told me what she saw. You’re right, it’s not our business. But for God’s sake, Meghan, you can’t let him hit you.’

  ‘I don’t,’ I stammer, horribly embarrassed. ‘When Camilla walked in on us . . . That was unusual. That was down to stress over Harry’s abduction.’

  I see pity in his face. ‘Meghan, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But don’t lie to yourself.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  He holds out his hand. ‘Come on, let me take a quick look round, then I’ll get out of your way.’

  I balance the broken piece of syringe on the sink surround, then let Treve help me up. Though he’s right, I’m feeling much less faint now. I don’t really need his help. But I do appreciate him being here. Knowing that he and Camilla have been discussing what goes on in this house is not pleasant. But at least he is not judging me. And he’s here, which is more than my husband is.

  Perhaps it’s time I admit what Jon is like. Not just to myself, but to others. It’s hard though. It would feel like admitting that I’ve failed in some way.

  Once he’s satisfied that I’m okay to walk about, Treve checks the bedroom very briefly, then glances around the nursery. The room looks much as I left it, still quite a mess. But with the light on, I can see that more of Harry’s medication has gone. And one of his blankets.

  ‘Someone has definitely been in here,’ I say.

  ‘You should tell the police.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree.

  Yet I don’t seem able to move.

  I stand over the cot instead and stroke my hand along the wooden rail, then set the mobile dancing. ‘I can still smell him in here,’ I whisper, and see Treve watching me. ‘I know it sounds pathetic. But if I close my eyes and breathe in deep, I can almost pretend Harry’s still here.’

  Briefly, I tell Treve what happened out at the farm. The appalling things I saw and heard. How Jon left me there to cope with it alone. I don’t mean to but I start to cry. I bow my head, close my eyes, and let it out, all the horror and stress and naked fear of the past few days since Harry disappeared.

  ‘I just want him back,’ I sob.

  Treve comes up behind me. ‘Of course you do,’ he tells me. ‘You’re a good mother, Meghan. Don’t let anyone tell you different.’

  ‘I have to get him back, Treve. Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ he repeats after me.

  I hear an odd note in his voice, and turn, only to find Treve standing close behind me. So close that I can see hazel flecks in his eyes, stubble on his chin. So close that I realise the situation has become suddenly – and quite unexpectedly – dangerous.

  He grabs me by the shoulders, then leans forward.

  I need to move away, I think.

  Too late.

  Chapter Thirty

  For a split second after he kisses me, I’m too bewildered to react. This is not what I was expecting when I invited him back here.

  Or was it?

  I stand still while his mouth moves persuasively against mine. Then my lips part under his, almost by accident, though I can’t rule out the possibility that I secretly want this to go further. His tongue slips inside my mouth at once, gentle, exploratory. I feel his body moulded against mine, hard and urgent, and realise how little I’m wearing, the incredible intimacy of the situation, alone upstairs with my neighbour, practically naked . . .

  Suddenly, I’m burning up for him, incandescent with desire. I press against him with a sigh that becomes a moan, and his kiss deepens. He strokes my bare shoulders, then drags at the front of the towel, anchored above my breasts.

  I resist for a few seconds, then let it go.

  The towel drops to the floor.

  ‘Meghan,’ he groans, and buries his face in my neck, kissing my skin, my hair still damp from the shower, while his hands cup my breasts. ‘God, you’re so beautiful.’

  I think of Jon hitting me. His rage, his sudden bursts of violence. I think of him in the bedroom, his long months of neglect punctuated by sudden bursts of excitement that take me by surprise. His occasional odd taste for role-play. A touch of domination. Then back to a coldly turned back most nights, so that I can’t work out what he wants or how to give it to him.

  Treve’s lovemaking is a thousand years away from that. He is tender, almost tentative. Though I can feel him growing in confidence.

  My fault, I realise. For not pushing him away immediately. For not slapping his face, or shouting abuse, or whatever it is married women are supposed to do when their next-door neighbour tries it on.

  How can I push this man away though? And why would I want to? He is not my husband, but he is turning me on. Clever fingers stroke my nipples. His tongue works in my mouth. His touch brings me back to life.

  Why should I fear what Jon would think? He’s hardly the best husband in the world. And he doesn’t want me like this. He doesn’t touch me like this anymore. Like I’m a real person, with feelings and a human body. To Jon, I’m a mere thing these days, a ragdoll, a sexual object to be used as he likes and forgotten about afterwards. And now I don’t even have the comfort of my child to keep me sane.

  I touch Treve back. And enjoy it.

  ‘Yes,’ he mutters, and pushes me against the wall.

  I remember how Jon fucked me in the shower cubicle the day Harry disappeared. How the water cascaded down over his thrusting body, the cold tiled wall against my back. The shock of his unexpected sexual interest, and how quickly it faded once our guests arrived.

  Yes.

  His breath coming fast now, Treve lifts my body to meet his. To raise me to the right level. Then I feel him fumble at the fly of his jeans.

  He is going to have sex with me. Right here, right now.

  Fuck.

  Lost in the blind urgency of the moment, I do not even consider objecting. Instead, I let him touch me, manhandle me, and even touch him back. He may be shorter than Jon, but he’s broader too, more substantial. The difference is electric. I enjoy the feel of his still-clothed roughness on my naked body. The waistband of his jeans rubbing against me. The warm snub-head of his penis butting against the apex of my thighs, making it obvious what he wants.

  What I want too.

  I clutch at his broad shoulders, urge him on. I don’t care anymore. ‘Yes,’ I repeat after him, and open my legs for him.

  But as he adjusts my position, cupping my bare buttocks, we shift awkwardly sideways, and my hip bangs into the wooden side of the cot.

  My son’s cot. My missing son’s empty cot.

  Then it strikes me what I am doing.

  And where I am doing it.

  ‘Shit.’ Reality comes flooding back, and the tide of sensuality is pushed back beneath it. In that instant, I change my mind, and push hard at his shoulders, his broad chest. This all feels wrong. Horribly wrong. ‘No, I’m sorry, Treve. I can’t.’

  ‘What?’ He buries his face in my neck, panting. ‘But . . . you want it.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say again.

  Treve raises his head to stare down at me. There’s a hard flush in his cheeks, his eyes glittering. ‘You’re kidding?’

  I look away, too embarrassed to meet his gaze any longer, and he mutters something under his breath.

  I turn back at that hoarse whisper, catching a flash of what looks like fury in his eyes. ‘Sorry?’ Is he angry with me? He started this, after all. And he’s married too.

  ‘Nothing.’ He grimaces. ‘Forget it.’

  Treve lowers me until my toes touch the carpet. Like a dance partner after the dance is finished. Then, with horrible incongruity, he turns away to zip up his jeans.

  I apologise again, not sure what el
se to say. Perhaps I’m being too apologetic. I think of Camilla, and try to imagine her reaction if she knew what we had just done. This has been one of the more serious mistakes of my life, I decide. A moment of madness brought on by a spectacularly stressful situation.

  But it’s over now.

  Except I know now that I want Treve. And he wants me. Which changes things. The relationship between us is no longer what it was only ten minutes ago when I invited him into my house to investigate a power cut.

  Hurrying into the bedroom, I grab my dressing gown from the back of the door and belt it round my waist, the thin material covering my body down to my knees – though it’s a bit late for a display of modesty. Treve comes to the bedroom door and watches me, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets. He looks brooding.

  Downstairs, the telephone starts to ring, the shrill insistent sound breaking the silence. But it’s a welcome relief, as though the outside world has intruded just in time to stop me from making a complete fool of myself.

  Treve mutters, ‘I’d better go.’

  I don’t argue, but follow him downstairs in silence.

  The phone keeps ringing.

  Fleetingly, I wonder if it’s going to be Jon on the line. Maybe ringing to apologise. Not that he’s very good at apologising. But he has made a habit of hitting me, then apologising, and swearing it will never happen again, and then one day hitting me again out of the blue. His vicious little pattern.

  My lips are tingling from having been kissed so thoroughly. Jesus, we came so close. I’ll never be able to look at Treve the same way again.

  As soon as the door bangs shut behind him, I pick up the handset. My hands are shaking.

  Guilt makes my voice husky. ‘Hello?’

  It’s not Jon.

  It’s DS Dryer, sounding weary and a little on edge. ‘Meghan, it’s Paul Dryer. I’m sorry to be calling so late.’

  My heart jolts in shock, all thought of Treve put aside. I stare at myself in the oval hall mirror opposite. I’m pale, hair damp and curling, eyes suddenly wide. I look ill. Maybe even a little unbalanced.

  ‘Why are you ringing?’ I have to force myself to say the words, suddenly breathless. ‘Is it about Harry?’

  ‘Are you and Jon able to come to the station?’