Lock the Door

by Jane Holland

  Nor to confessing to knocking Treve to his death.

  Then I hear Jon’s ghostly voice in my ear, smooth, arrogant, almost cocksure. The lawyer’s point of view. Self-defence, darling. No jury in the land would convict you.

  I did the right thing.

  The only thing.

  All the same, I wonder what the police will make of the three bodies they are going to find at the foot of this rocky cliff.

  Jon, Treve, and his mother.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say, and hold my baby close.

  Epilogue

  ‘Jon!’

  Someone is shouting his name in the distance, an urgent cry.

  ‘Jon, for God’s sake!’

  Slowly, the terrible dream begins to recede.

  My eyes snap open to bright sunshine, salt air, and the rush of the tide.

  What the hell?

  I struggle up on to one elbow, staring about myself, disorientated. Then I remember. I’m at Widemouth and it’s a gorgeous summer afternoon. The famous Cornish bay, smooth golden sand with a deep shelving beach, popular with local surfers and holidaymakers. It’s high season. There are hundreds of people around me in shorts and swimsuits, some walking down to the sea, making sandcastles or playing beach volleyball, others lying back on their towels, asleep in the sunshine. Just as I was a moment ago.

  ‘Jon!’

  I stare, shielding my eyes against the sun’s glare.

  A young woman in a bikini is standing in the surf, hands on slim hips, shouting out to sea. Jon is a teenager on a blue body-board, half-hidden by the white-crested rollers, his hand raised to acknowledge her.

  ‘Jon, you coming out yet? We’re ready to leave.’

  I close my eyes. My racing heart begins to slow.

  How long have I been asleep?

  I sit up properly and rummage in the cool bag for my water bottle, then take a few swigs, gazing around me. The sunlight dazzles on the water beside a series of jagged black rocks, half-submerged by the tide. I stare at them as reality returns slowly. It was the same appalling dream again, the one I can’t seem to shake. I was there, back on that high clifftop, watching as my husband was thrown to his death. I saw his terrified face, his eyes . . .

  Then I heard Jon’s name and it felt so real, like it was happening all over again.

  I shudder.

  ‘Look, Harry,’ says a familiar voice higher up the beach, ‘that’s Mummy over there! Do you see her?’

  ‘Mummy!’

  I hear a squeal of delight from behind me, and turn my head, smile firmly back in place. ‘Who’s that? Who could that possibly be?’ I hold out a hand to him. ‘Darling, come to Mummy!’

  It’s Harry, rushing precariously towards me over hot, uneven sand, looking perfect in his white beach shorts and T-shirt, sunhat tied round his chin, one sandal strap flapping loose.

  He trips over a stone and almost falls, then recovers his balance, still grinning.

  ‘Careful,’ I say, though I can see he’s fine.

  Emily follows more slowly, one hand on her swollen belly. In a bikini, her pregnancy looks even more enormous, though she still has another three months to go. She and Simon are very happy now, which is lovely to see. I suppose the shock of what happened to us must have brought them closer together. Certainly after they finally married last year, and Emily underwent successful IVF treatment, their relationship settled into a permanent loving bond, the kind of intimate warmth I never really experienced with Jon.

  I don’t know if they ever talk about Jon and Treve though.

  I try not to.

  After the police concluded their investigation, and the Crown decided not to charge me and Camilla for the deaths of Treve and his mother on the grounds of self-defence, we were finally able to get on with our lives. As far as that has been possible, with the memory of that day still hanging over us.

  Camilla was far less affected by what happened than I expected. I thought she would be devastated – both the men she loved dying so suddenly and violently. But when I saw her at the inquests, she seemed calm and remote. She never came back to live next door though. No doubt the memories were too much for her. She took what she wanted from the house, sold the rest, and the last I heard she had found a flash new boyfriend and moved to Rome with him. A very long way from Cornwall, was what I thought.

  I won’t miss her.

  Harry will be three this November. He’s grown into a lovely boy, if a little impulsive and headstrong.

  I talk to him about his daddy sometimes, but I’m not sure how much he understands. He is unlikely ever to remember the events at Tide House, Dr Shiva says, and I am deeply grateful for that mercy. One day I shall have to tell him the whole story, of course. Lies and pretence will do neither of us any good. But right now, he is beaming and flushed and has smears of vanilla ice cream round his mouth.

  I hug my boy close, then reach for a tissue and wipe his face clean.

  ‘Ice cream,’ he tells me proudly.

  ‘Sorry, Meghan.’ Emily eases herself into the empty deckchair next to my beach towel. ‘We tried hard, but not all the ice cream made it into his tummy.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. He’s always been a mucky pup. Thank you so much for taking him to the café for me.’

  ‘It was good training for later,’ she says with a wink, and rubs more sun cream into her gleaming belly. ‘I’m glad you got a chance to relax. Harry seems much better these days, doesn’t he? Stronger, healthier.’

  ‘He is,’ I agree. In fact, his ANC has never been higher, and those awful days of long courses of injections are a distant memory now. ‘Dr Shiva says we may be over the worst of it.’

  ‘That’s fantastic news.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘So, did you think any more about Simon’s offer?’

  Her husband has offered me a job at the law firm once Harry starts nursery full-time. He thinks I need to start living again. And he’s right, I’ve been keeping my son wrapped up at home for too long. And myself. It’s time we both opened up to the world again. See what it may bring us, for better or worse.

  ‘Yes, and I think I’m going to accept.’

  Harry struggles free from my arms and lunges for his yellow plastic bucket.

  ‘Harry, wait.’

  His fair hair flops over his eyes as he glares back at me in a bullish fashion. He looks so like his father in that second, it takes my breath away. Then he beams again, and rattles his bucket, and the illusion is gone.

  ‘Want water,’ he announces, and sets off across the sand towards the sea, his short, sturdy legs moving at a trot, bucket swinging by his side.

  ‘Wait for Mummy!’ I call after him, and hurriedly clamber up.

  Emily smiles and shakes her head, watching him run. ‘He’s a handful, that boy,’ she comments, and closes her eyes.

  I don’t even have time to grab my own sandals, but run after him barefoot. My heart is in my mouth at first, my gaze fixed on his bobbing figure ahead. Then I realise I’m not as scared of letting go of Harry as I once was, of letting him behave like a normal toddler. Even last summer, I would never have brought him to sit on a public beach like this for fear of exposing him to unknown germs and bacteria. Let alone entertained the idea of letting him paddle in the Atlantic Ocean.

  That’s how much our lives have changed.

  I chase after my son, easily catching up with him as he nears the water’s edge. Harry looks back, sees me a few steps behind, and gurgles with excitement, almost dropping his bucket in the frothing surf.

  I take his hand and study his face, smiling.

  If Harry was affected by the horrors we saw on the clifftop that day, I can’t see a trace of it in his fearless gaze and happy little grin.

  He’s a born wriggler though.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘there’s a good boy, hold Mummy’s hand properly.’

  ‘Swim!’ he insists, trying to pull away from my grasp.

  ‘Not today, darling.’ I kneel at the water’s edge to
fasten his sandal strap properly, and look into his sand-encrusted, glowing face. ‘Maybe next summer, when you’re bigger.’

  He does not seem too bothered by the restriction.

  ‘Love you, Mummy,’ he says, and blows me an inexpert kiss with his chubby fingers.

  I pretend to catch it, and then kiss his flushed cheek in return. ‘Love you too, baby.’

  Acknowledgements

  As always, many thanks to my agent, Luigi Bonomi, for his unflagging support and encouragement. Thanks also to my editor, Jane Snelgrove, and to Gillian Holmes, Hatty Stiles, Sammia Hamer and all the fantastic team at Amazon Publishing for their hard work and inspiration.

  My thanks too to my readers, to whom this book is dedicated, many of whom stay with me even when I shift genre, which is lovely to see and very encouraging. Thank you all, and I hope you enjoy this latest offering.

  Lastly, as ever, but most important of all, to my husband, Steve, and my kids, who now do the dishes for me so I can keep typing. I couldn’t do it without you!

  About the Author

  Photo © 2011 Anna Rybacka

  Jane Holland is a Gregory Award–winning poet and novelist who also writes commercial fiction under the pseudonyms Victoria Lamb, Elizabeth Moss, Beth Good and Hannah Coates. Her previous book, Girl Number One, hit #1 in the UK Kindle store in December 2015. Jane lives with her husband and young family near the North Cornwall/West Devon border. A homeschooler, her hobbies include photography and growing her own vegetables.