by Jane Holland
Wrapping my scarf tighter against the chill wind, I smile at the policeman, then start to trudge on towards the next station.
Inside, I’m still in turmoil. Dad denied having anything to do with that parcel. But should I believe him?
After all, by his own admission, he’s the one who cleared out Rachel’s room. He saw the snow globe, even noticed it was leaking. Perhaps he took the opportunity to play a nasty trick on me. But I know what Dominic would say if asked. What possible motivation could my father have for doing that?
Because he holds you responsible for Rachel’s death, an inner voice taunts me.
I cross the road, raising my chin.
No, I’m not going back there again. Back to my demons, to that dark place where taking my own life seemed like the only way out. That’s the person I was years ago. A ‘troubled teen’, the doctors called me, though in fact the black dog pursued me into my early twenties, too. But with therapy and medication, I managed to push beyond those horrors, and into the light again.
There’s no way I’m falling back into that negative way of seeing the world. Believing everyone is against me. That everyone in my life is lying to me.
There’s a man huddled in a shop doorway a few hundred feet from the tube station. Cardboard wedged beneath him, dog crouched at his side in the damp folds of a blanket. There’s a rough sign partly tucked under his feet as he tries to sleep, turned away from the bitter wind, his body hunched.
HELP, the sign says simply.
I stop beside the sign, and fumble in my bag for change. Shit, I think, and check my pockets, too. I don’t have anything besides coppers and a few banknotes.
The dog doesn’t move, but the man half turns under the blanket, gazing up at me expectantly. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark and liquid, and he’s wearing a woollen hat to keep out the cold.
‘Here,’ I say in the end, and hand him a five-pound note.
‘Bless you,’ he says hoarsely.
The flat is in total darkness when I push through the front door, armed with two bags of shopping from the late-opening supermarket on the next block.
It’s all quiet inside. Surprisingly cold, too.
‘Dom?’
I kick the door shut behind me and listen. Nothing. Maybe he’s going to be home later than expected. Sometimes the hospital asks him to work an extra hour or two if things get really hectic in Accident and Emergency.
‘Dom?’
But he’s not there.
I wander into the kitchen and stab at the light switch with my elbow. The place is a mess as usual. We need to spend some time tidying up if it’s going to look nice for this weekend, when we’ve invited friends over for drinks.
Dumping the shopping on the kitchen counter, I frown.
Why the hell is it so cold?
I strip off my gloves and coat, and check the prepayment meter, situated on the wall above the television. The catch is fiddly and I have to stand on a chair to reach the box. But there’s still a tenner to go before it runs out. Dominic is pretty good at remembering to keep it topped up.
I unpack the shopping hurriedly, then put the oven on a medium heat, partly to warm the room but also because I’ve bought a packet of frozen vegetable rissoles for Dominic’s supper. He likes that kind of thing. Putting the kettle on to boil, I set out two mugs for when he finally comes home, then stand warming my hands in the rising steam.
Bloody hell, it’s absolutely freezing in here. I stamp and hug myself. Perhaps I should put my coat back on.
Have we left a window open by accident?
I wander out again into the dark hallway. Sure enough, there’s a severe draught coming from the bathroom door, which is slightly ajar. I stare at it, then give the door an experimental push with my foot. As it creaks wider, I feel an icy blast of air.
The building is an old Victorian villa, renovated into flats that overlook the mainline railway tracks, most of the windows at the back old-fashioned sash jobs. Useful for the fire escape below, but heavy and unwieldy. The bathroom window is open, the lower half sucking out all the warmth in the flat.
I slam the sash window down and fasten it, shaking my head. ‘Dom . . .’ He usually takes a shower before work. He must have opened the window for ventilation, as there’s no other way to air out the bathroom when it gets steamy, but then forgotten to shut it before leaving for the hospital.
It’s now almost as cold inside the flat as outside.
Whacking up the two storage heaters to their maximum output setting, I duck into the bedroom to fetch my warm, blue-flannel dressing gown. Comfort clothing for when I’m feeling at my most miserable.
I hit the light switch, and stop, suddenly unable to breathe.
My chest contracts painfully.
‘What the hell?’
There on the bed is my wedding dress, removed from its protective cover and laid out as though ready to be worn. Last week I picked it up after a few minor alterations needed to be made, and hung it on the back of the bedroom door in an opaque bag supplied by the bridal shop. ‘It’s unlucky to see the dress before the wedding,’ I told Dominic, who laughed at my superstitious nature. My dream dress, as I’d described it to my mother tonight over dinner, telling her how impatient I was for Dominic to see me wearing it on the big day itself.
Only it’s no longer beautiful.
Someone’s taken a pair of scissors to my wedding dress, cutting it into ribbons. There are large, fierce rips in the sweetheart bodice, and all the way down the clinging, mermaid-style skirt. Shreds of satin lie on the floor and the bed. Sequins sparkle from odd corners of the bedroom as though they were deliberately torn off and scattered about like mock confetti.
But the most shocking thing is the thick, gooey red substance splashed across the shimmering white.
Paint?
‘Oh my God.’
I take a few impulsive steps forward, as if to snatch up my ruined dress, even though it’s far too late to rescue it.
That’s when the smell hits me.
Blood.
Chapter Eleven
The blood’s sickening, iron-rich stench is unmistakeable now that I’m close enough to touch it. Not that I do, frozen by the bed, staring down at the dress, not quite able to believe what my eyes and nose are telling me. It’s too horrific to be true. Yet the evidence is right there in front of me. Somebody has not only maliciously ripped my wedding dress to shreds, they’ve also covered it in what smells like blood.
‘No, please . . .’
Gagging at the vile stench, I run to the front door of the flat, fumble with the catch and throw it open.
Our flat is on the top floor. That seemed like a good idea when we chose it, so far from the noise of the street below and reminiscent of my childhood bedroom in my parents’ house, the rook’s nest. My refuge against the world. Now though, it’s too far from the safety of other people.
Up here, anything could happen and nobody would know . . .
Below, I hear the street door bang shut. The old wire letterbox on the back rattles. A gust of frozen air swirls up the stairs, and I shiver without my coat. Suddenly there’s the sound of echoing voices in the hallway on the ground floor.
Somebody has just come in from the cold evening.
Two somebodies.
‘Well, there’s still time to run away. You’re not married yet.’
It’s a woman’s voice, followed by mutual laughter, and the swift reply: ‘I don’t want to run away. I want to marry her.’
The woman’s voice is only vaguely familiar. But I know the other voice as well as I know my own.
Deep and lightly amused, with a South London accent, the man is saying, ‘Besides, she’d soon find me if I ran away. I sometimes think Cat’s psychic, she always seems to know what I’m thinking.’
‘Dominic?’ I interrupt them, hanging almost too far over the banister in my panic, staring down. It’s increasingly hard to breathe, especially with my chest pressed against the rail. ‘Dom
inic . . . oh, thank God.’
From below, I catch the flash of his face looking up three floors. A pale oval of surprise and concern. ‘Catherine?’
‘I need you. Come up, quick.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Hurry, please.’ I’m gasping. ‘Please, Dom.’ Snatching at the chilly air, my lungs aching, I can’t seem to stop myself from sliding to my knees.
‘Okay,’ he says, beginning to run. ‘Hang on, I’m on my way.’
‘Quick, quick.’ I’m repeating myself stupidly. Like a trained bird in a cage. My hands grip the banisters like claws as I twist my head and stare down, trying to see through the bars. It’s ridiculous to feel jealousy at a moment like this. But I do, all the same. ‘Who was that woman with you? I can’t see her. Who is it?’
He takes the stairs two at a time, his face flushed. ‘It’s nobody,’ he says, rounding the stairs below, almost as breathless as me after the speed of his ascent. ‘Only Laura, from downstairs.’
‘Laura?’
Dominic is nearly at the top of the house, carrying a small white plastic bag that swings violently back and forth as he rounds the stairs. ‘From Flat Two. You know Laura. The woman with glasses. And the racer bike.’ He reaches me and stops, staring down into my face. ‘Christ, you look awful. What on earth’s the matter?’
‘Why were you with Laura? You came in with her from the street. I heard you.’
‘She was at the Chinese takeaway.’
‘What?’
‘I grabbed a chow mein on my way from the tube, and she was there. So we walked back together.’ He sounds bewildered. ‘Baby, you’re crying. What’s all this about?’
Now that he’s here, I can’t seem to tell him what’s happened. What I’ve seen. Instead, I wave him towards the flat. The door is still open. And inside . . .
‘I found . . .’
But the words die on my lips.
‘What? You found what?’ He bends and kisses my mouth. His lips are cold, though, like the inside of the flat, and I don’t respond. He searches my face. ‘Sweetheart, you’re worrying me. And you must be freezing to death out here without a coat. Come on, let’s get you inside.’
He bustles me through the door, suddenly the healthcare professional, his touch carefully solicitous rather than intimate.
‘Right,’ he says, and locks the door behind us, even putting the metal chain on. ‘Now, what’s upset you, baby?’
‘In . . . there,’ I manage to say, pointing to the bedroom door. That too is still open, the light on inside. Just as I left it.
‘In the bedroom?’
I nod frantically.
He frowns and hands me the plastic bag containing his Chinese takeaway. I hold it close, the smell of chow mein wafting up as I watch him approach the bedroom, his stance cautious and wide-legged, like a dog expecting trouble.
He stops on the threshold and leans round the bedroom door, peering inside.
In my mind, I replay what I saw. My wedding dress lying across our bed like a dead bride. Cut into pieces, smeared with blood. Its beauty ruined forever. The vile smell is still in my nostrils. It feels like I’ll never get rid of it.
‘Dom?’
But Dominic doesn’t reply. He’s unmoving, standing like a statue in the doorway to the bedroom.
I hold my breath. A sudden fear floods me. Was the appalling desecration of my wedding dress real?
Or did I imagine it?
Chapter Twelve
There were instances in my childhood where strange things happened, and then turned out afterwards not to have been real. Though I’m still convinced Rachel was behind most of them. All those cruel tricks my sister loved to play on her victims. She was particularly skilled at emotional sleight of hand. Turning the screw in our minds until we cracked. Most of Rachel’s little games were barely significant, taken on their own. Minor acts of deception or theft. Yet they always caused upset, nonetheless. Things disappeared with frightening regularity, never to be seen again. Here one minute, gone the next. Like the snow globe that vanished from the wooden chest at my parents’ house.
Though that’s since turned up, I remind myself. And not in a pleasant way.
Yes, my sister would have been delighted with all this chaos.
If the wedding dress was her work, Rachel would have turned and laughed at me, shaking her head. ‘Oh dear, poor Catty gone a bit mental, has she?’
Will Dominic do the same?
‘Jesus.’ He moves abruptly, disappearing inside the room. I wait, my heart thundering with sickly nerves. Then I hear a faint rustling noise, and his breathing speeds up. ‘Jesus Christ.’
I follow him to the door.
No, the violated dress is real.
He’s picked up one of the severed, bloodied strips of satin, and is examining it with all the care and specialist attention he might give a wounded patient at the hospital.
‘Did you do this?’ he asks blankly, not looking round at me.
‘God, how can you ask me that?’
‘Then who?’
‘I have no idea.’ I shrug helplessly, though he still isn’t looking in my direction. ‘I just walked in and found it like this.’
‘How long ago?’ He glances back at me, his eyes speculative. ‘You were planning to see your parents tonight, weren’t you? I thought you might stay over.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I just . . . I couldn’t, okay?’
‘Did you have an argument with them?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Right.’ He sounds calm, but I know he isn’t. ‘So you came home, and . . . what then? Can you talk me through what happened?’
‘I was late back.’ I’m hesitant, unsure what he wants to hear. ‘Like you. The place was dark. Bloody freezing too.’ A thought occurs to me, and I shudder. ‘Oh shit, the bathroom window. That’s how he got in.’
‘He?’
‘Well, whoever did this. I don’t know, do I? Some fucking pervert. Some freak.’ I’m angry at his attitude, but am still careful not to mention Rachel. I hate the idea that he won’t want to marry me if he finds out just how crazy my sister was. Some of these things can be hereditary, after all, and he mentioned once that he’d like to have kids one day. ‘I guess you must have left the window open after your shower this morning.’
‘No, I always shut the window afterwards. I make a point of checking it before I leave the flat.’
‘But—’
‘It wasn’t me, Catherine. If the bathroom window was open when you came home, then presumably someone climbed up the fire escape and pushed it open from the outside.’ He makes a face. ‘It’s an old window. The catch is frail, and the frame’s rotten in places. If someone wobbled it about enough, maybe it came loose. I’ll take a look in a minute.’
Someone climbed up the fire escape . . .
The snow globe, the gross eyeball. Now this break-in. An emerging, hostile pattern. Then there’s the nature of the incident itself. My wedding dress targeted. Not any other kind of clothing. It’s exactly the sort of horrible prank Rachel would have loved to inflict on me. Something intrusive, disturbing, impossible to pin down. And deeply personal.
Except that my sister is dead.
I sneak a look at him. There’s no point sharing my fears with Dominic. He may be my fiancé but he never met Rachel. He’s heard stories about her, of course. The stories I could bear to share with someone outside our family. But he can’t possibly understand the full extent of her evil. You had to be there, I think bitterly. To grow up under Rachel’s shadow, to breathe her poisonous presence into your lungs, day in, day out. To feel that toxicity in every pore of your body and know you’d never entirely wash it out.
‘What is this stuff, anyway?’ He bends to the sequinned bodice, sniffing one of the thick, red smears. ‘God, it’s grim. Smells like—’
‘Blood,’ I say.
‘Yes, almost certainly.’ He glances round at me, his ey
es wide, an arrested look on his face. ‘It’ll need to be tested.’
‘Tested?’
I have visions of him handing the remains of my wedding dress to someone at the hospital, maybe a lab technician. It’s not an idea I’m comfortable with. Not something this personal.
‘By the police.’
At first, I can’t comprehend what he just said. Then his words begin to filter through the waves of horror I’m feeling after seeing the dress again. Its stark, bloodied reality.
‘The police,’ I repeat slowly. ‘You want to call the police?’
‘Catherine, someone broke into our flat. Went through our things. Totally trashed your wedding dress.’
‘I know, it’s just . . . I feel violated.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable. And the last thing I want right now is to have the police here, traipsing round the place, asking questions. I’ve had a full day at work, I’m dog-tired, my chow mein is getting cold . . .’ He turns back to study the shocking display on the bed. ‘But we can’t let whoever did this get away with it.’
It’s deliberate, the way the dress has been placed on the bed. The bed where we sleep together. And I can see him thinking the same thing.
‘Have you checked everywhere else?’ he continues.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Whoever did this probably looked over the whole flat. Maybe stole something.’ He peers past me into the hallway. ‘They might still be here.’
I can’t speak, but shake my head. There’s something so vile, so abhorrent about the idea of a stranger coming into our home, invading our private space, touching our things . . .
He drops the shred of satin he’d been examining. ‘Hey,’ he says softly, and takes me in his arms. ‘I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You hear me?’
‘But who could have done this? To us? To my lovely wedding dress?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m going to bloody well find out.’ He looks into my face, his eyes serious, watchful. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
