Hidden Hours

by Sara Foster

  Unless his temper really does get the better of him, that insistent little voice in her head chimes in, remembering how hard his fingers had squeezed her windpipe. But she doesn’t have time to think about that, because Will is shouting down the phone.

  ‘Hang on, that’s . . . that’s Arabella’s address. Eleanor! What the hell are you doing? You’re not trying to confront Nathan, are you? Don’t be insane.’

  She glances around as though this whole hushed street might be able to hear their exchange. Nothing and no one moves.

  ‘I can’t talk about it now,’ she trills, and cuts Will off before he can try to talk her out of it. However, his words sting, and her skin prickles with anger. I am not insane. Bolstered by adrenalin, she marches back up the street and knocks on Nathan’s door before she can second-guess herself any more.

  There’s no answer. She raps again, not quite as forcefully this time, and begins to look up and down the street, as though he might come up unexpectedly behind her. She’s slightly off-guard, therefore, when the door finally opens.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ says a woman’s irritated voice.

  Eleanor finds herself face to face with Aisha. ‘It’s you! What are you doing here?’ She straightens. ‘I’m looking for Nathan, is he in?’

  Aisha looks annoyed. ‘Oh, Eleanor, this is not a good idea at all,’ she says patronisingly, folding her arms. ‘He won’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘Is he here?’ Eleanor ignores Aisha, peering past her.

  ‘No, actually, and you should be glad about that, because I don’t think he’d like the fact that you are standing on his doorstep.’

  Eleanor bristles. ‘So who are you, Aisha? What the hell did you think you were playing at, coming into our house the other day?’ Her voice is much louder than she intends, and out of the corner of her eye she sees the curtain flicker in a nearby bay window.

  ‘You invited me in, if you remember correctly,’ Aisha replies smoothly. ‘I’d leave it at that, if I were you.’

  ‘So, what are you to Nathan – are you just spying for him, or are you sleeping with him too?’ Eleanor persists.

  Aisha laughs. ‘You cheeky cow. Think what you like,’ she says. ‘I really don’t care.’ And she begins to close the door, but Eleanor wedges her boot in before it shuts fully, wincing with pain as the door traps the delicate bones of her foot.

  Aisha sighs, and eases the door back. She comes closer to Eleanor.

  ‘Don’t play this game,’ she says. Her eyes bore into Eleanor’s. ‘He will win. He’s employed me to find out all of Arabella’s dirty little secrets, and to investigate anyone close to her. I saw his reaction when I told him about your uncle. You don’t want him anywhere near you when he’s angry.’

  Eleanor seizes on this. ‘And what if he’s guilty? Why do you want to work for someone so awful?’

  ‘I don’t have to talk to you, Eleanor.’ Aisha steps back, as Eleanor pushes the door open further, trying to keep the conversation going. ‘That was just a friendly warning.’

  Eleanor lets go, and the door finally slams shut.

  As Eleanor turns around she sees a small face pressed against the window to her left, a little girl curiously watching the action. Unbidden, her memories skitter backwards to her own face pressed against a window in the back seat of their old Toyota, her father grabbing her mother’s arms in a grubby motel car park, her mother shaking him off, covering her face with her hands, getting into the car, sobbing, leaning back to Eleanor, stroking her hair briefly as she slams the door closed. Her father banging on the window, making Eleanor jump. Her mother saying, Don’t look back, Eleanor, don’t look back, as the growl of the engine roars into life and the car jolts away. Her father disappearing in the dust behind them.

  The memory makes her stagger on the steps, and she almost misses her footing. The little girl still watches from the window. She can’t meet the child’s eye, looks back instead to Arabella’s house, but there is no sign of anyone now. She tries to imagine Arabella on this doorstep every day: in casualwear collecting the post; in jeans going shopping; dressed up and heading into town. Had the little girl heard arguments from the house before? Or violence? What had really gone on behind those closed doors? Was it enough for a husband to hate his wife so much he might kill her?

  Perhaps Nathan is really in there, hiding from everyone.

  She walks quickly down the street, trying to get her bearings, thinking back to the man on the bridge on Saturday. She’d thought she was being paranoid, but if Aisha is some kind of an investigator, then perhaps Nathan has had other people watching her too. Hadn’t Ian said he thought he was being watched as well? She swings around, but the street behind her is quiet. This is getting too much; she needs to retreat and gather her strength before her paranoia gets the better of her.

  And she needs to tell her uncle what has just happened, because if Nathan is looking for a scapegoat, as seems ever more likely, then Ian is an irresistible target.

  She looks to her phone for directions back to Harborne Grove, but the internet won’t connect. There are no Tube stations nearby and no buses evident. Eventually she meets a passer-by who points her in the right direction. She has forgotten her words to Will until her phone buzzes with a message. Call me. She doesn’t want to hear his disbelieving voice again, suggesting she’s unhinged, so she texts him back. I’m fine – I am nearly back home now. No emergency call necessary :)

  He doesn’t reply. Perhaps he’s had enough of her.

  When she reaches Harborne Grove her adrenalin evaporates and her footsteps are tired and heavy. The promise of a much-needed nap urges her on, but as she turns onto the road she stops, and a new wave of fear rushes through her.

  Lilian, the housekeeper, is standing outside on the steps to Ian and Susan’s house. She’s gabbling on her phone, walking frantically back and forth, looking up at the house and gesturing with her hands. It only takes her a moment to spot Eleanor, and as soon as she does so, she sets off towards her at a run.

  41

  aiden

  June–July 2005

  Everything feels askew once they are living in the new house. Sometimes Eleanor creeps in to her parents’ room and watches them sleep, longing to crawl in with them but not daring, knowing how exhausted they both are and how cross they would be at being woken up. Her mother seems so tired at the moment – she doesn’t check up on Eleanor as often as she used to, she’s barely interested in what’s happening around her, and she often goes to bed before her children.

  The house is still a husk: no pictures on the walls, no furniture unpacked beyond the basics. Yet Eleanor has to concede a few things have improved. They have plumbing; the portaloo has been towed away, and she doesn’t miss it at all. It is total luxury to be able to go to the bathroom without having to worry about darkness and spiders. However, she does find herself looking out of the kitchen window across to the shed.

  To her surprise, after all the times she’d told herself she hated it, she misses it. It had made a difference when they’d been forced into physical proximity with one another. There had been no TV and only so much her father could do in the dark, so sometimes they would play card games in the evening. In the shed, if Eleanor couldn’t get to sleep, the bouncing light of her mother’s head torch was a comfort in the darkness. In her new bedroom, the only light shining through her uncurtained window is the faint glow of stars or the faraway moon. And now that they are able to scatter in this huge house, they invariably choose to do so. Her father always tinkers with things in one of the spare bedrooms, keeping out of the way. He’s painting or wiring or doing DIY until the moment he heads for bed. When her mother is up, she stays in the kitchen with the television on permanently, as though gorging herself on the outside world after being starved of it for so long.

  Aiden had slept in the shed on his own for a fortnight, before the damp weather and lack of heating made him relent and move into the new house. The door to his room is permane
ntly closed. Eleanor misses him too – it’s an ache that has lodged permanently in her nowadays, one that won’t disperse. She’s getting used to it.

  Eleanor had thought that the house might make a difference to her life, but it has only compounded the loneliness. And, disturbingly, it feels more permanent here. The shed had always been highlighted as a temporary lodging; she had almost forgotten that their plan was to stay here indefinitely.

  She still doesn’t have any friends at school. The highlight of her weeks is the time she spends in Lily’s art room. She has filled her sketchbook with her own pen and ink copies of Lily’s work, observing with satisfaction how she has improved from her first attempts. As she heads down to the little room again, early in July, she tries to ignore the fact that her parents still don’t know she comes here. They are unlikely to find out, since Solomon never visits the house nowadays. It’s like the neighbours have forgotten each other’s existence.

  She works for a couple of hours, practising her sketches of one of the horses, before giving up for a while and reading. Eventually she gets tired and realises she is thirsty. Although Solomon is as good as his word, and never comes in the little room while she’s there, occasionally she goes to ask him for a glass of water. She knocks gently at the door that connects the room to the rest of the house, waits for a while, but there is no response. Eventually she goes outside and heads around to the front of the house, knocking again. Only then does she realise how quiet the place is today. No Solomon. No Charlie.

  As she tentatively pushes the door open, she can hear the television chattering away. She creeps towards the sound and as she enters the little lounge she can make out Solomon’s bulk in the armchair.

  A dizzying wave of heat rushes through her. He’s so still. What if he’s dead? She edges closer to try to see his face. As she peers around the side of his chair, to her relief she can see his chest rising and falling. Embarrassed now at intruding like this, she begins to back out of the room, but she forgets about the stupid iron gecko that holds the door open, and her foot wobbles on it, upsetting her balance and sending her banging into the door.

  By the time she rights herself, Solomon is on his feet, staring at her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, her face aflame. ‘There was no answer to my knocks, I just wanted to check you were okay.’

  ‘Must’a fell asleep there,’ Solomon replies hoarsely, then breaks into a series of coughs. Eleanor goes quickly to the tap in the kitchen and fetches him some water.

  ‘Thank you, Eleanor,’ he says, after a few sips have restored his voice. ‘Was this what you were after too?’

  She nods.

  ‘Then, help yourself. I’d best go and see where that Charlie boy has got to.’

  After she has finished her water, she heads back to the little sunroom and carries on reading until, a short time later, she becomes aware of a strange noise in the distance, an unearthly wail, getting louder. She jumps up and goes to the door that leads outside, her nerves on full alert again. She can’t see anything here but the noise is getting louder still. Cautiously, she goes around to the front of the house, towards the sound, and sees Solomon stumbling across the grass, his arms full of a writhing mass of fur, his face set in a grim line of concentration, his mouth moving. Although she is too far away to make out the words, her body lurches with fear.

  ‘Go home!’ Solomon shouts as he gets closer. In his arms, Charlie continues to writhe, making that piteous noise. ‘Now!’ he roars at Eleanor, who sets off at a run up the field, petrified, her belongings forgotten. It takes her just a few minutes to get through all the farmyard detritus, and as she scales the fence she hears one sharp, ringing sound. A few galahs in the trees nearby take off squawking. She sits astride the fence, crying, and only once she has jumped down and wiped her eyes does she realise that in the lee of the ruined cubby sit three boys, all smoking, all watching her.

  It takes a moment for her to recognise that the one with the red-rimmed eyes and sallow face is her brother.

  42

  susan

  ‘Is that Detective Inspector Prashad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sergeant Marlow here. We’ve had an address come up that’s been flagged as under your investigation. Asking for assistance. There’s a car on the way, but I thought you’d want to know. It’s Harborne Grove, number eight – there’s a man inside with a head injury, the woman who called thinks he’s been assaulted.’

  Prashad is already waving madly at Kirby across the room. ‘Cancel the car,’ she says, ‘we’ll take this one, thanks.’ She grabs her jacket and races for the door.

  ‘Eleanor! Eleanor!’ As Lilian reaches her she grabs Eleanor’s arms. ‘Come quickly, Eleanor, it’s your uncle.’

  There is no time to protest because Lilian is dragging her forward to the house, and up the steps. At the door, she stops and waves Eleanor inside. ‘He’s in the front lounge,’ she says. ‘Please, Eleanor, help him. I will stay out here and wait for the police.’

  Eleanor recoils from the wild look in Lilian’s eyes. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Susan has been destroying her beautiful house. Smashing things. It is a big mess.’

  As Eleanor looks past the front door towards the entrance of the formal lounge, a couple of thoughts strike her almost simultaneously.

  I don’t want to go in there.

  I have to go in there.

  She glances back at Lilian, who has her arms wrapped around herself as she watches Eleanor nervously. Then she steps into the house, and walks slowly over to the front lounge.

  The scene inside is one of devastation. Pictures have fallen off the walls. There is glass everywhere. The entire contents of the liquor cabinet have drizzled onto the floor, pooling liquid between a thousand shards of glass, and it smells like a brewery. And sitting on the sofa in the midst of it all, holding his head, is Ian.

  Eleanor rushes over to him and kneels before him, careful to avoid the glass, unable to miss the gaping gash across his forehead. ‘Oh my god, what on earth happened?’

  ‘She went mad,’ he mutters, his voice odd and shrill as he clutches his head. At first he won’t look up to meet her gaze, but as she waits, not knowing what to say, eventually he tilts his head so their eyes lock. His expression is wild; he looks like a cornered animal.

  ‘I’ve never seen her like that before.’

  ‘Who?’ she asks, because she needs to hear it, even though she knows the answer already.

  ‘Susan.’

  Eleanor glances around the chaotic living room. If this is the aftermath of a fit of rage, she’s relieved she didn’t witness it. She turns back to Ian.

  ‘Where is she now? Are the girls still out?’

  ‘Yes, the girls are still with Kat, thank god. Susan’s gone. About an hour ago, I think. I have no idea if she took anything with her. And I’ve no idea if she’s coming back. She went at me with a golf club, Eleanor. A golf club! Look.’ He points to the silver club lying on the floor. ‘She almost knocked me out. My ears are ringing.’

  ‘That cut is nasty,’ Eleanor says. ‘You might need a stitch in it.’

  ‘Oh god.’ Ian covers his eyes and his body heaves in what looks like sobs. ‘What am I going to do, Eleanor?’ His voice trembles. ‘No, don’t answer that, you’re twenty-one years old, for god’s sake, you don’t need to answer that. You shouldn’t be witnessing any of this. What a fucking mess. Literally.’ He erupts into a bout of bitter laughter, then grows sombre again.

  Eleanor begins to pick up some of the biggest pieces of glass. ‘I think Susan might need some professional help,’ she says.

  ‘No, no, no.’ Ian jumps up, wincing and touching his head again. Eleanor gets to her feet, but before she can back away he comes so close to her that their faces almost touch. ‘You have to understand, Eleanor,’ he says, his tone half-fierce, half-desperate, ‘it’s not her fault, it’s mine. I did this to her. She never wanted children, she’s always been so driven in her work an
d so independent, but when we got married I pressured her into having a family. I promised her that I would be the primary carer. She was so worried that she would lose everything she’d worked so hard for, and she was sure she would go mad if she had to stay in the house with a baby all day. But I reassured her over and over again, and finally she agreed.’

  Eleanor lays the glass carefully on a side table as she listens, uneasy about hearing these private details. Nevertheless, her heart goes out to her little cousins, trapped in this war zone. She has a fleeting memory of the lengthening silences between her own parents, and wonders if this would almost have been better – with cards on the table, rather than the bitter battle of attrition her mother and father began to wage as the house building became protracted and stressful, the way to victory blocked by a broken pipe or tile, a carpet a few centimetres short of the wall. Until even the victories no longer felt like victories. Her nine-year-old self had trusted her parents not to quarrel about trivia, but if she could go back now she would stand up in the middle of one of their stand-offs and point out just how stupid and inconsequential their worries were.

  Ian is still babbling. Eleanor’s not even sure he’s entirely aware of her presence. ‘Only after Naeve was born did we both realise we had no idea of what we’d taken on. Susan went back to work, of course, because she was right – she would have gone under if she’d stayed home – but those early years nearly killed me. And yet, neither of us had known what it was like to fall in love with a child. Or thought of what a child might need. Neither of us knew the heartbreak Susan would endure when she left every day and her daughter screamed for her mother. Or when Naeve stopped screaming and refused to go to her instead, always clinging to me and rejecting Susan. But of course I still talked her into Savannah: a companion for Naeve, a way of evening things out, a fix-it baby, a complete family – every reason I could think of that worked for everyone but Susan. I made her go through it all over again. I saw the agony it caused her, and Savannah was a difficult pregnancy too. I witnessed the pull she had towards another tiny baby, there was another round of couriered breastmilk, which says it all, doesn’t it? And since then I have watched Susan slowly build up walls around herself in order to be able to keep going with this life. I pushed her into all this, I made her feel like an outsider in her own home. And then my head was turned, and now I may have played a major role in tearing down the rest of her achievements as well. Believe me, Eleanor, one whack to the forehead is probably letting me off lightly, all things considered.’